Alchemy

It was early morning when Jawad returned to the estate of al-Badawi. The doorkeeper recognised him and allowed him entrance with a grunt.

“Much obliged.” With the lush surroundings behind its walls, the mansion was a haven in this city of dust, and Jawad took his time to admire the landscape while strolling up to the main building.

His leisurely manner was in stark contrast to the response created by his appearance. The mamluks guarding the entrance exchanged looks of disbelief. One pointed his spear at Jawad while the other rushed off. The thief willingly entered the reception hall to wait.

Salah arrived first. “You bastard!”

“It’s good to see a friendly face,” Jawad told Salah. “Your guards lack hospitality.” He sent an indignant look at the spear tip pointed at him.

“Where did you go?” The question was asked in the most menacing manner possible, and just for emphasis, Salah seized Jawad by the collar. Jawad would have sighed if his breathing were not obstructed; it would have been nice to be threatened in a way that did not ruin his tunic.

“I listened to the whispers on the wind,” Jawad replied, struggling to get the words out. “Once I no longer had your heavy breathing in my ear, I was able to hear a lot.”

“I don’t know what schemes you’ve made, but coming back here was a mistake –”

The arrival of his master interrupted Salah. “The thief is back?” al-Badawi asked.

“Yes, effendim.” Salah scowled at Jawad.

“As I was about to say, I return with joyous news.”

The merchant looked at him coldly. “I doubt that. Salah was right. I should never have trusted a villain and a scoundrel.”

“But effendi, I know where the Prince will strike tonight.” With satisfaction, Jawad noticed the reaction of his audience. Along with silence befalling the hall, Salah finally released his grip on Jawad’s collar. “You need only prepare the trap, and you can kill the Prince once he appears.”

“A likely story.” Contempt overflowed in Salah’s voice.

“Where?” asked al-Badawi.

“Your warehouse by the slave market, effendi.”

“No obvious reason he should steal from there,” the merchant said with a frown. “It holds nothing of particular value.”

“The Prince has his reasons, no doubt,” Jawad remarked.

“Or this is a ploy,” Salah interjected. “This flea-infested louse makes us guard one place while his comrades rob another!”

“Effendi, I would never dare,” Jawad protested.

“I’ll set a trap with the mamluks,” Salah suggested. “We’ll drag the rascal with us. If the so-called Prince does not show, I’ll use my sword on our little thief here instead.”

“And if he escapes from you again?” asked his master, sending looks of disdain at both Salah and Jawad. “Better to have him locked up here.”

“Is it really necessary to be so distrustful?” Jawad’s remark was ignored.

“If the mamluks are with me, the house will be lightly guarded,” Salah pointed out. “We may be locking the jackal inside with the sheep.”

Al-Badawi was silent for a moment. “Wait here,” he commanded and left the salāmlik.

Jawad looked at Salah, who wielded a scowl as if it were a deadly weapon. “Heard any good poetry lately, Salah?”

“Keeping count, mongrel. Every little thing is another lash against your back.”

Al-Badawi returned with a cup in his hand. “This is something my grandfather taught me. You will drink this.”

“While I am thirsty beyond belief, I’d prefer to know what it is,” Jawad said hesitantly.

The merchant’s smile was cruel. “It is a poison that brings a slow death.”

Warning bells resounded in Jawad’s mind. His eyes darted around the room, looking for his escape. The two guards held spears; if he ran between them, they would have trouble striking him. The problem was Salah with his short sword, standing closer to the entrance. “Your grandfather sounds like an aggressive negotiator,” Jawad remarked, trying to buy time. He could run deeper into the palace and trust that his knowledge gained so far would let him find an exit, but that seemed doubtful.

“It was how he kept a man loyal. Drink it,” al-Badawi commanded, holding out the cup. “If what you say is true and we catch the Prince tonight in your trap, I will give you the antidote. If you are lying to me… I am told it is an excruciating death.”

Jawad weighed his options. With a silent prayer to Elat, he put on a smile. “I am true to my word.” He reached out to take the goblet from al-Badawi’s hand. “To your health, effendi,” he toasted and emptied the cup. He pulled a face. “Bitter. Some honey wouldn’t hurt.”

“Excellent. After tonight, either you or the Prince will die, and I have one less nuisance to worry about.” Retaining his cruel expression, al-Badawi left.

Jawad turned towards Salah, cup still in hand. “Could I be allowed a chamber and a bed? I am quite exhausted, and if we are to be busy tonight, I should require some sleep.”

With an uncomfortable look at the chalice in Jawad’s hand, Salah nodded slowly. “Sure. There are plenty of empty beds in the servants’ quarters. Choose any you like.”

“Much obliged.” Jawad disappeared down the corridor indicated by Salah.

Once out of sight, Jawad abandoned pretence of seeking sleep. Instead, he immediately pushed a finger down his own throat until his stomach emptied its contents. A small puddle of digested fruit lay in clear liquid on the ground, giving Jawad little assurance. He needed to go elsewhere. Wiping his mouth, he got up and hurried away. Soon after, he slipped outside the palace; the feat was made easy by entire areas being uninhabited. Jawad noted in passing that although fabulously wealthy, al-Badawi’s riches must have become less fabulous in recent years, or he would have been able to afford slaves and servants to fill the entirety of his estate.

Once in the surrounding orchard, Jawad looked closer at the enclosing walls. They were tall and smooth, making them difficult to scale without any kind of equipment; furthermore, there was an open stretch of land between the walls and any neighbouring buildings to further hinder break-ins. Luckily for Jawad, he was not trying to get in, but get out, and the orchard had trees growing close to the wall; nobody ever considered precautions to keep thieves from escaping once inside. With a bit of climbing and one careful jump, he moved from branch to stonework. One moment later, Jawad had lowered himself down from the wall and could disappear into the city.

~~~~

Walking with haste, Jawad moved through Alcázar; once more, his direction was south. His steps lacked his usual grace; while he was accustomed to being up at night due to his nocturnal activities, lack of sleep was catching up to him. Not to mention, his heart was beating fast at the mere thought of the chalice that al-Badawi had made him drink; although the morning was cold, he could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow.

The streets became crowded with the hojon entering from the slums beyond the southern walls to work as day labourers on the docks and districts; Jawad stumbled into some of them on more than one occasion, drawing angry yells and shoves along the way.

The stream of people lessened once he left the main streets. In staggered fashion, Jawad returned to the poorer parts of Alcázar until he finally stopped outside an unassuming building. Its only distinguishing feature was a sign painted on the door. To the knowledgeable, it was the symbols for gold and silver mashed together, also known as truesilver; to the common man, it was simply a mark explaining that here lived an alchemist.

“Ishak!” Jawad banged repeatedly on the door. “Ishak, are you home?”

He had to continue for a while until the door finally creaked open. An old man stood behind it; he had a long, white beard and wore robes typical of scholars and the learned, but the rest of his appearance gainsaid this impression. His hair was unkempt and missing patches all over his skull. His face was full of spots reminiscent of burn marks, hinting at experiments gone awry. The most striking feature was his eyes, which stared wildly at Jawad. “What do you want, you chicken snake?” he exclaimed. His tattered robes were of little value, but he wore a necklace with a golden pendant showing the same symbol as upon his door with a value of around thirty-five silver coins.

“Ishak, I need your help. Let me in.”

The alchemist snorted as he stood aside to let Jawad enter. “Of course you need my help. That’s the only reason anyone would be at my door.”

“I need you to tell me if I have been poisoned,” Jawad explained. He was in a room that seemed to have several functions. Various reagents and scorch marks suggested the workshop of an alchemist. A bed, bandages, and small tools spoke of a sickroom for treating the ill. Jawad was not sure what to make of the skull on the table.

Ishak closed the door and turned his stare on his guest. “What would give you such an outlandish idea?”

“Someone made me drink poison.”

Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, Ishak nodded slowly. “So that’s one symptom. How do you feel? Hot, out of breath, heart beating fast?”

“Yes,” Jawad confirmed, “though I all but ran getting here.”

“Lie down, you goat feather,” Ishak reproached him, gesturing to a sofa. “Take deep, slow breaths and relax.”

“Relax, of course. Who wouldn’t be relaxed while at death’s door,” Jawad muttered, but he did as told. His new position allowed him to stare up on the ceiling, which was covered in strange symbols. Staring at them, Jawad felt his mind slowly drift, and his vision became blurry.

Meanwhile, Ishak began rummaging through the many shelves lining his walls, containing countless ingredients, herbs, powders, and a hoard of other items. “This will help,” he proclaimed, mixing a few different liquids together.

“Is that an antidote?” Faint hope appeared in Jawad’s voice, and he blinked to dispel the fog from his mind, looking away from the symbols above him.

“Yes,” Ishak confirmed before he downed the entire concoction in one gulp. “For my hangover. You lie back and be still,” Ishak demanded. “Imagine you’re already dead.”

“With this for a healer, I will be,” Jawad complained, taking deep breaths and slowly exhaling.

“Such nerve,” Ishak grumbled. “I’ll have you know, I have been a physician to kings and kabirs, you melon biter.” He held out a small plate in front of Jawad’s mouth. “Spit.”

Having obtained his sample, Ishak returned to his work desk and poured a few drops of a murky fluid onto the saliva. He stared at it intently as nothing at all happened. With a few scowls and growls, Ishak returned to Jawad. The thief lay with eyes closed, reposing, until his caretaker jammed two fingers against his face, prying his eyes open. “What’s that for?” it burst from Jawad in complaint; involuntarily, his eyes tried to blink in protest against this abuse.

“Pupils are normal,” Ishak muttered, placing his ear against the thief’s chest, listening to his heart. “So is heartbeat.” He stood up straight and used an odd, viscous liquid from a nearby bowl to draw a symbol upon Jawad’s chest. “How long ago did you make the brilliant decision to swallow poison?”

“At least two hours,” Jawad speculated. “It was a long walk to get here.”

“Well,” Ishak considered, “either this poison works slower than any that I possess –” He interrupted himself. “Possess knowledge of, that is, or your drinking companion lied to you.”

“I thought that might have been the case,” Jawad said with considerable relief. “I have never heard of a substance that would take more than a day to kill. But I needed to be sure.”

“More than a day?”

“That is what I was told.”

“Even my slowest sleeping powders take effect within hours,” Ishak told him. “The only way to kill someone with poison over several days is by giving them a small dose regularly, letting it build up. If that’s the case here, the cure is simple.”

“What is it?”

“Next time someone offers you poison, you politely decline.”

Jawad snorted. “Sage advice.”

“Of course it is, you cat’s paw,” Ishak said as he turned to put his ingredients back to order. “I am a sage, thus everything I say is sage advice. If you want wise counsel, find a wise man.”

Jawad stood up, stretching his neck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Better yet,” Ishak told him, turning his head sharply to look over his shoulder, “keep some silver in my hand.”

“I’m all out,” Jawad said with as much regret he could muster. “I’ll have to owe you.”

“Donkey teeth!” Ishak bared his own specimens. “If I had time, I’d make you bathe in beetle milk for that. Luckily for you, the equinox is soon, and I have herbs to gather before the light wanes. You’ve wasted enough of my time,” he growled. “Out!” He brandished a sickle. “Don’t return unless you have coin or the intact shell of a blue saltwater clam!”

Jawad left in haste.

~~~~

Ishak’s abode was already in the south end of the city, but Jawad continued further until he reached the walls. There was a lone gate allowing passage in and out of Alcázar in this direction; its three brethren were all along the northern and eastern defences. To the west, the sea and cliffs acted as the main fortification, and the harbour provided the only needed access.

Another thing distinguished this entry point; there was no toll for passing through, and subsequently it had far fewer guards. Jawad walked through, sending the bored sentinels a smile, which they did not reciprocate; being assigned this duty was a common punishment in the city guard for small offences, and the soldiers preferred to have as little to do with the hojon shuffling through the gate.

Beyond the wall, Jawad found himself in the ragged collection of huts and sheds known as Almudaina. It was home to thousands of people that made an honest living as daylabourers and dockworkers inside Alcázar; it was also home to a good number of people making a dishonest living. Nearly all the members of the Black Teeth bore the branded cross on their wrist marking them as hojon, the derisive name for the downtrodden denizens of Almudaina.

Rubbing his own brand, Jawad walked into the shantytown. He was keenly aware of the looks he drew, wearing a clean linen tunic and new sandals; to some, that would be sufficient temptation to try their luck.

Keeping his wits about him, Jawad ventured deeper inside. In contrast to the sweet fragrances of al-Badawi’s palace, the stench of human filth, general rot, and disease along with unwashed bodies was palpable. The kindest thing to be said for Almudaina was that it had fewer rats than most other places; if any were spotted, they would be hunted and turned into a meal by the countless quick-footed children running around.

Jawad stared at them, suddenly reminded of his brothers and himself; shaking the memory from his mind, he put a mask of cordiality on his face. “Ghulam,” he called out, gaining the attention of another man.

“Jawad,” the other responded, and they clasped hands. Ghulam was short, dressed in clothes mended many times, and had hair cut uneven; although he did not seem to be starving, like any other in Almudaina he had a haggard look in his eyes that spoke of hunger. Naturally, the ever-present cross was on his wrist. He did not seem to possess a single item worth a copper coin.

“How is business?”

“I won’t complain.”

“Good.” Jawad sent him a sly smile. “Heard anything about the Prince?”

Ghulam laughed. “I thought you were the one with ears in all places, hearing things.”

“My dear Ghulam, you are one of those ears.”

“Well, this ear is deaf, in that case.”

Jawad gave a slight nod. “Truth be told, I am more interested in the docks today.”

“Coin will get you anything.” Ghulam gave a shrug.

“I am strapped for the moment, but I’ll bring silver soon enough.”

An expression ran across Ghulam’s face. “I don’t know if the boys will talk with only promises as payment.”

“I’ve never failed to deliver yet.”

“Yet,” Ghulam repeated. “If intentions were food, rats would grow fat in Almudaina.”

“I need to do a mark to have coin,” Jawad explained, “but I won’t have a mark until I talk with the boys, will I.”

Reluctantly, Ghulam waved for Jawad to follow. “Don’t make it a habit. You’ll find your welcome colder.”

“Perish the thought.” Jawad entered Ghulam’s shed. As could be expected, it was a small, bare room containing only some hay to serve as bed and a few other rudimentary items such as a cracked pot and a mouldy blanket. Jawad did not spare anything a second glance, simply following Ghulam through the back door.

While unassuming, the shed was one of the few gateways into the inner part of Almudaina. In some ways, it did not differentiate from the outer area; the buildings still looked derelict and constructed from little more than debris, and only people in extreme poverty could be found. The difference lay in the structure of this inner medina; it was designed to create winding streets with many dead ends and places suitable to ambush the unwary. Having few other means at their disposal, this carefully constructed chaos was the only weapon that the hojon had against intruders.

With his usual familiarity, Jawad steered through the maze until he came upon a gathering of men passing the time playing dice. Bits of metal, pieces of string or fabric, and the occasional leather strip were the objects to be won or lost.

“Well met,” Jawad called out to them. They were daylabourers seeking their luck on the docks each morning; as the hojon were not allowed inside the city during night, they would march down to the harbour each sunrise. The fortunate would be given work hauling cargo between ships and warehouses, yielding eight copper pieces for a day’s labour; the rest would loiter around the streets of Alcázar or return to Almudaina.

“Jawad!” some of them replied in greeting, looking up from their game of dice as he approached. “What do you have for us?”

“Nothing right now,” Jawad told them, remorse underpinning his voice. “I hope to change that with expedience, should you fine folk have something for me.”

The men exchanged glances; while the vague promise of later payment did not sit well with them, their options were limited. “What do you want to know about?”

“What news do you have about the Prince of Cats?”

“Not much,” came the reply. “He’s not been active in a while.”

“I heard he’s skipped town and gone to Labdah,” another claimed. “Looking for emeralds.”

“That’s just a rumour,” a third man interjected.

“Interesting,” Jawad said, scratching his cheek. “I’ve heard that he is planning to strike against the dye merchants of Alcázar. Tell me about any ships belonging to Dār al-Allawn,” he instructed them, “and what you know about the merchant al-Badawi.”