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

the Avenue of Pigs would be swarming. Tonight, all he saw was a scattering of locals. A few beggars, an occasional urchin, a group of dim-witted vagabonds fighting over a found dreg-filled bottle of cheap swill.
    The pickpocket ignored them all; preferring if not better company than none at all. For some time he walked, mostly among the arched streets which wound high and low against the hills. Once in a while he paused, as much to rest as to scrutinize some possible mark. But it seemed that luck was against him. There was not a soul worth the effort.
    Yawning, too sleepy to continue in the fruitless effort, his thoughts returned to the green-haired whore, who likely as not would still be available. Perhaps even anticipating his return. Ah, well, he ruminated, what is money if not to be spent and enjoyed? With a shrug and a sigh he turned around, content to let this night pass into oblivion. Tomorrow would be another day and—who knows?—maybe another prize to catch. This time, though, he warned himself, the master thief would not buy his wares so cheaply. Ramagar would have to pay full value—through the nose.
    Vlashi chuckled. How very much he would like to outwit Ramagar. Just once.
    Lost in his musings he was hardly aware of the beggar who set cross-legged before him at the edge of an alley.
    An open hand groped out, catching him unaware.
    “A coin, good sir. A single coin, if you please …”
    Vlashi looked down, startled. “You frightened me,” he growled. “Get out of here! Go sit under some light!”
    “Please, sir … A coin…”
    Vlashi narrowed his eyes and slid his hand under his tunic to where he kept a hidden dagger. “I told you to be gone. Now go!”
    The beggar nervously got to his feet and shuffled backward out of sight. For all he knew the pickpocket was a cutthroat and he was not about to take any chances.
    Vlashi snickered in self-importance as the man disappeared. Then, with a happy whistle upon his lips, he continued his journey back to the Demon’s Horn.
    It was a few moments later that he heard footsteps from behind. Turning, he stopped and stared at the shadowy man in rags. “You again,” he barked. “Are you following me?”
    The man stopped in his place and did not move. It took Vlashi a long time to realize that this beggar was not the same man he had encountered only minutes earlier. Vlashi squirmed. There was something about this beggar that made him uneasy. Without knowing quite why, he drew a copper from his tunic and threw it to the waiting man. “Here,” he sneered, “take it. Now go away.”
    The coin jingled loudly as it bounced on the flagstones. The beggar’s eyes followed the coin until it had stopped, but he neither made to pick it up nor to leave. Vlashi was now more afraid than before.
    “W-What do you want?” he whispered. His hand once more moved toward the unseen dagger. In all his years Vlashi had never had to use it. But something told him tonight could be different.
    The beggar came a step closer. He was a muscular man, and his bold, defiant stance was out of character for the role he played. Meeting the pickpocket’s widening gaze, he whispered, “Where is it?”
    Vlashi froze. Recognition was at last beginning to creep into his wine-dazed brain. And with recognition came terror.
    “W-W-Where is what?” he stammered. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    The man in rags parted his lips in a hint of a smile. His hand reached out and grabbed Vlashi by the collar of his worn tunic. The pickpocket broke out in a cold sweat.
    “The scimitar,” hissed the man in rags. He threw his hood from his face, exposing a headful of curled blond hair that twisted over his ears and at the nape of his neck.
    Vlashi nearly passed out. “I don’t have any scimitar,” he squealed.
    But the beggar was in no mood for the pickpocket’s games. His fist came up into Vlashi’s stomach. Vlashi wheezed and staggered and fell to the ground.
    “Now where is