by Davyne DeSye
Speaking? To whom would she be speaking?
Erik turned to the window, only to be pushed aside by the Shah. Erik eased back for a view of the torture chamber. Shoulder to shoulder, the men stood looking down on the scene unfolding below them.
The Sultana – dressed in the splendor appropriate to her evening engagement – slid into view. She slapped her palms together like a delighted child as her eyes fixed on the bodies. Speaking over her shoulder to a person not yet visible, she said, “Wonderful!” and clapped her hands together several times. “Do you not agree?”
Erik gasped as a second figure came into view. It was Faraz, looking somewhat green despite his dark complexion, and turning his eyes from the scene before him.
“Oh, come, Faraz. Can you not share my pleasure?” she purred, and then she threw back her head and laughed.
“Who is this man – this Faraz?” asked the Shah, too loudly. Eschewing protocol, Erik hushed the man with a hand to his mouth, hoping the Sultana’s laugh had covered the Shah’s question. The Sultana did not appear to have heard. Erik breathed his relief in one long, low breath.
“Who is this man?” asked the Shah again, whispering this time.
“A friend,” Erik answered. His mind whirled as he tried to fathom the reason behind Faraz’s presence in this room with the Sultana. Did Naheed discover him and threaten him into accompanying her? Or perhaps this was the Persian’s way of gaining entrance to the palace to look after Erik’s own safety? His mind returned to the Sultana as she slithered toward the prostrate wife.
Naheed stood above Delara turning her head this way and that, as though appreciating the beauty of the apparent corpse that lay at her feet. With a feral snarl, she pulled back one leg and kicked at the woman’s ribs, and then hips. The Shah jerked against him, and Erik heard a small gasp.
“How dare she?” The Shah whispered, and Erik could tell from the hiss of the words that he whispered through clenched teeth. Erik did not respond.
Erik’s eyes moved to Faraz, who had not advanced any further into the room. Faraz’s head swiveled as he glanced toward the ceiling and along each of the walls. The man’s knowing eyes paused when they reached the small window at which Erik and the Shah stood watching. To any person within the torture chamber, this window would appear to be another small mirror, but Faraz was familiar enough with the chamber to recognize the window for what it was. Erik wished he could give Faraz some sign that the bodies were not corpses, that these proceedings were being watched, but he could not do so without also alerting the Sultana.
The Sultana walked a slow circle around her father’s wife and crouched to poke the woman in the cheek. “Still warm,” she said. “Oh how I wish I could have done the deed myself!”
“She is mad,” whispered the Shah.
“Yes,” whispered Erik in return. For his own part, he hoped Naheed would not bend and lick at the blood that lay pooled under Delara’s head – as she might. She would know then that she had been deceived.
Erik almost sighed aloud when the Sultana stood, and then he flinched as she again kicked at the unmoving body of the woman.
“I will send my guards,” said the Shah.
“That may be best, Sire.”
Clearly the Shah had seen enough of Naheed’s performance to be convinced of the truth of Erik’s accusations, and leaving Naheed any more time with the bodies may indeed be fatal.
The Shah turned away from the window just as Faraz spoke his first words. He spoke loudly and clearly, and Erik knew from the man’s second quick glance toward the window that Faraz hoped to elicit more information. “Now that you have accomplished these deaths, what do you plan for the future, Naheed?”
Erik clutched at the arm of the retreating Shah, and drew him back to the window. “Wait, Sire,” he said. “You may yet learn more.”
The Sultana glanced over at the body of the little boy, and then turned back to Faraz. She leapt over the body of the prone woman and walked toward Faraz. The movement of her hips from side to side was heightened even over her normally exaggerated sway. She lifted and lowered one shoulder and arm and then the other, as if she swam in the air. “I have won,” she said. “I have won again. I will soon marry some ambitious idiot and rule when my father dies.”
She reached the Persian and running a finger from his cheek down the front of his shirt in a wavy downward movement, she asked, “Would you like to be that man?”
Faraz stiffened and stepped back from the woman as her finger reached the front of his pants. “Certainly not,” he said.
She laughed. “I would not allow it,” she answered as she walked around Faraz, one arm extended toward him, the hand running around his shoulders and back as she walked. “I told you I need an idiot, and you are far too intelligent to qualify. Besides, I don’t like you.” She turned away from him and back to the sight of the woman and boy lying in what appeared to be their own blood. “My brother,” she crooned, and began to walk toward the boy.
“The Shah is still hale,” the Persian said. “Or do you have plans for his demise as well?”
The Sultana turned to face the Persian, but continued her sinuous progress toward the boy by stepping backwards.
“No,” she said. “He allows me all the time and leisure to do as I like – and you know what I like.” She raised both arms into the air and twirled like a ballerina as she passed the body of the woman. “Of course,” she went on, “I may have to poison him if he takes too long to die, or is rude enough to bear another son,” she said. She giggled, and continued her slow approach toward the boy.
The Shah stiffened and a low growl sounded in the small room.
“The guards, Sire,” said Erik, turning from the window and walking toward the door. He felt certain that the Shah had heard enough, and he did not want Naheed harming the boy with the same vicious kicks she had delivered to the mother.
Erik did not need to press the Shah. He preceded Erik, who paused only long enough to close the door to the viewing room they had just vacated.
“This way, Sire,” Erik said, as the Shah gestured to the guards. They ran, although Erik had to clutch at his ribs as he ran, and his limp became so exaggerated that he stumbled twice.
“There,” said Erik, pointing to a door. He was panting, and stood bent from the waist, both arms now clutched about his middle.
“Quickly!” said the Shah. The four guards burst through the door, with the Shah close behind them. “Arrest them!” the Shah bellowed.
Two guards rushed to the unmoving Persian, who stood his ground and allowed them to bind his hands. The two others ran to the Sultana. The Shah loped with powerful strides to his son.
“Father,” the Sultana cried. “Thank Allah you have come. I have found the man who has killed your son,” she yanked an arm free from one guard and pointed to Faraz, “although I did not arrive in time to stop the murders.” She sobbed once as if heartbroken, bringing her wrist melodramatically to her forehead. When the guard again gripped her wrist, she progressed from sobbing to anger.
“Release me!” she shrieked. “Father!”
The Shah did not give any indication he could hear his daughter’s protests. The old man bent and lifted the limp body of his son, bringing his ear first to his son’s mouth, and then to his chest. When he raised his head again, his eyes moved to the struggling Sultana.
“Father, don’t you hear me?” She struggled against the grip of the guards as she spoke. “That is the man who killed your son! We must question him. He may have compatriots.” She ceased her struggles, and tilting her head to one side in the attitude of a very young girl, said, “Father, tell these men to release me.”
“No, Naheed,” he answered.
“I don’t understand…” she began, a look of innocence widening her eyes.
Erik limped another two steps into the room, gaining Naheed’s attention. Her eyes narrowed to mere slits as her innocent face melted into a look of malevolent hatred. “Noooo!” she howled.
The howl continued as her struggles resumed.
“Take her away,” the Shah said. “Put her under lock and key in the dungeon – do not return her to her quarters.” Naheed continued to struggle and shriek, and the guards were forced to carry her as she kicked at them. Her head veil fluttered to the ground and her hair flipped and twisted about her face as though caught in a great storm.
Erik, limping toward the Shah, turned to Faraz where he stood, still flanked by two guards. He smiled grimly at the tall man, but Faraz did not return the smile.
“My son lives,” said the Shah. He pulled the small body tighter to his chest.
Erik bent and rolled Delara onto her back, cradling her head in one hand as he did so. He bent to listen for her breath, and felt at her neck for a pulse. “As does your wife, Sire, as promised.”
The Shah bowed his head, eyes closed, and then raised his head to Erik again. He straightened his posture to his full height, and said, “You are free to go. They say, ‘The wise enemy lifts you up, the ignorant friend casts you down.’ It seems I have many ignorant friends, and I thank Allah you are a wise enemy.” Again he bowed his head to Erik.
Erik said, “Why enemy, Sire? I have never broken faith with you. I have tonight accepted your friendship with the gift of my knife and been witness to your heroism. Is there no Persian saying about the wise friend?”
“No,” the Shah answered as he turned away.
Erik’s attention was drawn toward several additional guards entering the room at a half trot.
“Remove my wife to her quarters,” the Shah said. “See to it that she is cleaned and cared for.” Turning to Erik he said, “She will awaken soon?”
Erik nodded.
“You are free to go,” the Shah repeated. “You have won your reprieve.” Erik opened his mouth to speak but the Shah spoke over him. “This reprieve will last for the one day necessary to leave Mazenderan forever. If you speak of what you know,” and the Shah rolled his eyes about the room, which Erik understood to indicate the palace and its numerous tunnels, “your reprieve will be revoked. If you ever return to Mazenderan, your reprieve will be revoked.”
The Shah hefted the boy in his arms to more securely carry him, and turned toward the door.
“Sire,” Erik said, stepping forward to intercept him. “May I retrieve my wife? I will go under guard, of course.”
The Shah considered, then nodded and said, “A wife for a wife.” The Shah attempted to step around Erik, and again Erik blocked his way.
“I beg your indulgence for a moment more. Will you also release my friend?” He nodded toward Faraz.
“I will not,” the Shah answered, and turned to peer at Faraz. He took two steps in the direction of the motionless man and said, “I know this man. He is Akhtar, my old daroga. He was exiled for bungling my orders to put you to death, and now I see that he did not merely bungle. He failed utterly. He will be put to death as a failure to his Shah.” Faraz’s dour face folded into greater grimness, and he bowed his head.
“Sire,” Erik persisted. “This man was instrumental in causing the Sultana to reveal herself to you. In so doing, he has shown nothing but the utmost loyalty to his Shah.” When the Shah did not answer, Erik said, “I ask this of you. I, the man who, this night, saved the lives of your family.”
The Shah shook his head and said, “No.” He strode toward the door.
Stricken, Erik looked to Faraz. His mind whirled with how he might extricate the Persian from this terrible fate. He barely noticed when the Shah stopped at the door and turned toward him again.
“If the man, Faraz,” the Shah said, his voice resounding through the room, “ever returns to Mazenderan, he will face immediate death.” The Shah jerked his head in the direction of the Persian. It took several seconds for his words to register upon Erik’s tumultuous thoughts.
Erik bowed, and said, “Thank you, Sire. You are indeed as merciful as you are just.”
“In this case, I am neither merciful nor just. I refuse to acknowledge having seen this man here tonight. The man whom I have exiled has never returned to Mazenderan. He would not be foolish enough to do so.” Turning to the guards, he said, “Release this man and escort him from the palace.” Motioning toward Erik with his head, he said, “Lead this man to his wife, and then escort him from the palace as well. See that this is done immediately.”
“Thank you, Sire,” Erik said to the Shah’s retreating back.
Faraz approached Erik and held out his hand. “It is good to see you again, old friend.”
“Yes,” answered Erik. “There were several times this night when I thought we might never meet again.”
“It is as Allah wills it,” Faraz answered. He threw an arm about Erik’s back, and helped Erik limp from the room.
CHAPTER 32
PETTER RETURNS TO LONDON
It was not until the ship passed from the Aegean to the Mediterranean Sea, and Crete could be seen off the bow that anyone would agree to salve Petter’s burning curiosity. The journey from Mazenderan to this point was thus disappointing to Petter for two reasons: He was locked in the doldrums which come at the end of any adventure, and even worse, those doldrums were not alleviated by any fanciful tale telling.
“Your mother needs to rest,” was the first excuse Petter heard for not being told what had occurred within the palace. This excuse held a great deal of weight for Petter. He had been horrified when first he saw his mother, dirty, tired, and with those awful scars on her face. He was not horrified with the disfigurement so much as he was horrified in his contemplation of the pain she had endured receiving the scars. He wondered more than once if her body bore other scars that were not visible, but he could not bring himself to ask. He was not certain he wanted to know.
Christine had slept almost the entire first three days of their journey, waking only to eat between sleep periods. Petter fussed over her as much as his father would allow, which was not much. But after those three days of sleep, Christine had seemed her old self – energetic and cheerful.
“Your father needs to heal, dear,” had been the second excuse. Petter did not accept this excuse for more than a day, as his father had been injured before even coming to London to gather Petter into the adventure, and had not allowed those injuries to slow him much. In truth, it seemed those injuries had been exacerbated during Erik’s hours in the palace, but not so much that Erik couldn’t sit and talk.
“Wait until we’ve passed Constantinople, and left danger behind,” had been the final excuse. “Until then, we are all too tense and too ready for catastrophe to wish to discuss much at all.” Though unhappy, Petter had accepted this final excuse because it seemed to him that this one included a finite deadline that would soon be reached.
Petter forced himself to stand at the rail until the Aegean Sea and more than half of the Island of Crete was behind them. With a firmness of jaw and a resolute stride, he went below decks to make his demand for information.
He knocked at the door to the largest cabin – that shared by his father and mother – and entered when answered. He faced his mother, his father and the Persian, all sitting about a small dining table spread with a veritable feast.
“Now see here,” he said, closing the door behind him. He was greeted with good-natured laughter by all.
“We’ve been waiting for you, dear,” Christine said, motioning to the bench on which the Persian sat. “We made bets as to how long after we left Constantinople you would wait.” She smiled as Erik chuckled again.
Petter moved toward the offered seat, “Who won?” Again this was answered with laughter by all.
“I certainly lost,” answered Erik. “I didn’t think you would wait until we reached Crete.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Petter,” Christine continued, after pouring him a cup of wine and passing it to him, “Not one of us has heard the story of the other. We were not so rude as to salve our own curiosity whilst rebuffing yours.”
“Do you wish
to start by telling your tale?” Erik asked him.
“My tale?” Petter asked. “I stood around with horses, counting the hours and getting sore feet!”
Again, gentle laughter. Erik sobered and said, “And staying safe.”
“Yes, and staying safe,” echoed Christine. She put a hand over his and patted it. She reached for a bit of dark bread as Erik reached for cheese. The Persian occupied himself with flatbread and a chickpea spread.
“So?” Petter asked. “You’ve made me wait this long and now we’re going to eat in silence?”
“I think your mother should start,” Erik said. “I have only heard the barest of details myself.”
“Which is more than I’ve heard,” Petter muttered to himself, but he could not maintain his pique. He gathered a bunch of grapes into his palm and prepared to listen.
Christine told her tale as a storyteller might, creating sumptuous images in Petter’s mind – of her lavish prison room, of the fear she felt in the presence of the mad Sultana, of her discovery of Erik’s tunnels and her explorations thereof.
“You must never speak of these to anyone,” Erik admonished the others, but he was waved to silence by all.
Thankfully, Christine did not spend much time or description over the Sultana’s maiming of her face, for Petter had already used his own imagination to great effectiveness in that regard. Finally, she told of her bold plan to impersonate the Sultana and achieve her escape. It was not quite coincidence that this happened to be the night on which Erik infiltrated the palace, for – as Erik explained – this was the night on which the Sultana absented herself, making certain that all in the palace knew she would be away.
Erik and Christine laughed as they recounted their nearly disastrous meeting in the halls of the palace.
“But how did you come to be searching the halls for the Sultana, Father?” Petter asked. “You thought her out for the evening. I didn’t think wandering the palace halls was part of the plan.”
“It was not,” Erik said. “Perhaps I should back up and explain my doings before finding your mother.”