The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  “You must be Jawad,” he spoke. “I am the Master of this place.” Jawad could tell he was not talking about the tavern. “I’ve been told what you said to Basmah.” She purred like a kitten at the sound of her name. “There is one problem. It will be days before this vaunted ship arrives and we can confirm if you’re telling the truth.”

  “I swear –”

  The man raised a finger to silence Jawad. “Nothing personal, but we might as well put the waiting time to good use. After all, you did get several of my boys killed, and I need to show the rest of them that you’re getting your due punishment. Basmah, my darling pet, continue your work. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Yes, master.”

  The gag went back into Jawad’s mouth.

  ~~~~

  Jawad knew he could stop all of this by admitting his deceit. The torture would end the moment he told the truth. It also meant that his usefulness would come to an end. His life would not be safe until that ship anchored in Alcázar and its goods were unloaded. He had to endure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Basmah approach him once more with a knife made so hot, the metal glowed red.

  ~~~~

  He was allowed to sleep through the night. As Basmah explained in the morning, it was a common mistake among novice torturers to be overly zealous in their duties and kill their victims. Even advancing too swiftly was problematic. Starting too strong meant there was no way to escalate the pain. As important as it was to put the victim through agonising pain, you always had to have the threat available that you could put them through even worse.

  “Fascinating,” Jawad mumbled, chewing the meagre breakfast he was allowed.

  “Isn’t it? You should swallow now.” She put the bloody rag that served as his gag back into his mouth and moved to stand by his side with a curious-looking thin hammer. She struck down on his chest in a swift, precise moment. The sound of exactly one rib cracking could be heard.

  ~~~~

  Throughout the second day, Jawad retreated into his memories to escape the pain. Others might have chosen some pleasant moment from the past to dull the present; Jawad had no happy memories strong enough to do so. Instead, he sought refuge in the one that otherwise haunted him. Over and over, he relived the moments, one by one. The marketplace. Being a child again. Reaching for the coin purse. Being pushed out of the way. Seeing Hakim lying lifeless on the street. His blood flowing onto the cobbled stones. The first lighting of the rage that had ever since burned inside him, enslaving him.

  Another rib cracked.

  ~~~~

  At some point, Jawad could no longer keep track of time. There was no difference between night and day in the basement, only what Basmah told him. Food and sleep happened irregularly; he was always awakened from the latter in some harsh manner, making him feel like he had barely rested. The only power he could exert over time was by counting his torture sessions, and eventually that failed him as well.

  Somewhere between the seventh and the tenth, Jawad was graced by the presence of both Basmah and the man holding her leash. “I am almost inclined to believe you are telling me the truth, Jawad,” the Master spoke. The thief only responded with ragged breathing. “Tonight, we’ll send someone to the harbourmaster’s office. If the promised ship has arrived, we’ll know, and you can tell us what else we need to know.” He smiled magnanimously.

  “Happy to help,” Jawad whispered hoarsely.

  “There is one thing that still bothers me about all this, Jawad,” his captor said. “I am told you’re a jewel thief. What is a jewel thief doing infiltrating the house of a dye merchant?”

  That was a good question, and one Jawad preferred not to answer. But at this point, he would grasp at anything for a short reprieve from the torture. “A mark.”

  “Of course,” the short man said. “I’d expect nothing else. But I can’t imagine you woke up one day and decided to join the exciting business of dyed fabric.” He approached Jawad, staring down at his face. “What’s the mark?”

  Jawad hesitated. “The Heart of the Sands.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that, Jawad.”

  “It’s a ruby. The size of your palm.”

  The Master smiled, petting Basmah on the head. “See, that makes sense. A gem like that would make you wealthy for life, wouldn’t it, Jawad? I bet you salivated when you first heard of it. And this ruby is in the possession of al-Badawi?”

  “It is. Family heirloom.”

  “I admit to being confused. If that’s your aim, why all this trouble going after some jars of colour? Did you get a tad too greedy, dear boy?”

  “I have searched everywhere,” Jawad explained. “It’s impossible to find one ruby inside a palace. But if al-Badawi was facing ruin…”

  “He would dig out the jewel that he might sell it and save his house.” His captor nodded a few times. “Not a bad plan. The extra gold from stealing the snail juice doesn’t hurt either.” He smiled with his cold eyes. “Well, well, Jawad, aren’t you a treasure trove. One good mark after another. I’ll have to get eyes inside al-Badawi’s palace. Basmah,” he added, directed at his servant.

  “Yes, master?”

  “Keep him alive for now. No need to do anything else.”

  “Yes, master.” Disappointment was evident in her voice.

  ~~~~

  Jawad had been fed five pieces of bread and given water to drink three times when the Master of the Black Teeth returned. As usual, Basmah was by his side. “I bring joyous news,” he spoke, entering Jawad’s line of sight. “Yesterday, the good ship Labdah’s Pearl made anchor in Alcázar. Aboard were thirty-six jars of the finest purple dye.”

  “That’s not one of al-Badawi’s ships,” Jawad said with a weary voice.

  The short man smiled. “Very true. Forgive me the deception. It is a sad fact that distrust thrives in our line of work.” It had been easy to see through. While some gems were traded freely in Labdah, pearls came mostly from Surru, their rival. No captain from Labdah would name his ship in that manner. “The name of the ship is the Emerald Voyager.”

  “That sounds right,” Jawad claimed. In fact, he was completely ignorant of al-Badawi’s ships and their names. But he doubted the cold-eyed man would bother with the same trick twice.

  “This is the part where you explain where that snail slime has gone. How many guards, patrols, and the like protecting it would also be welcome information.”

  Jawad felt a sliver of relief. The ship had arrived. Its cargo was locked away somewhere in the city. He had leverage. “Here’s the thing.”

  “I would suggest you be quick about it,” the Master continued, glancing at Basmah as a silent threat. She smiled in anticipation, stroking her knife affectionately.

  “Friend, I haven’t the faintest clue.”

  Those cold eyes became narrow slits. “Explain.”

  “My whole plan was to know the name of the ship in advance. I’d inform the workers who were to unload it, and they’d track the cargo for me, so I’d know its location and what warehouse to break into.” Jawad gave a ragged laughter that turned into a cough. “It’s impossible to find them now. The jars will be unmarked, looking no different than if they have olives in them. There’s dozens of locations they could be in,” he continued after catching his breath. “Only al-Badawi and a few trusted servants will know where they are.” His mouth was completely dry and in pain having spoken so many words, but it was worth it.

  The Master struck Basmah across the face; the heavy rings on his fingers made impact, sending her to the floor. “You let him lie to me! Worthless whore!” He turned back towards Jawad while she whimpered at his feet. “You will die,” he impressed upon the thief, “but only after suffering every form of torture known to men.”

  “You could do that,” Jawad told him, “but all you’ll have for your troubles is a corpse. If you want the dye, if you want the ruby, you need me alive.”

  “I have a hundred thieves at my bidding,” the Master
sneered. “All of them better than you.”

  “It’ll be a few days at most before the dye is sold. It’ll be beyond your reach forever,” Jawad claimed. “Only someone trusted by al-Badawi can infiltrate his palace in time and determine the location.”

  “You.” Two conflicting emotions raged on the short man’s face. Jawad could not tell if vengeance or greed would win, but he was betting his life on the latter.

  Jawad gave a misshapen smile. “Me.”

  “Get up.” The words were spoken to Basmah, who complied. Her cheek burned red. “Punish him.”

  “Yes, master.” He left, and Basmah took his place to stare down at Jawad’s face. “You made me look bad in my master’s eyes,” she said, biting her own lip until blood appeared. “I am going to enjoy this even more than usual.”

  Jawad stared back at her. “Get to it.”

  “Maybe this is for the best.” She smiled. “I thought you were broken already. This way, it’s a lot more fun.”

  “You talk too much.”

  She moved one hand to squeeze him between his thighs. “Most men are afraid of being hurt the same way.” That included Jawad. “But one thing I’ve learned about thieves.” She let go, using the same hand to caress the fingers on his left hand. “They fear losing their hands more than anything.”

  Panic threatened to flood Jawad’s mind. A thief without dexterous fingers was no thief at all. He bit one of the wounds in his mouth, using the pain to steel his emotions. “You’re still talking.”

  She leaned down to whisper into his ear. “I hope you continue to misbehave.” He could feel her breath against his skin. “Then the master will let me punish you again. I’d like to play with your other bits, too.” She straightened up; in her hand, she gripped her small hammer. He clenched his jaw in anticipation. It fell and with a sickening sound struck one of his fingers. She continued, striking him five times in total.

  ~~~~

  At some point, Jawad became aware that Basmah had left him alone. She had restrained herself to only ruining his left hand.

  Ever since he could remember, losing his fingers or hand had been his greatest fear. He had made himself ambidextrous to some extent in preparation, but most of his skills as a thief required both hands. Al-Badawi, the Prince of Cats, everything that he had endured chasing his dreams and nightmares; with a few quick strokes of the hammer, all of it seemed for naught as his future as a thief was taken away from him.

  When the Master of the Black Teeth returned, Basmah was not by his side. Hashim, known as the most brutal cutthroat in the gang, was with him instead. “Release him.”

  Hashim undid the straps and pushed Jawad off the rack. He fell to the ground, too weak and surprised to react, resulting in his forehead slamming against the stone floor.

  He felt his hair being grabbed, and his head was lifted up while the Master leaned down to address him in a quiet voice. “You belong to me now. You’ll go to al-Badawi’s house and find out what I want to know. You’ll come back here and tell me. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Often, I find that people think they can run or hide from me. This saddens me for two reasons. First, it gives me a great deal of trouble that puts me in a bad mood. Second, it never works out for them, and I am forced to inflict a gruesome death upon them. Still with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have eyes and ears at every gate, on every pier. You try to flee the city, you will be found out.” He placed one foot against Jawad’s groin, pressing down. “Am I clear?”

  Jawad made a whimpering sound. “Yes.”

  “You try to hide from me – well, you tried that once already. You know what happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He grabbed hold of the thief’s face with both hands, forcing Jawad to stare at him. “As I am a generous man, I grant you not one, but two nights. Then you’ll be back and tell my dear boy Hashim everything he needs to know.” Jawad kept quiet. “If you don’t, you better be dead, or I’ll make you wish you were.” The portly man turned his cold eyes on Hashim. “Throw this scum out on the street where he belongs.”

  With a joyful smile, Hashim slung Jawad over his shoulder like a bag of flour. Shortly after, he was flung outside in front of the Broken Tooth, landing naked in the dust. A dirty tunic, more rag than clothing, was thrown on top of him accompanied by laughter. In the sky, the sun baked down upon him mercilessly. Jawad got to his feet, put on the tunic, and staggered away.

  16. Fate’s Plaything

  Jawad’s body, mind, and plans were all torn to pieces. The only coherent thought in his head was that he had to mend all three, in that order. Each step he took was a stab of pain on his damaged feet, but he had become accustomed to ignoring the sensation. Stubbornly, he stumbled forwards. Few noticed him except children, making him the object of their ridicule. Some of them picked up stones and pebbles to throw at him. Jawad ignored them as well, focusing only on breathing and moving his feet, one at a time. There was only one place he could think of going, and thankfully, he knew the way well enough to find it blindfolded.

  “Ishak,” he pleaded hoarsely, knocking weakly on the door. “Help me.”

  Whether by divine intervention or because hearing was the one sense left undamaged by his own work, Ishak heard him. “Gods,” he mumbled as he saw the husk of a man outside his door.

  Jawad raised his crushed hand in front of him. “Save my hand, Ishak. I beg you, save it.”

  “Come inside.” Jawad obliged and all but fell into the bed in Ishak’s workshop. Carefully, the physician took hold of Jawad’s damaged hand and gently prodded the fingers. “Jawad, this is not good.”

  “That’s why I need your help.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. This morning, last night, maybe longer ago.”

  “The bones are broken in many places,” Ishak explained, squinting his eyes as he examined the purple skin stretched over Jawad’s fingers. “It looks like it has begun healing, but without the bones in the proper place.”

  “Can you mend it?”

  Ishak swallowed. “I’ll have to break the bones apart in some places and put them together again. It will be most painful.”

  “It can’t be worse than the first time. Do it.”

  “Jawad, there’s no guarantee it will ever heal. In fact, I might cause such damage to make it worse.”

  “It can’t be worse than it is now. Do it.”

  “Jawad –”

  “Ishak.” The thief opened his eyes to stare at the old man. “Please. I will pay your weight in silver. I’ll put gold in your hand. Anything.”

  The alchemist gave a heavy sigh. He found a thick leather strip and gave it to Jawad. “Bite down on this.”

  For the next hour, Ishak worked on each of Jawad’s left fingers. He pushed against each little part, determining the breaks. After every examination, he twisted the finger into place, unleashing another torrent of agony upon Jawad. Tears welled up, and he would have screamed if he had not been biting into the leather.

  When done, Ishak fetched ointment and applied it to Jawad’s hand. He finished by placing a tight bandage around the limb, locking the fingers into place. “Come see me in a few days. You’ll want another smear and a fresh bandage.”

  “I owe you a debt, Ishak. I’ll be grateful to you for as long as I live,” Jawad said earnestly.

  “That warms my old heart more than a coat of cat’s wool,” the alchemist said, looking bashful. “Keep your praise until we know it did any good.”

  “I have faith in your abilities.”

  “Now you’re just flattering me.” Something like a cough or a sob forced its way up Jawad’s throat, and only once it left his mouth did he recognise it to be laughter. Ishak smiled and moved to the foot of the bed. “While we’re at it, let’s take care of these too.” He began cleaning the mixture of dust, splinters, blood, and open wounds on Jawad’s feet.

  “I should tell you, this was
the work of the Black Teeth.”

  “Those snake skin suckers.” Ishak shook his head. “I’m not afraid of them if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “You should be. They’ll have followed me here.”

  “They’re welcome to try anything. I may be senile, but my mind is sharp as ever.” He tapped himself on the temple of his head. “That reminds me. Are you here to check on my progress?”

  “Your progress?”

  “You wanted me to make you some – elixirs that in the wrong hands could be used for malicious intent.” Ishak leaned forward to whisper his next words. “I’m talking about poisons.”

  “I figured.” Jawad had forgotten all about it. A maelstrom of thoughts whirled in his head as he tried to remember the days before his capture and subsequent torture. “Give me a moment to rest and think. Just a moment.”

  The alchemist stood up. “Sure. Let it never be said that Ishak, master of potions and expert of alchemy, doesn’t know when to take a step back. In fact, my knowledge of nature and its mysteries are only surpassed by my knowledge of etiquette, courtesy, and good manners. I remember one time…” He continued talking for a while, oblivious to the fact that Jawad was fast asleep.

  ~~~~

  When Jawad woke, the familiar throbbing of pain was pulsating through his body. But he was resting comfortably and not strapped to a rack. “Water,” he pleaded hoarsely.

  “Of course! What a physician I turn out to be,” Ishak grumbled, shaking his head and pouring a large cup for Jawad.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “You slept?”

  The thief cleared his throat. “What hour is it?”

  “It’s afternoon,” Ishak replied, busy at his worktable.

  “What day is it?”

  “The first.”

  That meant he had been imprisoned for the better part of a week. Jawad took a deep breath. His body was, if not healed, in working condition again. His mind was quiet now that the most pressing needs were looked after. It was time to turn attention towards his plans again.