by D E Olesen
Tibert sent him a look but relented, opening a drawer. A purse appeared in his hand, which he tossed to Jawad. “Don’t disappoint me.” Renardine held a casual hand on the hilt of her dagger as a silent gesture to accompany her employer’s threat, and Jawad was reminded of Basmah and the Master. He really needed to meet new people.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiled at Renardine. “See you in two days.”
~~~~
Jawad was tired of walking the distance between Dār al-Gund and al-Badawi’s estate. The fact that his feet were bleeding through his bandages did nothing to make the journey easier. The Black Teeth, the northern dogs, al-Badawi, Jawad felt like a mouse cornered by three cats, each more starved than the other. A month ago, he would have felt anxious about his position. Now, he was aware that it could not be any other way. He had chosen to play a dangerous game with life and death as the stakes.
As a small pat on the shoulder from the gods, probably Elat, a cart rumbled past Jawad. In exchange for a piece of silver, the driver was happy to not only let Jawad have a seat, but also change his route and bring him right to al-Badawi’s doorstep.
“What happened to your feet, friend?”
Jawad looked down at the bloody bandages. “New sandals. You know how it is, it always takes a day to wear them in.”
The driver nodded with a sage expression. “Don’t I know it.”
Less than an hour later, Jawad stood before the palace of al-Badawi once more.
18. The Lady and the Fence
The doorman let out a surprised grunt. “I know,” Jawad said. “You thought I was floating upside down in the harbour.”
The thief slipped inside, but he did not get far before Salah’s voice boomed out. “Jawad!”
“The very one. How is Lady Zaida?”
“Resting. By the looks of it, so should you. I’ll have someone heat water for a bath for you.”
“Later,” Jawad told him. “What I have to tell cannot wait any further.”
“I’m all ears.”
“The master should hear as well.”
Salah nodded after only brief hesitation. “Come with me.”
They entered the harāmlik and shortly after found al-Badawi eating his evening meal in resplendent surroundings. “I see you’ve found the thief, Salah. What hole did you drag him out of?”
“Jawad returned by his own will, effendim. He has urgent news for you.”
Al-Badawi dapped the corner of his mouth clean. “By all means, do not keep me in suspense,” he said in a bored voice.
“Dār al-Gund knows you’ve received a shipment of purple dye, and they are planning to steal it.”
The merchant dropped everything in his hands. “They must be stopped!”
“How?” asked Salah, not directed at his master, but Jawad.
“From what I gather, they have spies in Labdah informing them. They caught me infiltrating their estate and tortured me for days.”
“What did they want to know?”
“Where and how to steal the dye. As I don’t know, I couldn’t tell them anything of value.”
“And they let you go out of mercy?” sneered al-Badawi. “Or did they send you as a spy?”
“They did,” Jawad told them readily. Both the merchant and the warrior stared at him upon hearing his admission.
“Really?” asked Salah.
Jawad nodded. “They changed tactics, offering me a purse of gold if I would bring them the information they sought.”
Al-Badawi had stood up in the meanwhile and was pacing around in circles. “Those villains! I will go to the Kabir at once! Their heads will be on spikes by morning!”
“Effendim,” Salah said patiently, “our only proof is the word of a known thief.” He sent Jawad an apologetic look. “The Kabir will need more than that.”
“Which is why we lure them into a trap,” Jawad suggested, gaining their attention again. “I will provide them with a location where your guards await. Once they break in, you can slaughter them to a man. The Prince of Cats will be dead, and Dār al-Gund will be finished.”
Al-Badawi stood silent for a moment before he broke into a grin. “Excellent! I will inform the Kabir and have the city guard present. Once those northern dogs are caught in the act, the Kabir will have no choice but to expel or execute them all!”
“Perhaps involving the Kabir is a bit hefty,” Jawad argued. He felt the familiar feeling of plans spinning out of control.
“Quiet,” al-Badawi commanded with a sneer. “Salah, I want you to investigate what your thief says. If he is telling the truth, we will lay my trap for these curs.”
“Very well, effendim.”
~~~~
Jawad slept soundly that night, forgetting his ills and troubles. The moment he woke, they presented themselves again, and he groaned. Breathing reminded him of his ribs, while his left hand was little more than a chunk of flesh at this stage. This made an arduous task of cleaning himself with the water and putting on the clean tunic that someone had kindly made available to him. Perhaps worst of all, given his pressing engagements around town, his feet were swollen, the wounds open and itchy; the bandages were crusty with dried blood and felt like grating sand. It was with a lot of difficulty and discomfort that he made his way to the kitchen, trying to walk in such a way as to spare his soles.
The cook made a fuss seeing him, sending him to a chair and pouring porridge into a bowl for him. “Made from fresh camel milk,” she assured him. “It’ll make you feel like new.”
“Thank you, jida,” Jawad told her; his use of the familial term made her scoff as she returned to her work. He wasted no further time putting the wooden spoon to use; his body was so starved for nourishment, he would have eaten the camel too if put in front of him, raw or cooked.
As fate would have it, while Jawad was in the dignified state of shovelling porridge into his mouth, Zaida appeared in the kitchen. He almost choked on his food and had to cough while also trying to wipe his face clean and stand up to greet her. His flustered reaction meant he forgot to be delicate with his feet, and pain flashed across his face. “Lady Zaida,” he croaked.
“Master Jawad,” she said with evident concern. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing, sayidaty, forgive me. I was simply not expecting you.” With good reason, as this was most likely the first time she had ever appeared in the servants’ kitchen, given how the cook stared with open mouth.
“I was told you were up. I never saw you last night again after you returned.”
“Ah. I had urgent news to tell your father. I fell asleep immediately after.”
“Of course.” Disappointment coloured her voice. “Are you feeling better?” She glanced at him, up and down.
“I am, thank you.”
“Your feet!” she exclaimed. Jawad shifted his stance to avoid her attention, but there was no hiding their disfigured state. “Jawad, you cannot walk around like this!”
“I have managed thus far, sayidaty.”
“Nonsense, this is madness. Come here.” To his utter astonishment, she draped his arm over her shoulders to support him while walking, and they left the kitchen after giving the cook enough gossip to last for days.
Their progress was slow and, on Jawad’s part, painful, but he was too surprised to question Zaida as she brought him into the harāmlik, past the scowling guards, and into the parlour of her own chambers. “Lie down,” she commanded. While he did so, almost drowning in the soft pillows of her sofa, she disappeared.
Left alone, Jawad felt the temptation to sneak around that was instinct in all thieves. He restrained himself for two reasons. Firstly, he did not wish to show Zaida any discourtesy, and secondly, he was not sure he could get up from this couch without help.
When she returned, she had an older woman in tow, carrying a few items. “This is Ahesan. She is as good as any physician you will find,” Zaida told him.
“Shush, child,” the old woman said. “I know how to treat a wound
and help the healing along a bit. Now let’s take a look at this.” She began to unwrap the bandages around his feet, and Jawad felt relief as the swelling was given room to breathe. “Fetch water for me, girl,” Ahesan told Zaida.
Soon after, Jawad’s wounds were cleaned, treated, and bandaged once more. “Thank you,” he said to Ahesan. “And thank you,” he added towards Zaida.
“No need for that. I’m glad to help any way this little one needs me to,” Ahesan replied with a glance at the young woman. “Even if treating strange men in her chambers is highly irregular,” she added with reproach in her voice.
“Thank you, Ahesan,” Zaida said sternly. “Your help is appreciated. You may leave us.” The old woman did so, grumbling under her breath. “You should rest,” she told Jawad. “I can have food brought to you, so you do not have to get up.”
“Sayidaty,” he said amused, “I just slept, and I just had breakfast. I am most grateful for your concern, but it is not needed.”
“Is there something else I can do for you?” It was with a worried look that she glanced at his hand and his face, all of which bore the marks of violence. “Your breathing is troubled, and you seem in distress. I am sure I can find some tears of Gadir to ease your pain.”
“I appreciate the offer, sayidaty, but I cannot afford spending the day in a haze. Things are coming to a head, and I have a part to play.”
“Why? I am sure Salah can manage.”
“Some things require a thief of dubious standing, alas.”
“That is why my father needs you. But why do you need him?”
It had been one long week of questions Jawad did not or could not answer. “When you are born in the gutter, sayidaty, you find any means available to climb out.” As she was seated by his side, he looked ahead of him to avoid her stare.
She gazed at him with scrutiny. “For the first time since we have met, I get the feeling that you are hiding something from me. I do not like this feeling.”
Lying was second nature to Jawad. It was his means of living, his way of life. He lied with words, with smiles, each time his right hand distracted a mark while his left hand emptied their pockets. Yet he knew that lying to Zaida was crossing some form of threshold he did not wish to cross. “Sayidaty, we all have our reasons for the things we do. I will not claim mine are good reasons, or honourable.” He turned his face to meet her eyes. “We are all slaves to something,” he reminded her.
“Jawad, you are hardly able to walk or breathe. If you intend to leave this place, your only reason should be to escape and never return,” she implored him. “Before your reasons become your death.”
“I can’t.”
She leaned forward, staring at him; the distance between them was no more than a hand’s width. With each breath, he saw out of the corner of his eye how her chest rose and fell, and her entire presence was making his head spin. “Why not?” she demanded to know, her eyes locked with his.
He finally managed to break the enchantment placed upon him, looking away. “Forgive me, sayidaty.”
Even as he looked away, she kept her eyes on him for a while longer. “I have completely forgotten to share news with you,” she finally continued, retreating out of his reach. “My father has come to an agreement with Dār al-Imāra. I am engaged to Faisal al-Musharaf.”
“My congratulations, sayidaty. Those are wonderful news.” The words were spoken with flat monotony.
She kept her eyes on him. When he did not speak again, she stood up. “Forgive me, Master Jawad. You told me you had matters that required your attention. I should not hold you from your duties.” Her voice was neutral with barely a quiver of emotion. “If you wish to go, you should.”
Inelegantly, he got on his feet and managed a short, awkward bow. “Of course. I shall not impose upon your hospitality any further, sayidaty.” He limped away.
~~~~
Jawad returned to his room. From the straws that formed his mattress, he fished out the purse of silver given to him by Tibert. He placed it inside his tunic above the cord of rope he used as belt, keeping it in place and hidden from plain sight.
As he walked down the corridor, he heard his name shouted. “Jawad!” It was Salah, coming in haste to catch up with him.
“No need to hurry,” Jawad told him. “I’m not in much shape to outrun you.”
Salah grinned before he looked down at Jawad’s feet, which removed any trace of mirth from his face. “Right. I forgot. We’ll have to do something about that.”
“It’s been tended to already. What did you want?”
“I had a talk with the harbourmasters this morning. Their records had interesting news.”
Jawad frowned. “I thought their records were confidential.”
Salah shrugged. “They weren’t keen, but when one of the Hundred Houses wants information about someone who is not one of the Hundred Houses, they comply.”
Wealth had its privileges. “What did you learn?”
“Dār al-Gund has a ship empty of cargo, waiting on the docks. It’s been there for days.”
“Waiting for some jars of snail sludge,” Jawad realised.
Salah nodded. “Exactly. They’ll want to transport it out of Alcázar as soon as possible.”
“Wait, how long did you say this ship has been waiting?”
“I think it was four or five days. Does it matter?”
It meant that Dār al-Gund had been planning to steal the dye and cut Jawad out all along. Bastards. “Not really, I suppose.”
“In other words, I believe you. I’m ready to set and spring your trap.”
Jawad smiled. “Most excellent.”
“How do we proceed?”
“We should assume they are watching the house.” Jawad doubted that Dār al-Gund was spying on al-Badawi’s estate, but he knew the Black Teeth were for certain. “We must avoid doing anything that seems out of the ordinary, and we should convince them to act as soon as possible. The less time they have to grow suspicious, the better. Tomorrow at noon, I meet with the Prince herself to set the bait.”
“The master’s serai by the Goat Gate,” Salah suggested. “It has a warehouse next to it. We can have hidden archers on the rooftop of the serai and more soldiers inside. The alleys around are narrow and easy to block.”
“You would know best. I’ll lure them to this place and convince them to act tomorrow night already.”
“We have the favour of fate,” Salah smiled. “Tomorrow, the master goes to the Kabir’s palace for the ceremony of rings. None will question that we depart from the estate. Master al-Badawi even has a reason to be at the palace, where he can request the Kabir’s soldiers to help us!”
Jawad pretended to share Salah’s enthusiasm; in truth, he saw no point in involving the Kabir other than to stroke al-Badawi’s pride. “I will leave you to your preparations and make my own.”
“What preparations do you need to make?”
The good questions just kept on coming. “I’ll try to find out how Dār al-Gund might be spying on us,” Jawad lied with his customary ease. “That should make it easier to avoid arousing their suspicion. We might even put on a show to their benefit. They will more easily believe me if my information is supported by other reports.”
“Good idea!” Salah exclaimed. Jawad got the sense this was not just professional interest, but that the big warrior was thoroughly enjoying all of it. “I can arrange for some jars of wine to be brought there, and perhaps have the serai cleared out as if we don’t want people hanging around.”
“Brilliant,” Jawad said, his mind elsewhere. As long as it kept Salah busy, he was in favour of it. “We can meet again tonight or tomorrow morning and ensure our next steps are done in coordination.”
“Agreed!” Salah gave him a hearty slap on the back, oblivious to the waves of pain this sent through Jawad.
“Agreed,” the thief coughed.
“Now let’s get you a pair of good boots. If you’ll be running around town on those bro
ken feet, you’ll need them.”
Soon after, Jawad left the house of al-Badawi wearing sturdy leather boots lined with the softest lamb wool, adding comfortable footwear to the list of privileges afforded by affluence.
~~~~
Amal’s room had two alcoves; one contained her bed, and the other held a cupboard inside of it. Beyond using the cupboard itself for storing sundries, and occasionally hiding valuables behind it, she did not seem to pay it much heed. Certainly not this particular afternoon when she returned to her home. After locking her door, she threw her empty satchel on a table. With a satisfied expression suggesting a day of successful trades, Amal put away a handful of silver coins in a drawer. She threw a few nuts lying on the table into her mouth, chewing as she tidied up the place.
She was pouring a cup of water for herself when Jawad stepped out from the space between the alcove wall and the cupboard. “Well met, Amal.”
The water skin and cup fell to the ground. “Haktar’s fuckspear!” she cursed, swirling around. “Jawad!”
“In the flesh. I thought we should talk.”
“Stay away!” She stumbled backwards, pressing herself up against the wall, her hand fumbling for the knife in her belt.
“Amal, I am unarmed.” Jawad raised his empty hands, waving his injured left hand around for good measure. “Though you should consider that I was alone in your room for a while.”
She abandoned the attempt to draw her knife and stared at him with suspicion in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
He let his gaze sweep over the room. “Water, wine, bread, carrots, mutton.” He smiled at her. “If I wanted to, I had any number of opportunities to spice your food.”
“You didn’t,” she said hoarsely.
“I didn’t,” Jawad reassured her. “But it would have been easy for me. I want you to remember this from now on. If I wanted to end your life, you could not possibly predict or prevent it.”