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

it?”
    “The soldiers will catch you!” Vlashi whined. “Catch you and kill you! You’re a murderer!”
    The beggar’s eyes blazed in anger. He knew well that he was being sought—sought for a crime of which he had not the slightest knowledge. He also knew who was responsible for his plight. But all that meant little to him. The scimitar was all that mattered. For that, he would face any danger, any host, any foreign army. Without it, his life had no meaning and he would just as soon succumb to Kalimar’s “justice.”
    Kneeling beside Vlashi, he pressed his thumb against the pickpocket’s right eye. Vlashi winced with pain.
    “I’ll blind you, pickpocket, if you don’t give it back to me—”
    Vlashi tried to squirm away but the beggar pushed him down hard against the ground, his free arm powerfully pinning the pickpocket and making it impossible to wriggle free. Meanwhile the thumb was applying more pressure; Vlashi could feel his eyeball squash under the weight.
    “I’ll tell you!” he moaned, tears streaming from his good eye.
    The beggar released his thumb and waited.
    Vlashi put his hand to his face and opened the eye. Its vision was blurred and dark. “I don’t have the blade any longer,” he cried. “I—I sold it—”
    The thumb resumed its work, only this time digging in an upward motion from under the eyelid, as if to gouge out the eye. Vlashi wailed. “I swear to you! I sold it! I sold your scimitar yesterday!”
    Stunned, his adversary released him. Vlashi quickly began to empty his pockets, letting the coppers roll across the ground, placing the ring and the locket at his side. “Here,” he wallowed, “this was my payment. Take it. Take it all. It’s yours, I give it to you.”
    The beggar was incredulous. Breathless and dazed, he said, “You’re telling me the truth? You actually sold it? For money?”
    Vlashi panted and nodded. A thin line of blood began to spill over his eyelids and onto his face.
    “You fool! You fool!”
    The man was in a rage. His lips and hands began to tremble with fury and Vlashi covered his head with his arms, burying himself into a ball and whimpering.
    The beggar wrenched him by the arm and sent him sprawling. Vlashi’s head hit against the stones; he tried to scramble to his feet. As he made it to his knees the beggar grabbed his neck from behind, yanked up under the pickpocket’s jaw, and slammed him against the wall.
    “Who?” he seethed, desperately trying to control his fury. “Who did you sell it to?”
    Now more than ever Vlashi felt his panic rise. If he told, Ramagar would kill him for it tomorrow. But if he didn’t tell, this deranged beggar would surely kill him for it today. He mumbled incoherently under his breath, wishing he could think a bit faster and concoct a story as he had for the soldiers.
    But the man in rags was too clever for any such ruse; twisting the pickpocket’s arm behind his back until it nearly snapped, he repeated his demand.
    “Tell me the name! Tell me the name!”
    “I sold it in a tavern,” cried Vlashi in pain. “To a thief—”
    “His name!”
    Vlashi saw stars as his head banged roughly against the stones.
    “Ramagar! I sold it to the thief called Ramagar!”
    The beggar’s breath was on his face. “And where can he be found? Where does this thief live?”
    “He has no home,” Vlashi swore truthfully. “He is of the Jandari, the alleys are his only home.”
    The beggar threw the pickpocket to the floor and stood over him with glaring eyes. “If you’ve lied to me, my gutter rat friend …”
    Vlashi shuddered. “Ramagar is … well-known. Ask, you will have no trouble in finding him.” And so, betraying his only friend, Vlashi slumped into a heap and wept, unaware that his assailant had gone back into the shadows and could no longer hear what he said.
    The door shook furiously. Mariana sat up straight at the side of the bed and put her hands to her ears. The flickering candle was nearing its