Okay...so hate me. I took the summer months off in order to trailride, walk miles in the park, and play with my dogs. Of course, I never stopped writing but will admit to striking off a great deal of it once I got 'serious'. We are nearing the BIG finish, so stay tuned! Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated!
Chapter Fifty Three
Nadir Kahn ordered the thick, black beverage that passed for coffee in the maqhan he frequented whenever he was in Lyon. As the days when he traveled frequently to and through the city had been few in past years, he was surprised to see it had changed little. The tables were perhaps shabbier…the walls dingier. But the clientele were the same; men off the boats from the 'golden East', and docks of the Rhone, speaking the languages of their homelands: Arabic, Persian, Turkish and Hindi, as well as the polyglot trade French.
He sat at a smaller table near the front of the shop, preferring to face the wide entrance, and predictably, two men entered the maqhan soon thereafter, dressed as dockmen. Once served their drinks, they sat at a table near the center of the dim, low-ceilinged room, one opening his LaCroix before his face, the other nursing his sweetened tea and eyeing the other residents of the shop.
Sizing them up immediately as his current 'tail' Nadir closed his eyes, wishing all irritants were as easily dismissed. Captain Heizel made no excuses for having Kahn followed, and in truth, Kahn respected him for his honesty, but was thoroughly unimpressed with the 'seasoned' men Heizel had brought with him from Paris. The two who had followed him here were clumsy...near caricatures only of what 'grey' men should be.
Pulling his battered copy of "Concepts of Criminal Investigation" from his coat pocket, he allowed his focus upon the room and its inhabitants to lapse.
Somewhere between his second and third cup of coffee, several men entered the small café, the first two noisily arguing good-naturedly in Arabic. Kahn scanned them automatically as the new arrivals seated themselves and waited as old Zakariyā, owner of the café, shuffled out to their table to take their orders.
The last man through the door was a dark-skinned Sikh wearing the uniform of the British Punjabi with the turban badge of the 45th Rattray Sikhs at the apex of his dastaar. As if he were not novel enough, he wore the round dark-lensed glasses currently all the rage among the Germans, worn while driving their crude, noisy 'Benz' automobiles through the European countryside, scaring citizens and livestock alike.
Entering on the tail of the raucous tableful, the Sikh was obviously not with them. After politely waiting, he too gave his order in heavily accented French, and with a smile and bow to the elderly proprietor, moved to a table near the entrance, sitting so that his back was to the wall beside it. Opening a local newspaper, he laid it upon the table.
Kahn admired the man's gloriously full beard and mustache…the Sikhs did not remove or trim body hair as one of their articles of faith…and moved his eyes back to his book.
Eventually a thought intruded: did Heizel truly think Kahn incapable of recognizing his two followers for what they were? Or were they sleight of hand…a 'red herring'?
Kahn scanned the maqhan carefully, 'reading' those who sat in corners speaking to no one, of those who were here before him, even the recent arrivals who were presently laughing, stuffing their faces with chapatis, beans and boiled eggs, and gulping cardamon-spiced coffee.
His eyes landed again upon the Sikh, who was enjoying his coffee and samoon, ignoring those around him. He had removed the shaded glasses, having tucked them into his tunic pocket. His body language was unremarkable…but it was odd that the man never raised his eyes to look about him.
Which was interesting, but certainly not germane to the question at hand. Kahn shifted minutely in order to again study the two other men who sat alone at distant tables. No…nothing there.
A fracas at the front of the shop caught his ear, as the elderly owner of the maqhan threw a brass metal basket full of coffee grounds upon the floor, and began belaboring the young man behind the counter in broken French. "The beans are to be changed…as I showed you...to keep it strong. Here! The coffee…it is weak. Who would drink this? Pah!" Throwing his hands up, Zakariyā called to Allah to save him from fools, then grabbing a ragged towel from below the counter, he flailed at the back and shoulders of the cowering young man several times with it.
The table full of roughnecks began hooting and egging the old man on, yelling in French and Arabic. The joke was immediately taken up by other tables in the maqhan, resulting in much laughter, the noise level becoming nearly riotous.
Kahn turned away and chuckled quietly, thinking it would be a good time to finish his coffee and go home. The day had been long already, having begun at dawn, and it was long past midday. A nap, perhaps after he had checked on the troublesome Gadreaus across the hall at the hotel…
His eye again fell upon the Sikh, wondering why the man was dressed as a Jemadar of the British Indian Army here in France; he knew the Sikh were fiercely proud of their reputation as warriors, and were highly valued as the backbone of the British Raj. However, it was unusual to see one outside of the Asian continent or British colonies, being a sect that preferred community to solitude.
Quickly moving his eye on, he mentally reviewied what he saw. The man was neatly dressed, his tunic sharply pressed, as were his loose breeches, properly creased along the sides and tucked neatly into his polished boots. A dark leather belt snugged the tunic to the man's lean frame, the wide shoulder strap holding a business-like revolver within a holster. At his right hip the ornately scrolled sheath for his kirpān was slipped behind the wide belt, the smoothly polished hilt of the weapon itself declaring it more deadly than decorative.
Turban tying never having been Kahn's forte, he admired the neat set of the Sikh's dastaar, the navy blue setting off the khaki of his uniform and the man's jet black facial hair. Totally unremarkable.
However…
He felt sure the man was attempting to avoid notice, patently concentrating his attention upon his newspaper, coffee and food. 'And perhaps,' thought Kahn, 'I should leave it at that.' Turning away, he gave the situation at the front his attention again, as the young man behind the counter awkwardly cleaned up the mess made by his enraged 'employer.' Twice the young man glanced up directly at Kahn, the look in his eye assessing.
Yes, it was time to go.
Smiling widely at the two 'dockmen' who had followed him in, he held up his coffee cup in salute, his eyes meeting those of the one watching him through the hole carefully torn within a large, busy advertisement for gentlemen's corsets. The wide-eyed agent immediately dropped the paper. Kahn laughed, and kindly advised him to 'make the hole smaller next time,' in French. The chagrin upon both agents' faces was immediate, followed by the inevitable flush of angry embarrassment.
Kahn debated calling out the young agent behind the counter, yet could not resist irritating their Captain. Moving before he could change his mind, Kahn rose, laid sufficient coin upon the table for his coffee, and moved to the back of the maqhan toward the open doorway to the street. On a whim he pulled out the chair across from the Sikh, and sat down. Surprised, the dark skinned Sikh looked up, his expression blank with shock.
Nadir Kahn was unable to keep his jaw from dropping, flummoxed by the sight of pale green eyes surrounded by thick brows and deeply tanned skin. As the Sikh's expression switched to unnatural hot-eyed rage, his teeth flashing from beneath the fearsome mustache, Nadir saw the small flaws in the disguise…unnoticeable unless you absolutely knew what to look for.
Fortunately, quick thinking was Nadir's forte.
Speaking loudly, he said, "I have a favor to ask of you, my good man, and here is fifty francs for your trouble. Keep an eye upon that fellow at the counter for the next five minutes; I am thinking he will leave directly after I do. This is not a wager...either he does or he does not…but whichever, I have paid your for your time and attention!" Overtly Nadir turned and smiled at the swearing young man who now watched from behind the counter. Rising from the chair, Kahn tipped his hat to his exposed shadow, and to the dark-skinned imposter he had embroiled in the prank, and walked out.
'Praise God, please let that clumsy gambit work,' Nadir prayed furiously as he sauntered away from the maqhan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My first impulse is to burst into laughter; the look on the Daroga's face is that singular.
My second is to throw myself across the table, hands outstretched for Kahn's neck. I have not yet forgotten, nor forgiven his confession at the barred door of my cell in the Rois.
Under the circumstances, I do neither. He is attempting to shake a 'shadow' off his back…and I am confident I am the reason he is being followed. There is nothing to be done but get over our mutual shock and back out of the gaffe as gracefully as possible.
Kahn does so by dropping that 50-franc note on my table, thereby drawing all attention to it…instead of me. He marches out of the café with two 'dockmen' close upon his heels, albeit no longer attempting the least bit of discretion.
I assume a suitably nonplussed expression and keep my face down, thereby hiding the distinctive color of my eyes as I scan the room quickly. A light-eyed Sikh is not unheard of, but still of note. As I have never heard of a suitable disguise for one's eye color, the dark glasses appropriately worn and keeping one's face in shadow is the best I can do.
The full beard and mustache do well to cover the other most notable feature upon my face, my right cheek well obscured by the adhered hair cover. I have fashioned bushy, full brows on both sides as well, and have covered the right side of my nose with fine leather and makeup. My right eye is still askew…nothing I can do for it.
One of the men at the table to my right points to the 50-franc note, speaking in heavily accented French. "Easiest money you ever made, I wager." He points to the cursing young man at the front of the cafe, now engaged in low-voiced argument with his employer. It is apparent the boy is undecided if he should leave, yet his eyes constantly turn to the door, no doubt worrying he has already lost his man.
Many in the room are watching him. Others are looking at the 50-franc note with avarice or envy.
The man to my right again speaks to me. "Perhaps you should allow me to do the watching." He leans slightly toward the money, a wide smile upon his face. The others at his table laugh and abuse him good naturedly for his greed.
I smile just as widely while setting the heavy, awkward shaded glasses upon my face, and answer him in rough French, saying, "I can see him quite well now, my friend." Picking up the bill, I fold it and stuff it in my breast pocket. "But I thank you most humbly for your thoughtfulness." I incline my head, playing my part to the hilt.
The others at his table hoot and guffaw just as loudly as he; I am reassured he is only jesting and I need not worry he might slit my throat for the money. I will be mindful when I leave, however, as there are others watching who might.
I intend to hang on to it; I am most thankful for the money.
The subject of discussion jerks off his apron, and telling his employer to 'stuff the wages' rushes from the cafe. There is some laughter among the rough men in the room, but interest wanes once the money and the boy have both disappeared. I finish my breakfast and newspaper, pay my shot to the scowling shop owner who must now work behind his own counter, and stride out into the morning sunshine.
Keeping my eyes down, I head towards the foreign market to find a moneychanger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I spent the summer months of '57 and '58 working with Charles Beulé, sent by my mentor Buontalenti as a way of fostering my curiosity in classical archeology. The first year in Campania, I worked with several other students brushing through twenty centuries of rock, clay and coprolitic residue from the midden pits and potshard dumps of the Herculaneum, a Roman city located on the south slope of Mount Vesuvius. It was dirty, demeaning work, fit only for the students who might otherwise destroy more valuable archeological treasure through ignorance, inattention, or lack of delicacy.
There I became acquainted with a fellow student by name of Angadi Malo Singh, a Sikh from the Punjab region of India. I believe he originally approached me because I was the only other turban-wearing student there, although his was the traditional dastaar of the believers of the Universal Creator, an attractively folded turban worn close to the head. Mine was a simple pagri wrapped atop a facially obscuring scarf, worn only to spare my fellow students and instructors the disturbing sight of my face. I refused to wear a mask in the relentless heat and dust.
I resisted all friendly overtures, yet found my reclusive attitude patently ignored by the young Sikh, whose initial gambit was to insure I consumed three meals a day and drank enough water. At first unsure of what this genial young man found so compelling about my company, I eventually realized he thought me to be the least objectionable of possible companions available. Like Angadi, I was not interested in the drinking, womanizing and general dissipations the other students fell into on free evenings. The chastity and abstinence demanded of his religious beliefs dovetailed neatly with my terror of women and the fear of losing control and showing my cursed face while drunk.
I found him undemanding company, whose 'live and let live' attitude did not challenge my desire to keep my ugliness covered. We were set to work as a team throughout that first season on the Versuvian slope, and proved to be a good one. We worked the long hours with shovel, chisel and brush without complaint; each evening Angadi was eager to catalog the day's discoveries at the doctor's direction, while I sketched and took notes.
The next summer Angadi Singh stood on the dock leading up to the Pompeii work site; despite myself I returned his excited halooes, and accepted his enthusiastic hug and back-pounding with aplomb. That summer I was given a team of my own to direct, and Angadi worked directly with Doctor Beulé, the site's rich field requiring constant documentation. As before, our mutual youth and lack of interest in the 'manly' pursuits again set us apart from the other students working with Doctor Beulé and Sir Ian Dickerson…a newcomer to the field from Edinburgh University.
I again spent many companionable hours with Angadi Singh, discussing religion, art, and the day's artifacts. In the process I learned a great deal of the Sikh life, and still remember what Angadi Singh told me regarding his religion and lifestyle.
I have endeavored to use this knowledge in disguising myself as a Sikh.
The first step is that of dying my skin and hair very dark…my hair is indeed now black. My skin has taken the walnut-hull stain well, and I appear as dark as any Punjabi Rajput. Sikhs do not cut their hair, instead coiling it atop their head in a knot that is placed upon the crown of the head. I am, of course, at a disadvantage as I have shorn hair, but the required wearing of the turban will disguise this. It is the facial hair I must work out now.
Using the dyed hair cut from the front and sides of my head, as well as a good amount of coarse black hair clipped from the hide of a black ram, I laboriously adhere it onto my face using spirit gum. This will thickly and evenly cover both cheeks, chin and upper lip, wherein I twist the hair that hangs beneath my jaw into a 'tail' that tucks neatly into my turban. The effect is realistic, and thick enough to cover the scar tissue upon my right cheek so well it is discernable only upon parting the hair. I give myself thick brows, thereby hiding the misshapen right eye socket and temple. I believe the glue will last for at least two days if I am careful.
The feel is indescribable…I want nothing more than to begin scratching frantically.
I have fashioned a very thin leather skin for the side of my nose. It works…but is discernable close up unless kept heavily coated with thick theatrical makeup, and will not last more than a day before it needs resetting.
Clothing must be made from items formerly in the crates in the hypogeum's main chamber, and what I can steal in the newer districts of Lyon far south of Croix-Luizet. Having taken all I needed from the hypogeum, I am avoiding Croix-Luizet completely, unwilling to bring any further grief to the residents by compelling Zamir Ibn Hashim and his English cohort and army to hang about. I have, however, kept a contact there, and I can exchange messages with that contact concerning Brother Luminere's continuing activities.
Using the khaki trousers and blouses retrieved from the crates, I fashion the traditional tunic and loose breeches worn by the Indian Sikhs of the British Army. I have the finely-woven cloth for the turban in navy blue and black; the trick will be tying it, as I have never done a proper dastaar, only the pagri over the scarf to hide my face. The circular iron bracelet and dagger (the karā and kirpān respectively) are easily acquired. I find a wide leather strap to serve as a weapons harness and belt for the tunic, and tucking the trousers into my slightly modified ugly brown boots will complete the costume. I would prefer a less 'military' appearing costume, but this is what I have.
Having procured the day's newspapers, it is dressed just so that I go to the cafe located across from the 'foreign' market not far from the Rhône docks; I am hungry and desire coffee. I have spent the morning among talkative people, listening to gossip. The Persian assassin has not been at all discrete; he had just last night visited one of Lyon's premiere brothels and nearly killed one of the girls there. He and his Englishman lawyer are presently staying at a private pension in on Rue de Martine.
I have every intent of visiting them both soon…
But first I must find Aislyne; I am fearful she might not wish me to find her, however after the ordeal of escaping Hashim and his soldiers.
Those first crazed hours I spent searching the hypogeum, looking for some sign of how and where Aislyne had gone. I found fresh bullet strikes in the ancient walls over the tunnels, and blood on the wall in the second tunnel not far from the end. Springing the trapdoor, I climbed down into the massive cistern there, and found blood and muddy footprints leading into the Roman aqueduct. Sick with fear, I rushed to the only possible terminus, seven miles away to the southwest…going overland, I admit…and found the stone and mortar wall I had built in the well's side shattered. The defective lamp I had discarded at the end of the second tunnel I found sitting some distance back from the well exit, empty of fuel.
Aislyne had crawled seven miles through the old Roman aqueduct.
I have not found her yet. But I now have a very good idea of who knows where she is…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nadir Kahn awoke when the cold steel of the knife blade touched his throat. He did not jump, or indeed make any move whatsoever. "Erik. Yes, it is good to see you also, dear boy."
Erik was clearly not amused by Kahn's light tone. "Where is she, Daroga?"
"I can only assume you mean Mademoiselle Butler." Nadir raised a hand and pushed the knife away from his neck. Erik allowed him an inch…then another. "I would like to sit up and turn on the light."
With some reluctance, Erik moved back, then helpfully pulled Kahn from his pillow by the neck of his nightshirt. Pushing his face toward Kahn's, he growled, "Nothing heroic, old man. I have already removed the jambeya from beneath your pillow."
"Then you know I am unarmed. Let me turn up the lamp, so I can see."
"Light is unnecessary, Daroga! You know very well what I look like. What I want to know…"
"Yes, yes, you wish news of the Mademoiselle. I, however, require light. And you will find I have nothing to say with a knife pressed to my jugular."
Erik actually hissed…something only he could do to any affect. He made no further threatening moves, however, as Kahn threw the blankets aside, swung his legs off the bed and turned to light the lamp upon the bedside table. Fists pressed to his complaining back, Nadir scanned the scowling apparition at the side of his bed revealed by the lamp light.
Erik was dressed in unrelieved black, from the heavy silk sherwani's upright collar, to the closely cut black churidar tucked into high, black boots. It reminded Nadir of the first time he had visited Erik in Tehran; then too the boy had dressed in black, and was known by all as 'Aeshma'…Devil. Yet Erik was unmistakably still disguised as a Sikh tonight, his head neatly wrapped in black linen, the iron karā about his wrist and empty sheath for the lethally sharp kirpān slipped through his belt. The black beard and luxuriant mustache were twisted together along his jawline, in Punjabi fashion, the tails tucked into the black fabric that so neatly covered his head.
The deep color of his skin and black facial hair contrasted sharply with his icy-green eyes. Eyes that were anything but friendly.
Pushing to his feet, Nadir said, "Perhaps I could interest you in a cup of tea, Erik? A hot drink would certainly be most welcome to me."
With an exasperated gasp, Erik actually stepped closer, the sharp kirpān moving forward… "Nadir! I want to know where she is!"
Nadir canted a disapproving eye at the knife. "Please allow me to leave my bed and find my robe. It is chilly, and I am old…as you have so kindly pointed out."
After a moment, Erik sighed in resignation. Sheathing his kirpān, he stepped back, waving his hand towards the door. "Fine, a cup of tea. And then you tell me what I want to know."
Eventually Nadir Kahn was wrapped securely in a thick robe, feet shoved into wool slippers, and both he and Erik seated in the wing chairs before the small fireplace. While Erik turned up the gas lamps at both sides of the mantle and started the fire, Khan lit the warmer beneath the teapot. Eventually Kahn held a china cup and saucer full of hot tea; Erik struggled to hold his temper.
Nadir sent a sharp look at his brooding visitor, saying, "Coming here was extremely foolish, Erik. Surely you realized from our meeting earlier today that I am being watched and followed?"
Erik's darkly dyed skin took on a maroon tinge. "I gathered that from our brief conversation over a 50-franc note, Daroga! I, however, am not being followed. And I assure you, no one saw me come here."
"Arrogant fool. You are so sure of yourself."
Erik shot back, "Indeed I am. Now…"
Nadir continued, undeterred by the impatience clear on his visitor's face. "It would be a shame if you were to be captured because of this idiotic trick! After so many months of planning and sacrifice. And you would gamble that away in this fashion." Nadir shook his head.
Teeth flashing in a humorless grin, Erik fixed his eyes upon the ceiling. "I particularly enjoyed my carefully planned stay in a stinking cell in the Rois. Your idea, if I remember correctly, Daroga."
Sternly, Kahn said, "Surely you realize I saved your life, boy?"
"I realize I nearly lost it…along with my head! Did you know they decided it was murder…Umbaldo Piangi's death?" Grunting, Erik raised one hand, obviously planning to rub at his face…only to jerk his hand away upon touching the false beard and mustache.
Nadir smiled faintly at Erik's discomfort, firmly repressing his doubts at the man's oft-proclaimed innocence in Piangi's demise. Erik claimed there was no way the rope he had placed about man's neck could have strangled him…unless Piangi had strangled himself. "Yes, Erik. It was in all of the papers, you know."
Erik's face twisted, then he laughed. "Oh, yes. I read them all. I found the illustrations of the Opera Ghost most educational; Aislyne thought them defamatory." For a moment Erik seemed to have forgotten what he was about, where he was. But his gaze sharpened and landed back on Nadir. "So you wish me to believe that you…along with de'Chagney…planned this elaborate charade in order to free me from the Rois? How very appropriate, as it was you…and no doubt de'Chagney who gave me up to the Paris police and put me there!"
Nadir raised his hand. "Erik, I have explained that. I would never have done it had I not already insured you would not be going to prison, but to the Rois. I knew I could improve your lot there…and deal with the warden…which would be impossible in Mazas Prison or the Conciergerie. It was only a matter of time…"
It was obvious Erik was working himself up to a fine tantrum. "Yes…and what of my sentencing! To die, Daroga. To die for a murder I did not commit!"
"Erik, that detail fit quite elegantly within the plan. Do you not see…the man who murdered…who allegedly murdered Umbaldo Piangi is now dead! You are free…and alive. We merely needed to stall the inevitable court decision until a suitable substitute for the Opera Ghost was found, and…"
Face now livid, Erik snapped, "Fourteen months, Nadir? I cannot believe it took you so long to…"
It was too much…Nadir could not contain his anger at the man's carping and self-conceit. Shaking his fist, he loudly interrupted his disagreeable guest's rant. "And yet you were alive! Fed! Not withering away in some fetid bone cellar beneath the streets of Paris! We paid to insure you were fed, that you were given clean clothing, and frequent access to bathing." With a start Nadir realized he was all but yelling at the now-silent man across from him. Seizing hard upon his emotions, he composed himself, astonished that Erik had not yet throttled him. Warily he watched as Erik brooded, staring into the fire.
Eventually, Erik growled, "I care nothing about that now. I wish to know what has happened to Aislyne Butler."
Nadir relaxed, saying, "Aislyne is still here, in Lyon, staying with the Countess Grantham. Her sister is here also, attempting to extricate her from the mire the local police have made of the murders of Xavier and Chanson…" Nadir stopped for a second, arrested by the flash of strong emotion on Erik's face.
Erik covered his eyes for a moment with one hand. "Go on, Daroga…she is well, did you say?"
"She is fine, Erik, hidden from public and official view. She was able to bamboozle two of my agents who recognized her at the Parc Lyon two days past, escaping capture and much unpleasantness." When Erik's expression became alarmed at this revelation, Nadir added, "The Mademoiselle landed in good hands there…the Countess recognized her and whisked her away. The Countess is a confidante of the Mademoiselle's sister, Lady Van Cliffe, who is also in Lyon." Nadir gave a short chuckle. "Aislyne Butler has astonishing luck, I swear. She is an amazing woman, Erik."
"You need not tell me that, Daroga." Nadir was relieved to see the easing of his friend's tension.
"I am sure I do not. The Mademoiselle is also safe where she is, as I know the Countess Grantham well. And now, let us talk about you, my friend." Setting his empty cup and saucer upon the small table set between the two chairs, Kahn tapped the back of Erik's hand where it clenched the arm of his chair.
"Talk? There is nothing to talk about, Daroga. I am being hunted by Zamir Ibn Hashim, who is assuredly also seeking the woman he found in the underground chambers where he expected to find me. He knows who she is, and knowing Hashim, he wants to torture her to torture me. So…I must find him before he finds Aislyne and kill him." At Nadir's expression, Erik's brow lowered. "Now what? You do not approve?"
"What if you were to leave France…go far away? Perhaps then you would not have Hashim's blood on your hands. You and Mademoiselle Butler…I thought…"
Erik launched himself from the chair, and began pacing, his arms wrapped tightly about his chest. After several assays about the room, he stopped by the fireplace, his eyes on the dying fire. "She said her heart was mine, Daroga. We held each other, and she kissed me. She kissed me!" Kahn was transfixed at the vulnerable cast to Erik's features, and the gentle timber in his voice. As if remembering that kiss, Erik's eyes had closed, and his fingers crept to his lips, touching them.
"It is not too late, Erik. You can still leave here, with the Mademoiselle. It is a very big world, my friend, and even Hashim's reach is not infinite."
Erik stared into the fire for a second more, then returned to his chair, his expression bleak. "Now that Hashim knows I am alive, he will not stop until he finds me…finds us…again. And it is Aislyne he will go after first. He will hurt her, Daroga, and then he will kill her…and that I cannot allow."
Nadir felt sick, knowing Erik was right, watching as the man again left his chair to pace before the fireplace.
"How can I ask Aislyne to share my life…go anywhere…if it will mean she faces Hashim again some far-off day? He wants revenge, Daroga, and will never stop now that he is sure I am alive. So…I must kill him." Stopping before the older man's chair, Erik held out his shaking hands, his eyes hard. "But by doing so…by saving Aislyne from Hashim, I render myself unfit to offer her my soul, Daroga. I will be irreparably damned, and she with me if she chooses to stay."
Unsure of what the troubled man meant, Nadir could only advise him, "I think you need to discuss this with the lady herself, my son."
Yet Erik continued in that vein, saying, "You see, my friend…nothing has changed. I am the Devil's Child. And once I kill Hashim, I will also then be a monster and a murderer…my very soul lost. I will only damn both of us if I then return to Aislyne."
Nadir Kahn was shaken to the heart by the man's words, realizing exactly what he planned to do. Pushing forward on the chair, Nadir said, "My friend, you make no sense to me. It is not like you to talk of such things! Why, when have you ever believed in the soul?"
Erik again stared into the waning fire. "Daroga, I have spent my life denying the spiritual nature of man, believing it to be nothing but a shell game foisted upon the naive by the Church. Heaven and Hell…one's ultimate fate…and your incessant lectures on the inestimable worth of one's soul…" Giving a strange bark of laughter, Erik turned to smile at Nadir. "I thought such talk nothing but table-knocking and spirit lights…a particularly clumsy form of magic. Am I not a master magician? You and I both know that is naught but redirection and sleight of hand."
Kahn could only nod, his eyes fast upon the strange expression that now lit Erik de'Carpentier's face.
"Daroga, there was a reason Aislyne Butler was sent to me. A reason that goes far beyond that of shepherding me across France and Italy. She was sent to…ah…well, suffice to say, it was not as you might expect."
Nadir openly showed his doubt. "And she told you this?"
"No, of course not. Well...actually, I believe she tried, but I could not then comprehend what she meant." Erik's face gradually fell, the light leaving his features, his eyes darkening. "But I must stop Hashim from ever harming her. And in doing so, I render myself…unsuitable."
Nadir Kahn pushed himself back into his chair, and snapped at his downcast friend, "Erik, you speak nonsense! Kill Hashim if you must, but it changes nothing! The Mademoiselle believes you murdered Umbaldo Piangi. She loves you despite this."
"Yes, but I know I did not take Piangi's life." Erik stared into the dark past Nadir, his face falling. "I cannot escape my past, can I? All of those who died by my hand at the order of the Khanum and her cursed whelp…in Mazandaran…in Tehran…" Erik's voice became rough, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
"Erik, you were ordered by the Shah…by the Sultana Khanum … You were so damned young! You never had a choice!"
"Daroga, the Sultana knew she could manipulate me into doing what she wanted. I resisted her demands…but I could not fight them both, she without, and the…the anger within." Erik's eyes were again wide, seeing past the walls of the room, into some personal unimaginable hell. "I cannot bury the Devil's Child…I have tried to do so these past weeks. Aislyne…I nearly killed her, once. Did you know that?"
Nadir could only shake his head, numb at his young friend's words.
"She left her bed on the Pullman one morning to fetch a drink, awakening me where I slept in her Pullman on the floor. Foolishly, I grabbed her from behind to stop her from screaming with fright when she saw me." Erik's lips curved upward, as he continued. "She surprised me instead, nearly breaking my ribs and pulverizing my right foot in retaliation…and then realized it was me. She turned, apologizing…and looked into my eyes…without fear.
"But I was so angry…" Erik rubbed carefully at his eyes, and continued. "And suddenly I was…overcome with the need to put my hands about her neck and watch her die…"
Nadir shivered as Erik's hands clenched, long fingers white with strain. Erik's hands were weapons no man took for granted. "But you did not hurt her, Erik."
Looking up at the Daroga, Erik said, "The Khanum demanded I look into the eyes of those whom I…executed…look into their eyes as they died. She said…she said it would free me of the terrible guilt…that I might sleep at night again without nightmares." Rocking his head side to side, Erik's voice grew harsh with dark anger. "And I believed the raving bitch!"
"Instead, I found my mind preoccupied with the business of death…and I grew to desire the thrill of humbling those who openly abused me to my face, who called me unspeakable names. Who denied me my humanity! In their eyes I saw their terror as they realized they were dying at my hand. Their eyes…" Erik's forearm covered his face, and he sagged against the mantle. Voice weak, he continued. "For years afterward I could not look into another's eyes without rousing the angry monster within, and the memory of that desire! Even Christine…"
'As if I needed another reason to hate that woman, and her miserable son', Nadir thought sadly.
Erik pushed back from the mantle, and Nadir nearly cried out at the sight of his friend's face, bone white against the dark ersatz beard. "Erik…you have changed. You are no longer the man you were in Persia."
The smile that crossed Erik's face was nearly hidden by the ridiculous mustache…but heartbreaking all the same. "I have changed, Daroga. Before I was a monster…now I am a monster in love. I have known peace…I have been loved."
Nadir rose from his chair, his hands before him. "I see no monster, Erik. I see a man…who is still lost in his past! You are no longer alone, my friend. You are no longer the Sultana's slave, or living in exile beneath the opera house."
Laughing softly, Erik whispered, "Aislyne once said to me, 'set your thoughts and hopes to the future. Give up the past!' It is lowering to think the two who are closest to my heart are so aligned in their thinking."
Nadir felt as if he might weep, but instead smiled gently, saying, "You choose wise friends, my son."
Erik turned his head to again look into the now dying fire. "Daroga, anger and death again seek to overrun my mind and soul. Once I kill the assassin, I am lost forever, beyond recall. Aislyne cannot save me from this, and she is surely doomed if she stays with me. She needs to move on...find her salvation with another, and leave me to my…fate." Erik wiped furiously at his eyes.
Deeply shaken by his friend's words, Kahn strode forward, arms outstretched. "Erik…no. No, you must not do this. You will break her heart… You will break your own!"
Turning away, Erik strode to the doors leading out into the hall of the hotel. Voice low, but rough with emotion, he said, "I want you to get Aislyne Butler out of France…take her to England…take her to the ends of the earth, if you must…but take her far from me. Once I have…dealt with Hashim I can no longer help her…I am useless to her. I want you to do this, Daroga. You brought her into my life…and now you must take her safely out of it."
Then he was gone…slipping through the doors like smoke. For a moment Nadir Kahn stood at the fireplace, wondering if he were instead still asleep in his bed, having dreamed the entire episode.
