They know Sinbad has his enemies, so Ja'far carefully tries to restrict only trading vessels to the harbour.
Every document that passes through the palace is sure to visit his hands, cautiously studied and analysed. Every suspicious fisherman's tale from the taverns or docks is fed to him by his spies, through whispered conversations behind locked doors, and small coded notes that he shreds into the palace fires.
Very few know of the midnight dealings in King Sinbad's court. Ja'far trains by lamplight only, because most of him is still ashamed of the boy who has never truly left his memory, struggling to squeeze through the narrow space between the roof and balcony, fingers slipping against cool marble as his legs dangle over nothing. Quietly now. Remember what you must do.
Often he spends most of the night working himself into a frenzy, blades stabbing viciously through the sacks he lines against the courtyard walls, wires whipping in a silent fury, until his fingers ache from the effort and he leans against a pillar watching the sun rise. By morning, he is Ja'far again, advisor to the King, and there are papers to sign and guests to welcome, balmy mornings and steamy afternoons under a fierce blue sky, golden evenings breathing in the scent of jasmine from the garden.
At night, he fights against the fierce craving for silence and blackness that comes clawing its way into his brain, it's so very dark, only the pale outline of his feet visible before him as he slips through an open door, silk curtains billowing in the humid breeze, onto a cold floor. Sweat trickles slowly down the back of his neck.
He wonders when it will eventually consume him.