Taverns of Alcázar

The following day, Jawad stumbled out of his room to find all of al-Badawi’s house in a state of frenzied activity. He watched yawning as servants swarmed like hornets, moving frantically about the place.

“What’s on fire, and how valuable is it?” he asked a slave rushing past him.

“Today is the ring ceremony,” the man yelled over his shoulder.

Jawad had forgotten, being preoccupied with his own affairs and because he did not expect al-Badawi’s visit to the Kabir to have any impact on said affairs. If it kept the merchant busy, all the better. Jawad had his own visits to make.

Stepping outside, the open space between the palace and the gate was bustling with people. There was a closed carriage with four white horses harnessed to it, and a driver in expensive garb stood ready. Ten mamluks in full armour were present as well, riding black horses. Salah was in front, armed and armoured like his men and mounted on his own steed. He sent Jawad a nod.

The thief arrived just in time to see al-Badawi himself appear; his daughter was by his arm. Both wore silks of exquisite quality that together must have cost hundreds of silver pieces. The merchant wore rings with heavy gemstones on one hand, the silver ring of his house on the other, and heavy necklaces as well, much the same as when Jawad had first met him. He noticed with amusement that al-Badawi must have sought to impress Jawad all those months ago, wearing all the tokens of his wealth just as he did now before his audience with the Kabir.

Zaida wore only her pearl earrings, no doubt to her father’s consternation. Jawad thought she had made the right choice; any form of jewellery would only distract from her natural beauty rather than enhance it. She did not seem to notice him as she and al-Badawi walked to the carriage and entered. The door closed, and they were beyond his sight; moments after, the cortege set into motion. Jawad watched as they passed the gate and beyond, moving north and west towards the Kabir’s palace. Once they were gone, he set out on his own.

~~~~

Alcázar had two harbours due to its peculiar location. The western docks were the largest in size, being the connection to Herbergja in the north and the Seven Realms of Adalmearc. Scores of ships arrived or departed each day to that destination alone. This meant that thousands of sailors could be found in this district, having both money and time on their hands. Most of the hojon of Almudaina worked on these docks, appearing in the morning and departing before sunset. The result was an abundance of seedy taverns, gambling establishments, brothels, and anything else that might pass as entertainment. There was a constant flow of coin, making it Jawad’s favourite part of the city. If he was ever a little short on silver, opportunity was rife at the docks.

He did not feel at home the way he did in the southern medinas, but he considered that to be the spice that made the district more interesting; there was always the possibility of something unexpected happening, for better or worse. Of course, given his recent encounter with the Black Teeth, any sense of security he might have felt in the medinas of southern Alcázar had proven deceptive.

To accommodate the thirst of countless sailors, every house with an open room and a barrel of ale functioned as a public house. This meant such establishments were more numerous than fleas on a dirty dog, and the drinks being served usually tasted like filthy bathwater.

Nothing distinguished the Salty Mug from any of its competitors; it served the same swill for the same price as anywhere else on the docks. Jawad was primarily fond of it because it had an easily accessible back door, allowing for a hasty exit into the alley behind.

Entering, Jawad saw the expected rabble of sailors, cutthroats, day-labourers, drunks, and the like. Every kind of questionable, suspect, or immoral deviant was represented. In other words, Jawad felt at home. He had a few coins left from the donations given by Tibert and Amal, and prices followed quality when it came to the ale, meaning he could afford barrels of it. He settled for just one tankard, finding a spot by the wall to lean against while he waited.

The trick was to be inconspicuous in these situations. Any time of the day, there would be someone looking for a brawl, and being alone served as a good invitation for drunken fools to start a fight. Jawad had plenty of practice to ensure people’s gazes passed him by; his small stature gave him a good advantage as well. He had traded Salah’s expensive cloak to a mamluk, one of the few he was not on bad terms with, getting an ordinary cape made from linen and some good will in the bargain. With the winter wind finding its way through many cracks in the buildings, Jawad kept his cloak huddled around him while pretending to sip on his mug of barley water.

Shortly after noon, Renardine appeared. Her cloak and cap hid most of her distinctive features, and Jawad might not have recognised her at first if he had not been expecting her. As she walked through the tavern, the other patrons shied away on instinct, keeping out of her path. Her posture and gait betrayed her to be a warrior, and she radiated a sense of danger. The long daggers in her belt were probably a factor as well, Jawad mused. He guessed they were made from Nordsteel, meaning they would go through bone as easily as cutting up a cucumber. He had no doubt they had already been used for that purpose more than once.

Jawad banished the image of her knives carving up his flesh and sent her a smile. “Well met, Renardine.”

“Enough pleasantries,” she sneered. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“Let’s not rush into it. Get yourself a drink first,” he suggested.

She almost spat in his face. “As if I want to poison myself.”

He shot her a look. “You think I’m holding this mug to please my tongue? We’re in a public house, Renardine.” He glanced around at the other patrons, drinking, talking, and gambling. “Blend in.”

She scoffed but relented, getting herself a tap of the local brew. “There,” she said, returning.

“Much better. To your health,” he said, raising his cup.

“Can we get on it with it?”

“What about my money?” Always act greedy.

“You’ll get it once the job is done,” she said irritated. “If your information is false, you won’t see a single coin.”

“How much?”

“One crown for each jar.”

Jawad’s eyebrows rose up involuntarily. He had never seen a single gold coin in his life, much less thirty-six. They really had a low opinion of his intelligence. “Nice,” he replied with a dumb grin. No need to make them question that opinion.

“So? Spit it out.”

“Al-Badawi has a serai by the Goat.”

“The goat?”

“The Gate of the Goat,” Jawad explained. These ajam, he sighed internally.

“Yes, I know it.”

“The dye is in the warehouse next to it. It’s been sold already, and they’re moving it tomorrow. Tonight’s your chance.”

“Guards?”

“None outside to avoid attention, but five guards inside.”

“Patrols?”

“Several after sunset, about every half hour. The guard changes one hour before midnight, however, keeping them from sending out the next patrol until after midnight.”

“Good.” She somehow managed to sneer the word like an insult. “Tomorrow, you can come by the compound. Your gold will be ready.”

They were really keen on sticking that knife in between his shoulder blades. “I can’t wait.” He emphasised his words with another dumb grin.

Renardine put her untouched ale on the nearby counter, where it was quickly grasped with both hands by a drunk, and she left without further words. Shortly after, another customer got up and left as well. Jawad reasoned that was one of al-Badawi’s spies, keeping watch of her. There was another spy in the tavern shadowing Jawad, no doubt, but the thief preferred to be alone for his next appointment. As far as Jawad could tell, al-Badawi had no knowledge that the Black Teeth were involved in this, and it was best to keep it that way.

He left his own drink with the drunkard, who by now was having the best day of his life, and slipped out through the back door. As soon as it closed behind him, Jawad hurried forward to turn the first corner. He made a few more turns, just to be safe, into the winding streets.

Having lost his shadow, Jawad walked back to the docks, which let him gain his bearings. His final dealings with Dār al-Gund done, he moved towards the city proper, entering the medinas ruled over by the Black Teeth.

~~~~

Jawad stood outside the Broken Teeth, remembering vividly his last visit to this place. It was not long past noon, and the sun was beating down on him, yet he felt no urge to step inside. His pains had mostly lessened; his missing toe nails were doing their best to grow back, his ribs no longer protested with each breath taken, and his left fingers only reported a dull ache. Still, it was enough to remind him. It made him apprehensive to step inside, in case he had miscalculated the Black Teeth’s intentions; he had no desire to revisit the rack. More than that, all his schemes, all his suffering would have been for naught if he were not allowed to leave that wretched lair of society’s scum.

With a deep breath and his broken hand inside his tunic, Jawad stepped inside.

He did not bother with buying a drink or trying to blend in. He was expected by the regulars of the establishment, after all. He was almost surprised when nothing happened as he crossed the threshold. Nobody took immediate notice of him, he was not clubbed in the back of his head, the sky did not fall. Everyone continued drinking and laughing as before.

Hashim sat at his usual table with his brutes. The table had dried blood upon it and a severed finger. Nobody seemed to be screaming or clutching a bloody stump on their hand, so Jawad assumed it was business from last night. Why exactly the finger was still left out on the table, he had no idea. Perhaps as a sign of intimidation or just an example of the lax cleaning in this place. Either was equally possible.

Jawad wove in and out of the crowd to reach the table. Hashim looked up at him, playing with a knife; by the blood on it, it had been used for finger severing. “Jawad, my dear friend. Give him a seat!” A happy smile filled Hashim’s face.

Someone stood up, putting a heavy hand on Jawad’s shoulder. Sitting down, the thief wrested himself out of the grip. “I see you have a new crew. Do they know what happened to the last one?”

Hashim’s features became twisted in rage until his eyes fell on Jawad’s left hand inside his tunic. “How’s your hand?” he asked with a grin.

“It’ll be fine soon enough. Unlike your fuckneedle.”

Nervous snickering could be heard around the table until Hashim slammed one hand down, making the finger roll onto the ground. “You fucking armpit!” he roared, causing a few glances to be exchanged. “I’ll fucking grind you to dust and sniff you for breakfast!”

Jawad noticed with satisfaction that despite his threats, the volatile Hashim had not made any move to grab him. “You’ll have to wait until you’ve heard me out. The Master wouldn’t like me dead until my work for him is done.” As he spoke, tremors of pain coursed through his hand inside his tunic.

Hashim’s rage faltered. Jawad assumed that the Master had not told Hashim about the fabled ruby rumoured to be in al-Badawi’s possession; sharing such knowledge did not inspire loyalty in a gang of thieves. However, Jawad also assumed that the Master’s greed meant he wanted Jawad alive and well in order to bring him that ruby, and he had given orders to Hashim to that effect. While insulting the big oaf had its own merits, goading him was Jawad’s way of testing his assumptions. Hashim, as impotent as Jawad’s nickname suggested, stared at him with unbridled malice. “Get to it.”

“The mark is in the warehouse next to the serai owned by al-Badawi, near the Goat. All the jars.”

“What’s the protection?” Despite his numerous character flaws, Hashim was a professional when it came to criminal activities.

“Five guards inside. Nobody outside to avoid attention.”

“Patrols?”

“There’s one every half hour after sunset. They change guards before midnight, so you got a gap about half an hour before until half an hour later. I trust you can deduce the implication.”

Hashim scowled. “You can trust my fist down your throat.”

“One last thing. The dye has already been sold, and the mark is being moved tomorrow. Tonight’s your only chance.” Hashim nodded to one of his lackeys, who took off to begin the initial scouting of the area, escape routes, and everything else involved in a successful theft. “Your company’s been a pleasure as always,” Jawad continued, standing up.

The heavy hand from before forced him back into his seat. “You’re not going anywhere,” Hashim smiled. “You’re staying right here until this is all done.”

Fuck. “Brilliant idea,” Jawad snarled, ignoring the pain from his damaged hand. “While al-Badawi loses his most precious goods, I’ll be out of his sight. There’s no way that would make me look suspicious.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hashim claimed with a casual voice. “You didn’t think I’d let you skulk around freely while I trust your information a second time.” He canted like a bird to stare at Jawad.

“Great. Once the Master is done with me on the rack, you’ll be next after I explain how you fucked up my position in al-Badawi’s house.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hashim warned him.

“The Master needs me inside al-Badawi’s palace. If I’m absent tonight, they’ll never let me back in.” He stared at Hashim in challenge, playing on his fear of the Master.

The cutthroat stared back. Jawad had to bite down on his lip; his left fingers inside his tunic were cramping, sending tremors of pain through him. Finally, Hashim’s mouth curled upwards in a carefree smile. He gave a small nod, and the hand on Jawad’s shoulder was removed.

“Until next time,” Jawad said, getting up. All his instincts screamed at him to run, and he had to force himself to maintain a slow pace as he turned his back to Hashim and walked away.

Once outside, Jawad finally released his damaged fingers inside his tunic from their grip on Ishak’s flasks of poison. If the Teeth had refused to let him leave, Jawad’s plan had been to hurl a fistful of corrosive liquid into Hashim’s face and make a run for it in the ensuing confusion. A paltry escape plan at best. Jawad dearly wanted to promise himself that he would never again put his head in the lion’s jaws this way, but given the night ahead of him, he knew such a promise would be empty.

~~~~

With his visit to the Broken Tooth completed, Jawad decided to see to an old acquaintance while he was still able to walk around the southern medinas freely. Reaching his destination, he crossed the open square quickly to enter the small shrine to Elat. He had a few coins left after his latest expenses, and all of them were left behind on the altar. There were a thousand ways to get more silver, but the luck of the goddess was priceless to have on his side.

“Please,” he prayed, kneeling and with one hand on the foot of the statue. “I am so close.”

There was no response from the statue, nor did Jawad expect one. Elat did not favour those who needed her to solve their problems, but those who took initiative. It was too late to pray for her aid when something had gone wrong and you needed it; you made sure to be on her good side before any venture, so luck was on your side when necessary.

Having made all the preparations he could, Jawad got on his feet and left.