Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  Delara dropped the curtain and turned toward Erik with a jerk. She raised her clenched fists and bringing the knuckles of her fists together before him hissed, “Swear, on the life of your wife and son, that no harm will come to my son. Swear it!”

  Erik backed a step. “I give you my oath that I intend no harm to you or your son. I give you my oath that all I have told you about Naheed and about my plans is true. Beyond that, we are all in the hands of Allah.”

  Delara murmured a brief prayer under her breath, eyes closed. She pushed the curtain to the side and lifted the small boy into her arms. She moved to the cushions on which she had been seated when they first entered the room, and lowered herself to them. The child stirred in her arms as she settled, and she made small quieting noises as she placed him onto her lap. There were tears in her eyes as she raised her hand to Erik. He unstoppered the small vial and gave it to her. She lowered her head again to her sleeping son, and bending close to him whispered several long phrases. Tears now coursed down her round cheeks and fell on the face of the boy. Drawing the vial toward her own face, but not too near, she inhaled lightly, and said, “Ah, yes,” as though confirming the scent as one she knew. She held the vial close to the boy as he breathed several times in the long, deep breaths of sleep. The child’s breathing lengthened and became quieter – almost silent. Delara leaned close to the boy’s face to confirm that he still breathed. Without raising her eyes from her son’s face, she brought the vial to her own nose and sucked in a breath. The hand holding the vial fell to the cushions beside where she reclined, and her body crumpled forward over that of her son.

  Erik retrieved the vial, and then pulled Delara’s upper body up and laid her back on the cushions.

  Now to arrange the bodies where they must be found.

  Erik sighed as he lifted the boy from the arms of his mother. He weighed almost nothing. He dreaded moving Delara, for her weight, slight as it would be, could not be carried without paining his leg. He gritted his teeth, determined to complete his task.

  ***

  With Delara and the boy arranged, Erik moved now through tunnels that were clean and obviously frequented. He was near his goal, and he stopped several times to peer into the rooms beyond the tunnel through peepholes and mirrors. Finally, he found what he had been seeking. The Shah – looking older than Erik remembered, for all that he had a very young wife – sat at a desk, reading what appeared to be correspondence. He was turned sideways to the desk, and one bare foot lay propped on a low stool. His mustache, which Erik remembered well, was gray, although it retained its fullness, and still extended in an almost straight line from under his hooked nose to several centimeters beyond his gaunt cheeks. His chin was bare, and his substantial and now gray eyebrows limned deep-set eyes that still seemed bright with intelligence.

  This man had placed Erik under a death sentence for knowing the maze of tunnels within the palace in which he lived, and now Erik planned to step from those tunnels and into the Shah’s personal presence. Erik drew a long breath and pulled the Sultana’s jeweled dagger from his belt. All would depend on the next few moments.

  He thought of Christine sleeping in Delara’s bed – still within the palace, damn it! – and reminded himself of all that would come of his failure here. He had given the Persian strict orders to get Petter out of Mazenderan if neither he nor Christine emerged from the palace by morning, but he worried what Petter might do.

  Enough! He steeled himself and pressed the lever that would open the trapdoor into the Shah’s chamber. He stepped through into the light.

  The Shah raised his head to look at Erik and brought his foot down from the stool, but did not otherwise move, and did not show alarm or surprise.

  “I thought you dead,” said the old man. He still spoke with a deep and almost musical inflection, although his voice had grown huskier with age. His face remained expressionless. Erik noted the surreptitious movement of the Shah’s hand behind the desk and guessed that the man was reaching for a knife or a pistol as he spoke. Erik did not think the man would attack blindly, but his body sprouted perspiration nonetheless. The Shah continued: “I would think you a ghost but for the fact that ghosts do not age, and you have done that.”

  “Most honored Shah-in-Shah, I have not come to haunt you, but to help you,” Erik answered.

  “Yet you carry a weapon,” the Shah answered, with the lift of one thick eyebrow.

  “I carry the dagger that Naheed would plunge into your heart, Sire,” Erik answered. For the first time, a fleeting expression of anger or concern entered the man’s dark eyes. Erik took a step toward the seated man, but before he could speak again, the Shah’s hand lifted from behind the desk. Erik froze as the barrel of an ornately decorated pistol pointed at his face.

  “Sire,” Erik said, turning the dagger so that the jeweled haft extended toward the older man. “You would not kill the man who would offer your daughter’s traitorous knife to you, and in so doing, would save the life of your son.”

  “My son!” the Shah exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. He still held the pistol pointed at Erik’s heart, but now the barrel trembled in the outstretched hand. “What do you know of my son? Speak now or… or…”

  “Your son is safe, although your daughter would not have it so,” Erik answered. Holding the blade, he extended the dagger toward the Shah, and took another step toward the desk. The Shah backed one step from the desk and kept the pistol raised. When Erik could, he reached forward and placed the dagger on the desk, and then backed with his hands raised.

  “I have no other weapons,” Erik said, and with arms still raised, turned a slow circle. “I appeal to your honor, Sire. I have made you a gift of my only weapon, and ask that you accept that gift in the spirit of friendship in which I make it.”

  “Friendship, bah!” bellowed the Shah. “I ask you again, what of my son? Why do you speak so of Naheed?”

  “I do not wish to die, Sire,” Erik said. He had not yet received the response from the Shah for which he hoped. He nodded at the pistol, and kept his arms raised.

  “Sit down!” bellowed the Shah. Then in quieter tones, “I will not kill a man who is unarmed after presenting me with his weapon. As you know, I am an honorable man – even to a man whom I have already ordered beheaded.” Erik lowered his arms, although the Shah had not yet lowered his pistol. He did not sit despite the order, and would not until the Shah himself sat or unless he was ordered yet again. He had dealt often with the Shah during his time in Mazenderan and knew the protocols. The Shah said, “You speak of my son. If my son has been… harmed,” – clearly the man could not speak of his son’s death – “you will hope for a death as swift as a beheading.”

  “I will explain, Sire. I am at your service in this, as in all things.” Erik bowed as he spoke.

  The Shah lowered himself into his chair but still did not lower his pistol. The anger faded from the Shah’s face, and again he faced Erik with complete lack of expression. Erik could not help but admire the man’s self control. “Speak,” he said.

  Erik sat. “You have sired other sons. Only this one has survived.” Erik watched for a reaction but saw none. “Naheed,” Erik said. He let the one word hang in the silence before speaking again. “Naheed was responsible for the deaths of your other sons, and would not have your newest son survive either,” Erik continued, and finally the stoic expressionlessness crumbled.

  “This cannot be so,” said the Shah, but the pain that creased his face belied his belief in his statement.

  “It is so, and I can provide you the proof of her current intentions,” Erik said.

  “This cannot be so!” shouted the Shah, and again he stood, with such force that his chair nearly overturned.

  Erik stood. “I can explain.”

  The Shah crumpled to his seat again, and placing the gun on the table, rubbed his fingers along his forehead above his eyes. “Damn you to your infidel’s hell,” he said. Then: “Explain, and quickly.”

 
Erik explained.

  When he finished, the Shah asked, “What do you suggest? What you tell me sounds far-fetched, even if I were to admit that I have come to suspect Naheed of certain… intrigues within these walls.” The Shah’s voice was weary.

  “I suggest you summon guards and come to a place where you can see the truth of the treachery.”

  The Shah rose, lifted the pistol and the dagger from the desk, then turned away from Erik. When he returned, he was flanked by four palace guards, and no longer carried the pistol. His daughter’s dagger was tucked into the front of his belt.

  “We wait,” said the Shah. He seated himself, and again raised a foot to the small stool. The minutes passed in silence, with the Shah at ease and the guards stiff in their positions behind their seated ruler, eyes fixed on Erik. At last a fifth guard entered the room and saluted.

  “Speak,” said the Shah.

  “They are not in their rooms, Sire. There is a strange woman in your wife’s bed, whom the guards say entered earlier this evening in the guise of the Sultana. She entered with your wife’s permission.”

  “What is this?” said the Shah, snapping his head to glare at Erik.

  “My wife,” answered Erik, and wiping his perspiring palms on his pants legs, he turned to the guard. “What have you done with her?”

  The guard addressed the Shah. “She could not be roused, Sire. We left a guard but did not disturb her. What are your wishes?”

  “Leave her under guard,” the Shah said. Turning to Erik he said, “My wife. My son. Do you know where they are?” His narrowed eyes were a mixture of knife blades and concern.

  “They are well. I will take you to them,” Erik answered.

  “Lead,” the Shah said. He rose as he spoke.

  Erik moved around the other side of the desk from the Shah and his guards, unwilling to give the guards cause to fear for their Shah. “We will need to go to Naheed’s wing,” he said.

  As they approached the proper wing, two guards came into view, both of whom rose from the squatting positions they maintained with their backs pressed against the walls. Both saluted the Shah. The group had almost passed the guards when the Shah turned to one of the now erect guards. “Has the Sultana Naheed returned?” he asked.

  “No, Sire,” the guard answered. His eyes were directed at the wall ahead of him, and not toward the Shah. The Shah grunted in response, and Erik again began walking. He wondered if the guards would report this strange late night entourage to the Sultana when she did return.

  Erik led the Shah to Naheed’s bedchamber. “With your permission, Sire,” Erik said. The Shah stepped past him, and threw open the doors. Erik led the man to the washroom. The guards followed.

  Erik crossed the lavish washroom, around and past the enormous sunken tub. The Shah, losing what small patience he had retained thus far, roared, “Where do you lead me? What is the meaning of this? This is a wash room!”

  “With your permission, Sire, may I request that your guards stay in this room, while we enter the next?”

  “Sire!” The largest of the guards stepped forward, interposing himself between Erik and the Shah. “This cannot be permitted!”

  “Cannot?” asked the Shah. “Do you doubt your king’s ability to protect himself against this…,” his eyes raked Erik and his hand raised and lowered as he gestured with disdain to Erik’s thin frame, “one man?” In truth, even in the slight stoop of the Shah’s age, he stood taller and stouter than Erik.

  “N-no,” stuttered the guard. Then with a backward thrust of his shoulders and a forward thrust of his bearded chin, he said, “May we be permitted to search your most honored guest?”

  “He is not my honored guest. He is a fly in a festering wound,” the Shah grumbled. Then with a gesture to the guard, “Search him.”

  Erik allowed himself to be searched, pleased with his own foresight in leaving his boot knife in the tunnel.

  “Proceed,” growled the Shah. “But I warn you, if nothing comes of this charade, not even my well-earned reputation for justice and mercy will save you.” Erik heard the harsh words, but knew that they masked a grave uncertainty on the part of the Shah toward his daughter, and a growing fear for his son. Without that uncertainty and fear, Erik could not have led the Shah this far. Erik smiled as he opened another door at the far side of the washroom and gestured the Shah to enter. For the first time the Shah hesitated.

  “It is a room for linens and such. And it is dark,” he said.

  “This room is more than it seems,” Erik answered. “And there is a light, although dim. Your eyes will adjust.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said the Shah.

  “This is necessary,” Erik answered. “I have promised you information and the safety of…” Erik paused to choose his words. It would not do to refer to the safety of the Shah’s son, or the possibility of the son’s murder. The already anxious guards may not then allow themselves to be restrained. “…certain personages of importance to you.” Erik pointed into the room toward what appeared to be a small window from which a dim light emerged.

  The Shah grunted and stepped into the room. When a guard tried to stop Erik from closing the door, Erik said, “Sire, no light must enter this room.” The Shah nodded with a jerk of his head and gestured toward the guard. The guard stepped back and Erik pulled the door to.

  Erik did not yet move toward the lighted window. Instead he said, “You must believe me when I tell you that your wife and son are well, although they will not appear so. It is a deception to which your wife agreed. With the deception, you will learn much of your daughter’s intentions.”

  “Enough of your circuitous babble!” the Shah said.

  “Step to the window, Sire,” Erik said. He stood back, already knowing what the Shah would see, and unwilling to stand too close to the man in the moment of shock he knew was coming.

  The old man ambled through the darkness to the window, and after peering through it, gasped and turned his back to it, head bowed, cupped hands raised to his face. Erik heard several murmured prayers. When the Shah raised his head, Erik could see nothing of his expression, only the outline of his head against the window. The old man took a stumbling step toward Erik, and Erik reached out arms to support him. The Shah righted himself and lunged at Erik, one hand closing on Erik’s throat. The coolness of a knife blade kissed his neck above the Shah’s constricting hand.

  “They are dead, and now you will die,” the Shah hissed between clenched teeth. “Tell me, traitor, before I open your throat. What was the purpose of your treachery?”

  Body lifted onto his toes, chin raised in an effort to escape the blade at his throat, Erik spoke. “They are not dead, Sire, I swear it. They merely appear so. Your daughter demanded to see the bodies. If you will but have patience…”

  “I will not. I am tired of your lies!” The knife bit into Erik’s neck.

  “Sire!” The word burst from Erik. “Time will prove me correct and you will have killed an innocent man who has saved the life of your son. If I am lying, your wife and son will be no less dead for the passage of time. I will not be able to escape this room without your knife avenging you, and even if I could, your guards would not leave me alive.” The pressure of the knife eased. Erik panted once and said, “Sire, my life is in your hands. I beg you to patience.”

  The knife fell away from Erik’s throat. The Shah moved to the window again, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “There is much blood,” he said.

  “A ruse, Sire, nothing more,” Erik said. He touched his throat where the knife had bitten him, then rubbed his thumb against the viscous liquid coating his fingers.

  The Shah was silent as he continued to peer through the window. After several minutes, a light knock sounded at the door. The Shah went to it, and after cracking it to peer at the uneasy guard, said, “Do not disturb me. I will emerge in my own time, whether or not this mongrel dog emerges with me.” He closed the door again and returned to the window.
/>
  “What is that room?” he asked after another long silence. “I was to have the complete plans of the palace, but I know nothing of this room.”

  “You have the complete plans of the palace, Sire. Your daughter refers to this room as the ‘chamber,’ and it was constructed for the… special entertainment of the young Sultana. This room is labeled as one of the Sultana’s rooms on the plans.”

  “I have not explored my daughter’s rooms,” the Shah answered. Then, as though speaking to himself, “Perhaps I should have done.” After several more minutes, the Shah said, “How long am I to wait? How long am I to look upon this terrible scene?”

  “I do not know when the Sultana will return, Sire. Only that she will.”

  “I cannot stand this sight.” The Shah grunted and moved away from the window. Erik moved to the window and took up the watch. The interior of the chamber below had changed much since he last had seen it. Only a few of the large mirrors remained, and much evil equipment had been added. And there, on the floor, the bodies of Delara and the Shah’s son, appearing quite dead.

  The only sound while they waited was that of the impatient pacing of the Shah behind him.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE SULTANA

  An interminable hour passed, with the Shah pacing and Erik standing at the window, looking down at the gruesome scene below.

  Would the Sultana come this night as she said she would? Would she stop and look in on Christine first? How would she react, finding Christine gone?

  The darkness and the quiet and the length of the wait left Erik ample opportunity to plague himself with second thoughts. How long would Petter and Faraz wait? Would Petter leave his post at the Persian’s urging if a new day should dawn without the emergence of either Erik or Christine? Would Petter attempt to enter the palace?

  Just as Erik began his own pacing in the small room, the unmistakable voice of the Sultana sounded from the room below.