Chapter Two: Dangerous Liasons

Nadir moved quietly through the marketplace, stopping every now and then to give alms to the beggars. He had not come to the marketplace to shop, or even to look about. Erik had sent him on a search for someone brave or foolish enough to carry out this rescue mission.

It had been one of the biggest shocks of Nadir's life to walk into Erik's bedroom that very morning, and find not Erik, but a woman fast asleep in his bed!

At least no one could ever accuse you of being a bore, my friend. You will be the death of me one of these days.

And this just might be the day.

Nadir was entering the port district, where the ships were docked. This area was stocked with taverns and other houses of leisure—some reputable, most not. It also had a healthy supply of cutthroats and other assorted reprobates.

In other words, not the ideal place for the daroga of Mazenderan to be wandering about.

However, it was still safer than allowing Erik to do it himself, which had been the original plan. Nadir had argued (and won) that his presence would not attract as much attention as Erik's own. Or the presence of the servant girl, Sadira, for that matter, when she had offered her own services in exasperation, after politely listening to the argument for a half an hour.

Nadir had taken the precaution of wearing his oldest clothes, so that he more or less blended in with the locals. Besides being recognized, the other problem that he faced was finding a man to take the job.

The streets were scattered with garbage, which Nadir tried at first to avoid, then eventually gave up. If he were covered in dirt, he would most likely blend in more. The tavern was just up ahead. According to his men, that was where most of the mercenaries could be found.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the smoke-filled tavern, just barely managing not to cough.

Well, at least they aren't cats, he thought wryly.

Stepping over to the serving bench, he ordered a drink, knowing perfectly well that anything this place would serve was pure swill. Of course, he didn't intend to drink it, but it was important not to stand out in any way.

"I am looking to hire a mercenary," he said, handing a coin to the landlord. "Is there anyone here I might speak to?"

"Not tha' I know of," the landlord replied. By his red eyes and foul breath, he had most likely been sampling his own merchandise.

"Come now," Nadir replied, placing another coin on the bar.

"Might be someone through tha' door," the landlord replied, indicating with one unsteady finger a beaded curtain leading to the next room.

"Thank you," Nadir said, getting up and resisting the temptation to brush off the back of his robes.

His attempts to reach the curtain were thwarted twice, first by a tall man that continued to block his way, and then another man, probably drunk, who kept falling on him. It was most aggravating.

Finally, Nadir reached the other side of the room, and peered through the beaded curtain.


At first, he could make out nothing but a wooden table, but upon second glance their seemed to be a man passed out on it. He was obviously foreign—he had to be, no Persian had hair that shade of gold. Though his skin was tan, it was light skin tanned dark from what little Nadir could see in the dim light.

Before he could so much as push the curtain aside, Nadir was seized roughly by the shoulders from behind, and shoved into the room.

Landing hard on his side (and letting out a string of profanities that would have made half the brigands in the tavern blush), he saw that the man who had seemed to be passed out was now very much awake.

"Now, Jacques, there's no need to be so rough," he said, addressing the man that had seized Nadir.

The man in question, Jacques, was tall, muscular and grim-faced. He glowered down at Nadir as though he did not at all agree with his companion.

Two other men entered the room, both foreigners as well. They blocked the doorway effectively.

The blond man offered his hand to help Nadir up, and he accepted reluctantly.

"You are new in this place, I take it?" he asked with a smile.

"You might say that," Nadir replied.

"I do say that," he replied dryly. His accent, Nadir noted, was decidedly French, although he spoke Farsi quite well. "My companions overheard your discussion with our esteemed landlord, and we thought you might be paying us a visit."

"That was very quick of them."

"You learn to think on your feet in this place," the man replied. "My name is Sebastien de Chagny, by the way. I am captain of the ship Le Reve, and this is my crew—well, some if it, anyway. Who are you?"

"My name is Nadir Khan."

"Pleased to meet you," Captain de Chagny replied. "You must be the daroga, then?"

Captain, indeed! Nadir thought. The man before him was less than thirty, but had a boyish demeanor that made him seem much younger.  He was tall and of a somewhat lanky build, though he moved with an assurance that denoted his awkward appearance. His blond hair was badly in need of trimming, and flopped with an annoying determination into his eyes.

"How did you know—"

"I made sure I knew your name when I arrived in Mazenderan. We've had some trouble with the law before, you see, and it doesn't do to be caught unawares. Middle Eastern prisons are rather uncomfortable."

Chagny made a motion with his hand to one of the men behind Nadir, and the man left the room.

"Guard," he explained upon seeing the look on Nadir's face. "I don't wish to be interrupted, since I'm positively burning with curiosity. What do you need a mercenary for, precisely?"

Nadir frowned…this man didn't talk like most of the foreign mercenaries he had met, nor did he look like one. Still, if Nadir knew one thing, it was that a face did not necessarily reveal all about a person.

"A rescue mission," he replied. "A lady of the court, the Shah's sister, is held against her will in the palace. She is kept under opium most of the time, and cannot even remember her own children. I am employed by one who wishes her free and reunited with her children."

"A very noble cause," Chagny replied dourly. "But if I might ask, why should I wish to endanger my men on such a mission?"

Nadir tossed a purse full of gold onto the table. Chagny opened it, and examined the contents.

"A substantial reason," he remarked, raising his eyebrows as he turned back to Nadir. "But not enough to make me consider it."

"Twice that will be paid to you when the princess and the children are safe."

"It isn't the money," Chagny replied. "Who, precisely, are you working for, Khan?"

"He does not wish to be named," Nadir replied. "But he is a friend, and he will honor his debts should you take the assignment."

"I want to speak to him," Chagny responded, folding his arms over his chest and stepping closer to Nadir. "Tell your employer, or friend, or what have you, to meet me here and speak to me himself tonight. In the meantime, I will confer with my crew, to see if any of them wish to endanger their lives for a mystery man. Then I shall tell you if I am interested in your assignment or not."

On a practical level, Nadir understood Captain de Chagny's point of view. If he had another choice, he would not endanger his own fellow policemen for someone he had never met. But given that the 'mystery man' in question was Erik, the captain might not know what he was getting himself into.

"There are other mercenaries," Nadir pointed out.

"As I am well aware," Chagny replied. "But I assume you wish for one of the non-local variety, correct? Someone who could not be bought off? That kind of mercenary is much more difficult to find. Please understand, I am only doing what is best for my men. Tell your friend to meet me here tonight, a little after eight. If he wishes to talk, then I will be here to listen. If not…all the best of luck with your search."

He snapped his fingers, and Jacques held open the beaded curtain for Nadir to pass though.

"Fare you well, sir," Captain de Chagny said.

Nadir did not reply, merely nodded. He turned, and regarded Jacques with an evil eye for a moment. Finally, he brushed the beads aside, ignoring the space that had been opened for him, and entered the cloud of smoke and alcohol that constituted the tavern.

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Pareesa lay on her back in a cloud of pillows on the floor, arms and legs stretched out almost lazily, as she breathed in the opium smoke.

Oh, that's better...I cannot feel anything, and that is for the best. I could suffocate right here, and it would be wonderful. Mother couldn't hurt me anymore, and I would be with Mirza again.

What would Mirza think of her, if he could see her now? She had always been different from everyone else in her family, in that she had a conscience and listened to it. According to her mother and brother, her conscience made her weak. Growing up, she had always been afraid—for her family, for herself. And not without good reason, in this treacherous Mazenderan court.

When one grew up that way, one developed a certain cynical philosophy. Too many times Pareesa had seen virtue rewarded with death and betrayal, and she'd thought more than once that her own demise would not be far off.

And then she'd married Mirza Taqui Khan. At first he had seemed too good to be true—how could her brother possibly choose an honorable man for her, given his own character? Pareesa had loved Mirza's honest reputation before the man himself. And he had shown her what unconditional love could be like.

But he had paid for his honorable ways. In crossing the wrong person—if the definition of the word could be stretched to include that Erik—he had betrayed her in the worst way possible. He had given her hope, then left her alone.

Alone, yet surrounded by people…how ironic!

"Sadira?" she called weakly.

The maid had been with her for years, even before Pareesa had married Mirza. Sadira was the only person left that Pareesa could still trust. The only person who was still loyal to her.

"I am here, my lady," came Sadira's calm, gentle voice from nearby. "Do you wish for refreshment?"

"No. Just come and sit with me, Sadira."

A few moments later, the maid obeyed, and Pareesa could feel her presence not far away.

"I am sorry I was not present this morning, my lady."

"You weren't? Oh, yes, that's right. Did one of the men send for you?" Pareesa was somewhat disgusted with the practice herself, but in her experience men did not wish to hear their habits criticized.

"Yes, my lady."

"Was he gentle?" Pareesa asked suddenly. "Did he hurt you, Sadira?"

"No, my lady. He was…very kind indeed."



                                                                ********************************

If only you knew, my lady! Sadira thought wryly. If her mistress ever found out that she had spent the night in Erik's bed (albeit as platonically as could be), there was a good chance of the princess rising out of her opium-induced stupor to slap her as hard as possible.


Which was almost enough to make Sadira consider it. Pareesa's health was beginning to fade as the opium took an even stronger hold. Seeing her once-strong mistress sink to such a low was unbearable. Nothing less would have driven Sadira to visit Erik.

Even that morning, he had been kind—in his own way. There were moments when Sadira could scarcely believe this was the same man that had ordered her former master's death.

But he had gotten a maid to rouse her the next morning, and led her to the breakfast table—where he proceeded to invite her to dine with him and the daroga, as an equal, no less! She had accepted, and the daroga and Erik began to argue about what was to be done. She had listened silently, too shy to offer her own suggestion, until Erik finally asked her. In the end, the daroga left to find a mercenary to carry out the more dangerous aspects of the work.

Privately Sadira hated the idea of her mistress in the hands of some vile mercenary, but if he could liberate her from this guilded cage…

A knock sounded at the door of the chamber.

"Answer it, Sadira."

"Yes, my lady."

Sadira rose, and opened the door. The vizier's son Ahmad, Pareesa's new husband, stood on the other side. He was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and dressed impeccably in robes of royal blue brocade.

"You may leave," he said, his cold dark eyes looking right through her. "I wish to be alone with my wife."

"Of course, Master. Mistress, please call if you need anything."

"I will, Sadira," Pareesa replied. "Go now."

Sadira left, glancing backward once at Ahmad, who was observing the prone figure of his wife lying on the cushions with a smile that she did not like.

Seething inside, she let the door slam shut.

                                                                *********************************

"WHAT?!" Erik roared. "No! Absolutely not! Of all the arrogant, stubborn, demanding—"

He brought his fist down on a nearby table, coming precariously close to smashing a valuable flower vase.

So this Captain de Chagny wants to meet me, does he? I suppose he must fancy himself brave!

Nadir stood back, something very like a smile playing about his lips. "Actually, Erik…it sounds like something you might do."

"It does not."

"Yes, it does.'

"No, it doesn't!"

"Does."

"Doesn't! Daroga, I will use you for my next experiment in amusing deaths if you continue this ridiculous conversation!"

"I thought you were tired of entertaining that evil woman," Nadir replied calmly. "Besides, it is the princess you wish to help, is it not?"

"Well, of course it is!" Erik snapped. "But that doesn't mean that I must cater to the wishes of some common sea captain and his wretched crew!"

"Why not? All you must do is meet with the captain. He only wishes to talk with you, or at least, that is what he said. Besides, we must move as quickly as possible before the khanum or the shah finds out what we are up to," Nadir said reasonably.

Erik frowned, his dead features twisting with the expression. He had temporarily forgotten about that particular problem. He let out a sigh of disgust.

"Oh, very well! What time must I be there?"

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Sebastien de Chagny took another sip of his wine, stretching his legs underneath the table. Persian wine was really quite good—very unusual in taste, and certainly different from French wine. Potent as hell, though. He had better take care not to drink too much.

"And 'ow do we know that this mystery man will even show?" Richard, one of his crew members, demanded. The others were gathered around the table, waiting and drinking. There were times when Sebastien was infinitely grateful that they had been able to acquire this room for their private use—he would have dearly loved to thrash Richard without anyone else seeing. But now was not the time.

"We don't," Sebastien replied. "But if he isn't here within the hour, then the rest of you may go back to the ship."

Richard gave him a rather sulky look, and went back to his own wine. The man had never liked Sebastien, and he suspected it was because Sebastien had grown up privileged, having been born to one of the wealthiest families in Europe.

Not that the family in question ever mentions me, Sebastien thought wryly. He was far too opinionated and forthright, making him a social liability. The first chance his father had gotten, he had sent him off to join the French Navy. And now here he was, surrounded by mercenaries.

To think, I might someday have become respectable. What a horrible fate!

"Are Jules and Henri in position?" Sebastien asked.

"Yes," replied his first mate, Raphael.

"Good. I suppose all we must do is wait—"

Just then, Jules and Henri barreled in, as though shot out of a cannon. The men around the table leaped to their feet, some reaching for their weapons. It was not at their two fellow members that the weapons were directed, however—it was the figure behind them.

He emerged from the smoke and haze of the tavern like the Grim Reaper, completely dressed in black. The hood of his cloak was pulled up, and it seemed that in this dim light, the man had no face. Sebastien and his men were far from cowards, but something about his potential 'client' caused an iciness to collect in the pit of his stomach all the same.

Behind him was another figure, much less threatening. It was the daroga. Sebastien let out an inaudible sigh of relief, and the part of his brain still working thanked the heavens that they had not sent Death to come for him just yet.

"You must be Master Khan's friend," Sebastien said in Farsi, placing his own dagger on the table. "Forgive the hostility—you can put your weapons away, gentleman."

The sailors obeyed, muttering to themselves and stealing sidelong glances at this sinister figure.

"Are you satisfied, Captain de Chagny?" the tall man in black asked, his voice cutting through the haze like a knife through butter, in the same language.  "As you can see, I do exist."

"So I've seen," Sebastien replied politely. "What is your name, pray tell?"

The man did not have any accent that Sebastien could place, yet he spoke Farsi with a carefulness and smoothness not characteristic of the local population. Perhaps he was a European?

"It would do you little good to know."

"Nevertheless, I ask it anyway. My crew and I have talked, and we will agree to complete your mission, for the price offered—and your name. Working for anonymous employers has led us to trouble in the past, you see."

"Your caution is well warranted, especially in this country," the man replied smoothly. "My name is Erik. But if you are caught, I do not know you and have never seen you. And if you mention my name, I will kill you myself." The dark glint in his eyes made the truth of his words all too apparent.

So you are a European, after all, Sebastien thought. 'Erik' certainly was not a Persian name.

"Then we have a deal," Sebastien said with a smile. "What is it you need done?" He switched to French, for the benefit of Jacques, who barely understood his own language, let alone any foreign ones. "Jacques, obtiennent svp à notre employeur du vin."


"I wish for no refreshment," Erik replied smoothly, also in French. "I came only to satisfy the vulgar curiosities of common sailors."

Jacques reached for his weapon, but Sebastien lay a hand on his beefy arm.

"While you are here, however, you may as well tell us the assignment," he said, with the same calm as before. "And I must point out that we are anything but common, but you could hardly be expected to know that."

Erik gave him a look that would have stopped an elephant in its tracks. "As you wish…Captain." The inflection of his words made the term 'Captain' sound as if it were on the same level as 'rat catcher' or 'sewage cleaner'.

Sebastien bristled, although he tried not to show his irritation. His fellow sailors needed only the slightest encouragement to attack this man, and the last thing he wanted was a brawl.

"Well, then?" he asked.

"As you have doubtless been informed by the daroga, there is a lady of the court who is a prisoner in the palace. She is kept under opium, and separated from her children. I wish all of them free. Next week is the No Ruz celebration, at which I will perform. I will need the help of you and your crew if I am to be successful, and a place to hide the lady afterward."

"What must we do?" Sebastien asked.