THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (15 page)

The yellow-haired beggar pushed back his hair and straightened. His eyes fixed on something far in the distance. “First we go north, then to the river. And then to the sea.”

Mariana tingled with excitement. The sea! What girl of the Jandari had ever dared dream that someday she would see the sea?

“But there’s a long way to go before even the river comes back into sight,” said the thief. “And we’ll only grow hungrier and more weary if we stay here and chat. Lead on, my beggar friend. Our journey begins again.”

And laughing, filled with gladdened hearts, the small band set off toward the mountains, thinking only of a new and brighter future. It had been a strange set of circumstances that had brought these four together and made them companions—and even stranger circumstances that had brought them to share their lives. A thief, a dancing girl, a child of the streets, and a most unusual beggar. If they had thought that their adventure was past, they were badly misled. If anything, their odyssey had just begun.

II

The Beggar Prince

9

The tents of haj Burlu the swineherd were set at the base of the scrub hills, beyond the dunes, some twenty leagues from the great walls of Kalimar. And there, on this windswept night, when the sand swirled over the plain and across the parched ridges, he sat by himself merrily waiting for the pot of stew to boil.

An ox of a man, thick-necked and broad-shouldered, with a short fiery red beard now flecked with gray, he lazed back against the worn and patched cushions and sniffed with satisfaction at the spicy aroma swelling his nostrils.

It was good to be inside on such a night, he told himself. Let others chase sheep and cajole cows from their grazing. He would spend his time more productively; practicing his culinary skills and reaping the rewards when the meal was done. Burlu was proud of his cooking ability, even if other hajeen on occasion teased him for it. Cooking was woman’s work, they would chide. Unworthy for a man, and even more so for a haj. Burlu, of course, scoffed at this foolish banter. Besides, his only serving girl was hardly worthy of handling his kitchen; he was not about to ruin his stomach any further.

He dunked the ladle into the pot and tasted. A wide grin broke over his cracked lips; it was a meal worthy of any haj. Indeed of a king, he chuckled silently. A shame that on this night there was no one to share it with.

He filled the wooden bowl to the brim, placed it carefully down on the mat beside the pitcher of honeyed wine, and cross-legged, began to eat. Empty cushions stared back across the tent. He glanced at the gold-threaded rug, the one his wife had painstakenly woven over so many years, and heaved a long sigh. He missed the woman, missed her more with every passing year. It was cruel for her to have been taken from him long years before her time. They should have aged together, slowly and gracefully, the way they had intended. Her death after only seven years of marriage had been a terrible blow. Yet Burlu was a religious man, as were all the people of these lands, and never once did he question the will of heaven.

Five children had come from this union. Five beautiful children. Three sons, two daughters. For a long time haj Burlu’s tents were blessed with their laughter and happiness. But even that had changed. One son, headstrong like his mother, had long ago left his home. To sail the seas, he said. To discover strange lands of mystery and wealth and one day return a hero. Burlu had ranted and raved but to no avail. His son was gone. The second son was a more practical man. He left home for the city, to seek a young man’s fortune and fame. The third son, ah, he had been the favorite. Burlu’s heart had never sunk to lower depths than when the local hajeen, their faces long and low, came to tell him that his son had been killed during the hunt. The old haj had wept and wailed; but as always, he never questioned. Three sons. And now there were none.

As for his daughters, well, that was a different matter. They had taken fine husbands and left his tents forever. It was only on the days he saw his grandchildren that his old heart again knew joy. Still, though, Burlu the haj, the beloved swineherd of the hills, lived alone. Yet as long as he had sheep and swine to be tended, fresh game to hunt on the scrub plains, he would consider himself a lucky man.

He ate slowly, savoring the lamb and the hot vegetables, washing the food down with wine. So lost was he with his meal that he almost did not hear the yapping of his dogs. He put down his spoon and listened, hushing the serving girl, who came running into the tent, panting that something was amiss.

The haj rose, his fine long robe flowing. Screwing his dark eyes, he pushed back the flap of the tent and stepped out into the night. Dust and sand swirled before him and obliterated his vision. The dogs were carrying on in a frenzy, running in broad circles all the way down to the edge of the horse path.

There must be a wild animal about, he reasoned. Some hungry beast on the prowl, possibly come down from the hills. A bear, perhaps. And his sheep and swine, not to mention his goats or chickens, would make fine prey. With his hand at the hilt of his hunting knife, he cautiously crossed the hard ground toward the road. The wind was against him and he had to struggle forward, using the broad side of his arm to cover his eyes.

The dogs were all around him, jumping, snapping, bowling at the top of their lungs. Burlu strained to see. There were dark figures on the path, and again he pressed forward for a better look. It was with surprise that he realized they were men, and not lurking beasts as he had suspected. Still, what were they doing on the road? A night such as this was certainly not meant for traveling. And if they
were
travelers, where were their horses? Few travelers ever came along this out-of-the-way path, he knew, but those that did were always mounted. To travel any other way, especially at night, was foolhardy to say the least.

Puzzled, the lumbering haj, old in years but as keen and as powerful as ever, approached. He pushed away the shock of silver-red hair blowing in front of his eyes and called out, “Who goes by my tents?” He drew his knife from the scabbard and clutched it tightly. The haj was anything but a violent man, but these were mistrustful times in the world and no man could be too careful.

“Please, farmer,” came a harried voice, broken by the wind. “Call off your dogs. We mean no harm—”

The haj squinted, his hand to his eyes. The images were at last coming into a sharper focus and he could make out their garb. These people, whoever they were, certainly were not farmers. Nor were they neighbors.

“What do you want here?”

One of the travelers, using his cloak to shield his face, approached the haj with his head lowered respectfully. He folded his hands before him, to show he was unarmed. Two great black dogs were yapping at his feet.

“We are travelers from Kalimar, good haj,” said Ramagar, “and have been caught in the storm. We would ask your hospitality, if you will, just until the morrow …”

“From Kalimar, is it?” said Burlu, rubbing his beard and thinking of his second son somewhere in the capital city. “Where are your horses?”

“We have none, haj. Nor mules, nor camels. We have walked—”

“Walked?” Burlu was incredulous. He looked at the stranger’s boots, badly worn and riddled with pebble-pierced holes.

Ramagar nodded, his eyes now shut and tearing from the sand. “Three days we’ve been on our journey, but until today we had little difficulty. We are weary and hungry, haj. But we do not beg. True, we have no money, but we will be more than willing to work for whatever you would give. Your stable will be more than adequate for us to sleep …”

Burlu was so astounded at what he had heard that he almost forgot his good manners. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the tents, “come inside. You are more than welcome to share what I have.”

“There are four of us, haj. We mean no imposition…”

“Whatever the number, you are welcome. Now hurry. The wind will only rise and grow colder. Call your companions and tell them to follow. Supper is ready, and after it we can talk.”

The haj’s tents were more than inviting. One by one the bone-weary farers lowered their heads at the entrance and came inside. They looked on in wonder at the heavily piled rugs scattered over the floor, the thick, soft cushions placed in a semicircle around the stone cooking fire. Drapes and tapestries hung from the tent’s walls, soft fabric, translucent and dyed in bright colors. Mariana looked about, dazzled.

Burlu seated himself upon his carmine cushion and bid his guests to take places of their own. He sat back smiling as the serving girl brought bowls and chalices, placing them beside each of the fatigued travelers.

Ramagar dipped a piece of fresh bread into his bowl and took a bite. “Your food is delicious,” he said to the pleased haj. “Your serving girl is a marvelous cook.”

“Quite so, quite so,” added the yellow-haired beggar. He swallowed a mouthful and washed it down with wine. “I have been many places, eaten the most exotic cuisines, but your own surpasses them all.”

The haj thanked them politely, making no reference to who the cook really was. Naturally he had many questions to ask of these visitors from Kalimar, but doing so now would be most rude, most unworthy of a good host. He knew he would have to still his curiosity a little while longer. Not that he minded, though. The night was young.

Mariana was the first to finish. Declining a second helping, she let her gaze absorb the tent with a single sweep. The corner of the tent was filled with artifacts: small vases of blasted stone and polished marble; tiny hand-carved figurines of rare woods; hanging desert tapestries depicting windblown panoramas and blazing mountain suns. She was not sure that their host was a man of wealth, but he was certainly a man of good taste.

Burlu, noting the young girl’s interest, said, “I am but a small collector of these things. But tell me, are you a lover of such art?”

Mariana smiled meekly. “Merely an admirer, haj,” she told him, lowering her eyes respectfully. “I have always enjoyed objects of beauty.”

Burlu toyed with his emerald ring and nodded with understanding. And it was then that he began to take closer note of her. Strange, he mused, but in many ways—ways he could not name—she reminded him strongly of his beloved wife. And he became curious as to why this beautiful girl traveled the long journey from Kalimar.

The lamb stew finished at last, the serving girl withdrew the bowls and quickly replaced them with plates filled with varieties of fruit and dried nuts. Another pitcher of honeyed wine was soon to follow and the serving girl took great pains to fill every chalice to the brim.

Ramagar sat back contentedly, rubbing his full belly and feeling his head lightly swimming from the strong, sweet brew. “How can we ever repay you for this kindness, haj?” he said. “These past days my companions and I have eaten little but wild berries and plants, save, of course, for the occasional hare we managed to trap. By no means were we prepared for such a magnificent feast as you have laid before us.”

Burlu bowed his head with respectful acknowledgment to his well-spoken guest. “My fare is simple, my friends, but I am always glad to share it with visitors. But perhaps you are yet hungry? Shall I have my serving girl prepare—”

“No, no,” laughed Ramagar. “We have had more than enough. And your kindness shall not be forgotten.”

“Then you must all be my guests for supper tomorrow. I promise you the best my hospitality can offer.”

“You are most gracious, haj,” said the stranger in response. “But alas, for myself at least, I cannot accept.” Burlu furrowed his brows with obvious disappointment; it was good sharing his meals with pleasant company, and indeed he had been looking forward to having his guests stay at least for another day.

“But why, my friends?” he asked. “Surely after such a long journey you need rest…”

The stranger’s resolve was firm. “Forgive me, haj, but I must be on my way no later than sunrise. Your tents are as warm a home as I have ever known, and had circumstances been different I would have liked to stay for as long as you will.” Here his face grew dark and sad, and he sighed. “But my business is too important, too urgent, to delay.”

“Ah, then I am sorry. But you will spend the night?”

“Thank you, yes.”

By this time the haj’s curiosity was more than fired. Most travelers on the road from the city would have been more than eager to while away a few comfortable days before continuing on. Especially at this time of year when the weather posed a greater hazard than any band of roving bandits ever could. His guests tonight, though, at least the yellow-haired foreigner, seemed not to be bothered by any of these dangers. And Burlu began to wonder just what their mission of such importance really was.

Now, being a hill man, and a haj to boot, Burlu knew it would be considered too rude to ask outright. A man’s affairs, the hill folk believed, were strictly his own. Host or no, even a haj would be displaying the poorest of manners if he were to ask.

Burlu considered this as he sipped at his chalice and tugged gently at his earlobe. “And this journey of yours,” he said very casually, feeling that a little prodding might answer all his questions without his having to ask them, “has it already taken you far?”

Outside, the wind was rising, blowing harder than before. The serving girl hastily ran to secure the flapping curtains at the entrance. The stranger held his cup and gazed into the dark honeyed wine. “My companions have only joined me since Kalimar,” he said. “But as for myself, I have been seeking my destination for half a lifetime.”

“Half a lifetime?” mimicked the haj with astonishment. In his own surprise he didn’t notice that his other guests were equally astounded. “It must be a very long journey, friend, to have lasted so many years …”

“Longer than you can imagine, haj. Longer than any of you can imagine. Almost from one end of the world to the other. But now,” here he sighed, “the glimpse of the end is all but in sight. And I am most eager for its conclusion, come what may.”

Something in his last words caused Mariana to shiver. Suddenly she felt very cold; almost as cold as when they crossed the sewers, even though the haj’s fire was still burning brightly. “What lies at the end of your road, stranger?” she asked with trepidation.

Looking into each of their faces in turn, he said, “Perhaps glory, perhaps death. Either way, I must do what I must do.”

Burlu gulped down his wine and refilled the chalice. He had met enough travelers and wanderers in his years to know the makings of a good tale when he saw it. He clapped his hands and called for another pitcher. The night was barely begun, and he knew there was nothing in the world better than sweet honeyed wine to loosen even the most reluctant tongue.

Ramagar stirred, saying, “You once told us your intent to cross the sea. Is that where your quest will finish?”

“There, and beyond.”

Beyond? Beyond the great sea? thought haj Burlu. He nervously twirled his emerald finger ring and listened with growing interest. The evening was becoming more entertaining by the moment.

“And what, if I might inquire, do you know of what is beyond?” he asked, twisting his body so as to fully face his yellow-haired guest. “You are a man of the north, are you not? Your golden hair and fair complexion tell me as much. And by your dress, and you admit you are not a mariner.”