by Davyne DeSye
“Erik!” The once tall, but now shrunken Persian dropped his feet from a hassock and rose as Erik entered the room. Erik’s anger waned in the enthusiastic glow of the greeting. “How grand to see you again! Come, come, sit.” Turning to the servant, the Persian said, “Darius, refreshments for my friends.”
Erik attempted a smile as he approached the open-armed man who greeted him. He moved hesitantly, due as much to the injury to his leg as to how shaken he was by the aging of the man. While Erik’s hair had silvered, his body retained much of its old vigor. The dark-skinned Persian, however, seemed to have crumpled and wizened with age – he was not the strong picture of a police chief he once was.
“Faraz,” he said, as they embraced and exchanged the brief kisses to each cheek as was customary between friends in Persia.
Faraz held Erik’s shoulders, examining him at arm’s length, still smiling. “My gracious, you’ve aged, Erik, but we have not aged the same number of years. You have only aged one for every two of mine!”
Erik laughed at the blunt statement of his own thoughts. He brought his hand to his own face, then ran his fingers through his silvered hair. “You are kind,” he answered.
“Ah, and you must be Petter,” Faraz said, turning away from Erik. “It is the greatest pleasure to meet the boy – young man! – with whom I have enjoyed correspondence all these years.” Faraz extended a hand to Petter and bowed as their hands met.
“Mr. Akhtar,” Petter said, bowing in turn.
Switching from the French that had been spoken thus far between the men, Faraz said, “And do you speak Persian as well as you pen it?”
Petter answered in Persian. “It would be heartbreaking indeed if one did not learn to speak such a beautiful language, given the opportunity.”
“Ah, Erik. I see he has your gift with languages,” Faraz said, with a pat to Petter’s arm. “Your accent is flawless, young man, if I can judge such a thing after such a long time away from my countrymen.” Erik was surprised to hear only good humor in the Persian’s tone, without the least tinge of regret or condemnation in the reference to his exile.
“Thank you, sir,” Petter answered, chest puffed with pride.
After another moment during which the smiling Persian looked between father and son, he said, “Please,” and gestured to two comfortable chairs before seating himself.
“I received your letter informing me of your imminent arrival. But tell me, where is your beautiful bride?” he asked. “I had hoped perhaps to be favored with a small performance after all these years. The last I heard you sing was at your wedding, and it is too long a period to live with only the memory of heaven.”
The brief comfort and good humor that had overtaken Erik at the effusive greeting of his friend evaporated on the instant, and the reason for their visit fell to rest on his shoulders as a physical weight. Erik slumped back into his chair with the sudden resumption of his burden, while Petter sat more erect on the edge of his seat. The boy seemed to be waiting with an almost greedy anticipation for Erik’s answer. Irritation sparked within Erik, setting fire again to the guttering coals of anger that had momentarily cooled.
Erik sat forward and with hands braced against each knee, looked from his son to the still smiling Persian. The Persian’s good humor inexplicably deepened Erik’s anger.
“Daroga,” he began, calling the man by his old title rather than by his given name. “Do you recall the rosy days of Mazenderan?”
The smile faded from the wrinkled face of the man before him.
“I recall those days, and many more besides,” Faraz answered, puzzlement mixing with some darker emotion in his jade eyes.
“He knows nothing,” Erik growled in a low voice when the Persian’s eyes turned to Petter. Petter frowned, but his posture perched on the front of his seat did not change.
“Christine has been taken to Mazenderan,” Erik continued. The Persian’s eyes widened, and Erik noted with some detached part of his mind that the years had tinged the whites of his eyes with yellow. He wondered if his own eyes had also yellowed.
The beast that was his anger rode him and forced the next words from him. With the peremptory tone of an order given, he said, “You will help me. You owe me.”
The Persian’s eyes remained wide for a moment more before closing to mere slits. He rose from his chair, never taking his withering gaze from Erik. He stepped to the side of the chair and placing one hand upon its back, he turned his back to Erik.
Erik refused to allow the Persian the denial his gesture implied.
“You will help me,” Erik repeated, frustration and anger mounting. With slow emphasis he said, “You owe me.” Erik stood as he spoke. Petter looked with morbid fascination between the two men as the silence lengthened.
The Persian spoke, and his words were stilted with anger and formality.
“I cannot imagine what word or action of mine has caused me to deserve the insult you have cast upon me. I must ask you to leave my home.” After another breath, he said, “Immediately.”
“Daroga…” Erik growled the elongated word through clenched teeth. “I need…”
The Persian spun on him, holding a hand before his face, palm toward Erik, as if to both stop Erik’s words and blot the sight of Erik from the room.
“I owe you nothing!” The angry words were no louder nor more passionate than Erik’s own, but were startling nonetheless, coming from the soft-spoken man. Before Erik could respond, the Persian spoke again.
“I will admit to the services you rendered me in…,” he paused as if he would choke on the words to come, “in the rosy days of Mazenderan,” and again he stopped to breathe, “but those services were repaid when I saved your life!”
“I…” Erik began, raising one finger in retort.
“You call on me as a friend, but do not ask help of me as a friend. You demand, and suggest a burden of debt. Your insult questions our friendship and my honor, but I ask: Where is your honor in this?”
The words struck Erik as a physical blow, taking his breath from him. He dropped his raised finger, and his head with it, and all his anger flushed from him in a wash of humiliation. When he raised his head again, the Persian’s palm still pressed toward him. Nothing could be seen of the man’s face. Pain twisted within Erik – pain and fear at the loss of Christine, pain over the insult he had levied against his friend.
“I…,” Erik began again. Erik sat rather than fall to his knees as he wished to do. “I am sorry, old friend. I have never had something to lose – someone I cared about more than life itself – and in my pain, I forget myself.” Erik stood again, but could not force himself to leave the room as demanded. He deserved no further consideration from the man, but his need – Christine’s need – kept him motionless. “You have endured an undeserved insult from a thankless man. But for the sake of my wife, I beg your forgiveness and indulgence.”
The Persian’s hand fell to his side. The face revealed was both stern and pain-filled.
Erik forced himself to meet the Persian’s sad accusatory eyes. “I am sorry, Faraz.” The tall man’s stiff posture eased.
“For your own sake will I forgive,” answered the Persian. “For the love I hold in my heart for both you and Christine will I help.”
Erik dropped his head again, feeling he could weep with shame and relief. “I can never repay you, Faraz,” he said. Neither man moved from where they stood.
Petter broke the tableau when he stood and spoke. “Thank you, Mr. Akhtar.”
The Persian looked startled as he turned to Petter; indeed Erik had forgotten that Petter was witness to the argument. He felt another flush of humiliation as well as pride in the son who so correctly responded to the Persian’s offer of assistance.
“You are quite welcome,” said the Persian. “Of course I shall help where I can.” Smiling, he added, “Your father simply falls back on old habits of intercourse between us, habits long broken and best left in the past.” The Persian turned
to Erik, pressing his mouth into a thin line as he said, “Wouldn’t you agree?” He extended a hand to Erik.
Erik took the man’s hand. “Wholeheartedly,” he said. The Persian nodded once, as if signaling that the matter was settled. As they embraced again, Erik said, “Again, I apologize, and I thank you.”
“We shall speak no more of it,” the Persian answered, and pounded Erik on the back. Erik flinched at the pain that accompanied the gesture. In response to the sudden analytical expression the Persian directed at him, Erik said, “Ribs. It is nothing.”
Darius entered the room at that moment, and it occurred to Erik that the timing was more than coincidental. How long had the man waited to see the outcome of the argument? He carried a tray with three glasses of tisane and a plate of various Parisian pastries, which he deposited on a low center table before again leaving the room. The Persian seated himself and Erik and Petter followed suit.
The Persian sipped at a glass of tisane before saying with a wave of his hand, “Christine has been taken to Mazenderan.” The words and the gesture seemed to erase the unpleasantness that had occurred since Erik had spoken those same words, and invited Erik to continue in his explanation.
“She is being held to insure that I complete a certain task,” Erik said, and glanced at Petter. It would be far easier to explain the circumstances without Petter’s presence, but Petter had already questioned whether he was trusted, and Erik would not hurt the boy by sending him away. Nor could he explain his real fear: that on learning the truth about Erik’s past, Erik could well lose the affection and trust of his son.
When Erik did not explain further, the Persian asked, “She is being held by the Shah-in-Shah – the Sultan?”
“No,” Erik answered. “Not by the father.”
“Ah,” the Persian answered, and he grimaced as he brought a hand to his chin.
“Father,” Petter said, replacing his cup of tisane, and licking a remnant of pastry from his lip. Erik looked to his son, pained with the idea that to obtain any helpful information from the Persian, he would perforce need to explain more than he wished in the presence of his son.
“You have indicated that we will not be long in Paris,” Petter continued.
“That is true,” Erik answered, puzzled by the statement.
“I wonder if I might be allowed to excuse myself from this discussion. I would see some small part of the city if I could.” Petter stood, strode to the window and looked down to the street, before he turned to face Erik again.
“Ah,” Erik said, smiling at his son’s understanding. “Yes, of course, son.”
Faraz rang for his servant. “Darius,” he said, once the servant had entered, “the young Mr. Nilsson is in want of a guide to the city.” He turned to Petter and said, “Darius is a most reliable guide, and could assist you if that were your pleasure.”
“Thank you, yes,” Petter answered. He shook Faraz’s hand, and bobbed his head toward his father, looking quite boyishly excited at the proposed excursion – which he may well have been despite the transparency of his reason for leaving.
“You must be extraordinarily proud,” the Persian said, after the boy and the servant had left the room.
“Yes,” answered Erik. “I am proud of my son, but not of my past. I would not burden him.” It was a half-truth.
“Nor test the strength of his affection for his father,” the Persian answered, speaking for the second time to Erik’s thoughts.
“No, nor that,” Erik answered. “I suppose the boy must learn…”
“The follies of youth are best left in the past,” Faraz answered, and Erik was struck with the recollection of the same words from Mattis. “Those who love you have forgiven you,” the dark man continued, “but have done so from a perch of harsh experience. Give the boy time to gain his own.”
Erik glanced toward the doorway through which Petter had departed, and hoped his son had an easier road to experience than the one he had trodden. Painful memories flooded his mind.
“Christine has been taken to Mazenderan,” the Persian repeated, bringing Erik back to the present. “She is in great danger if she is in the clutches of the young Sultana.”
“Yes,” Erik said, his tone sour.
The Persian listened through the hours as Erik explained all that had occurred, starting with the Moor seen dockside with Erik’s servant, and including the Sultana’s visit after Christine’s kidnapping, his own capture, and his subsequent escape.
“Your injured ribs,” the Persian said, nodding in sudden understanding. “Have you any other injuries?”
“My leg.” Erik gestured with annoyance to his leg. “I should redress the wound if I may.”
“Ah, and I had thought the cane an indication of your advanced age,” the Persian said, laughing. Erik laughed with him, recognizing that the Persian’s assumption was not uncalled for.
“So, now you know the situation,” Erik said. His hands squeezed into fists. “I will not do as the Sultana has asked.”
“I should hope not!” the Persian interrupted.
“I intend to extricate Christine from her clutches, or die trying,” Erik continued. A pang of fear sliced through him that Petter would be his companion in the effort. He did not plan to place the boy into more danger than could be avoided, but with his current wounds…. “Do you have information – any information – which would be helpful to our endeavor?”
“Information?” the Persian asked. “What information would I possess that you yourself would not?”
“You were known to those highest in the Sultanate. You have a greater knowledge of the dungeons than I – if you will recall, the Sultana was not interested in… being entertained… within the confines of the dungeon proper.”
“Hmm. Yes,” the Persian muttered, expression darkening. He seemed lost in thought. Erik waited, hoping against hope that the Persian could provide anything that might make his task easier.
“I have maintained correspondence with several acquaintances in Mazenderan,” the Persian said. “It may be possible to…” The Persian tapped at his cheek with one finger. “Hmm.”
“Yes?” asked Erik, his impatience bringing him forward in his chair.
“Yes,” answered the Persian. He nodded once, and rose from his chair. “I shall accompany you to Mazenderan. I feel certain I can be of service to you and, most importantly, to Christine.”
“What?” asked Erik, startled at this development. “Faraz, I could not ask you to go to Mazenderan. The danger to yourself…”
“You have asked for my assistance,” answered the Persian. “I believe I can be of assistance in Mazenderan. Besides,” the Persian turned his head from side to side, taking in the confines of the room in which they spoke, “your visit has made me feel my age, and my complacency. I am ready for an adventure, and cannot think of a better cause.” The Persian paused, and when he spoke again, there was a wistfulness in his voice. “And to see my country again. To hear the language of my people, taste again the flavors and scents of my land. I have not thought of Mazenderan for many years, but…”
Erik smiled as he listened to his friend, at the sudden enthusiasm and youthful energy generated at the contemplation of the journey. When the Persian broke from his musing and turned to Erik, Erik extended his hand. “Faraz, you are welcome.” It was not said without guilt. The man was too old for this dangerous undertaking, but Erik could not insult Faraz again by refusing him. “And thank you. Thank you for everything.” Despite his guilt, hope rose in his chest like a wounded bird and fluttered there.
A voice from the door startled them both. “We are returned, sir,” Darius said.
“What an amazing city,” Petter said from the doorway. Entering the room, he looked from Erik to the Persian, to their smiling faces, to their clasped hands. He tilted his head in question.
“Petter,” Erik said, moving to stand with his son. “Faraz has agreed to accompany us in our endeavor.”
“Excellent,”
answered Petter. “And I shall hope that two old men aided by one ignorant young man will accomplish the task!” Erik grunted as Petter nudged him in the side with an elbow, but even the pain in his ribs did not keep him from joining the other two in their laughter.
CHAPTER 16
CHRISTINE MEETS THE SULTANA
Christine awoke without the same confusion and disorientation that had accompanied her awakenings over the course of her journey. Had it been days? Weeks? The vague dreaminess and confusion that marked her memories since she had been taken made it impossible for her to judge the length of time that had passed.
She lifted her head, waiting for the expected bout of dizziness, but it did not come. She looked about, wanting to determine, first, if she was alone. For the first time since the journey began – at least to her awareness – she was indeed without visible guards. She sat up to make a more thorough investigation of her surroundings.
She was seated in a large bed, in a lavishly if somewhat garishly decorated room. She was not restrained in any way. The walls were made up of a series of tile-inlaid pointed arches, the small red and gold tiles arranged in a mosaic of geometric patterns. Most of the arches curved over recessed niches that contained statuary or potted plants. Two of the archways curved over doorways. Between each arch in the series were painted trees – appearing to be some stylized form of palm tree – and the painted fronds met over each arch, giving an impression of being caught in the midst of an oasis. There were no windows to the outside, yet the golds in the decorations reflected with lamplight, and the golden sun centered in the dome of the ceiling, enhanced the impression of a sun-filled room. Despite the circumstances, she was awed at the splendor of the room.