THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (19 page)

Mariana nodded, the smallest hint of a tear welling in her eyes. “We must,” she said. “But we’ll never forget you or your hospitality. And I’ll recall you in my prayers.”

The haj smiled. He had come to like them all, he knew. But of all his guests the dancing girl was his favorite. What was it about her, he wondered, that brought his beloved wife’s image to mind every time he looked at her? Burlu shrugged and smiled to himself. He must truly be getting old, he mused. Why else would he see the faces of the dead within those of the living?

Trembling slightly from these thoughts, he turned to the Prince. “What route to the sea have you chosen, if I might ask?”

“They say the northern road will lead to a great river,” replied the Prince. “From there we will follow it west to the sea.”

Ramagar concurred. “It’s the caravan route to Palava. It’s long, I know, but there isn’t any other way.”

“Ah, but there is, my friend,” said the haj with a sly smile. “A way that could cut a month’s travel, and also keep you far from the possibility of any chance encounter with Kalimar’s soldiers seeking you on the road.”

Ramagar furrowed his thick brows in contemplation. Certainly it would be well advised for them to avoid the main trade route. But Ramagar was a city man. What did he know of the broad sweep of rugged lands that formed Kalimar’s northern frontiers? The main road, such as it was, was the only one he knew anything of.

“Which road do you speak about?” he asked, perplexed.

The wizened haj smiled slyly. “Not a road at all, my friend. But there is a way to the port—a short way, if you’re willing to cross the desert.”

“Walk across a sea of sand?” gasped Mariana. “We’d never make it. How could we possibly find our way over this ocean of dunes?”

The haj leaned forward, his smile vanishing. “There is a way to take you across in a single week’s time. It will be difficult, I realize, even dangerous. Yet certainly no less perilous than what awaits in Speca …”

Ramagar looked to the Prince and the man in rags shrugged. “How do we find this path?” he queried.

“It will not be hard. You will begin by going north, but when the dry riverbed is reached you shall follow it west, to the rock country and the Land of the Baboons.”

“Land of the Baboons?” repeated the thief, scratching his head. “What’s that? I’ve lived in Kalimar all my life and I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Of course not,” replied the haj with a hint of a sneer at his city-bred guest. “But we of the hills know it well. All too well, perhaps. It is a vast region of mulga scrub. Many creatures dwell within its confines, particularly lizards and snakes. The baboons, though, are master. It is their land, their kingdom.”

“What do you mean by ‘kingdom,'” asked the Prince. “Is this a jest? Do these … baboons … actually rule over a patch of desert?”

Burlu nodded darkly, saying, “I never take such matters lightly, my friend. The Land of the Baboons is as real a kingdom as any in the world of men. They are trained like warriors, their armies led by skilled and cunning savage generals—”

“An army of monkeys?” gasped the thief.

The haj’s eyes flashed impatiently. “You will not scoff if chance brings you face to face with them. The baboon king guards his fiefdom well—as the bleached bones of hapless men who wandered upon their lands will grimly attest. It will take a brave heart and total resolve to trespass their domain and cross safely.”

“Still,” protested Ramagar, “they’re only monkeys. If we had good weapons there would be little to fear.”

Burlu smiled thinly. “The proof will be if you make it out of there alive.” He set his jaw and said no more.

“Brrr,” rattled Mariana. “It sounds to me like we should forget this shortcut entirely and take our chances on the trade route. I’d rather risk running into some soldiers from Kalimar than what the haj has told us about.”

The Prince pondered for a moment, then said to Burlu, “How long would it take us to cross through, er, monkeyland, and reach the port?”

“Seven days. No more.” He smiled again. “Of course, you would have to know the exact course to follow. Otherwise you would never find your way out.”

Ramagar frowned. “Well, that should disqualify us,” he said. “We know absolutely nothing about any of these lands. We’d probably wind up as supper for a baboon feast. No, as much as the idea interests me, we can’t take the chance. We’d be as lost as children, roaming endlessly in circles.”

Disappointed, the Prince concurred. “It’s useless to even debate the matter. We would never survive.”

Here the haj’s eyes widened and his teeth glittered like ivory with his mirth. “Yes, you could survive. It has been done. Trust that there is a way to cross in safety. Only you would have need of a guide …”

“And where will we find such a guide?” said Ramagar. “Who in his right mind would be willing to lead us on an expedition through monkeyland, risking his neck when there won’t even be a penny in payment for his troubles?”

“I think,” said the haj slowly, “that I can find someone for you.”

“Who,” questioned Mariana. “The man would have to be demented!”

Burlu pulled a face. “I am not demented.” he said. “And I offer myself as your guide to the sea. Even beyond—if you will have me.”

“You?” cried the girl, astounded beyond belief. “But you’re a haj! A man of wealth, of land. You have many duties and responsibilities entrusted to you. Why would you possibly want to risk all that to make a dangerous journey on behalf of a handful of ragged strangers?”

The haj sighed deeply and looked at them all with sad eyes. “I have seen much in my lifetime,” he said. “I have lived many, many years. The land has been good to me, I am considered in these parts to be a man of substance. Yet, I am alone and lonely. The only wife I chose to take has been dead for more years than I care to remember. My sons are gone their own ways, my daughters married with large families of their own. Do not think that I am ungrateful; I am not. Life has been kind, as unworthy as I may be. But I seek not further riches, nor the pleasures of the flesh. And I do not wish to spend my last years as you see me: sitting in comfort and growing fat while the world spins around me. My eyes are still sharp, my arms are as powerful as any man’s. If I can be of service to you in your quest then perhaps I can find meaning to my life. I am not a man to mince words. In my own way, I have as much need of all of you as you yourselves have of me.”

“But what will happen to your flocks,” said Ramagar. “And your fields, and your swine? Who will tend them in your absence? Who will care for the families of herders who serve you and depend on you?”

Burlu put forward his palms. “All this will be taken care of,” he assured. “My daughters’ husbands are strong, stout fellows who will be more than willing to share in the task. I can have these matters properly attended to in a matter of hours.” Then he folded his hands in his lap and smiled thinly. “And remember, my good friends, to you I can be of invaluable assistance. You need me, if only to lead you through the Land of the Baboons. I can provide mules for our journey and the weapons we will need for our protection, perhaps even a bit of gold to help assure our passage across the sea. All this I willingly offer; you have but to say yes …”

No one said a word, so stunned were they all by their host’s unexpected offer. At length the yellow-haired Prince turned his face to the haj and stared at him evenly. “Knowingly you will give up all you have,” he gestured grandly, “and come with us to a foreign shore? A shore filled with such dangers?”

The haj nodded. “I will pay my part of the bargain, you have my oath. And let me assure you, good friend, that I myself am no stranger to adventure or risk.”

The Prince turned to Mariana and the thief, and they both nodded. ‘‘Then welcome to our number,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, then. Make all your preparations. At noon our journey will begin in earnest. We have no time to spare. Speca must be reached before the summer gales make crossing the sea impossible.”

Hand over hand they each clasped the others’ hands, proudly making their vows of allegiance in the light of the sun. Mariana gazed wistfully up at the sky, wondering how many more times they would see it rise before they reached the land where the sun never shone.

But there was a long way to go before they would come even that far. For now it was the Land of the Baboons that loomed heavily on their minds, the first terrible trial they would have to face.

III

Into Monkeyland … And on to Palava

10

The red desert sand seemed eternal as they made their way from the tents. On either side, stretching as far as the eye could see, it formed long, ever shifting dunes, in some places capped by a surprising sparse cover of wilting grass, in other places stark and so bright it almost hurt to look.

Haj Burlu, the swineherd, took the lead, riding his sturdiest and favorite mule. He was a wondrous sight to watch, dressed as he was in his flowing robes. He wore a tasseled cloth headdress with an intricately knotted cord of crimson that both held it in place and served to show his title. The cord bobbed and bounced as he rode, and the poor mule wheezed and gasped under his weight, the haj whipping and cajoling her onward.

Paces behind came Ramagar and Mariana, riding side by side. The thief shifted uncomfortably in his heavy, loose-fitting robe. It had once belonged to the haj’s eldest son, and Ramagar had taken it gratefully, even though it reminded him of the Karshi fanatic’s robe he had stolen while still in Kalimar. He only hoped this one would bring him better luck.

Mariana’s hair was tightly braided, streaking down both sides of her veiled face. The head cloth she wore was of a light, soft material, pure white in color, and well designed for reflecting the harsh desert sun. Her body moved lithely within the confines of a clean white tunic the serving girl had hastily provided. With the sleeves falling purposely over her hands, and her desert boots up over her calves, there was little to be seen, except around her eyes, of her well-tanned, supple skin.

The Prince came next, also in newly acquired garb, and faithful Homer brought up the rear, leading two packmules heavily laden with goatskins filled with water and other food-stuffs and supplies.

It was hot. Dreadfully hot. The sun passed its zenith and slowly began to slide along the arch of the sky. Burlu first led them north, skirting at times the well-trodden caravan road, then quite abruptly veered his party in the direction of the dipping sun. They came to a deep wadi that widened as it twisted through mounds of rock and scrub.

By dusk they had traveled quite a distance. A remarkable distance, in fact, the haj observed, taking into consideration his companions’ unfamiliarity with the desert and its ways.

At length the band came to a halt at a grubby rise of red clay and rock. The haj turned and smiled at the dusty faces of his companions. He raised his arm and pointed to a tiny clump of dark trees clustered almost at the edge of the horizon.

“Alasi oasis,” he said spryly. “We can reach it in another hour and spend the night. There is fresh water and fruit. From there we can plan our strategy. So make the most of the oasis while you can.”

Mariana looked at him puzzled. Certainly the oasis was a welcome sight indeed, and the thought of being able to wash out the dust and grime was most enticing. It was the other reference that disturbed her.

“What sort of strategy?” she asked uneasily.

Haj Burlu drew out his long, curved dagger and glumly ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. “By tomorrow night we’ll reach the Land of the Baboons,” he said. “We’ll have to travel fast and carefully, with our weapons at our sides. With Fortune beside us, we’ll not be seen—”

“And if we are?” said Ramagar.

The haj narrowed his eyes cruelly. “We fight for our lives.”

Against the starry velvet night they urged their mules forward, wearily straining themselves to the limit. The mules, though, needed little prodding; they, too, had spied the leafy palms, scented the grass and the water on the wind, and were as eager as any to take their well-deserved rest.

The haj was the first to arrive. While the others drank and rested he took his bow and a single arrow and set out to forage for dinner. His hunt was quickly over. Grinning like a schoolboy, he came back carrying the largest hare any of them had ever seen. Rabbit stew would be a hardy meal to conclude the first day’s journey.

The evening was spent pleasantly; after supper everyone sat beside the tiny fire and spoke easily, relating cheerful and good-humored memories of happier times in their lives. The banter did not last long, though; not after the hard, grueling day they had been through. One by one they rolled themselves in their blankets, not bothered by the night chill, and quickly fell asleep.

Mariana smiled at the sight of them and, too pensive to sleep yet herself, restlessly went to sit beside the bank of the deep pool. The night was silent, save for the haj’s heavy snoring, and she rested back on her elbows and gazed peacefully up at the multitude of stars lighting the desert sky. With a soft song on her lips, she casually found herself tossing pebbles into the water and listening as they plopped and sank to the gravelly floor. Then she glanced about at the cool, shadowed green of the oasis and sighed. It was good to be free, she mused. Good to feel the soil beneath her feet and the wind as it rushed through her hair.

Time drifted past; the shadows danced from the trees, from the boughs above her head. She was drifting off into a restful half-sleep when a sudden short, muffled noise interrupted her quietude. Eyes widening in apprehension, Mariana sat up straight, listening and watching while her hand slid down to the sheath of the dagger strapped onto her thigh.

Quiet resumed. She strained her eyes in every direction, noting the sandy mounds and dunes sweeping away from the oasis on all sides. Here and there she could see the tall stalks of desert plants and wildflowers, still and motionless within the shadows. Above her head the palm leaves rustled gently with the faintest hint of a night breeze.

I must be getting jumpy, she told herself. We’re still leagues away from monkeyland. She tightened her blanket around her shoulders and continued her vigil. It must have been a small animal she had heard. A hare, perhaps. Or a lizard. Nothing to be concerned with.

The silence deepened; even the haj had stopped snoring. Mariana shifted into a more comfortable position, but for safety’s sake kept her hand close to her weapon. Then she saw it: a fast-moving hump of a shadow darting away from the oasis and behind a wide rising dune.

This time she took no chances; leaping to her feet, she hurried to the sleeping haj and awakened him. Burlu poked his craggy face from under his blanket and stared at her blankly.

“There’s something—or someone—afoot,” whispered the girl.

Like lightning the burly haj bolted to his feet, his own weapon shimmering dully in the starlight. “This way,” said Mariana, pointing to where she had been sitting.

Burlu took long, loping strides as noiseless as a mountain cat. His sleepy red eyes scanned the sands and the fauna from distance to distance. Then, cautioning the girl to remain where she was, he moved from the grass and slowly wound his way down onto the open sand. For a long moment he stood perfectly still, listening and holding his breath. He saw that the mules had been awakened by the noise. Tethered near the trees, they were all restlessly bobbing their shaggy manes and digging hooves into the dirt.

Burlu began to move, sliding ahead toward the dunes in a low crouching position. Then he stopped, kneeled, began to sift his fingers through the sand. As Mariana watched, he regained his posture and without a sound loped back to the oasis and the girl.

“Did you see anything?” she whispered.

The towering haj scratched at his white-flecked red beard and looked down at her with obvious bewilderment. “I saw tracks, yes,” he sighed.

Mariana shuddered. “Are the baboons watching us?”

“It was not a baboon track, child. It was a man’s.”

“A man? But that’s impossible!” she cried. “What would a man be doing out here, so close to the dreaded monkey kingdom?”

“I am as mystified as you, dear girl. Very few men come this way—unless they have the strongest of reasons.”

Mariana bit at her lips, stared down at the silent dunes. “Perhaps,” she said, biting her nails, “it was a bandit. There are plenty of rogues in your hills, you told us as much yourself. The cutthroat may have seen our fire and thought to rob us while we slept.”

The haj rocked his body slightly and nodded. “Anything is possible, child. But even brigands know better than to prowl too close to monkeyland.” He screwed his sleepy eyes and spat between his legs. “No, I fear there is something more here than we understand. I think we are being followed …”

Mariana’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. “But why would anyone want to follow us?” she protested. “It doesn’t make any sense. No one even knows where we are.”

Burlu drew a deep breath and flexed his cramped muscles. “That may well be,” he replied. “But those tracks are a fact. Someone is close, hiding among the rocks, perhaps even watching us now.”

“Then what do we do?”

The haj glanced at Ramagar, the Prince, and Homer. All three were still lost in a deep restful sleep. “I think for now we do nothing,” he said at last. “For now this peculiar matter is better left unmentioned. There is no need to create undue worry, at least not with the baboons to contend with. Besides, perhaps our visitor will turn back. Only a fool would enter the Land of the Baboons on his own. But even if he did, he would be the least of our problems.”

Mariana nodded with understanding.

“Go back to sleep, child,” said the haj, “Leave this problem to me.” He went for his blanket and pulled it over his shoulders. “I’ll stand watch tonight. And don’t worry, if our friend reappears, bandit or no, I’ll be ready.”

By early morning the sun was as fierce and unrelenting as any of them had ever known. The travelers had risen long before the crack of dawn, eaten a quick breakfast of dried biscuits and dates, and lost no time in resuming their journey. With the tensions of the day yet ahead, both Mariana and Burlu all but forgot the strange incident of the night before. They now found themselves well away from the dunes and Alasi oasis, on the verge of entering a broad canyon of crumbled rock surrounded on either side by grim craggy peaks of glittering stone. It was filled with ridges and oddly shaped formations of granite that caught the sunlight and reflected it with mirror-like intensity. Where up till now the ground had been soft and sandy, now it was coarse and hard. A few weeds and plants poked themselves into view along the ruts in the rock walls; other than that, the land was as barren and foreboding as any in all the Eastern Kingdoms.

The band halted at the canyon’s entrance and Ramagar rode up beside the haj, calming his nervous mule. He lifted his head, threw off his hood, and glanced warily up from side to side. The farther down the canyon he looked, the higher the cliffs seemed to rise, endlessly until they blended with the deep blue of the cloudless sky.

“We are at the border of the baboon kingdom,” the haj told them all grimly. “From this place to where the hills become green is all their domain. And men are most unwelcome. Look.” He pointed to a dusty pile of bones set in the middle of the wide path some fifty meters from where they stood.

Ramagar tugged at the reins and guided his mule in the direction indicated. The others followed slowly. Dismounting, the thief kicked at the bones, scattering dust that quickly settled and blended into the color of the stony landscape.

“Was it an animal?” asked the Prince, peering down.

Ramagar shook his head. “It was a man.”

“And the skeleton was set here as a warning,” added Burlu. “The baboons have put it here on the very border of their kingdom purposely. They are telling all would-be travelers to turn back now—while they still can. They want no humans treading on their soil.”

Homer glanced about uneasily and shivered. “Maybe we should heed their warning,” he said, trying to be practical.

Noonday shadows were climbing up the faces of the cliffs, and from somewhere unseen beyond the heights a solitary hyena gave its piercing gruesome laugh; a laugh that left them all holding their breath. And the mules stood trembling and terrified, swinging their ears and rolling their eyes.

“We had best decide right away,” cautioned the haj. “The longer we stay debating, the better the chance for some baboon patrol to come along and spot us.” He glanced about at his companions. “Are any of you of a mind to turn back as well?”

Ramagar got back up on his mule and clenched his teeth. “We’ve come this far, good haj, we’ll not run away now. Lead on. Guide us through this miserable place.”

And off they rode, deeper into hostile territory, determined to muster all their courage and be gone from the baboon kingdom as fast as possible.

It was well into the afternoon; Burlu led them across the canyon and then followed an ancient hunting trail that took them through a long and ever-deepening defile that twisted its way west and through the very heart of the kingdom. On and on they rode, aching and fatigued, winding among rough skirts and rougher scrub, up high tricky slopes, and then back down again where the going was every bit as treacherous. More than once the mules bolted at the sight of vicious side-winding snakes that coiled over deadened boughs and lashed venomous tongues as they passed. Thornbush and sharp rock brushed and stung against hooves and fetlocks. The wind began to blow, gently at first so that the riders welcomed the breeze, but then more brutally until at last it whipped around their heads in a furious frenzy.

The haj grimaced and covered his face, his companions hastily doing the same. Sand swirled, it became almost impossible to see. At the end of a deep gorge they found a cave. Really little more than a windblown recess in the exposed surface of the mountain, it would at least provide adequate protection until dawn, when they could resume the journey again.

Speaking little among themselves, everyone set to work: Homer watering and tending the complaining mules, Ramagar and the Prince picking their way over the ledges for firewood, Mariana busily spreading the blankets and setting up camp, while the haj prepared to practice his culinary skills.

Evening had come and the windstorm eased when the thief, his arms well stocked with dry sticks and branches, suddenly froze in his tracks. Far above the ledge at the very precipice of the overhanging cliffs he caught sight of the marching scouting party. Sand was still swirling when Ramagar deftly dropped his bundle and dodged into a narrow cranny between two huge boulders. His heart was pounding; he slowly raised his head and peered toward the top of the cliffs.