THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (5 page)

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—”

“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.

No sooner had he spoken than the crowd scattered into a dozen different directions, vanishing from sight before the soldier could have a change of heart. Even Vlashi was allowed to flee; the captain had marked him well and would know where to find him.

Then the soldiers mounted their horses and thundered away as quickly as they had come.

Ramagar stood watching these events until they were done and sadly shook his head. There was no doubt as to who Vlashi had accused; it could only be the same man from whom he stole the prize. And the thief, to his own surprise, found himself feeling pity for the unsuspecting beggar. He knew what would happen when the man was found; actual guilt or innocence meant little in the streets of Kalimar.

4

It was a sultry wind that descended on Kalimar that evening as the sun went down. It swept in low and fast from the mountains, across the plains, bringing with it thick clouds of dust that permeated the air and blew into every crevice and cranny from the palace to the Jandari.

It was an ill omen, this hot wind, and the street people responded with shudders as they huddled behind their closely locked and guarded doors. In the streets the cohort of Inquisitors pressed on with their duty. Faces masked from the swirling dust, they marched from alley to alley, avenue to avenue, byway to byway, intent on capturing the man they sought. Long into the night their business continued, each grim step becoming more difficult. Faces harrowed, lungs aching, eyes grown red and blurry they searched. No force in Kalimar, not even the violent storm, could for a single moment deter them. One way or another they were determined to take their prisoner before the coming of the new dawn.

In the shadows he hid, a tall figure, blending in with the undefined shapes of darkness until he appeared as no more than a shadow himself. Only a pair of small, beady eyes, cat’s eyes, were visible. Cunning, shrewd, frightened. Hour after hour they followed the obscured movements of the Inquisitors as they passed from alley to alley in their search. He heard them cough, heard them shout commands at one another, and heard them pass, unaware that he had been within their very grasp.

Slinking his way from his hiding place, hunched low in the stance of a humble beggar, he dared at last to cross from the alley. A long hood covered his features, a rag of a kerchief served to filter the dust from his nostrils. He had lost many hours in evading the soldiers. Valuable time he was not sure he could make up. But his mission left no time for such thoughts; he must accomplish his goal, now, tonight, before it was too late. Find the pickpocket among a thousand others, single him out and regain what was his. For without it, his cherished dreams would become empty hopes—and a lifetime of planning would have been snatched away forever on the dusty, dirty streets of this wretched city that desert men called Kalimar.