by Davyne DeSye
Glancing up to assure himself that Petter was not in sight – he did not want to alarm the boy – Erik opened a cloth pouch and assured himself of its contents: several lengths of rope for use as lassos, a dagger, and a pistol, as well as a belt on which he could carry all. He was closing the pouch when a familiar scent reached his nose.
Rose oil and mint.
Without raising his head, and speaking in a low voice so as not to summon Petter, Erik said, “Naheed.”
“Ah, you desert me in my time of need, and now you dote on me by calling me by name. You see, we are alike, we two. Pain and pleasure – pleasure and pain.” She spoke French in quiet, intimate tones.
Erik raised his head to find her standing in the doorway, hands raised above her head and resting against the door jamb to either side of her, head tilted against one arm. She was dressed in the most provocative of the latest Parisian fashions, in a dress of low neckline more appropriate for evening wear, which tightened against her body down to a pinched waist. Her eyes remained fixed on his as the tip of her tongue emerged and licked at the center of her full top lip. She left her mouth open when her tongue returned to her mouth.
Now that she is a woman and no longer a child of ten, she has learned a woman’s arts. But she is only a parody of sexuality, attempting to allure, but wanting only to cause pain. With a pang, the inevitable thought followed: What pain has my Christine endured?
As if reading his thoughts, the Sultana straightened and walked a sinuous path toward Erik as she spoke. “Your wife is well in my care, darling Erik,” she said. “But how much longer do you intend to trust your prize to my patience? You know I am a woman of appetite, and I am becoming very, very hungry.” Again she licked her lips as if to highlight her statement, but Erik did not need so obvious an indication. The unmistakable bloodlust glittered in her eyes.
She moved until she stood before Erik. She placed a hand on his chest and sliding it back and forth, said, “You are not as strong… as muscular as you once were.” She smiled, and then spun away from him, as if taunting him by giving him her back. After a moment, she spoke again. “I had to come to you, if only to have your little morsel out of my reach… her screams are so delicious and satisfying that I could not trust myself to leave any of her for you.”
Erik grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him. “If you have…”
She laughed in his face – the high, light, delighted laughter of a child. “I have said your wife is well. If you do as I ask, she will remain so. For a little while longer at the least.”
“Father?” Petter emerged from the doorway at the side of the room, apparently summoned by the sound of the Sultana’s laugh.
The Sultana looked at Erik with raised eyebrows. “Your son?” She purred the words. She swung her hips from side to side as she moved toward Petter. “My, you are a handsome young man.” Petter flushed. An appreciative smile grew on his reddened face, and then he bowed over her offered hand.
“Madam,” Petter said. He stared at the Sultana as though hypnotized, before gesturing to a chair, and saying, “Won’t you please make yourself comfortable?” He moved to the chair and stood beside it, ready to assist her. Erik raised a hand and made a soft chopping motion of dismissal, but Petter’s attention was focused on the Sultana and he made no indication that he saw.
The Sultana moved to the chair but did not sit. “Will you not offer me refreshment, young man? Your father has proven a want of gentility, but I see yours is not lacking.” The Sultana raised a hand to Petter’s cheek, and stroked it.
Petter flushed a vivid crimson before finding his voice again. “Yes, yes, of course. Do you wish refreshment?” Petter flashed a quick smile at Erik, and looked back to the Sultana as she lowered herself to the chair. She reached her hand out and stroked the front of Petter’s pants as she sat. Surprised, Petter took a step back and away from her, the fatuous smile disappearing from his face. Petter looked to Erik and focused there, his uncertainty clear in his furrowed brow. Erik shrugged and rolled his eyes in disgust at the woman’s behavior, and then hoped that Petter did not think the disgust directed at him. Petter’s eyes remained on his.
The Sultana’s scornful, piercing voice broke over the room like cold ocean spray. “You look to your father, when you should look at me!” She thrust her breasts out and opened her arms as in an embrace. Petter’s mouth opened as he snapped his eyes back to the Sultana. He took another step farther from where she now sat.
“You are but a child!” she barked. “Your disgusting morality drips from you, and sours my mouth.” She spat on the carpet at his feet. “You are obviously nothing like your father” – here, the Sultana looked over her shoulder at Erik, and gestured with one hand before returning her gaze to Petter – “your father, who is as cruel as he is ugly.” She smiled as though she had granted Erik the ultimate in compliments, which perhaps – to her mind – she had.
Petter gasped as if he had been tapped in the stomach.
The Sultana rose from her chair and negotiated her way in languid strides back to Erik. “This is why we have loved each other, your father and I.” She rolled her tongue over the word “loved,” adding insinuation to implication. Still with eyes on Petter, she raised both hands and leaned toward Erik, as if to put her hands on Erik’s chest before resting her head there. Erik raised a hand in a blocking motion and stepped back.
“You have never loved, Naheed,” Erik growled, “and I have certainly never loved you.” Anger rose in Erik at this deranged woman. She could only be adding to the questions about his own past that must be chasing through the boy’s imagination. He looked to Petter to see how the boy was reacting and saw a face full of disgust – but thankfully directed toward the Sultana.
The Sultana said, with a small pout to her lips, “Oh, now Erik, how can you say such a thing to me?” She stepped toward Erik again, but this time he held his ground, raising a palm to stop her movement toward him.
Petter stepped forward, hands held in fists at his sides. “What is it you want here, Madam?” he asked. “It seems my father has little regard for you, and I assure you, I have less.” Petter eyes flicked to Erik’s and Erik smiled at his son’s courage and sense of righteousness. Petter took another step toward the Sultana and said, “State your business, or leave, but either must be done immediately.” Petter raised his chin and kept her eye.
The Sultana raised a hand to her breast in mock surprise, and then threw her head back and laughed. She bent forward from the waist and continued to laugh, seeming out of control, hands on her thighs to support her as she bent.
“Oh!” She stood and made a show of being unable to control her laughter, and again said, “Oh!” After another brief burst, she turned to Erik. “I retract what I said. I would have such an enjoyable time breaking this one.” She flicked a hand toward Petter.
Whatever Petter thought – and it seemed obvious to Erik that Petter thought the comment of a lascivious nature – Erik knew to what the Sultana referred and that her reference to “breaking” was quite literal.
Petter opened his mouth to speak again, but Erik raised his palm in a halting motion. “Unlike my son, I do not have the requirement that you state your business. Leave us.”
“You seem not to love your wife as much as you profess,” the Sultana said, and she turned to walk among the furniture and effects of the sitting room as though looking among the wares of a shop.
“What do you mean?” asked Petter, face flushed again, but this time with anger. “What do you know of my mother?”
The Sultana turned to Petter, eyes narrowed and sparking with anger. “Do not speak to me again!” she shouted. Turning back to Erik, she said, “You must hope I do not believe you are attempting to escape my request. If I should become so convinced, your wife will begin dying upon my return and will not stop dying for as long as I can prolong her.” Her face relaxed and all traces of anger cleared. She looked at her fingernails and her lips turned up in a sweet smile. �
��Do we understand each other?”
“Father!” said Petter, and he took a step forward, hands held out in pleading. Again, Erik raised a hand in a halting motion, but this time with greater fervency. His fear for Christine and his ability to picture any number of the Sultana’s favorite torture scenarios brought bile to the back of his throat. He swallowed with some difficulty.
“Naheed, sit, and we will talk,” Erik said. He raised his eyes to Petter and said, “It would be best if you retired to complete preparations.” Petter’s eyes and jaw hardened with determination, and Erik saw the barely perceptible shake of his head. Erik sighed and shook his own head. “Or you may stay.” Erik gestured to a chair, but Petter remained where he stood, the tension in his body bringing to Erik’s mind a tight spring ready either to spring forward or break.
The Sultana moved to the Persian’s preferred chair, sat and raised her feet to the hassock before her. She seemed at ease as she began to speak. “I tried to bring you to my country so you could complete your task, but you fled. From all appearances, you were preparing again to flee. You must see the futility of that. I found you twice, I can find you again.” She cleared her throat, and said, “And the next time I find you it will be to bring you news of your wife’s untimely demise. I will even elaborate on all the beautiful details, if you wish.”
“I understand,” said Erik, speaking around the knot of anger in his throat. “You are correct, I was preparing to flee. I thought to sequester my son from you.” Erik did not look to Petter, but knew that his son would not speak to disagree. “I see now that it was fruitless for me to attempt to escape you.”
“I always knew you for an intelligent man. Now, please, I beg you, deny my request again. I am afraid our conversation has already sparked my imagination with regard to your wife.” The Sultana wriggled in the chair. Again the excitement and bloodlust rose in her eyes – eyes that grew darker at such moments – and Erik knew that her statement was not a ruse or an exaggeration. He bowed his head in acquiescence.
“I will do as you ask,” he whispered.
“I did not hear you,” she answered. She looked to Petter and said, “Did you hear his answer?” Erik raised his head in warning to his son, but Petter apparently remembered her earlier admonition and did not speak. He remained frozen where he stood, his eyes upon Erik.
Erik looked to the Sultana, and in a pained voice said, “I said, ‘I will do as you ask.’”
“Let us be clear, dear Erik. I will have no misunderstandings between us. What, precisely, will you do?”
Erik bowed his head again, loath to make explanations in the presence of his son – explanations which would require further explanations.
“Speak!” came the shrill command of the Sultana. When Erik raised his head, she was sitting forward in the chair, feet planted on the floor, clawed hand reaching to him as if to cast a spell of obedience upon him. “I am losing patience! Speak, or I shall leave you!”
“I shall travel to Mazenderan. I shall kill the Shah’s newest wife. I shall kill the Shah’s son.” Erik waited for the sound of shocked surprise he expected from his son at this explanation. It did not come. He could not look at Petter, afraid of what he might see in his son’s face.
“Aaaah.” The Sultana luxuriated over the utterance, and again leaned back in the chair. “Ironic, isn’t it? That every bit of pleasure involves pain? I will be pleased for you to accomplish this small task for me, but then must be disappointed in my hunger for the musical screams of your wife’s dying utterances.” She seemed to muse for a moment before sighing and saying, “Ah, well.” She began to rise.
“What assurances do I have that Christine is, in fact, well and alive? If I have already lost my prize, I have no reason to perform.” Despite his fear for Christine – the same fear that had led to his capitulation – Erik did not believe Christine was dead. Not yet. On the other hand, Erik would not allow himself to put limits on the Sultana’s deviousness.
“My word of honor will not suffice?”
Erik did not respond.
“Very well, perhaps you know me too well, Erik dear,” the Sultana said, flashing a simpering smile. She seemed quite at ease despite the tension flowing from both Erik and Petter like a palpable fog. “When you reach Mazenderan, my only love, send a message to the palace for one of my servant girls, Gohar. Write as her lover, Abadan. Ask her where and when you can see her next. She will respond with a meeting place and time. I will meet you there. We will finalize our plans… and…” The Sultana paused, but if she hoped for a response from Erik, he did not accommodate her. She finished, “And I will bring your Christine. You will know then that she is well and alive.”
Erik stood and strode away from the Sultana. He lifted several rolled maps and began placing them in a nearby satchel. Petter still did not move from his position across the room, although Erik could see in his side vision that the boy still watched the Sultana.
Erik listened as the footsteps of the Sultana crossed the room toward him. From behind him, her hand reached to close gently on his neck. He refused to flinch or otherwise acknowledge her touch, but continued placing map rolls into the satchel. Her fingers curved so that her nails bit into the side of his throat, then began to move toward the back of his neck, undoubtedly leaving marks. Erik reached up and gripped her hand, jerking it away from his neck. He did not turn to look at her.
“I am not your play thing,” he growled. He released her hand.
“Do not bring your dismal friend, the Old Daroga. I have never liked him.” She spoke to his back. “You can bring your son of course. Perhaps he will be my play thing.”
Erik listened to her laughter, listened as it accompanied her down the stairs behind him. He heard it through the open windows as she left the flat. The sound reminded him of the needles she used for the purposes of torture, with much the same effect on him.
Erik was startled from his thoughts by a hand closing over his arm.
“Father, is this what she asks of you? You do not mean to kill those people?” Petter asked.
“Of course not,” Erik answered, tone sharp. “I intend to rescue your mother, as I have always intended. But the Sultana is a dangerous woman to deny – as you may have gathered. I assured her to prolong your mother’s life until we can achieve her escape.” Erik mused for a moment and said, “I hope to accomplish the escape immediately upon our arrival in Mazenderan, and before having to meet with the Sultana.”
“Hideous woman,” Petter muttered under his breath.
Erik turned to his son with a bitter smile. “You thought her quite beautiful when first you saw her.”
“Looks are not everything, Father. I assure you, I was cured of my initial impression very quickly, and now cannot even recall that first vision.” Petter shuddered as he spoke.
Erik chuckled but it was a bitter sound. “I last saw Naheed as a child of ten. I promise you that she was no more attractive a person then. She laughed more freely, I suppose, but even then, for the wrong reasons.” Erik lifted the satchel of maps and the travel case containing his masks from the table and deposited them at the side of the door. “Be certain everything is ready for when the Persian returns. We leave for Marseille at first light.”
CHAPTER 22
THE VOYAGE
Petter was surprised that his father did not mention the Sultana’s visit to the Persian. He almost mentioned it to the Persian himself, feeling it the only fair thing – to divulge to a man who was accompanying them what had transpired. However, Petter also respected and admired his father more each day and as he gained more information about his father’s past – fragmented as that information was. His curiosity had heightened, of course, but the frustration that first accompanied his curiosity had lessened to the point of nonexistence. He trusted that his father would tell him the story of his past, and now trusted that he would not be disappointed with the knowledge – and would not be disillusioned, as seemed to be his father’s fear. He had questions, to be
sure – for example, why the Sultana would seek out Erik for such a task – but no real doubts. The Persian and Christine knew of Erik’s past, and they still loved and admired the man.
Thus, rather than tell the Persian about the Sultana, Petter kept his silence. If his father chose not to tell, there must be a reason.
The reason, when Petter discovered it, was rather mundane. They were not long into their carriage ride to Marseille when Erik told the Persian of the encounter.
“Yesterday, Faraz, while you were out, Naheed came to your flat,” Erik said.
The Persian looked to Petter. Erik said, “Yes, she is now acquainted with the fact that I have a son – not something I would have wished, but alas – and he is acquainted with her. She made no attempt to disguise her nature.”
“Ah,” answered the Persian, and the glance he gave Petter was filled with pity. Directing his words to Petter, he said, “I pray you never have reason to renew or… expand your acquaintance.” The Persian’s eyes dropped to his hands, and a grimace of pain passed over his face as if in recollection of an unbearable loss.
“I have promised to commit the murders she has requested,” Erik said. Petter looked to the Persian, wondering at his reaction to this shocking statement, and was pleased to find no disapproval there. The Persian nodded as if Erik’s answer to the Sultana were the only one reasonable. “She warned you away from accompanying me,” Erik continued, but the Persian snorted and waved a dismissing hand.
