The House of Army

Jawad moved to the side of the compound where he knew the stables were located and studied the wall in front of him. A grappling hook would have made it easy to scale the obstacle, but he was forced to do it the simple way. Having to work in poor visibility, Jawad let his hands run over the stonework to detect where it was crudest; the rougher the stones had been hewn, the more places for his hands and feet to hang on.

The wall was about fifteen feet high, which meant Jawad could only inspect the wall to a certain height; this proved an issue. It was not difficult to find a few jagged stones that he might step onto, but he had trouble finding the same higher up, allowing him to complete his ascent. He had no choice but to keep searching, stepping up as high as he could and searching the stones further up. As he could not see, but only feel, his progress was slow; it took him half an hour until he finally felt something promising.

His footing was not the best; he was standing on his toes. But at the very height that his fingers could reach, he felt a small outcrop; it was just enough to hang onto by his fingertips. With a smile, he took hold with both hands and moved his foot up to find another steppingstone.

His smile disappeared, feeling his fingers slip. Accompanied by the unpleasant sound of his nails scraping against stone, he lost his grip. He clawed desperately against the wall to no effect. One moment later, he fell flat on his back, landing on the street.

The wind was knocked out of him, and he gasped without being able to breathe. With sudden fear, he moved his hands to inspect the lantern hanging by his belt. He relaxed a little upon feeling it intact; his body had broken the fall, which seemed both fortunate and unfortunate. Somewhere, Jawad was sure, the Lady of Luck was looking upon his struggles and laughing.

Jawad was not sure what was worst, the embarrassment or the pain shooting up his back. Either way, it was clear he was out of practice. Slightly more humble and a lot more cautious, he got up and approached the wall again. His second attempt saw success; with a lot of heaving and not so much grace, Jawad managed to scale the obstacle. It was just wide enough that he could sit atop it. He lowered himself down on the inner side, hanging by his fingertips until he let go and dropped about nine feet. He did his best to land softly, minimising the shock to his soles and knees. Straightening up, Jawad looked around with a cautious smile. He was inside.

As planned, he was behind the stables. While the building was not solid, being built more like a large lean-to, it provided sufficient cover to shield him from anyone’s sight for the time being. Now that he was inside, the first thing Jawad did was examine the wall on this side. The first rule of burglary was to know your escape route intimately.

He did as he had done on the other side, letting his hands slide over the stonework to find any steppingstones, ledges, and similar he could use to scale the wall. He made sure to actually climb up far enough that he was certain he could reach the top and escape when the time came. It did not take him long to find a suitable spot as the stones were far more roughly hewn on the inside than they were on the outside; it was a common mistake that most effort went into keeping thieves out, with least effort expended on keeping them in.

His route secured, Jawad turned towards the open stables. By crouching low, he had no difficulty sneaking forward, approaching the main building undetected; or so he thought. Suddenly, voices reached him, and he froze in his tracks, his heart pumping in his chest. He turned his head to gaze back at his escape path while listening intently.

He realised that the voices were not speaking, not to him or to anyone else. They were gasping and making other unintelligible sounds. Jawad grinned as he understood what the hay in the stables was being used for. Someone was having their own solstice celebration.

Jawad crept forward until he reached the gap between the stables and the main residence hall. Lights burned on the ground floor where the feast was being held, but the upper windows were dark. Sneaking a peek, he peered across the courtyard. The smaller building where the servants resided was bustling with activity as could be expected; thankfully, Jawad’s venture would not bring him in that direction. He turned his attention on the larger building ahead of him.

He put up the hood on his dark cloak and moved to stand against the outer wall, making him as close to invisible as was possible. Carefully, he moved forward to cross the distance between the stables and the main hall.

Reaching the other building, Jawad assumed there was a back door close by; while he had never used such an entrance, he could smell a midden nearby, meaning the kitchens were placed here. He walked in the direction of the unpleasant odours; they grew so intense, Jawad could guess where the animal refuse from the stable and the human waste from the residences ended up.

Ignoring any objections from his nose, Jawad continued his search. The near absence of light meant he had to progress slowly, but he did not mind; it was better to work at a crawl if it meant he was concealed in the meantime. Eventually, the wall of the building changed from stone to wood, and he knew he had reached the doorframe.

The entrance was locked, naturally; neither that nor the darkness was of much hindrance. Working blind, Jawad found his lock picks and made short work of the obstacle. Moments later, he found himself surrounded by cauldrons, pots, cupboards, and anything else a well-supplied kitchen could boast of.

Jawad’s stomach growled at the sudden scent of food in the air, a welcome change from the dunghill outside. It was tempting to help himself, but it would also leave an obvious sign behind of this night’s intrusion. As an experienced thief, Jawad ignored this urge and proceeded further into the building.

It was a rare occurrence for Jawad to be breaking into a building he already knew to such extent. He always felt it was testing his good luck and the grace of Elat to return to a place he had previously robbed. He could excuse himself with the fact that his previous visits to this particular place had not been for the purpose of stealing anything.

If Al-Badawi knew anything about thievery, he would have realised that asking Jawad to break into a compound such as this without scouting it first was begging for failure. It was a case of Elat smiling upon him that Jawad and Dār al-Gund were old acquaintances; it made his task far easier, but al-Badawi could not have known that either. Given the rivalry between the two merchant houses, the thief saw no reason to rectify his ignorance. It was sure to invite unpleasant questions. Better to tribute his success tonight to his peerless skills as a thief.

Shortly after, Jawad found the staircase that the servants used to move from the kitchens to the upper floors, and he expediently made use of it. He noticed in passing how the hall seemed almost austere in comparison with al-Badawi’s mansion. The latter was a palace and a display of wealth beyond what most men could imagine; in comparison, this house was for business and commerce. There was not a splinter of marble in sight, and the floors and walls were bare.

He might have found himself in more opulent surroundings had he continued up the stairs. Normally, Jawad’s nocturnal visits to estates such as this would lead him to the highest stories, as people of wealth always reserved those as their private chambers, keeping as much distance between themselves and their servants as possible. In this case, it worked in his favour, since it meant that the workrooms manned by clerks and assistants were only one floor up. Strolling down the corridor, Jawad entered the offices of Dār al-Gund.

The door was unlocked, which struck Jawad as odd; merchants guarded their ledgers more jealously than they did their daughters, and these offices were the heart of Dār al-Gund and its operations. Another stroke of good luck, courtesy of Elat, no doubt. The thief knew that the goddess was due a proper offering soon in return for all her aid.

Walking inside, Jawad glanced around; not because he needed to acquaint himself with the room, but just to ensure nothing was out of place. There was not anything to arouse his suspicion, though. The writing desks and chairs stood in the middle of the room. In one end was a door that led to the study belonging to Tibert, leader of Dār al-Gund; in the opposite end was also a door, leading to a privy. Lining the walls were numerous shelves, and among them, Jawad’s prize.

When it came to commerce, Jawad was only interested once the wealth had been created and came within reach of his thieving hands. This meant that he had not the slightest clue how a merchant house arranged its books. None of them had titles; all he saw were endless rows of brown, leather-bound ledgers.

Picking up the lantern from his belt, Jawad removed one of the panels from its six sides. This allowed a sliver of light from the burning wick inside to shine forth in one straight direction. From all other sides, the flame was still shielded, and should anyone outside be looking up at the windows, they would see only darkness.

Placing the lamp on a desk, making sure the beam of light was concealed as desired, Jawad began pulling down books one by one, bringing them to the light, and opening them to examine their contents. The long columns of numbers seemed like nonsense to him. His eyes glanced around the pages until he recognised something such as the name of Gadir. Presumably, this particular ledger dealt with trade from that city. Jawad closed the book and returned it on the shelf, picking up the next.

Time was beginning to be an issue; dawn could not be more than a few hours away. He had to resist the urge to start pulling books down impatiently; he knew it would only impede his search. This called for a meticulous approach. He checked a few books from each shelf; whenever he felt confident he had deduced the city in question for those ledgers, he continued with a new shelf.

Labdah. Sayda. Surru. Every time he came across one of these names, he felt they mocked him and his urgency. His heartbeat was slowly rising, and he only realised that he had been clenching his jaw when it started to ache.

His mood finally improved when he saw the name Portesur. It was a northern city, he was sure. He took a guess and moved to the next bookshelf immediately, bringing his lantern with him. By now, he had been through several rows. Picking up a new book, he opened it to let his eyes skim across the page. With a triumphant smile, he saw the name of Herbergja.

The smile faded as he looked up. His investigation suggested that the clerks kept all ledgers pertaining to the same city archived together. By ill luck, Jawad had started in the wrong end, going through all the cities of the Inner Sea, which had cost him the better part of an hour. Added to that, he still had half the shelves to through. Jawad groaned inwardly. It was obvious to him now. Dār al-Gund was comprised of northerners, and Herbergja was the great trade city of the northern kingdoms; most of their trade would be with that city.

There would not be time to go through each of the remaining ledgers, but perhaps that would not be necessary either, Jawad thought. Al-Badawi had sent him to copy the very latest information; the merchant was not interested in past trade, but only future goods being brought to Alcázar. The thief moved to the end of the shelves, picking up the last book.

Returning to the lantern, his eyes moved across the pages until he found something resembling days, months, and years. The smile returned to Jawad’s face; these dates were in the future. He had found his quarry.

Finding paper and ink was easy; every writing desk was well supplied. Everything he needed was before his eyes, but Jawad stood immobile, looking at the ledger barely illuminated by his lantern. The information provided by Dars rang through his mind. Al-Badawi had invested a heavy sum in buying up all the yellow dye in the city. By controlling the supply, he could set a high price when selling to the Kabir’s palace. The only obstacle would be that Dār al-Gund would never sell their own supply to him and instead sought to sell it themselves to the palace.

The longer that al-Badawi waited, the higher price he could set. But if he waited too long, the ships of Dār al-Gund would arrive, allowing them to underbid him. Al-Badawi needed to know how long he could wait before his rivals would be able to send their own offer to the Kabir’s palace.

If al-Badawi received poor intelligence, he would continue to wait. He might wait too long and end up having storehouses full of yellow dye, bought at expensive prices in Alcázar and impossible to sell to a satiated market. Given what the merchant had inflicted upon Jawad, the thief would have little compassion with al-Badawi. In fact, it felt only reasonable to him that he would be the hand instrumental in making this happen, bringing al-Badawi one step closer to ruin. Besides, Jawad convinced himself, it aligned with his other plans.

Jawad looked down at the book in front of him, and the flaw in his plan stared back at him. These ledgers belonged to northerners and were written in their own tongue. He could read the letters but not understand the words.

Panic gripped him for a moment. It had not been a problem while he had been looking for city names or dates; the former was written the same way in either language, the latter was written in numbers. But the columns of information were useless to him. He tried to awkwardly pronounce the notes, hoping to guess their meaning if they sounded familiar to him. He had about as much luck as a eunuch would have impregnating a harlot.

Jawad gritted his teeth; this was the perfect way of striking at al-Badawi, making him pay, yet the thief’s ignorance made him impotent. He cursed at the book, clenched his fist, and was about to punch it in frustration when a word on the page caught his attention. Weld. Somehow that was familiar.

Slowly, everything fell into place in his mind. It was a plant. It only grew in the North, he recalled, which was why the people of Alcázar had no word for it; they would simply use the northern word, and thanks to that, Jawad recognised it. The wheels kept spinning in his head. He knew of it because Dars had mentioned it. And Dars had done so because weld, this northern plant, was the reason that Dār al-Gund could import yellow dye and compete with al-Badawi.

Jawad felt his blood rushing through him. This had to be it. The dates on the same line indicated that this shipment of weld would arrive in five to ten days. This was what al-Badawi needed to know. With frantic speed, Jawad began copying the last few pages. As far as the merchant knew, Jawad was ignorant about why he had been sent to Dār al-Gund; this would protect him once al-Badawi realised that his information was false. When Jawad reached the note detailing the weld, he wrote with his sketchy penmanship that it would be twenty to twenty-five days before arrival.

Jawad rolled the parchment together and put it inside his tunic, resting tightly against his chest. That should give the northerners plenty of time. Exhaling deeply, Jawad felt his pulse slowly growing calm while he put the ledger back, made his lantern dark, and otherwise erased any sign of his presence. He had his prize. Now, he simply had to make his escape.

The thought had barely entered his mind before Jawad knew it was a mistake. The gods were fond of punishing overconfidence, especially among thieves. In the hallway outside the offices, footsteps could be heard.

Jawad stared at the unlocked door separating him from discovery. His next glance was at Tibert’s private study; assuming it would also be unlocked was to invite a thunderbolt to strike him for his arrogance. He turned his eyes the opposite way. The door to the privy beckoned.

Standing inside the latrine, Jawad knew with certainty that he was being mocked by some higher entity. There was no other explanation. Any moment now, whoever had just entered the offices would need to make use of the privy, open the door, and see him. Of all the reasons he might be discovered, Jawad had never imagined bowel movements would be the one. This time, there would be no merchant releasing him from the Finger. Not to mention, he would forever be known as the thief who was caught in the shithouse. The nicknames would be relentless.

The craftsmen and builders of this house had not put their finest work into the stall, and the door had several cracks allowing Jawad to spy into the workrooms. An old man had entered, carrying a lantern of the ordinary kind. Its light was sufficiently bright to allow its owner to read the books and Jawad to observe him.

It soon became apparent that this was a clerk of some kind, perhaps suffering from sleepless nights. Regardless of the cause, he had seen fit to begin his work even though sunrise had to be at least an hour away. Jawad prayed fervently that he had already used his chamber pot this morning.

From his vantage point, Jawad could not look out the windows. He had only a vague notion of when daylight would appear. He knew that once the sun banished night, however, it would do the same to his chances of making an unseen escape. It was possible that this diligent scribe had simply woken early, gone to check a few numbers, and would return to his bed for another hour of sleep soon. It was equally possible that any moment now, he would feel the need to relieve himself.

The stench in the privy reminded Jawad of the dung heap outside, and the solution struck him, inducing as much nausea as the smell did. Jawad carefully turned around and stared at the hole in front of him. He could almost hear Elat’s laughter ringing in his ears.

~~~~

After what seemed like an eternity later, Jawad emerged by the midden outside. He reeked, and his clothes were irreparably soiled. The low point had been when he had thrown up half way and had to continue through his own vomit afterwards. He had managed to bring along all his tools, but he was not sure he ever wanted to use the lock picks or the lantern again.

Resigned in demeanour, Jawad stalked away from the dunghill and moved to the stables. The celebration was nearly over; the residents were catching what sleep they could, and Jawad was not disturbed making his way back to his designated escape path. With tired movements, he climbed up the wall and went down the other side, leaving his dignity behind.