THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (11 page)

He put his hand to the side of her face and gently ran his fingers over her lips. “It’s best this way, girl,” he consoled her. “No matter what happens at least you’ll be safe—and free. Sell the scimitar as quickly as you can. You’ll be a lady, Mariana. A lady of quality.”

“Not without you. I’m nothing without you.” A single tear rolled down her cheek and the thief wiped it away. Then Ramagar turned swiftly.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

Silently, Mariana took the reins of her mare and began to walk along the avenue back to the gate. The clomping of the stallion’s hooves behind was the only assurance she had that her lover was still close. She was determined to do everything he asked, and not even to look at him again if turning around was against his wishes. But her tears were another matter. They flowed freely from her eyes and she was not ashamed of them. If this was to be the end, then let it come quickly. Let Ramagar die right away. He must not be forced to suffer the indignities and tortures the Inquisitors had promised. And rather than stand by and allow such a thing to happen, Mariana knew she would take the thief’s life herself; slay her lover if need be with the bejeweled dagger she carried, the one men so highly prized, and then toss it to the wind when the deed was done. It was an evil thing, she decided. It had brought Ramagar—and herself—nothing but grief. She wondered what devils had bewitched it so, what curse had been laid upon its gold so that all who claimed possession would know only misery.

Yes, she would be rid of it if ill befell Ramagar. Be rid of it once and for all. And woe be unto the poor soul who claimed its ownership next.

Mariana passed beneath the shadows and the arched wall with little but these thoughts in mind. Eyes straight ahead, never wavering, although she ached to look behind, she led her mare away toward the edge of the road, carefully following the thief’s instructions, and praying that his escape would come as easily as her own. Seconds drifted like hours; she felt her body grow stiffer, her muscles tense, her brow wet with perspiration, and her mouth become dry. Merchants, finished with their barter with the inspectors, were beginning to pass by now, a few of them stopping to bow their heads politely. Mariana was unaware of their attention. Reaching the clumps of grass alongside the resting camels, she paused. Her heart pounded like a kettledrum; she dried her wet palms on her tunic. So far so good, she assured herself. By now surely Ramagar would have passed beyond the gate as well. Soon they would both be safe; she would greet him, fly into his arms. Once on the open road they could never be stopped.

She shut her eyes briefly and prayed: Please! Let it be so!

The various soldiers scattered nearby all seemed preoccupied with assorted duties. Not a one among them seemed the least bit suspicious either of her or the Karshi religious fanatic who was close behind her. And Mariana drew encouragement. It’s going to work! It’s really going to work! Just a little bit longer; a few more minutes at most…

Suddenly she stopped cold in her tracks. Off to the side, close to the hastily set merchants’ tents, a small group of men had gathered and were going through the motions of haggling with each other over their merchandise. Something, though, seemed most peculiar. Beneath the colorful robes the men wore swords—most strange attire for a caravan journey. Then her heart skipped a beat and she stifled a gasp. There was no mistaking it. Oro, the hunchbacked trader, was among them. His ugly little face was busily scrutinizing her as he drew himself from the crowd.

Mariana spun around as quick as she could, crying, “Flee! It’s a trap! Run back to the city!”

The grim-faced Inquisitors shed their robes in a frenzy and, weapons drawn, came racing to the gate. Honest merchants and brokers standing in the way began to run and hide. Women began to scream. In a split second all was pandemonium.

Ramagar whipped out his dagger and barely blocked the thrust of the first sword in time. Bending, he scooped up sand and threw it into the attacker’s eyes. From the side two more soldiers rushed at him. He dived to the ground, caught one off balance and slammed his fist into his gut. The soldier doubled over, wheezing. Then the thief was back on his feet, grappling with the next soldier, fists flying, sending him sprawling to the dirt.

From the wall, arrows came whizzing, kicking up sand, landing inches from his feet. Mariana watched in despair. Other running soldiers knocked her down, shouting commands, rushing the gate, and calling for it to be shut.

Before the cunning thief could mount his steed, hands were all over him and pulling him down. Then the black stallion lurched in pain. Arrows slammed into its flanks, its neck, its back. The animal whinnied, standing high on its hind legs and kicking. A soldier screamed in terror as the animal lost its balance and fell onto him with a powerful thud.

Ramagar ran for the gate. Two sentries were in his way. One’s jawbone he cracked with the force of his fist; the second he picked up by the collar and sent flying into the arms of his rushing comrades.

“Catch him!” came the cry.

The wily rogue bolted into the dumbstruck crowds gathered at the gate’s edge. A band of mounted troops came charging from the street, whips flaying, sending the frightened citizens into a panic. Mariana, in the meantime, had lifted herself from the ground and made her way back inside. Everywhere she looked there was a frenzy, a terrible melee of a hundred soldiers giving chase, kicking and knocking to the earth anyone and everyone who got in their way.

“He’s dressed as a Karshi,” she heard the captain shout. “He won’t be hard to find!”

Amid the chaos, a group of soldiers had cornered someone, and Mariana strained to see. Her heart sank as never before. The Karshi robe was unmistakable; the man was completely surrounded. The soldiers closed ranks and raised their weapons, steadily moving in on the hooded fanatic. “Watch out!” someone warned. “He’s as slippery as an eel!”

The fanatic stood his ground for a moment, then suddenly tried to bolt to the side. More soldiers closed in. The robed man no longer tried to run. He lifted his arms into the air and sagged his shoulders.

Mariana watched the scene with growing horror. It was plain that Ramagar was giving himself up—but it was equally clear that the soldiers now had no intention of taking him alive.

“Kill him!” the commander barked. And Mariana screamed. Blade after blade plunged into the body. While it still lay writhing upon the earth, the soldiers pressed in closer and, as a man, began to kick and spit at the dying form.

Sobbing, wailing, beating her fists at the laughing soldiers, Mariana worked herself inside the ring of death and knelt beside the corpse. Her tunic stained with blood as she took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You bastards,” she cried. “He was innocent!
Innocent!”

The captain of the troops paid no heed; tugging at his brush moustache, he barked to the man beside him, “Uncover his face. I want to take a final look at the master thief.”

“Kalimar won’t miss him,” the second man growled. Then he knelt down and pushed back the hood. The soldiers stood speechless; Mariana swallowed hard and drew the courage to take one last glance at her lover’s bloody face. She too was stunned speechless at the sight of the pockmarked and clean-shaven face.

“Gods of mercy,” whispered one of the soldiers. “That’s not Ramagar! It’s the wrong man! We’ve slain the wrong man!”

Then from the roofs behind came a billowing laugh, a laugh Mariana would recognize anywhere.

“After him, you fools!” urged the captain. “That’s Ramagar up there!”

And Mariana laughed through her tears as the soldiers gathered their horses and drew their weapons once more.

It was quiet. Evening prayer was done, the streets returned to their dusty desolation. Mariana sat alone watching the sun-baked domes glint in the failing Tight. She could think now only of the coming shadows; the welcome cloak that would hide her lover at least through the night. But where he was, she had no idea. He certainly could not risk going back to his hiding place at the wharves, nor could he chance returning to the Jandari. He would have to hide as best he could. A few moments here, an hour there. Spies would be everywhere, she knew, more than eager to help the soldiers in their search and claim the newly posted reward of twenty gold pieces.

This time she was certain she would never see him again. He would never dare come to her, not even for a fleeting moment. And how could she blame him? Her room would be constantly watched, even perhaps her every movement. She glanced up at the squalid buildings beyond the plaza and wondered if they were watching her at this very second. What broke her heart was the knowledge that even had she known his whereabouts she could not go. It would only hasten his doom.

No, they could never meet again. The time they shared, the love, and the dreams they planned were all behind. Sooner or later the thief would be caught, more than likely betrayed by a friend. And she, well, she would have to face her future without him. All that was left were her memories, memories she would cling to until the last breath had left her body.

With such sorrow in her heart, Mariana slowly lifted herself from the stone bench and began the long walk back to the Jandari. She would never dance or love again. Her life would know only long and empty years. Barren, joyless years.

“Pssst!”

She glanced sideways to the shadows in the dark doorway. A bony finger nervously beckoned.
“Pssst!
Over here!”

She screwed her eyes and stared. It was a boy who was calling her. Ragged, thin, and yellowed. Normally she would not have paid him the slightest bit of attention, but the cloak he wore, ill-fitting and far too long for him, seemed strangely familiar.

Mariana took a wary step closer.

“Follow me, Mariana,” rasped the boy, turning his back to her and climbing up a winding flight of crumbling stairs.

Mariana crossed the threshold of the doorway and stopped. “Who are you?” she questioned. “And how do you know my name?”

The boy stopped his climb and looked back at her with a grin. “Ramagar helped me once,” he said, fingering the cloak. And the girl nodded. She recalled the evening when he had first brought the scimitar to her, and how he had thrown a few old clothes and some coppers to a hungry street urchin waiting below.

“I remember,” she said. “What do you want?”

“To help you, Mariana.”

“Help me how?”

The boy shook his head impatiently. “Trust me, Mariana. Say nothing and follow me.”

Her hand gripped the banister for support. She took a single step and then stopped. “Why should I trust you?” she said abruptly, her dark eyes flashing. “Why should I do as you ask?”

“Because,” replied the boy with a sigh of exasperation, “I think I can help Ramagar to flee Kalimar.”

At this she let her mouth open soundlessly. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“You
can help Ramagar escape?”

He nodded. “I know someone who knows a way out of the city. A way that not even a thief like your lover is aware of.”

Her first inclination was to laugh. Who was this urchin to claim more knowledge of Kalimar’s secrets than the city’s most masterful rogue? His very words rankled her. And then she thought: perhaps his words were a ruse—a clever ploy to enlist her aid in finding Ramagar so the urchin could turn him in and collect the reward.

She raised her chin and glared squarely at him. “I don’t believe what you’re telling me,” she said flatly. “And I’m not going to follow you a single step farther.”

“Then perhaps you’ll believe
me.”

Her eyes darted up to the top of the stairs. Whoever it was who had spoken sounded unfamiliar, and she strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of the shadowed figure.

“And who are you?”

The man didn’t answer. He opened the small door that led to the roof; all Mariana could see besides his silhouette was the darkening sky and the few early evening stars twinkling above.

The stranger held out an open hand, gesturing for her to come up. “Please,” he said softly. “Do as we ask. We are not your enemies. And we do mean to help you if we can.”

Something in his tone was reassuring to her, and although still hesitant, she decided to do as asked. The steps crumbled as she climbed; the urchin offered his hand to help but Mariana refused. Once at the top, she bent her head and slipped out onto the roof. The boy stood fixed at her side, his eyes moving back and forth from his shadowy companion to her.

Though the stranger remained concealed in the shadows, Mariana made a quick assessment of what there was to see. A hood covered his head and his cloak was tightly wrapped. It was clear that he was young; his stance told her that he was proud; and his manner was proof enough of his good breeding.

There was a small wooden box placed close to the doorway and the stranger gestured for her to sit. Mariana did as asked, and said, “What is this all about? How can you help me, and why do you want to?”

Her companions could not doubt her mistrust.

“Your lover cannot hope to hide for much longer,” said the stranger. “Another day, two at the most. Then they’ll catch him and behead him.”

Mariana squirmed. She found his frankness a bit too much to take. “First they have to find him,” she snapped.

The stranger folded his arms and stared out into the night. Across the city the lamps were being lit in ten thousand windows. “Be assured they will find him. No stone will remain unturned in the effort.”

Mariana was growing more uncomfortable each moment. This man sounded more like an enemy with every word that passed his lips. She began to rise.

“I can help him,” the stranger promised.

“We both can help him,” added the urchin, seemingly eager for her to believe him.

She looked at them both blankly. “Why?”

“Because Ramagar showed kindness to me,” replied the urchin quickly. He met her gaze, then lowered his own. “And he was the only man in my entire life who ever did.”

Mariana accepted that without a second thought. Who knew better than she the harsh pitiless life Jandarians were forced to live? If her lover had shown this lad a small kindness then the boy was now more than willing to repay it a hundredfold. For that she was more than grateful. She smiled at the youth and turned back to the stranger. “And what’s your reason?” she asked.