The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Read online

  “Who’s there?” came a sleepy voice.

  “Me. Open up.”

  The door cracked open, and he could see the pupil of one eye. “Oh. It is you, isn’t it. What do you want?”

  “Very funny. Let me in.”

  The voice was a sneer. “Go sleep in a gutter.”

  Ramagar gritted his teeth. “Don’t make bad jokes, Mariana. Look, it’s cold out there. Freezing.”

  “Too bad. Come see me tomorrow.”

  He groaned out loud. “Open the door or I’ll break it down.”

  “Try it and I’ll make you a eunuch.”

  The woman was incorrigible! But what was he to do? “Please listen, Mariana,” he said wearily, holding his hand firmly against the wood so she could not shut the door in his face, “I meant to come hours ago, like I promised. But I was detained.”

  “By that whore from the Demon’s Horn?”

  He threw up his hands in exasperation. “With Vlashi.”

  “That’s worse.”

  “Please, Mariana, let me in just for a few minutes. We have to talk. It’s important.” Here his eyes narrowed into slits and he looked at her seriously. His voice became a whisper. “Perhaps the most important thing that’s ever happened to either one of us.”

  She eyed him skeptically, then reluctantly opened the door wide. “All right,” she agreed, putting her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. “But not for the night, mind you. Just to talk.”

  Ramagar nodded appreciatively and closed the door behind. The girl struck a match and lit the single wax lamp on the table. The light flickered, then burst into yellow and blue flame, brightening the tiny room and sending long shadows bouncing off the walls.

  Ramagar smiled as he faced her. Mariana, aware of his amorous tricks, stepped back a pace, hands tightened into tiny fists at her side. Long black hair flowed over her shoulders, down the pink nightgown, the edges curling just below her round, firm breasts. Brooding eyes peered at him from below thin dark brows.

  “Now what’s so important?” she asked.

  “Just a moment,” replied the thief. She gaped while he went to her purse and drew a few coppers. From the small wardrobe he pulled one of his old cloaks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping a promise.” His eyes scanned the room quickly, focusing on the fruit bowl set aside on the ledge. He took a few apples and pears, then wrapped them, along with the coppers, into the old cloak.

  The girl looked on while he opened the window, straining to make it budge.

  “Are you insane?”

  “Shh!” Then he poked his head out, calling in a whisper, “Hey, boy! Catch!”

  The bundle fell to the earth, and Mariana heard the shuffle of feet running down the cobblestones. Ramagar smiled and shut the window. She came to his side. She had not seen the urchin, but she knew her lover well enough, knew his soft heart’s charity.

  Ramagar turned to the dancing girl and kissed her on the cheek. She turned her head away. “Pig,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t be angry. Not tonight …”

  Black eyes flashed as she snarled, “And why shouldn’t I be angry? Where in hell have you been? I haven’t seen you for days.”

  He patted her on the behind, then slumped wearily onto the worn divan, which, except for the bed curtained off in the corner, was the only major piece of furniture in the flat.

  “By all means, make yourself at home,” she told him sarcastically.

  The rogue grinned and closed his eyes. “You look beautiful, Mariana. Why don’t you come over here?”

  She rudely intimated that his parents were unwed and gazed at him with her hands on her hips. “I suppose you’re hungry?”

  “Ravished. It’s been a very long night and I haven’t a copper.”

  “Serves you right. Just remember that you owe me those coppers you just took.”

  Propping himself up on his elbow, his head resting gently on the laced pillow, he said, “But the night wasn’t a complete waste. I do have something to show you. Something you might want to examine for me.”

  “I’m not interested. Take it to Oro.”

  He unsnapped his cloak, placed it beside him on the floor.

  Then he reached into his pocket and took out the scimitar, which he dangled loosely between two fingers.

  Now, Mariana was a shrewd girl; perhaps the shrewdest he had ever known. She possessed a vast knowledge of many matters. Not only could she read and write properly — which in itself was a rarity for a dancing girl — but she knew more about the city and the world than Ramagar would ever know. Whenever a matter puzzled him, he could be sure that Mariana would be able to find the answer. And tonight he was more puzzled than anytime he could remember.

  “What is that?” she asked, the dazzle of the scabbard holding her attention.

  He handed it to her without a word.

  Her eyes lit up like stars and she stood breathless. Never in all her twenty years had she seen anything like it. “It … It’s magnificent,” she whispered. “God above, you must have lifted it from a king.”

  The thief laughed. “I didn’t lift it at all. Vlashi did — and he claims his mark was a beggar.”

  “Don’t joke with me, thief,” she snapped.

  He held out open palms. “I’m not! It’s the truth. I paid Vlashi everything I had to get it. And even then I had to cheat him at jackals and hounds to make the price.”

  While he was speaking Mariana examined the scabbard, her heart thumping louder with every new jewel she recognized. Slumping down next to him, she spoke with amazement, mumbling softly.

  “A ransom … It must be worth a king’s ransom.”

  Ramagar took her hand and scowled. “I know that much myself. But look it over carefully.” He pointed to the strange markings near the hilt. So tiny, so intricately woven into the design that they could easily be overlooked.

  Mariana was quick to comply. Straining her eyes, she held it close to the lamp, searching for the engraver’s mark, the telltale sign of who made it and where.

  “The craftsmanship is superb,” she told him, observing everything, missing not even the slightest nick or scratch, of which there were many. “But it’s old. Very old. Ancient, perhaps. I’ve never seen a prize so fine.”

  “Was it made in the city?”

  The girl pursed her lips and shook her head. “Definitely not. Look.” She ran her finger along the edge. “I can’t understand the inscription. The writing is foreign, like nothing ever done in Kalimar.”

  The thief whistled. Kalimar was a vast land, extending between two great seas. It included many cities, including his own. But if the scimitar was indeed from somewhere foreign, then it must have traveled thousands of miles to reach its destination in the Jandari. And Ramagar could only wonder what strange adventures it must have known during its long journey.

  “I wonder who its original owner could have been.”

  The girl hardly heard. She was too busy studying the peculiar mark close to the hilt. It was a tiny circle, no larger than one of the lesser jewels, and within the circle was an X-like rune with an arrow-like letter running through the middle. “How much do you think we can sell it for?” he asked.

  She took a long time in answering, and when she did, she said, “I think we should try to find out more about it before we sell it. It could be rarer than either of us realizes.”

  “Not sell it?” He looked at her incredulously. “But we have to sell it! What use is there in keeping it? Imagine all the things we could do with the money.”

  “You’re impatient, Ramagar. Don’t let it slip out of your hands so easily. Not until we know all there is to know.”

  Her reasoning did make sense, he had to admit, even if he didn’t particularly like the idea of hanging onto it. After all, what he had told Vlashi was in part true; its owners would surely be seeking it back. And the man caught with it …

  He scratched at his beard. “How can we find out more about it?”
r />   The girl shrugged and sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to take it to Oro after all …”

  “That dog? I wouldn’t trust him with a copper!”

  She ruefully agreed. But the hunchbacked merchant was a cagey old devil. And a foreigner. For twenty years he had dealt in stolen and smuggled merchandise, and in that time learned more about such matters than any man in the Jandari.

  “I don’t trust him either,” she said. “But at least he’ll be able to tell us more than we can find out ourselves. If only we can learn where it comes from, we might get a true idea of its value. Why, if it was taken from a prince, then the reward for returning it should make us rich.”

  “Return it?”

  “Why not? Its owner would certainly be most grateful —”

  “Ah, Mariana, you’re dreaming again. But never mind. Tomorrow we’ll see what to do.” He blew out the candle and tucked the scimitar under the pillow. Then he pulled the dancing girl dose and pressed his lips to hers. Mariana squealed with pleasure in his embrace, offered no resistance when his hand loosened the string of her nightgown and slid it to the floor. She closed her eyes and forgot about the harsh world outside. She was his; he was hers. For tonight that was more than enough. And then she smiled, knowing that the golden scimitar would change their lives forever — and make all of her foolish girl’s dreams come true.

  2

  The starry black sky changed slowly to indigo as dawn crept its way across the horizon, then the winter sun itself flamed into sight, to warm Kalimar from the inland sea in the east all the way to the nameless ocean that swept endlessly in the west.

  As always, it was the tall golden spires of the city that first caught the light, slanting morning shadows across the domes and temples, along the high walls, and to the citadel of the palace itself. Hooded priests with faces aglow in crimson took their places in the minarets and cried from tower to tower, in prayer, the coming of the new day. And life in the city began to stir. Golden rays poured across the brightly colored roofs of slate, filtering down unevenly into nooks and crannies and all the darkest places, nudging beneath tightly locked shutters and doors, creeping into ten thousand bedrooms like a herald to announce the day’s arrival.

  The faint haze that had come with dawn quickly disappeared and in its place the soft heat shimmered and danced against cobble and flagstone, touching softly in the alleys and byways, bursting in splendor along the old, weaving roads that led to each of the Nine Gates of Kalimar.

  The city was awake, from the plazas and the bazaars to the busy port where a dozen ships stood ready to berth and unload their wares. Only in the quarter called the Jandari did the streets remain silent. Only there did the stalls and shops remain tightly locked. Beggars, who had lined the pavements only hours before, now hid from the light in doorways and alleys, replaced in the gutters by stray cats and prowling dogs seeking their meals among the heaps of rotting garbage discarded the night before.

  But not everyone slept; there were some who stayed awake plotting and scheming their plans for the coming night, while others dared not sleep. Each sound from below sent them scurrying to the windows with hearts beating like drums and wary eyes in search of marching soldiers come to drag them from their beds.

  There were many reasons not to sleep, but on this morning none had better than the thief and the dancing girl. Their business could not wait until dark. Under prying unseen eyes they stealthily made their way along the Avenue of Pigs and paused only when they reached the iron-braced door of Oro’s shop.

  While Ramagar looked up and down the avenue, Mariana knocked. A tiny slit was quickly pulled aside, and two beady eyes peered out. It took only a moment until recognition flickered and Mariana could hear the unbolting of locks. The door creaked as it opened to reveal a small man with hunched shoulders and a slight hump. His face was lined and creased, though not so much with age as with memories of a lifetime of bitterness. Deformed at birth, he grew up hating the laughter of other children. In later years the envy of other, stronger, men twisted his mind until he knew only rage for the world around him. But Oro was a cunning man, and in the dirty streets of the Jandari, where cunning was king, he had become a feared and respected figure. And no one dared to laugh.

  Oro shaded his eyes from the light and looked greedily at the shapely girl before shifting his glance to the thief. He hid a frown from Ramagar, and without speaking beckoned them inside. The very fact that they had come to him in daylight assured him that they considered their business important. Above all else, Oro was a businessman.

  The door shut, leaving only darkness. Black curtains covered the tiny window at the back, and the room was coated with dust and the dried dung which filtered inside from the courtyard beyond the hidden back door.

  As their eyes adjusted to the dark, Oro led them to his counter. There a burning candle cast an eerie yellow pall in which a moth danced.

  Mariana shuddered involuntarily and slipped closer to her lover. Oro caught her uneasiness and smiled inwardly.

  “So,” he rasped in his thick, accented voice as he took his place behind the counter. “What brings you here so early in the day?”

  The thief met his steely gaze. “We brought something for you to examine.”

  “Oh?” His dark brows rose malevolently. He bad as much love for Ramagar as the thief had for him. “And what might that be, eh?”

  Ramagar hesitated before reaching inside his pocket and bringing out the scimitar. The dagger glittered in the candle’s light and the dealer in stolen goods stared. The thief closed his hand around his prize and held it tightly.

  “I cannot examine your merchandise unless you give it to me,” Oro growled impatiently.

  Ramagar shot a quick glance to Mariana and she nodded, although with much of the same apprehension that he was feeling. Then with a sigh and a look that promised violence if Oro tried any clever manipulation or sleight of hand, he handed it over.

  The merchant put an eyeglass to his eye and inspected it closely. His head bobbed up and down, and he muttered, “Yes, yes,” over and over. At last he took the glass from his eye and turned to his visitors. “Have you brought this to sell?” he asked.

  “That depends,” replied the thief. “First we want to know what you can tell us about it.”

  Oro shrugged. “It is a very fine piece of work. Indeed it is. But you know that as well as I, Ramagar …” In a gesture of good will he placed it down in front of the thief. “I am prepared to offer you a handsome price. In cash, of course.”

  “How handsome?”

  Oro grinned toothlessly. Mariana stepped back a pace at the smell of his hot, foul breath. The merchant rolled his eyes as if in some mental calculation, saying at last, “Fifty pieces of silver.”

  Ramagar laughed. The very offer he had given Vlashi! He shook his head and sneered. Oro looked at him suspiciously. His face remained blank, but inwardly he was annoyed that the thief obviously knew more of its value than he had let on.

  “Such a fine jewel as this will be difficult to be rid of,” he said, looking first to Mariana, then to the thief.

  “Perhaps so. But I’m not interested.” Ramagar put his hand to the scimitar and pulled it out of Oro’s reach. The rubies and emeralds scattered colored light in all their faces. Oro hunched in closer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “How much do you ask, then?”

  The girl flashed her eyes, replying before Ramagar could answer: “Have you seen the engraver’s mark?”

  “I have,” came a slow, measured reply.

  “Then you know how rare it is. A true value would be more like a thousand pieces — in gold.”

  The beady eyes screwed in anger. Then Oro laughed, looking hard at the full-bosomed dancing girl with pangs of growing desire. For more than a year he had watched her from afar, watched her dance at the taverns. The single time he had approached her she had spit in his eye, caring nothing for the silver he offered in return for meeting his lewd cravings. And h
er arrogance had angered him as much as her spurning. But he blamed not the girl, no indeed, but rather he blamed the thief. It was her lover alone who was responsible, and secretly he despised Ramagar for it.

  “Your price is outrageous, dancing girl. Fit for princes with overflowing coffers. I cannot meet it. Nor can any merchant in the Jandari.”

  Mariana scooped it up. “Then we keep it.”

  Oro’s face twisted with annoyance. Dealing with the girl was going to be harder than dealing with the thief. Damnable girl!

  “Why be so hasty?” he said with a smile. He drew a bottle of wine from the drawer beneath the counter and filled a glass for Ramagar. “Perhaps,” he said, running a stubby finger alongside his nose, “I can make my offer a hundred and twenty-five. In silver …”

  Ramagar downed the wine and grinned. This was more like it. “Actually, I had more like two hundred in mind …”

  Oro shared his mirth. “Ah, Ramagar,” he sighed, “you are too clever for me. What am I to do? Two hundred, you say? Can we agree on one seventy-five?”

  Ramagar paused, but was about to agree.

  “Done?” asked Oro, holding out his hand.

  “Not done!”

  The dancing girl pounded her fist on the counter, disturbing a thin layer of dust. “It is no longer for sale!” And she clasped the scimitar firmly against her breast.

  Oro reddened. “What? What are you saying?”

  Even Ramagar seemed perturbed. “Listen to me, Mariana,” he soothed, thinking her unreasonable.

  “Are you mad?” she flared. Her eyes glowered at the merchant. "Ramagar is not as aware of your tricks as I am,” she hissed. Oro was so taken aback that he very nearly cringed at the sight of the enraged girl.

  “What is she talking about?” he stammered to Ramagar.

  “The rune, you dog!” she bristled. “You saw it as well as I, didn’t you? Tell us, Oro, where was this dagger forged? In what land, at what time?”