Ch 6

Erik made his way to the rooftop without anyone noticing him. On his way up the stairs, he had glanced into the room and found the crowd packed together. Mr. Patel had been standing on a chair at the far end shouting and clapping his hands to quiet the room. The commotion was head-splitting, though Erik stood to watch for a moment and guessed at what Padir was saying to his friends and relatives.

Padir Patel spoke Hindi while some of Girish Baleeze's relatives spoke Tamil. Few of them spoke anything Erik recognized—French, German, English, bits of Spanish. He had picked up enough phrases in Persia to communicate, but not enough to feel comfortable with the language. For a while he had considered himself fortunate that the little Sultana had taken lessons in French and English.

Fortune and the Sultana, Erik thought, two words that did not go together.

The rain had not yet started to fall as Erik made his way to the rooftop, but he heard the sound of thunder as it rumbled in the distance. The tremor through the sky reminded Erik of standing before the Shah's palace. The onion-shaped towers had stolen his breath. Architecture and exotic design had driven him from France in search of places he had only known from books. The moment he stood in the courtyard beneath a white stone archway, he had known that stealing his mother's heirloom rings had been worth it.

At the time, Persia had seemed perfect in every way. He had been eighteen and thought that his advanced education increased his knowledge and power in the world. How wrong he had been. He had known nothing. The extent of his talent was reduced to floor plans and ideas stolen by his senior comrades.

Applause replaced the growl of thunder and the thoughts of Persia faded from his mind. He inhaled the scent of rain and marigolds which crowded their hammered metal bowls. The cool breeze rocked the flower containers on their brass chains.

Erik suddenly felt very lonely as he stood above the rest of the world. The engagement was official. Girish Baleeze had Anisha Patel's hand promised to him. He had barely met Anisha Patel, which made the devastation he felt in the arrangement completely unwarranted. The emptiness of the parapet bothered him. Before, when the evening had been filled with guests and points of interest, he had enjoyed the view. A line of banyan trees stood between the old Patel House and where the new one would soon be erected. Beyond that mangoes grew.

Even after a month of staring at the same West Bengal landscape, Erik still couldn't quite quell his fascination with banyan trees. They were grotesque with their vein-like branches mangled around each other. The trunk appeared stunted as the roots came up from the earth and created even more trees all tangled together. The head of Medusa, he had thought the first time he had seen the trees, the head of Medusa on a fleshless neck.

Everything in West Bengal was teetering on the edge of foreign and familiar. The little exploring he had done had shown him that economy was secondary to music and theater. Had Dareesh not been twenty kilometers from any point of interest Erik would have dove with enthusiasm into both theater and music.

Instead he was on a plantation designing a home for one of the richest men in all of West Bengal. It seemed Mr. Patel was amongst the few who valued money over art. His wife was the only reason anything hung on the walls and Erik had not yet met the woman. She was in Italy the last he had heard.

Patel's daughter more than made up for his lack of refinery. Erik squeezed his hands into fists as he pictured himself where his roommate had been earlier and withAnisha on top. He shut his eyes for a moment and peeled back the layers of silk that draped her body. What was beneath her sari but a kingdom he wanted to explore? His mouth grew dry as he pried at his lewd fantasies, slowly unraveling each fiber of his lust. He could only imagine what it would feel like to touch Anisha.

Another obsession, he thought with a rueful sigh. First the inner workings of clocks and whatever else he could disassemble around the house had caught his fancy. Then buildings and design had devoured every waking moment. His mother would have been beside herself to know her son had now found a new obsession, one which was far more dangerous than calculating floor plans. She always had sworn that she would have rather had a son that was a simpleton than one who was in constant need of stimulation.

It was a good thing he hadn't written his parents in two years. They would have been horrified to know of his travels. Besides, at this point they most likely assumed he was dead. No need to resurrect the insolent, thieving son.

A stone skittered across the ground and startled Erik back to the dreary night.

"But of course," Erik heard Ravi say from behind.

Erik rolled his eyes before he turned to face Ravi. "But of course what?"

"My uncle has been searching for you. I told him you would be up here like a king above the world."

"I had hoped to be sleeping by now."

"Oh? Thought you would try the roof?"

Erik stepped up onto the parapet and glanced at the torches below. Several guests were making their way into the night. "No. My room was…occupied."

"My uncle suggested that perhaps we take you to Chandernagore so that you feel more at home."

Erik smirked to himself. He had passed through 'moon city' on his way from thriving Calcutta north to Dareesh. Chandernagore had faded over the years as Calcutta continued to grow, and the city along the Hughli River became a charming yet insignificant town.

The highlight was that it was still under French control and Erik found that he wasn't as far from home as he had first thought. Travel to Chandernagore, however, had been brief. Just when the grand buildings staring out at the river began to inspire him it was time to travel to Dareesh and meet his new employer.

"I have plans to submit by the end of the week. As much as I would rather be with the French than here I must seek approval for my designs."

"That will have to wait a week. Mr. Patel is leaving for business in the morning."

Erik turned to face him. "And Girish?"

"Gone as well." Ravi hesitated. "Anisha will meet you for discussion once her betrothed returns."

That meant she was staying in Dareesh, Erik speculated. The beautiful young woman would be at home while her fiancée and father were away on business. It was wicked to enjoy that thought and Erik knew it. Engaged, he told himself, forbidden fruit.

Ravi stepped forward as Erik maintained his pensive silence. "Forget her, Erik," he warned. "Before Mr. Patel notices, before Mr. Baleeze notices, just forget my cousin."

Erik attempted to avoid an argument with Ravi. "Am I to travel to Chandernagore alone?"

"Corinna will most likely attend if her father doesn't send a telegram by tomorrow afternoon. You are still required to look after her though I suspect you won't have to carry that burden much longer."

"Don't insult her," Erik snapped. "It's despicable how your people haven't an ounce of respect for women."

Ravi rolled his eyes. "My people? You know nothing of my culture. I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself while you are a visitor here."

"Why are you uphere? Shouldn't you be congratulating the new couple?"

Ravi backed away toward the stairs keeping his eyes steady on Erik. "I already congratulated Mr. Baleeze and Anisha. Now I must protect her."

"From what?"

"Erik, there will be no other warning."

Erik turned away. "Warning for what? What are you insinuating. I haven't done a damned thing."

"For your own sake, be certain it stays that way."

Erik stayed on the roof for a while longer after Ravi left him. The night air had cooled considerably. Erik crossed his arms and sat down on the tile edge of a fountain, feeling a light drizzle on his hands and face. He wasn't sure if it was water from the fountain or from the dark storm clouds that rippled with lightning.

Lotus flowers swirled toward the curved edges of the fountain. Erik reached down and touched a flower and instantly regretted it. He knew that in Hindu the lotus was a symbol of purity and life. Perhaps it was best left alone.

In France Erik had only seen coins tossed into fountains. In Persia it had been fish. The sultan had giant koi, white-scales speckled with orange and black that shimmed their way through the water. Some had large, bulbous eyes and others had long tails that had reminded Erik of birds. They were only fish but were nothing like he had ever seen before.

He had been gazing at the fish when the sultana had first come to him with a request.

Only her pale green eyes had been visible. The rest of her face had been hidden behind scarves. She walked up behind him like a ghost in her leather sandals. He hadn't heard her approach until she stood behind him with a dagger at his neck and her hand across his chest.

"It is unwise for you to be so unaware," she had said. The curved blade had pressed into his throat hard enough to cause pain yet not enough to draw blood.

"My sincerest apologies," he had whispered back. He had learned enough of the sultan's daughter to know she would throw down a death sentence when it suited her mood.

The blade had lowered and she had moved to his side. Her eyes had twinkled in macabre delight. He had never seen such cold eyes before. Goosebumps had risen along his arms when he looked her in the eye. "Come, Frenchman, I have need of your talents in other areas of architecture."

Erik had followed her obediently. "What is it you need, Blessed Sultana?"

She glanced at him from over her shoulder. "A torture chamber for the insolent; one situated below my apartments."

Erik had furrowed his brow. "But the sound would come through the floors—"

"I know."

He had shivered at the honey-drip of pleasure that had resonated in her voice. She wanted to listen to the blood-letting and begging.

"I need a mirror built into the ceiling so that I may watch but none shall see me," she requested. "Can you do that?"

My God, he had thought, she wants to watch them die.

"I—I'm not certain."

"Can it be done, Frenchman?" she asked again.

Erik gave a hesitant nod. "I believe it can."

The torture chamber took seven days to design and six months to build. The mirror had been placed into the floor first so that the sultana could watch the workers and their progress. None knew that she watched them throughout the work day. No one knew she spied on them until one of the workers named Amur had disappeared.

Amur, a man who spent more time drinking from the water cup than working, became the test of the torture chamber's efficiency. Erik had stood beside the sultana for the christening. Hands clasped behind his back he watched the lights turn on one by one and illuminate the steel forest.

"How long will it take him to die?" the sultana had mused aloud.

"I don't know," Erik had replied. He glanced nervously around her apartment in an attempt to take his mind off the man screaming beneath the floor. More lamps turned on and increased the temperature. The man was roasting to death.

"If he survives six days I will release him," she had replied. She looked to Erik and saw that he no longer watched. "If in six days he still lives you have failed me. Do you know what will happen if you fail me, Frenchman?"

"I will not fail," he said to her. He leaned forward and glanced again at Amur. In less than two hours the man was already giving in to the scorching heat and his deliverance at the treetop.

The sultana had squeezed Erik's arm as Amur placed the noose around his own neck and jumped from the metal tree branch. She dug her fingernails into his bicep when the rope had stretched taut. A moan left her lips, a sound of pure pleasure in what she witnessed.

"Interesting," the sultana had whispered. "But he was weak. Build me something better, something far more pleasing. I will have ten criminals at your disposal within a week."

She had looked to Erik one last time, and though her face was veiled and her smile remained unseen, he swore she wore a sinister smile. In her jade eyes he saw a flash and knew what she wanted him to design.

If he did not comply, he would be responsible for his own death.