The Heart of the Sands

When he was back inside the estate, Jawad went to find some sleep before anything else. His rhythm for rest was erratic even on his better days, thanks to his night activities, and he could feel the toll on his body of late. Seeking his bed, he fell into a deep slumber for hours. He could scarcely tell if it was day or night, morning or evening when he woke again.

Feeling his stomach rumble, he knew where to go to receive both answers and food. “Good morning, jida,” he said with a grin as he entered the kitchen.

The cook in the servants’ quarter was only too happy to tell him it was early afternoon while she served him a late breakfast consisting mostly of pastries, porridge, and cheese. “Eat up, boy, and stay out of trouble! I don’t want to see you down here with fresh bruises.”

“But jida, you know this is never my fault,” he protested with an innocent expression. “I’d never do anything to deserve this treatment.”

“If I were truly your grandmother, I’d cut out that lying tongue of yours,” she threatened while slicing an apple into bits and placing them on his plate.

Besides thanking the old cook and praising her culinary skills, Jawad found time to help her with a few chores. Had it been last year, she would have commanded several slaves and servants, but most had been sold or dismissed. Jawad had a feeling that the old cook missed the company as much as she missed the extra hands, and he was happy to provide both.

He did not enjoy the actual work; it was too much like honest labour for his liking. But he had never before lived in a place where food was plenty and readily available, not to mention cooked by skilled hands. That alone was worth fetching some firewood or chopping vegetables. Another advantage was unlimited access to the tea that tradition proscribed all residents of Alcázar should drink every night.

Jawad found himself continuously hampered by his lack of access to the harāmlik; everyone of importance that he might wish to speak to was behind the large door leading to that part of the palace, and there was no possible way he could convince the guards to let him pass. Instead, when it became evening, he brought tea to the mamluks standing guard outside the harāmlik. They grinned at his bruises and showed him little courtesy even as they drank the tea he provided them with, but one of them deigned to find and bring Salah for him.

Shortly after, the big warrior appeared. “What is it?”

“I should like to advise the master on my findings,” Jawad explained.

Salah glanced at the guards. “Come with me.” He entered the outer part of the palace, beckoning for Jawad to follow him. Once they were out of earshot, he spoke again. “Tell me what you’ve found. If I deem it worthy, you can tell the master as well.”

“I’ve made some enquiries and come across a curious connection,” Jawad related. “I’ve spoken with the hojon who work the docks. Some of them are northerners by birth.”

“Yes?”

“They told me a strange story. In their lands, they have tales of a clever fox that outwits its enemies.”

“That’s all?”

Jawad smiled. “One of these enemies is called the Prince of Cats.”

Salah frowned. “So what? That doesn’t help us.”

“None of this is coincidental. A new merchant house appears in Alcázar, traders from the north. Their chief competition is Master al-Badawi. A string of misfortunes, robberies, and other calamities befall Dār al-Allawn as a mysterious rogue comes out of nowhere, targeting the master at every turn. A thief known only by a title taken from this northern tale.”

“You’re saying that the Prince is not only working with the northerners, but he is in fact one of them?”

“Exactly!” Jawad exclaimed triumphantly. “It explains his origin and his purpose. Most importantly, it confirms where to look for him.”

“Dār al-Gund.” Salah nodded.

“While the estate is sizeable, nearly every man there is a servant, scribe, or similar. The Prince must be someone adroit, nimble, and dexterious to pull off his feats of thievery. I am confident that with a little searching, I can learn the exact identity of the Prince,” Jawad claimed.

Salah scratched his beard. “If so, the master will be pleased. Having a name and a face to this rogue, not to mention confirmation that he is working with the savages, will go a long way towards putting an end to Dār al-Gund’s hostilities towards us.”

“Should we tell Master al-Badawi?”

Salah shook his head. “Let us not raise his expectations if nothing comes of it. Better to surprise him with good results. Continue your search and return to me once you have learned the identity of our enemy.”

Jawad gave a short nod. “Very well. I’ll infiltrate Dār al-Gund and not return until I can present the master with this knowledge. It might take some days.”

“Good. Be careful, Jawad. These people clearly have no conscience, given the underhanded methods they employ. If you are discovered and captured, there is no telling what they might do once they have you in their power.”

Jawad had to suppress the urge to touch the various bruises that littered his body after his treatment at the hands of al-Badawi’s mamluks, or where Salah’s fist had connected with his nose for that matter. “Of course,” Jawad simply said. “I’m the last person you need to worry about.”

~~~~

After collecting the tools of his trade but before he could depart on his nocturnal mission, Jawad was intercepted while walking down a hallway. “Master Jawad!”

He smiled; even if he had not recognised the voice, there was only one person who would address him thus. “Lady Zaida,” he spoke, turning to face her. “First day of the week. I forgot.”

“Indeed.” Behind her, a servant trotted off to deliver a stack of parchments from Zaida’s weekly inspection of her father’s properties to Dars. “How is your face?” she asked concerned, stepping closer to inspect him in the dim light from the lamps, as if he were one of her father’s acquisitions.

“More handsome than ever before,” Jawad said with a wry smile.

She laughed, taking off her cloak and handing it to a servant. “Will you join me for tea?”

Jawad was glad that the poor lighting obscured the surprise on his face. “I would like nothing more,” he replied smoothly.

“Juana, will you serve us tea in the gardens, please?” Zaida requested.

“Of course, sayidaty.”

“I hope you do not mind. I have been inside dusty buildings all day. I crave some semblance of life around me,” she explained as they began moving towards their destination.

“Of course not,” Jawad replied, adding, “only fools refrain from seeking shade of garden.”

“Soft the heart divines what toil and sun would harden,” Zaida continued, finishing the quote. “What manner of thief is familiar with al-Tayir?”

“The kind who had a good teacher,” Jawad replied, sending a friendly thought to Hasief and his madrasa.

“I really must stop underestimating you, Master Jawad.”

“On the contrary. If everyone stopped underestimating thieves, we’d never get our hands on anything again.”

“I have never met anyone so brazen about their illicit activities,” she admitted.

The way she said ‘illicit’ sent a brief shiver through him; thankfully, walking half a step behind her, she did not notice. “Do you often have tea and conversation with criminals, sayidaty?”

She slapped his arm, but not with ill intent. “Brazen. There is no other word for it.” They stepped through the doors to enter the orchard; the sweet scent of ripe fruit engulfed them, and Zaida inhaled and exhaled with delight. “Please, Master Jawad, have a seat.” He did as she bade him while she took a chair opposite.

They sat under the shade of an olive tree, and Jawad extended one hand to pluck one, looking at it. “Your ancestors lived in the desert, did they not?”

She nodded. “Thus our name of al-Badawi.”

“Little wonder that they chose to surround themselves with such growth,” Jawad remarked, glancing at the lush garden and throwing the olive away. “Yet I am struck by an amusing contradiction.”

“Pray tell.”

“This garden provides fruit of every kind, and all of them are sweet and succulent. Trust me, I know,” he added with a grin. “To the people of the desert, this place is an oasis, a dream made true.”

“And?”

“Yet the sweetest fruit I ever tasted,” Jawad continued, “was in the desert where I stumbled upon a tree bearing wild olives. I ate my fill, and I have never had a meal so satisfying before or after.”

She reached up to pluck an olive herself; in its current state, it was hardly edible. “What you are saying is that the value of something lies not in itself, but in our needs and wants.”

“Sayidaty, such consideration is for poets. I was just talking about olives,” he remarked prosaically, making her smile. “That said, I agree with your wise words. What value does gold have except the value we ascribe to it? It cannot satisfy hunger, shield us from heat and cold, or cure our ailments. To the dying man, a diamond is but a pebble.”

“That reminds me of something Salah told me. I think I asked you about this before.”

“Yes?”

“He tells me that you are a jewel thief by specialty.”

“I have that affinity,” Jawad admitted. “It seems good sense to me. Steal what is smallest yet most valuable. Far more practical than lugging around crates or jars.”

“Would you steal from me?”

“You rarely seem to wear jewellery except for those earrings, Lady Pearl,” he smiled, looking at the pearls she had by either ear. “Since they obviously hold sentimental value to you far beyond their price, it feels cruel to rob you of them.”

She gave him a surprised look. “How do you know?”

“Pearls lose their lustre over time.” He narrowed his eyes to look more closely. “I would say your ear rings are older than both you and me. Your father would not give you old jewellery as a present, hence they must be family heirlooms.”

“My mother’s,” Zaida confirmed. “My father gave them to her at their wedding, I am told. He has sold the rest of her jewellery, but I kept these.”

“I see their importance.”

“Sometimes it feels strange,” she confessed. “You see, I never knew her. She died as I was born. Salah told me what the physician had said,” she related. “One life was needed to save the other. He chose mine.”

“Your father?”

“The physician. As I have heard the story, my father was elsewhere when my mother went into labour. He arrived too late. The decision had been made, even if my father would have chosen differently.”

“I cannot imagine that,” Jawad said in a neutral voice.

“He loved my mother dearly, I am told. I think that was the problem. Had I been a son, I could at least have continued his legacy. Instead, he has a daughter whose very likeness reminds him of what I stole from him.”

“Sayidaty, you cannot blame –”

“We’re both thieves, it seems.” Zaida smiled ruefully. Before either could speak again, the servant appeared, placing cups on the table between them and pouring the tea. The lady and the thief sat in silence, neither looking at each other. “Thank you. That is all,” Zaida told the girl, who left the pot and made herself scarce.

Jawad took a sip of his cup. “I’ll say this for your father. He buys damned good tea.”

Laughter, either anxious or relieved, was heard from Zaida. “He does. It’s the one thing that can be relied upon here. Every single person in this household would drink it from morning till night if allowed.”

“Perhaps that should be his trade instead of dye,” Jawad remarked.

“Perhaps. My great-grandfather traded mostly in horses, I believe. It was my grandfather who turned al-Badawi into Dār al-Allawn. Before that, we supplied the finest horses of the desert to the Kabir’s court.”

“So your ties to the desert are more than just a name.”

“Indeed. It is still an important part of our history. You would find this interesting, in fact, as our story revolves around a jewel.”

“Indeed? Pray continue, sayidaty,” Jawad asked, making himself comfortable with his tea.

“It is said that long before we came to Alcázar, when my ancestors still dwelt in the desert, their herds of sheep were troubled by a predator,” Zaida began to tell. “Each night, a lamb would go missing from their flocks, leaving only a trail of blood. The elders were bewildered at what beast could have such hunger to seek new prey each night, and some thought it was a whole pack of wolves or lions. But during the day, they scouted and found no signs, and they kept such close watch at night, it was impossible to imagine more than one predator was at work.”

Jawad smiled, enjoying her presence as much as the story, and did nothing else that might disturb her. “Soon, the tribe was growing desperate,” Zaida continued. “They would be without lambs entirely, and their herds would dwindle until they starved. One of the shepherds knew that no ordinary beast might do this. Only sorcery could explain how the creature evaded their watchfulness, and only some manner of evil spirit would have such ravenous hunger. As any child would know, there are a few ways to render magic powerless, and the best of these methods is with salt.”

Jawad nodded; salt was the preservation of life and the bane of any evil sorcerer. Zaida spoke again. “Sneaking into the tribe’s salt jars, he stole all he could carry and took it to their herds of sheep, where he rubbed the salt into the wool of each animal by the neck. This done, he pressed the remaining grains into his shepherd’s staff, lodging them inside the wood, and then he began to keep watch.”

“Hours passed, and slumber slowly overtook him until he was woken by an unnatural scream. Rushing from his post, he saw a dead sheep with its neck broken by powerful jaws. The sound he had heard was not the death rattle of the prey, however, but from the predator biting into the salt. The shepherd was amazed to find it was nothing more than a desert fox, small in stature, but clearly with teeth that could kill. He wasted no time but struck the beast on its head with his staff that he had strengthened with salt. The fox fell to the ground, all but stunned, and he leapt to pin it down while his hand drew his dagger.”

Jawad leaned forward, not daring to speak. Zaida’s expression showed her to be likewise enraptured. “Knowing that this was not a being of flesh but of air and fire, he plunged his dagger into the heart of the fox. It is the only place they are vulnerable, which is why some of these fell creatures cut out their own hearts and hide them deep in the ground or on mountain peaks. This was not the case. As the shepherd struck his knife down, he felt it reach the heart of the fox, beating inside its body. Yet he was not prepared to hear the fox suddenly speak in his own tongue. ‘Do not kill me!’ it said with a woman’s voice.”

“It spoke?” exclaimed Jawad without meaning to.

Zaida nodded. “The shepherd was as surprised as you are. ‘What manner of being are you?’ he asked sternly. The fox revealed that it was a jinni of the desert, and it would reward him if he showed it mercy. The shepherd considered this. By their nature as creatures of air, the jinn are fickle, prone to forgetting a promise as soon as it is made. But the shepherd was no fool and took the crystal that he always wore around his neck, large enough to fill his palm. Such talismans are often worn by the desert dwellers, as crystals are created by the purest of moonlight, which the jinn cannot abide. This is also why the jinn must remain hidden during nights of full moon.” Jawad did not know crystals had this property; if he had been asked about this topic, and this particular crystal with its described size, he would on the other hand have been confident in estimating its value to be around forty silver pieces.

“Knowing the power that the crystal would hold over the jinni, the shepherd withdrew his blade and let the blood drip onto the stone. The jinni gave another scream, but there was nothing to be done. As the crystal absorbed the blood, it turned deep red, also absorbing the power of the jinni. No longer able to retain its shape as a fox, the spirit returned to its form as a beautiful woman.” Jawad hid his smile; the jinni always turned into a beautiful woman in these stories, sooner or later. Not that he minded.

“The jinni looked at the shepherd in defeat. ‘Three drops of my heart’s blood you have stolen,’ she said. ‘Three favours I will bestow upon you in return if you swear to release me afterwards.’ The shepherd nodded his agreement to this. ‘I swear,’ he told her.”

“What did he wish for?” Jawad asked. His mind was already swimming with thoughts of what he would want in such a situation.

“First, he demanded that the jinni left the lands of his tribe. Second, that she would not seek vengeance against him. Third, that she would stay the night with him.” Jawad nodded; those were standard wishes when dealing with jinn. “She agreed, of course, and granted him all three favours. This was not the end of the story, though.” The corner of Jawad’s mouth curled upwards; it never was.

“As night ended but before morning came, in the twilight between darkness and sunrise, the jinni rose from where they had lain and spoke in scorn. ‘As my blood gave you power over me, so have you given your blood to me,’ she told him. ‘With the crystal you pronounced this doom upon me, and so shall the jewel become your own prison. You sought to banish me from this land, so be it. Neither shall your kindred be content to dwell here, but ever feel restless and look elsewhere. You sought to keep me from vengeance upon you, so be it. Ever shall ruin threaten your descendants in your stead, and should they ever lose possession of the jewel, they will face the vengeance you escaped. You sought to possess me, so be it. You shall have more of me than you ever wanted, and while your kindred possess the jewel, greed will enflame their hearts to always want more.’ With these words, the jinni laughed and disappeared before sunrise. But the story continues.”

“What more?”

“As time passed, the jinni’s words came true. The shepherd had only ever one child, a daughter, and the more she grew, the more she resembled the jinni. He knew then that she was the third curse pronounced upon him and that all three would be visited upon his descendants. They would leave the desert, but always be restless. They would be forced to keep the jewel or face the ruin promised by the jinni’s vengeance, but it would also ignite a fire in their heart for riches that no amount of wealth could quench. Thus they would never find happiness in life.”

“Harsh.”

Zaida nodded. “The shepherd wore the jewel close to his heart for the rest of his life. When he died, it passed to his daughter, who passed it to her own child and so forth. Because of this and its red colour, it was named the Heart of the Sands. For while we may have lived in many cities and foreign lands since, driven by restlessness, we are the House of al-Badawi, and the desert was our home first.”

Jawad bowed in his seat. “A wonderful story, sayidaty. I know it to be true, for surely only the blood of a jinni can explain your enchanting nature.”

She laughed. “Master Jawad, please. You already live in my father’s house. I do not see what else you might stand to gain with this flattery. Besides, it is merely a story.”

“All stories have a grain of truth to them,” Jawad argued. He remembered his own time in the desert and the strange things he had seen, one night in particular. Granted, that had been after eating the olives.

“Perhaps. Certainly, one of my ancestors would have been a shepherd in the desert, regardless of how much my father might dislike that we have such humble origins. But I know the rest of the story to be merely a phantasm for a simple reason.”

“Which is?”

“If my father owned a ruby the size of a man’s palm, I would have heard of it. In fact, he would have sold it by now.” Zaida’s smile faltered a little while Jawad’s thoughts strayed; a ruby of that size would be worth a score of gold coins at least. “Perhaps that part is true. My father has parted with the jewel, and now the jinni’s vengeance is coming. It would explain all the misfortune that has befallen us in the last few years.”

It took Jawad a moment to remember that Zaida reviewed her father’s commerce every week; she would know as well as anyone the state of affairs for Dār al-Allawn. “The curse of a jinni would explain how you ended up drinking cold tea with only a rogue for company,” he admitted.

Zaida laughed once again, and Jawad felt a tingle of pride for every time he had made that occur tonight. “You are quite right. I fear we did the tea a disservice. Nonetheless, for the sake of propriety, let us declare that we have had our fill that we may retire for the night in good conscience.” She rose from her seat.

Jawad followed suit, inclining his head. “A wise proposal, sayidaty. I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Master Jawad.”

She disappeared into the palace. Jawad stood for a moment, glancing towards the sky. To his surprise, he could see the earliest inkling of twilight; while it felt but a brief time, the night had almost passed. It was only now he recalled that he had intended to infiltrate Dār al-Gund, and he knew that he had missed his chance; it would be daylight before he even arrived at the compound. His visit would have to wait until the following night.