THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 4

  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?”

  Oro drew to his full height, right shoulder arched forward and higher than the left. “What matter to you, girl?” he countered. “Its origin would only have value to a collector. To you it means nothing.” He turned back to Ramagar, hands slightly shaking. “Do we have a bargain or no? Two hundred pieces, thief. I’ll meet the full price. What do you say?”

  Although he tried not to show it, Ramagar was truly astounded at the merchant’s eagerness to buy the prize. Never before had he seen Oro take such an interest. Always his best offer was given with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude. And Ramagar felt puzzled by this sudden change.

  Mariana, still clutching the dagger, looked at her lover with pleading eyes. Eyes that cried out: “Don’t be a fool!”

  The thief pondered, taking delight in seeing Oro fidgit and squirm. “Where was the dagger forged?” he asked at last.

  Oro sighed. “I am not sure,” he sighed. “But not in Kalimar, that much is certain. Perhaps it came from one of the northern kingdoms, Sakhra or Lanohor …”

  “Or Speca?”

  At that, Oro’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He looked at the girl carefully, wondering how she could possibly know. Or even suspect.

  “What do you know of Speca?”

  “Only that their craftsmanship was the finest in the world. The finest the world has ever known, or ever will know.” She gazed up at Ramagar, adding, “I suspected it last night, but I was reluctant to tell you because I knew I might be wrong.”

  Ramagar could feel his blood race with his pulse. Specian art was indeed the rarest known—as well as the most valuable. “But what makes you sure now?” he asked.

  She glared at Oro. “He does. His greed to own the dagger, his willingness to pay anything to get it. Anything.”

  “Is that true?” asked the thief.

  Oro swallowed. He had made his best effort—and lost.

  “Bah,” he growled. “Only an expert can decipher Specian runes. Their language and culture have been dead a thousand years. At best I can only guess or speculate, as Mariana is doing now.”

  The girl shivered when she saw the indecisive look on her lover’s face. “Don’t listen to him, Ramagar. Please—”

  “Two hundred fifty pieces, thief. In cash. My final offer. What do you say to that? It will make you a rich man.”

  “No!” cried Mariana.

  Ramagar wanted to sell, wanted to badly. Yet Mariana had never led him astray before. Her counsel had always proved the best he had known. He knew he should listen to her now, as well.

  “Let me think about it, Oro. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Thief of thieves, indeed,” rasped the merchant in scorn. “Does a woman make your decisions for you, Ramagar? A dancing girl, little better than a common slut bought for a few coppers?”

  In rage the thief grabbed him by his tunic and half lifted him off the floor. “If I ever hear you say that again,” he whispered, “I’ll slice that hump off your back!” And he pushed him against the wall, slamming him so hard that a multitude of objects fell off the grim shelves and clattered loudly onto the floor.

  “Get out! Get out!” squawked Oro in a high-pitched squeal. “Don’t ever dare come back here again!”

  Ramagar put his hands on his hips and laughed defiantly.

  “Don’t think I’ll forget this day, thief!” Oro was openly trembling, trying to pick himself up. “And your prize will be sought, you can be sure—”

  “Are you threatening me?” His fist was clenched and ready to strike.

  Oro drew back, content to pay for his bravery with the muscles of others. “A warning, Ramagar. Just a warning.”

  Hands open on the counter, the thief leaned forward and locked Oro’s eyes. “If you speak one word of this to anyone, I’ll come back and make you suffer.” Then he spun on his heels, and, taking Mariana by the hand, whisked her into the sunlight.

  Ramagar walked briskly, unspeaking, and Mariana had to almost run to keep up with him. “Are you angry?” she asked, panting to catch her breath.

  He shook his head.

  “But you’re sorry? About not taking the two hundred fifty?”

  The thief stopped in his tracks, looked down at her haunting childlike face, and smiled. “No, you were right. A Specian artifact is too valuable to sell without careful thought. But we’ll have to find another dealer. I wouldn’t let Oro have it no matter what he offered. Not after what he said.”

  Mariana blushed and smiled, knowing that Ramagar had been willing to fight for her honor and reputation. She stood up on her toes and kissed him lightly, thinking him more a prince than a thief.

  “But you’ll have to be careful, Ramagar,” she warned, “The old goat wants it badly. Badly enough to stop at nothing to get it, I’m afraid.”

  Putting his arm around her, the thief laughed. “Don’t worry. He’ll not dare to even look at you again.”

  Her eyes were wide and pensive as she said, “Not me, Ramagar. You. It’s you I’m frightened for.”

  He frowned. “Me? What can a gutter rat do to me? Listen, this sun is killing my eyes. Why don’t we forget all this nonsense, go home, eat some breakfast, and go back to sleep like normal people?”

  Mariana nodded and smiled. Then she took his hand and led him home, glad the morning’s task was done, and not even suspecting the series of events that would begin that evening.

  3

  Ramagar awoke with a start. He put his hands to his ears, trying to cut off the screams and cries of his nightmare. But as wakefulness took over he realized that the screams were no dream—they were real. Glancing to the sleeping girl, he threw off his covers and soundlessly hurried to the window. The screaming was growing louder; among the grind and shuffle-of running boots he was certain he could hear the distant clomp of horses’ hooves drawing steadily nearer.

  He unbolted the shutters, opened them wide, and put his hand before his eyes to blot out the rush of late afternoon sun. Below, the tiny street was in confusion. Street people were pushing and shoving, scrambling helter-skelter to reach the safety of doorways and alleys, diving this way and that with total disregard for those poor souls too slow to avoid being trampled underfoot.

  Ramagar poked his head out and searched below. “You there!” he called, recognizing a face. “What’s going on?”

  The urchin paused in his run. Had it been any other than Ramagar who had called he would have paid no attention whatsoever. But the warm new cloak he wore and the jingling coppers in his pocket were too great a debt to ignore.

  Face sweaty and paled, anxiety plain in his eyes, he shouted, “The soldiers are coming! Searching every street!”

  “But why? What’s happened?”

  The reply was fast and breathless. “A noble has been murdered in the Jandari! Hundreds have been taken to the dungeons for questioning.” And with that, the urchin fled as fast as his feet could carry him. Ramagar, above all, could not blame him. Few who had known the regent’s cells below the sewers came out the same as they went in. The Jackal had taught him that as his first lesson.

  Ramagar quickly closed the shutters, leaving a single slat open so he could observe at least partially what was going on. Meanwhile, his mind raced as he put together an
escape route across the roofs if it came to that.

  A wanted man takes no chances.

  Down the arched street came riding six black-caped guards. Stern, grim men, sworn to uphold Kalimar’s ancient laws and earn favor in the minister’s eyes. Purple plumes fluttered from their gray helmets, long, glittering swords dangled from their sides. Red stallion-shaped crests were sewn into their tunics above the heart, telling all who saw that they belonged to the crack regiment known as Inquisitors, the most fearful of the regent’s troops.

  Women screamed and bundled their infants as the soldiers recklessly tore across the ancient flagstones. Iron hooves struck like flints, sending sparks flying in the late afternoon calm. Old men and cripples hobbled out of harm’s way, beggars and pickpockets slipped like lizards into every available nook. Still, within moments a large crowd of citizens had been gathered and pushed with their backs against the walls.

  The captain of the soldiers dismounted with an unmasked look of disdain on his face. A dour man in the best of times, he was in no mood for wasting time. The death had caused a minor uproar within the palace walls, even though the victim had been considered an ill-mannered fop, and the captain’s orders were plain: if the culprit was not soon found, his own head would be placed on the block in his stead.

  Losing not a moment, he drew his sword and brandished it at the faces of his captives. The frightened group huddled and shivered. He eyed each and every one carefully, rapidly weeding out the riffraff from those of more serious intent.

  “Who has information for me?” he questioned with contempt. No one answered; they dipped their heads and shied their eyes from his malevolent gaze. “Speak up now,” the soldier warned. “It will save you all a great deal of trouble later.”

  His companions snickered at the obvious reference to the waiting dungeons.

  The captain pursed his lips and sighed. Dealing with them like honest, decent folk would be useless, he could see. They had to be treated as the gutter trash they were. And if he were minister and had his way, this entire district would have been burned to the ground years ago, its filthy inhabitants trapped like rats in the flames. Good riddance to them all. Most were better off dead anyway.

  He paced before them and then, on a whim, grabbed hold of an old beggar and hurled him into the gutter, where he splashed clumsily into a reeking cesspool.

  “W-What have I done?” cried the beggar.

  “That remains to be seen, my friend,” said the captain as he ran a finger lightly along the side of his drooping moustache. “Now, can you account for your whereabouts today?”

  The beggar was shaking, too frightened to reply. All he could manage to do was whimper his innocence of the crime and beg not to be hurt.

  That this man was obviously too dim-witted to be capable of murder the captain knew as well as everyone else. Yet he would provide a good example to the rest: that no life was safe until the murderer was apprehended and Kalimar’s justice served.

  Ramagar watched from above in anger. He gritted his teeth and cursed softly under his breath as the little scene unfolded.

  The wily captain drew back a pace from his newly found suspect, glancing at the others, pretending to be finished with the man. Then he whirled, foot flying upward, his heavy boot smashing against the beggar’s sagging jaw. The beggar reeled and howled like a stuck pig.

  “Perhaps that will change your mind, eh?” cackled the sadistic soldier. He kneeled down, yanked the man by the hair with one hand and drew the tip of his short sword up against the beggar’s jugular with the other. The beggar’s eyes widened in terror. The slighest movement of his head would cut the vein.

  “Well?”

  “I—I am innocent,” he rasped. “Please—”

  “Then who is guilty?”

  “I have been … sleeping … all day … I saw nothing…”

  The captain grimaced, pushed the man’s face into the cesspool, and let him go. Cleaning his hands with a handkerchief, he looked again to the others. A slight weasel of a man met his eyes briefly, then quickly hid them from the steely glare.

  The captain flashed a cruel smile. “You, there,” he barked. “Yes, you. Come forward.” He beckoned him with his finger. “Don’t I know you?”

  Vlashi shook so hard that even Ramagar in his lofty height could see his knees quiver.

  The soldier snickered. He had seen this man before, he was sure, but what matter? There were so many like him in the Jandari, hundreds, thousands even. It was impossible to keep track of them all.

  “No, sir,” whispered Vlashi, “we have never seen one another before …”

  “Is that so, my shivering friend?” He brought his face so close that Vlashi could feel the heat of his breath. “What information have you for me, eh? What have your eyes seen this day?”

  Vlashi looked away, and his gaze fell on the miserable beggar who was trying to scrape himself up from the gutter.

  “Well?”

  “I know nothing, sir. Nothing.”

  “He claims ignorance,” marveled the captain with folded arms as he addressed his watching men. “Perhaps we’ll have to find a way to loosen his memory.” Slitting his eyes and scratching at his chin, he pondered several time-tested ways for dealing with the situation. At length he looked back at the shivering pickpocket and said, “Hold out your hand, my friend.”

  “Sir?”

  The captain set his jaw and raised his powerful frame so that he stood towering over the slight pickpocket. His clenched fist was as large as Vlashi’s face.

  Vlashi, awareness dawning on what was in store, shakily did as told. The captain snapped a finger, and one of his men rushed to his side with his weapon drawn.

  “Remove the hand,” said the first to the second. The soldier grinned. His blade flashed in the crimson sun as he raised the weapon high above his head.

  Vlashi took a quick look at his tormentor. Eyes rolling and veins popping, he fainted, collapsing in a heap at the captain’s feet. The other soldiers broke into raucous laughter. The captain slapped Vlashi back into wakefulness and smiled. “How many pockets shall you be able to pick with but one hand, eh? Or will you be forced to become a beggar?” He paused to let the meaning of his words sink in and take hold.

  Vlashi was white as sheets. “N-Not that,” he stammered. “I-I beg you, not that!”

  “Then tell me everything you know—right now! What have you seen today? Who has committed the crime?”

  The pickpocket’s mind was racing frantically. An answer was needed fast; any answer at all, no matter how absurd. As long as it was convincing to his captor.

  “It—It was a beggar that killed your noble,” he blurted with a sigh and a prayer. “A foreigner, new to the Jandari, new to Kalimar—”

  A calloused hand surrounded the pickpocket’s frail throat. A freckled tongue protruded from between lips which turned blue, as Vlashi gasped for breath. Soon his entire complexion was dark purple.

  “What sort of imbecile do you take me for?” seethed the soldier. “Do I appear to be such a dolt that a fable like that should be believed?”

  Vlashi twitched and moaned as the fingers tightened their grip.

  “T-T-Truth …” he wheezed. “T-Truth …

  With scorn the captain let go. Vlashi doubled over and heaved to fill his lungs. The captain marked time while the pickpocket vomited.

  “Now then,” he said when Vlashi was done, “do you still claim the crime to have been committed by a wandering vagabond?” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the hilt of his sword.

  “I have not lied,” replied the pickpocket swiftly. “There is such a stranger in the Jandari. I have seen him myself only yesterday. He is like no other beggar, I assure you. To look into his eyes is to look into death itself—”

  The captain listened skeptically; the tale was growing more outrageous with every word. “And where,” he queried with ridicule, “might this stranger be found?”

  “Yesterday I saw him in the plaza—”r />
  “A thousand beggars line the Jandari’s plazas, each one the twin of the next. No, my weasely friend, I fear you send me on a fool’s errand.”

  “But you are wrong!” Vlashi protested. “This one sets himself apart from other men. Indeed, he will betray himself to you the moment you see him.”

  The soldier cocked a curious brow. “How so, gutter rat?”

  Vlashi rubbed his hands and chortled. “By his hair, good captain. Tell me, how many in Kalimar have hair of yellow?”

  The captain was suddenly forced to give at least an inkling of credence to the ridiculous tale. Yellow hair was indeed a rarity of rarities in Kalimar, the mark of a foreigner from a distant land. Such a man should not prove difficult to find.

  He looked sternly at the pickpocket. Jandari street people were notorious liars, willing to say and do anything if it might save their wretched necks. “And you,” he said, “will be willing to swear to this man’s guilt?”

  Vlashi nodded and made the sacred sign. “I will do whatever needs be done.”

  Although the pickpocket did not know it, he had saved the wary captain from many hours of grief. A suspect was demanded by the regent at any cost; now, Vlashi had not only provided one but was willing to attest to his guilt as well. Clean and simple. By tomorrow another head would have rolled, another example set to the Jandari. The regent would be pleased, the captain would gain favor in his eyes. Everyone would be satisfied. Except, of course, for the poor wretch they caught. But someone had to pay the price for the vile deed, guilty or not.

  All that remained was to find the yellow-haired beggar.

  “Ride to the barracks and bring a cohort of men,” the captain barked to his aide. “If need be, we’ll comb every inch of this accursed place from the plazas to the sewers. This yellow-haired murderer must not be allowed to escape. Kalimar’s justice must be served!”

  With a bow and a sweep of his cape the aide mounted his fine steed and galloped swiftly down the street.

  “What about them?” another soldier asked contemptuously of the frightened crowd. “Shall we bind them and haul them in?”

  The captain smiled slyly. “Let the wretches go,” he commanded with a flippant gesture. This new development was reason enough to let him act so magnanimously.