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

to the beauty of your prize,” he said. “Or even its value.” As he spoke he poured Vlashi another glass. “But tell me, have you found a buyer for it yet?”
    The pickpocket’s eyes twinkled like a child’s. “Finding a buyer is easy,” he said with a giggle. “A hundred merchants in the Jandari would beg me for the chance to own such a gift. But finding one who will meet the right price, ah, Ramagar, that is a different matter. A very different matter. I must not be hasty. No, not hasty.”
    Ramagar hid his amusement. “I agree. So have you come to ask my help?”
    “I have. Unless of course,” he said slyly, “you might wish to purchase the prize yourself.”
    The rogue among rogues, thief among thieves, smiled and leaned back in his chair. All the while that Vlashi looked him in the eye Ramagar’s mind was clicking. He studied his companion, wondered if a bit more wine might not lower his asking price, and just how much he would really have to pay for it.
    “How much do you want?” he asked directly.
    Vlashi frowned and gazed at his glass. “For a quick sale, and for a friend, I can let you have it for a nominal sum. Yes, a very nominal sum.”
    Ramagar became stern. “How much”
    “A hundred pieces of silver,” to which he hastily added, “and ten of gold.”
    The thief grimaced. “Your price is preposterous,” he said with irritation. “No man would pay so much.”
    “You take me for a fool, my friend. It’s worth that and more. And you know it!”
    Ramagar was at a loss to disagree. The prince who had the prize forged might have paid as much as a hundred pieces in gold. “Take it somewhere else, Vlashi. I cannot meet your price.” And the thief rose to leave.
    “My friend,” replied the pickpocket, “resume your place, please. The night is young, and we have yet to begin our discussion in earnest.”
    Ramagar sat down, pretending to be vexed. His first ruse had worked, for he had no intention of giving up easily.
    “Let me see it again,” he said gruffly.
    Reluctantly, as if parting with a part of his very being, the pickpocket once more handed over his prize. Ramagar, sheltering it from the prying eyes of others, held it up to the light and slowly turned it round and round. He slid the blade out from the scabbard and held his breath in wonder. The steel glowed ice-blue. Ramagar knew this blade had been forged with the care that a craftsman gives only to a king. The edge was so sharp that the slightest touch of his finger against it brought forth blood.
    Ramagar slid the blade back, handed it over. “Fifty in silver. Not a copper more.”
    Hurt showed on Vlashi’s pockmarked face. “You play games with me, thief. Twice the price is a bargain.”
    “Then sell it—if you can,” Ramagar replied. “A prize such as this will be missed by its true owner. The soldiers will be seeking it. And the man found with it in his possession risks losing his head. No, my pickpocket friend, the price you ask is far too high. Slit your own throat if you like, but do not ask me to slit mine.”
    Vlashi began to sweat. He had not thought of the consequences Ramagar had described. And it was most certainly true; carrying the prize around made him a marked man. Every soldier, every mercenary, every brigand, and every thief would desire it. Men who would stop at nothing to get it. Vlashi realized that he would be better off without it. Let the next owner live with such fear. He would sell it now and be done. Yet, his Jandari instinct was still not about to let him part with it without receiving at least a measure of its true value.
    “Eighty, no less. Cash, paid tonight. Have we a bargain?”
    The thief shook his head. “Sixty and no more…”
    “Do you jest? Even Oro would offer more. A dirty swine like that would make me a better offer. Ah, Ramagar, you do me an injustice. My feelings are hurt. We are friends. Seventy-five …”
    Ramagar laughed and called to the landlord. “Bring us some