“I appreciate that,” she said breathlessly. Oh what an effect her violent breathing had on her low decolletage! “But I had to warn you. Something I remembered, belatedly, too late to tell you.”
I was still on a prior track. “How did you get here?”
“I took a dhow. We had an extra. Now about that memory...”
“How did you even know where we were?”
“Your dhow was parked outside. But this thing I remembered—”
“Remembered?”
“About the River Styx. It’s poisonous, and the River Lethe is a tributary. So if you try to swim in it, if you don’t die of poison, you will slowly forget why you came here, and then who you are. Souls that try to escape run afoul of the water and lose their identities and drift around helplessly. That’s why there are no escapes from Hades.”
“No escapes,” I echoed thoughtfully.
“And even the fumes of its surface will have a similar effect, only slower. That’s why Cerberus stays clear. I was afraid you would try something stupid, like swimming or rafting across it, and be doomed. So I came to warn you.”
Smart girl, Sylvie thought.
And I had been about to do exactly that. Her warning was well taken. “But Charon is not likely to ferry us across,” I said. “I suspect he has a thing against living folk.”
“He does,” she agreed. Her breathing had slowed to normal, but somehow the curvature of her forward architecture was more visible than ever. I remained considerably intrigued. “But Charon also has magic to nullify the fumes so that the ferry passengers don’t lose their minds as well as their lives. You need his help to cross.”
Ouch. “Let me consider,” I said. Then I asked Sylvie, mentally: Does this make sense to you?
Actually, it does, she agreed. But I don’t trust her. That frontal exposure is no accident. She’s flashing you. She may just have wanted to get you alone, so made up a pretext. That’s a female device.
A female device. The siren should know. I didn’t trust Dea either; there were surely holes in her story. On the other hand, she was one superlatively winsome creature, and I needed practice getting potent with concubines who weren’t the image of Jewel. If Dea was as intrigued by me as I was by her...
Don’t touch her, Sylvie warned. I’ll tell Jewel.
So now the siren was the guardian of my morals.
Well, its a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
I sighed. I’ll keep my hands off her, I thought. This is not the ideal place, anyway.
Besides which, Nylon may return at any moment and catch you.
That, too. Nylon had become just as proprietary as Jewel. I had to return to legitimate business.
“So what does your siren doxy say?” Dea asked knowingly.
Doxy? Sylvie raged. I’ve got half a mind to reassemble and tear out some of her hair.
“Don’t do that!” I said.
“Oh? Just let her try it,” Dea said, evidently making a shrewd guess. “She’d be a fish out of water.”
Oh, is that so? Well—
Was I about to have a nasty cat-fight on my hands? “Please, ladies! This is no place to argue. We need to figure out the best course.”
“Exactly,” Dea agreed, adjusting her shirt to be less confining.
We can’t cross anyway without Nylon, Sylvie reminded me.
Dea glanced at my hands. “Where’s your fairy queen slut?”
WHAT?! Sylvie thought, outraged by the affront to her friend.
I had to get things back on track. “What do you recommend?” I asked Dea.
Chapter Thirteen
The River Styx, although black as night and hidden deep within the mountain, glowed softly. I saw why: glowing spirits circled the river, flying or walking or even sitting on the many boulders that clustered near the river’s bank.
They were not given proper burials, said Sylvie, and must now roam the river’s bank for one hundred years.
I shuddered at the thought of roaming this bleak landscape for so long, when Dea spoke: “My lord, we need to gain access to Charon’s ship, of course.”
“‘We?’” I said. “You’re not going anywhere. This is far too dangerous for you.”
Dea turned on me, bristling. “But you are willing to risk bringing a boy to the Gates of Hades?”
I considered the absurdity of the situation. At any other time, a slave girl would have bowed before me without daring to look up until commanded to do so. Now, one was questioning me. Such talk would have landed her in a dungeon—or, with a less forgiving king, the loss of her tongue or even her life.
You are a long way from your palace, Aladdin, said Sylvie. Although I do think the slave girl does need to be reminded of her place.
I sighed. Rank and stature had no place when one was standing on the banks of the River Styx, with a three-headed beast running free in the tunnels, and the Gates of Hades nearby. Instead, I put aside my ego and said, “Duban has special...skills. He is of use to me.”
“As do I, my lord,” said Dea, and all challenge left her, to be replaced by something far more...seductive. She took a deep breath and her chest lifted and fell and somehow her lips seemed to grow even fuller. My mouth went dry.
She’s a pro, said Sylvie.
She’s beautiful.
Oh, brother.
As three distinct howls reverberated from one of the tunnels, Dea turned suddenly and marched off toward the river, where, to my surprise, a man appeared out of the gloom. He was guiding a simple wooden ferry, poling it with practiced, efficient strokes. Charon had a long, gray beard and a bent back, and white skin that seemed to glow. He was obviously a very old man.
Not a man, my lord, said Sylvie. He is a lesser god. A demigod, to be exact. The son of Nyx and Erebus.
Duly noted, I thought, and realized I was seeing my first god. I’d certainly seen my share of djinns and nymphs, but never a god. Other than pushing the ferry along with obvious grace and skill, he looked no different than any other aged man.
Except he’s been ferrying the dead for eons, Sylvie reminded me.
God or not, that didn’t stop Dea from boldly approaching the river’s edge. Charon, who had been leaning heavily on the pole, snapped his head around when he caught sight of Dea approaching. He quit pushing the ferry along and now he drifted in the center of the gently-flowing river. As he drifted closer, I could see that he was not alone. Three or four souls were huddled together on one end.
Dea boldly waved him over. In the process, she somehow managed to look both intoxicating and vulnerable. She was also showing a lot of flesh, and I wondered just how often Charon saw live women. Judging by the proliferation of spirits along the river—and the few souls on his ferry—I didn’t think very many times. Perhaps the lesser god did have a weakness for living flesh. If so, the luscious Dea would surely push him over the edge.
Oh, brother, said Sylvie, clearly picking up on my thoughts.
“She’s a threat to you,” I sub-vocalized, “and therefore you don’t like her.”
I don’t trust her, said Sylvie. She paused, then added, And I don’t like her.
I chuckled lightly, despite the seriousness of the situation, and now watched in stunned amazement as Charon guided the ferry away from the center of the black river and toward her along the bank.
She’s doing it, I thought.
Men are all the same, thought Sylvie. Gods and mortals alike.
I chuckled again as the ferry pulled up along the bank. Water lapped over rocks...and hissed. Truly accursed waters. There was a short exchange. Dea giggled. A soft, whispery voice responded, and to my shock, the ferryman to the Underworld actually smiled. A moment later, Dea rejoined our group.
“He will ferry us,” she said.
“For what in return?” I asked.
Dea slipped next to me and nearly laid a hand on my chest. Instead, she stood on tip-toes and whispered into my ear: “You just let me worry about that, sire.”
No doubt
she struck a sordid deal, my lord, said Sylvie contemptuously.
I swallowed and nodded, and suddenly found myself envious of the ancient ferryman. I could only imagine the pleasures that awaited him. It was the way she had whispered into my ear. Her hot breath. It had sent a shiver coursing through me that did not readily abate.
Get hold of yourself, sire. We’ve got serious business to attend to.
“Yes, of course,” I whispered. “But what about Queen Nylon?”
The queen can take care of herself, sire. Cerberus is not the first beast to be smitten by her charms. If I know the nymph queen, she’s got that puppy wrapped around her finger, panting somewhere.
And for the third time, I chuckled as we followed Dea to the ferry, and boarded along with her under the watchful eye of Charon. Shortly, he pushed off and soon we were adrift on a mostly calm river. Huddled near the prow of the ferry were three souls, two of which I immediately recognized. They had, after all, been ghostly sailors aboard the Flying Dutchman. Now released from the curse, they were heading to their rightful place in the Underworld.
Duban kept close to me. For all his talents, he was still a little boy—and a frightened one at that. I rested a hand on his head and he moved closer to me still.
A cold breeze moved over us. Glowing spirits were seemingly everywhere, lighting the way eerily. Charon methodically poled us forward, occasionally stealing glances at Dea. We appeared to be approaching a dark tunnel. I shuddered to imagine what lay beyond the tunnel.
Sylvie’s words appeared in my thoughts. Sire, do you see anything different about the slave girl?
Her name is Dea.
Either way, do you notice something different?
Dea stood apart from us, staring forward, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. She gripped her hands behind her back, playing with various rings on her fingers.
What about her? I asked.
Her rings, sire.
What about her rings?
Sylvie sighed heavily. Are men oblivious to everything?
“Out with it, nymph,” I growled under my voice. “What about her rings?”
They were not there before, sire.
“You’re certain?”
I’m certain.
The rings were thick and golden and looked remarkably similar to the ring presently on my finger, the ring that was, of course, Sylvie.
“Magical rings?” I asked, sub-vocalizing the words.
Undoubtedly, sire. Of course, there’s one way to know for certain.
“How?”
Touch her. I can learn a lot by touching someone. Just as I know all of your deep, dark secrets, my lord.
As we neared the black tunnel—a tunnel where the waiting spirits appeared not to venture—I stepped over to the slave girl and lifted a hand to rest on the girl’s shoulder.
Not that hand, Sylvie chastised, sounding remarkably like Jewel. Your other hand. The one with me on it.
“Oh, right.”
I lifted my other hand and placed it on Dea’s shoulder. The slave girl flinched and spun around. When she saw me, her almond-shaped eyes widened with pleasure.
“Hello, my king. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
As I was about to open my mouth, Sylvie gasped in my mind. So much so, that I was immediately disoriented. I gave Dea a faltering smile.
“I wanted to thank you for your help,” I said, stumbling slightly over the words.
“Anything for you, sire,” said Dea, bowing her head slightly.
I smiled again and backed away, just as the ferry plunged into the dark tunnel. A light flared from nearby, and I saw that Duban was holding a magical ball of light before him. Allah bless the boy.
“Now,” I said to Sylvie, just under my breath. “What was that all about? What did you learn?”
She is no slave girl, my lord.
“Oh, who is she?”
You have just met your second god. She is Medea, the goddess of desire and lust, and the two rings on her finger are none other than The Thief of Baghdad and Sinbad. Both, I suspect, are now under her complete control.
“Control how?”
Sex slaves, sire. Perhaps for all eternity. And if my guess is right, she desires you next.
Sinbad! But what could have happened? I didn’t know, but I wondered if my friend had been ambushed on the ship.
And one other thing, sire, thought Sylvie. She wears the Key to Hades around her neck.
Chapter Fourteen
I knew I was in trouble.
If the Sorceress Medea had made a deal with the Dutchman Figurehead, and seduced and ringed both the Thief of Baghdad and Sinbad, she was bound to be too much for me. I remembered her from mythology, the wife of Jason of the Golden Fleece. When he deserted her, she butchered their children. She was a completely cynical and ruthless creature, now bent on further mischief. No wonder she had seemed unalarmed about the kraken; she must have summoned it to harass the sirens while the Thief of Baghdad stole the Key to Hades. As I saw it, I had only one advantage, if you could call it that: she did not know I knew about her.
And you have me, Sylvie thought. We sirens do have powers, though not in the same league as the sorceress.
“Powers?” I sub-vocalized.
We can swim well, she reminded me. We can enchant men. And I can shore you up against being seduced by her.
“Even if I think she’s the sexiest creature on two legs?” Because I did. “Even if I really would like to be seduced by her?” Because I would. “Even though I know better?” Because when did knowledge that it was dangerous ever stop a man from desiring a beautiful woman?
Yes. I can run interference to prevent her from seducing you by force, as she must have done with Sinbad. I can sing the anti-summons song, the reverse of our normal lure, to make you averse to such seduction. But there is one thing I can’t do.
I knew there would be a catch. There always was. “What is that?”
I can’t stop you from sending me away, if that’s what you decide to do. I occupy your finger by your sufferance. You have to want me here, or at least tolerate me.
“I do want you here! How could you think otherwise?”
Aladdin, she thought seriously. If she persuades you to send me away, I will have to go. Then I will not be able to protect you. I must not leave your finger, even for an instant, because then she will strike and you will be lost.
I appreciated the warning, uncomplimentary as it was to my defensive ability, which echoed my own concern. Medea was more than any mere mortal man could handle alone. “I will not let her persuade me,” I promised.
I sincerely hope that is the case, for both of our sakes. I dare not swim in the River Styx.
“Neither dare I,” I agreed.
One more caution.
“Another?” I asked, dismayed. “Isn’t our situation bad enough already? I know I must not do what I would so dearly like to do.”
Indeed. But you have to appreciate that seduction is more than sexual.
“It is?” I asked, surprised.
It is. You think it’s like making out with a harem girl, for physical gratification without any larger commitment. But the more dangerous form is emotional. You can be lost without having any sexual connection. Don’t let her seduce you emotionally. Don’t fall in love with her.
“Love!” I echoed, appalled.
Dea—that is, Medea—turned to face me. “Love?” she inquired. “Did I hear you correctly, sire?”
Oops. In my excitement I had forgotten the sub in sub-vocalize and spoken aloud. “I doubt it,” I said. “I suffered an uncomfortable belch I was unable to suppress.” Not that there was anything wrong with a good belch after a meal. It was the nether belch, the breaking of wind, that was such a serious social blunder that men had been known to flee the region, humiliated, after letting one slip out audibly in public. A proper belch was a compliment to the server of a good meal. But it was all I could come up with at the moment.
“It certain
ly sounded like love,” she said smoothly, taking my hand.
Sylvie shot out what felt like a jag of lightning. Dea withdrew her hand, shocked. Literally. She did not seem pleased.
“No, it was more like gas,” I said, embarrassed. I had not known the siren could do that.
“If you have indigestion, I’m sure I can help,” Dea said, oozing concern. “I have a potion.”
Don’t take that potion!
I was not about to. “Thank you, but I’m sure it will clear,” I said. Then, to Sylvie I subvocalized “I will take Duban’s hand. When we have contact, you update him on what we have discovered.”
I will.
Duban was of course standing beside me. I took his hand.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Dea said with mixed sympathy and irony. “He comforts his son.”
Dea had not been with us long. With luck she would not realize just how powerful a magician Duban was. That could be another secret weapon. Once he knew the score.
Done. He says thank you for the secret weapon compliment.
Oops. She must have relayed my ongoing thoughts along with the background. At least now Duban had been updated. I hoped he could match the sorceress, forewarned. But I feared what her seductive powers could do to him, inexperienced as he was in this respect. Medea was doubly dangerous.
“I hope the siren slut doesn’t shock him, too,” Dea murmured.
I’ll let that pass, Sylvie thought. She’s trying to make me get so mad I’ll unwind from your finger and tackle her physically. She would then make short work of me—I’m no sorceress or goddess—and then make shorter work of you.
Surely so. “Stay with me,” I told Sylvie. “And if you remain in touch with your home base, you should inform them of our situation.”
I will, she agreed. But sirens are sea creatures; this region is inaccessible to them. They have to be carried, as I am with you.
Then I had another thought. “The women!” I subvocalized. “Jewel, Myrrh, Nydea. What has happened to them?”
Bad news, Sylvie agreed. They would not have simply let the sorceress take over. She must have done something with them.
Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman Page 7