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

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 un-load 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 had 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 Ore’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 her 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?”

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.