The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  There was a steady stream of men walking up the middle to bow before the Kabir, carrying more modest gifts; they were the leaders of the Hundred Houses, bestowed with silver rings. One at a time, they proclaimed their loyalty, handed over their gifts to the slaves waiting, and walked backwards to join the throng of onlookers. “There’s your master,” Faisal continued. Evidently, al-Badawi had already presented his tribute, proving his worth as a subject and as a merchant, which allowed him to keep his silver ring for another year. “Master al-Badawi,” Faisal spoke as they approached, bowing his head.

  “Master Faisal,” the merchant replied with a nod. He noticed Jawad and clenched his jaw, but did not remark upon it.

  “Lady Zaida,” Faisal continued. She smiled at him, which made Jawad turn his head away to look at the tribute before the Kabir’s feet. Soon, he had forgotten his surroundings.

  “You’re salivating,” Salah muttered to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Jawad wanted to argue that such was certainly not the case, but he found himself standing with open mouth and quickly closed it. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s all in place for tonight,” Jawad told him.

  “This is hardly the place to discuss it,” Salah growled. “But well done,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Since you are here, Master Faisal, perhaps you can escort my daughter home. I have business I must attend to while I am here, which would only be tiresome for her.” Jawad thought he saw Zaida clench her jaw, eerily reminding him of her father.

  “It would be my honour and delight,” Faisal replied. “My father must soon be ready to leave, and the lady may ride in his carriage.”

  “Excellent,” al-Badawi declared. “Master Faisal,” he spoke in farewell. “Salah,” he added in command, turning around and leaving. Salah followed, and forced by the iron grip that the warrior had on him, so did Jawad.

  “Why in Haktar’s name are you bringing the thief?” asked al-Badawi as he stalked through the corridors.

  “Do you think it wiser to leave him alone to roam free in this place, effendim? Besides, you told me to keep him close as soon as he returned.”

  The merchant gave no reply to this and merely increased his pace with Salah and Jawad in tow. Soon, they entered a room richly furnished. Its interior made it clear that it was the study of an official, and the decorations meant someone of high rank. Jawad’s eyes were on a vase, worth maybe twenty-five silver to the right buyer, when Salah clamped down on his shoulder again.

  “Here comes the hāgib,” the warrior mumbled into Jawad’s ear. “Not a fucking word out of you.”

  Jawad’s eyes widened a little. Like the title of Kabir, Jawad knew that the office of the hāgib existed, but the thief had never imagined to stand in the same room as him. He was the highest ranking official in the city, and his position took its name from his duty, acting as a veil between the ruler and his citizens to deal with the more tedious affairs of rulership. Even alhajin such as Jawad understood the power wielded by the hāgib.

  The man who entered seemed anything but impressive; his face was blushing red with sweat on his brow, and Jawad doubted it was because he had been running. He did not seem like he did much running in general. His clothes were naturally expensive, but Jawad was starting to become inured to that. He wore neither a gold, silver, or copper ring; his position required no such trinket.

  Despite his physicality, the hāgib carried himself with a confidence entirely devoid of affectation. He nodded to his visitors curtly. “Master al-Badawi,” he said shortly. “You requested a meeting.”

  “Sidi,” al-Badawi replied. “I have been warned that tonight, one of my warehouses will be plundered, and the culprits are brigands in the employ of Dār al-Gund.”

  The hāgib sent him a scrutinising look. “You come to me with more than rumours and allegations, I trust?”

  “As I am forewarned, I plan a trap to catch the thieves in the act. This will serve as irrefutable proof,” al-Badawi explained. “Dār al-Gund will have lost all rights to any presence in Alcázar.”

  “You wish for the exalted Kabir’s troops to spring this trap?”

  “You are swift to understanding, sidi. Having the exalted Kabir’s soldiers will not only make the trap an iron fist, they will also be firsthand witnesses to all that transpires.”

  The hāgib kept his gaze on al-Badawi much like a butcher choosing the next lamb for slaughter. “Your tribute this year was not impressive, Master al-Badawi,” he remarked coolly.

  The merchant swallowed. “I have been plagued by these criminals for years now! As they steal from me, so my tribute diminishes. In effect, they have been stealing from the exalted Kabir.”

  His counterpart broke his stare away, and there was a barely audible sigh of relief from al-Badawi. “There is some truth to that. The exalted Kabir will be pleased to assist a loyal subject in upholding the law. Do I recall correctly that you are in the process of selling a large quantity of purple dye to the exalted Kabir and his household?”

  Al-Badawi nodded eagerly. “I am, sidi. It is what these lawless marauders seek to steal from me.”

  “The exalted Kabir expects you to remember today’s favour when you are to receive your payment. As you will remember it for next year’s tribute, I am sure.”

  Al-Badawi paled slightly. “Of course, sidi.”

  The hāgib smiled. “Most excellent. The exalted Kabir will send an amir with a contingent of soldiers to your home immediately. They are yours to command for the night.”

  “My deepest gratitude to the exalted Kabir,” al-Badawi said subserviently, bowing deeply. A nod from the hāgib dismissed them, and they walked backwards out of the chamber. Once outside, the merchant turned swiftly. “Home,” he briefly commanded Salah, walking away at a brisk pace.

  Soon after, al-Badawi was seated in his carriage with his company of mamluks mounted and ready. Salah, standing by his horse, did not join them. “Ride on without me,” he told the soldiers, who grunted and took off, leaving Jawad to stare curiously at Salah.

  “What’s going on?”

  Salah nodded at his feet. “You’ve been all over town today. You can’t walk home. Get on the horse.”

  Jawad stared up at the beast, which suddenly seemed as foreboding and dangerous as any jinni. “I can’t ride,” he professed. Ever since his childhood, Jawad had avoided horses.

  “I’m not telling you to charge into battle,” Salah grumbled. “Just sit on its back. It has a saddle, for Haktar’s sake, nothing to it.”

  Hesitantly and without his usual self-assured movements, Jawad put one foot in the stirrup. His left hand was useless, and his right hand struggled to find somewhere to grasp onto. Without warning, he felt himself being pushed up in the air as Salah lost patience. The small thief almost fell all the way over the saddle, and only his foot caught in the stirrup saved him. He bumped into the saddle, crushing his jewels. A small whimper of pain escaped him.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Salah declared, taking hold of the reins and leading them out of the courtyard.

  The afternoon was gone, and the sun was setting as they travelled through the streets; the shortest day of the year was coming to an end. Despite night falling, Jawad feared neither thieves nor guards; Salah’s presence was a guarantee against both. As for the horse, it trotted along at a leisurely pace, letting him spare his feet. Even so, Jawad found it difficult to see the appeal. It was just inconvenient, having to find somewhere out of sight to leave your horse tied up all night while committing burglary.

  “I saw you entered with Master Faisal,” Salah spoke. “Was that a mere coincidence?”

  “As it turns out, it was. We simply arrived at the same time.”

  “Is that so. I thought the two of you might have spoken.”

  It dawned on Jawad where Salah was going with this. “He offered me a position, yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I would need time to think. Until my business with Master al-
Badawi is concluded, I cannot consider the future.”

  “You’re a fool,” Salah told him, staring ahead as he walked next to the horse. “If tonight goes ill, the master will blame you.”

  “I am aware.”

  “If you had gone with him, Dār al-Imāra could have protected you.” Salah glanced up at him.

  “I will see tonight through. We’ve come this far.” Jawad sent him a faint smile. “Tomorrow, one way or the other, my business with Dār al-Allawn is concluded, and I can consider what lies ahead.”

  “As you wish,” Salah muttered.

  “Will you oversee tonight’s event at the serai?”

  “I have been ordered to remain at home, keeping an eye on you until news arrives.”

  Interesting. “If so, shall we take tea together? We might as well make the evening pleasant as we wait to hear the good news.”

  Salah shrugged. “Why not.”

  22. The Longest Night

  Midnight was some hours away when they arrived at al-Badawi’s estate. “Been a long time since I wore so much metal,” Salah complained, stretching his arms and making his armour rattle. “May Haktar shit on me if I haven’t grown soft, but I can’t wait to take it off.”

  With some trepidation, Jawad managed to dismount the stallion while the stable boy looked on in amusement. “Go ahead. I’ll collect a tray with tea and bring it to your room? You can make yourself comfortable meanwhile.”

  “Sounds good.” Salah stretched his neck as well. “I’ll tell the mamluks to let you into the harāmlik. But Jawad,” he added, catching the thief’s eyes, “all the guards know you are not to leave the estate tonight. Don’t try.”

  “Salah,” he smiled, “I have tea and an appointment with Alcázar’s foremost conversationalist ahead of me. There is no place I would rather be.”

  “I always get this creeping sensation down my spine whenever you seem too happy,” Salah muttered as they reached the doors of the palace.

  “How is it even possible for someone to be too happy?” Jawad mused.

  “Fuck you, you know full well my concern is justified.”

  “See? Delightful conversation guaranteed.”

  They split up, and Jawad headed for the servant kitchen. The tea was undoubtedly better if he had gone to the kitchen that served the harāmlik, but it always required a lot of coaxing and work to get anything there; the matron knew her worth and that at the end of the day, Jawad was alhajin. Not so with the old cook who ensured the common folk at the estate were fed.

  “Jida,” he called out affectionately.

  “Only one person with the nerve to call me that,” the cook scowled, but she grinned soon after, revealing a few missing teeth. “Jawad, dear boy, have you eaten?”

  “Not since this morning, jida,” he told her. Immediately, a bowl of stew and a spoon materialised on the table. “Jida,” he chided her, “I have important business that will be delayed if I am to sit here and eat.”

  “And how will you manage all this business if you drop dead from starvation?” she scolded him in return. “Sit, boy, sit!” He had no choice but to comply. “What a fuss today,” she continued. “People in and out all day. The mamluks came in shortly after sunset, all rowdy and shouting for food.”

  “And did you meekly serve them their meal?”

  “Hah! I twisted a few ears and told them to get their dirty boots out of my kitchen!” Her words made Jawad grin. Anything that put a dent in the mamluks’ dignity sat well with him. “And what have you been up to? No good, hm?”

  “Always, jida,” he laughed. “I was at the Kabir’s palace.”

  “Of course you were,” she scoffed. “And I’m his mother.”

  “There was gold and silver like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe it.”

  “Wealth and riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Boy, I dream of cabbages, leeks, carrots, figs, and warm weather to keep my joints from aching.”

  “One day, jida, I will sit on a sarīr surrounded by treasures.”

  “Hah, and I’ll have someone to help me in this kitchen who isn’t lazy and all thumbs.”

  “Do you have tea brewing? I’m supposed to bring a tray.”

  “Fine, leave me,” she grumbled. “You can pour yourself.”

  “Jida, thank you for feeding me,” Jawad said quietly.

  “It was nothing,” she mumbled with her back turned towards him, peeling onions.

  ~~~~

  Balancing a tray with his injured hand underneath it, Jawad walked past the mamluks to enter the harāmlik, enjoying the dirty looks they sent his way. He continued straight towards Salah’s room; while he had only been able to sneak around the inner palace once, many days ago, he remembered all of it.

  “Enter,” Salah bade him after he knocked. Jawad did so and found the warrior in soft clothing; his armour hung upon its rack, and his sword belt lay draped over a chair. A small table was cleared, where Jawad put his tray down. “Expecting company?” Salah asked, raising one eyebrow. Besides the pitcher of tea, Jawad had brought four cups.

  “As the poets say, a man only has too many cups if he has too many friends.”

  “You’re the strangest fucking thief I’ve ever met,” Salah muttered, but his tone was good-natured, and he accepted the cup that Jawad poured him. “Health,” he toasted as they sat down.

  “Health,” Jawad replied, bringing his cup to his lips. “Do you know the hour?”

  “Not exactly, but I’d wager about two hours until midnight. Nervous?”

  Jawad shook his head. He was feeling a great deal of things, but anxiety was not among them. “Just wondering. Tonight is an auspicious night.”

  “Indeed. A triumph for our master. You have done well, Jawad. If all goes as it should, I will see to it that you leave this place rewarded.”

  “I appreciate the thought.”

  Salah emptied his cup. “Have you thought about where you will go? To Dār al-Imāra?”

  Jawad pondered the question. In truth, he had barely thought beyond this night. With the enemies he had managed to accrue, perhaps a change of surroundings would be good for his wellbeing. “I have considered leaving Alcázar. See new lands.”

  “The Seven Realms? You’ll freeze the meat off your bones, skinny boy like you.”

  Jawad laughed a little. “Doubtful. Besides, there are many cities around the Inner Sea. Why should Alcázar be the only one to enjoy my presence?”

  “If you think you will be fine out there, in foreign cities,” Salah considered, scratching his beard.

  “If not, I’m sure Alcázar will be here when I return.”

  “The thought of you running around a strange city makes me a little worried for you,” Salah admitted. “Then again, the thought of you running around Alcázar makes me a little worried for Alcázar.”

  Jawad’s laughter came again, more heartily. “Never fear, Salah. No matter the storm, a thief like me always floats to the top.”

  “Sounds like rats.”

  “I suppose. Growing up in Almudaina, you learn to both fear and respect rats. They are your competition when it comes to scrounging for food and finding the best shelter, but they can also teach you much about survival. And if you’re hungry enough…”

  Salah stared around his room, looking anywhere but Jawad. “I never considered life in Almudaina, or the life of the hojon. It must be harsh.”

  Jawad decided to change the topic. “Do you see much of your family, Salah?”

  “On occasion. I spend the equinox with my sisters usually, and I enjoy visiting my brother’s shop. His children adore me,” he added with a fond smile.

  “Have you ever thought about having your own?”

  Salah gave him a surprised look upon hearing the direct question. “I haven’t. Women are of no interest to me in that fashion. Why, does our thief think about settling down?”

  “Hardly. It was merely on my mind, living as part of a household
. It is quite different from how I have lived before.”

  “It is not too late to seek out Dār al-Imāra. You may live with them as I do here, and perhaps under a friendlier roof.”

  He could, but Jawad knew that come tomorrow, it was time to put distance between himself and Zaida, not the opposite. Reminded of her, he spoke again. “I have a favour to ask, Salah.”

  “If it’s within my means.”

  “Lady Zaida has been good to me while I was here. I should like to take tea with her as well tonight, seeing as it will be my last chance to show her my appreciation.”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in that if she will grant you a visit,” Salah said while nodding. Jawad got up, picked up his tray with some difficulty, and the two men left the room.

  “Something you should know,” Jawad said as they walked down the hallway. “Has any new servants been hired in the last couple of days? Any new slaves?”

  “I can’t say, I’m not the steward. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a good chance they are a hired killer working for Dār al-Gund.” Jawad was being a little coy with the truth, but it was best not to overburden Salah with too much knowledge.

  Salah stopped in his tracks. “What? How come you’ve not said anything?”

  “I didn’t want to warn Dār al-Gund and scare them off. You should investigate any new arrivals to the palace. See if one of their corner teeth has been painted partly black, making it look broken. That is the mark of the murderers that Dār al-Gund uses.” That took care of the blade that the Black Teeth were holding against his throat.

  “Haktar and horseshit,” Salah cursed. They had arrived outside Zaida’s chambers, and he knocked on the door. “Right, you stay here until I come back. I need to deal with this.”

  “While you’re at it, you should send a patrol around the neighbourhood. I am quite sure that Dār al-Gund also has spies watching every side of the house.” And that should open up some room for him to manoeuvre unrestricted.