Summers in Nijni Novgorod were mercifully mild, but the tens of thousands of visitors at the Makaryev Fair seemed to overwhelm the weather.

Nadir, who was titled Khan and held the post of Daroga in Mazandaran, stood some ways away from the fairgrounds. He observed the masses with a critical eye, well-practiced in the art of seeing dangers and assessing risk. Where to begin with this varied and variable crowd? He saw the costumes of dozens of lands— Indians and Turks, his fellow Persians and their cousin Tajiks, Pashtuns from Afghanistan, silk-garbed Chinese and the sturdy Slavs… The babble of languages blended into a strange trade jargon.

"Do you think he will be in the main exhibition hall?" Nadir's young servant, Darius, tried to keep his expression bland. He was failing. Poor lad, Nadir mused, for this to be his first trip out of Persia.

Nadir shook his head. "I think not. He is a popular amusement, but he also speaks to the fears of superstition. He will be on the outskirts—perhaps towards the rear."

"Do you think he is really as terrible as all that?" Darius asked. He had not yet learned the value of silence, but Nadir was sure that due discretion would come to him in time.

"No," Nadir confessed, "nor do I suppose he is as wonderful, either. Traders deal as much in hashish as in tales."

"It would be quite something if it were all true," Darius commented, "a man with the face of a demon and the voice of an angel."

"I believe we will find this man to be little more than a simple illusionist," Nadir said, "perhaps a fine one—but an illusionist nonetheless."

"But, if—"

"That's quite enough, boy," Nadir cut him off. "I am in not in the habit of speculating. It is a bad habit for an investigator and I will not be drawn into it at this point in my life."

Darius was sufficiently chastised. "Of course, agha."

"Let us proceed," Nadir stated.

It was easy to be distracted once they entered into the midst of the fair—not even the most bustling bazaars in Tabriz came close to showcasing such a wide array of wares. Nadir supposed that there had to be some reason why this particular annual gathering had survived for nearly three hundred years, continually growing in acclaim and notoriety. Nadir found that he was compelled to stop every so often, simply to stare at some curiosity. He shook himself free of these fancies, always making sure to inquire where he could find his objective. Every time he mentioned the man in question, he was met by the same look of repulsed fascination. They all sent him continuing on his way.

As he suspected, the tent was back beyond the main exhibition hall, rather out of the way and utterly deserted for the moment. The tent was of a typical pentagonal shape, made of faded red Romani cloth. The front flap was drawn closed and a sign was posted in front of it. Six languages were represented in sloppy painted letters. They all read, go away.

Nadir exchanged a glance with Darius. The young man appeared to steel his nerves and went forward to announce his master's arrival—Nadir held him back at the last. "I shall go myself."

There was no mistaking the relief on Darius's face.

Nadir approached the entrance of the tent. "Salaam," he said in a loud, clear voice. If the sign was any indication, the man inside had some small grasp of the Persian tongue, and Nadir would not underestimate the potential benefit of greeting this man with the word peace.

From inside, a voice boomed, "go away!"

Nadir almost turned and fled, so commanding was the speaker's tone. But he was not a man given to sudden motion. He stood his ground. "I come from the court of His Most High Majesty, the Pivot of the Universe, the Shahanshah of the Persian Empire—"

"And I have finished with today's performances! Come back tomorrow!"

The impertinent tone in the man's voice piqued Nadir's annoyance. "I do not seek a performance!"

The tent flaps flared open suddenly and Nadir came face to face with the very devil. At least the mask of a devil—painted red with great black horns and a grotesque smile of pointed teeth. Beyond that, he was garbed in a well-worn coat of Circassian style and striped trousers. His fingers were abnormally long and much scarred. He was not much taller than Nadir, but he was frighteningly lean and seemed to tower over him.

Nadir cleared his throat. "Are you… the Animate Corpse?"

"What?" The man cocked his head forcibly and hunched down a little. Nadir realized that the eyeholes of the mask were quite small, and the man's vision was likely obscured. "What?"

"Are you the man they call the Animate Corpse?"

"I most certainly am not!" he exclaimed. "I am Le Mort Vivant. Le Mort Vivant. Say it with me: Le Mort Vivant!"

Nadir obliged in repeating the odd, foreign sounds. The man was most assuredly mad. "German, isn't it?"

"French," 'Le Mort Vivant' said. "It is 'the Living Death,' not the 'Animate Corpse.' The 'Animate Corpse' in French would be—"

"But you are he?" Nadir asked. "You sing."

"You mean: in spite of my terrible face, I sing?" The Living Death cackled beneath his mask. "Yes, I do!"

"I have been sent to meet you—to ascertain the truth of your… glorious voice—"

"And heinous visage, yes."

Nadir continued on, as if the interruption had not occurred. "And if the reports are proved to be correct, to bring you to the illustrious Court of my Master, His Most High—"

"—Majesty, the Pivot of the Universe, the Shahanshah of the Persian Empire, Naser al-Din, Shah Qajar, He Who Defers to His Most Royal Mama at Most Every Turn—"

Nadir was horrified to hear his own voice issue forth from the demonic mask. His dismay must have shown, for the monster soon started laughing. It was a strange, shrill laugh, accompanied by an excessive shaking of the man's thin shoulders.

"Oh, you should see your face," the man was still laughing, and it became difficult to think of him by his assumed appellation, "oh, that was just too funny." He straightened his posture and waved Nadir away. "I have no desire to go to the illustrious court of your Most High Master. Goodbye, Errand Boy." He inclined his head towards Darius, "Errand Boy's Errand Boy." He turned on his heel to return to the tent, but Nadir reached out to stop him.

Long years in the Shah's service, which frequently brought Nadir in close contact with all manner of unsavory elements, had lent Nadir good instincts. At this point in his life, he rarely underestimated an opponent. He had looked at the masked man and figured that they were at least on par— more than likely, Nadir was in the better physical condition. He was wrong.

An instant after he had grasped the man's wrist, Nadir was flat on his back on the cold ground. Darius gave a little exclamation of distress but the masked man easily batted him away. He leaned over Nadir's sprawled form and whispered, "No desire whatsoever." He unbent himself and went into his tent.

"You haven't even heard the terms," Nadir called after him. "There is money to be had— you could live in a palace!"

"You mean serve in a palace," the man's voice emerged disembodied in Nadir's ear. "No thank you!"

Nadir carefully rolled off of his back, "Are you really pleased to live in a rat-edged tent?"

"I have done very well for myself over the years, thank you!"

"Ha! I find it hard to believe that you care to display yourself to this throng of savages. My master is not interested in your face—just your voice. I hear that your voice is unusually fine."

"Fine?" The man came out of the tent again. This time, his mask was far less startling: plain black broadcloth, stitched to mimic the contours of the face. "Fine? My voice is that of an angel's."

Nadir fastidiously brushed the dirt from his clothing. "As they say."

"You don't believe it," the man accused him.

Nadir heaved a sigh. "I have been sent on too many of these… errands. Mind you, I only pursue those that appear to have real merit, but still—I have yet to meet the 'marvel' that lives up to the stories told."

With his new mask, Nadir could almost make out the man's eyes. They were a strange, sickly yellow color and appeared to be set too deeply in his face. They narrowed, and a moment later, he began to sing.

Nadir froze in his place. He thought of the tuneful recitations of Koranic verses—they were supposed to surpass simple music, to be something sublime. Nadir had often found that to be the case, when a thousand men all raised their voices in reverence. But this—this surpassed the sublime. Was that even possible? Apparently, it was.

Nadir tried to remember what the song had been, once the last note had faded in the air. He could not—he could only remember feeling as if his soul had been rent from his flesh and made to soar over the rolling Caspian Sea. He almost resented when the song ended and the feeling departed with it.

The man's bearing was self-satisfied in the extreme. "You see? Angelic. Oh—this will be good. You will return to your Master. He will ask, now Errand Boy, did you hear the voice of the Living Death? And you will say—" again he assumed Nadir voice—"Why, yes, Master of Heaven and Earth! And it was far greater than the silk traders in their opium haze would have led us to believe. And then he will ask, Then where is this angel, fallen from the heights of heavenly glory to bestow his song upon the undeserving masses? And then you will say, Why, Sir, he told me that some of the masses were more undeserving than others, and you in your Imperial Greatness, are one of the least deserving of all…" He laughed again, "Oh, wouldn't that be grand? You would lose your head, wouldn't you? They do lop off heads in Persia, don't they?"

Nadir motioned to Darius, who handed over his satchel. "On occasion. But why let it come to that?" He opened the bag and reached in. He dropped one bar of silver at the man's feet. "For your compliance in confirming the tales."

"Compliance? That was not compliance! That was—"

Nadir let another bar fall to the ground. "This is to settle whatever affairs you might have in Russia."

"Ha! I owe no man money—"

"Then consider it pocket change," Nadir grumbled. He added a third bar to the pile. "This will be for the incidentals on your journey to Persia—of course, the actual expense of the trip will be covered by my hand."

"You're rather sure of yourself, Persian," he replied. To his credit, he did not scramble to retrieve the small fortune set at his feet. He barely even glanced at it.

Nadir turned over the satchel and let another two silver bars and a mass of gold coins fall to the ground. "This is an advance. A small advance."

The man's voice took on a contemplative tone. "Very sure of yourself."

Nadir simply stood and let the offer speak for itself. He was gratified when the masked man started to pace, muttering to himself darkly. "I am sure, of course, that you have terms."

"Terms? Terms?"

"Do you realize that you are in the habit of repeating yourself?" Nadir asked. He was feeling marginally more confident of success now. "Your words might make more of an impact if you resisted the impulse."

He came to a halt, looked at Nadir, looked at the money, and finally marched back into his tent. "Go away!"

After some hesitation, Nadir decided to leave the pile of gold and silver where it was. "Come along, Darius. We will return—tomorrow!"

Oh, how little he looked forward to that dawn.

It was the simple weight of duty that made Nadir return to the Makaryev Fair. He had no desire to deal with the strange masked man again, but, unfortunately, they did 'lop off heads' in Persia. He saddled Darius with another bag heavy with money and set off for the ragged tent.

This time, there was a crowd surrounding it, and Nadir could hear the man's siren song from a distance. It wasn't quite the ethereal tune he had sung yesterday—in fact, if Nadir was not mistaken, it was a rather bawdy Russian drinking ditty. It was somehow elevated from the gutter it belonged in, thanks to the singer's exceptional technique. The Living Death, indeed. Nadir pushed through the crowd to the front.

The mask had been discarded, and his face was horrible. The man's eyes flickered over to Nadir and he smiled. The gesture did not affect the song in the least, but it rendered his face utterly monstrous. Nadir felt bile rise in his throat, and fought to keep it down. Others had not been able to acquit themselves quite so well. The Living Death really did live up to his sobriquet— his eyes all but disappeared into their deep sockets, and his cheeks were sunken in like a skeleton. The macabre illusion continued onto his bare chest—his collar bones stuck out sharply and his ribs were clearly defined. His belly was concave and his arms looked brittle, though there were hints of the strength that Nadir had unfortunately already experienced.

He finished the song that had so entranced his audience, and they all took an instinctive step backwards as the spell was broken. Only Nadir stood his ground, though he was tempted to retreat as well.

The man slipped on his devil's mask again. "That's it for today! Go away! Go!" The crowd dispersed almost instantly. Nadir gave the man a moment to put his shirt and coat back on before approaching him.

"How did you do?" Nadir asked conversationally.

He picked up one of the coins earned by the song and effortlessly flipped it in the air. "Well enough. I assume you are here to collect your little showpiece? I admit, I was tempted to keep a few coins, but you will find them all present and accounted for."

"Keep it all," Nadir pressed. "Admit this—if it was tempting to keep a coin, was it not tempting to keep the entire fortune?"

The man spread his arms in a theatrically wide gesture. "I am a mere mortal, believe it or not."

"I believe it," Nadir said, "I believe, in fact, that you are a rather young mortal. What are you? Nineteen? Twenty?"

The man's voice took on an oddly high singsong tone. "I am an ageless mere mortal. Isn't that funny? I'll stay in this form until one day—poof!" A cloud of sparkling smoke surrounded his form. After a moment, he coughed and waved away the remnants of the trick. He giggled again. "Well, I suppose I won't disappear just yet. What a pity."

"Perhaps."

He sighed dramatically, before settling into a posture Nadir could only call an aggressive sulk. His arms were crossed tightly and protectively in front of him, but the chin of the mask jutted out in defiance. "I want a contract."

"Pardon?"

"A contract. You know, a piece of paper with pretty writing on it that states the particulars of an arrangement," the man said. "I want one. I want it to guarantee my freedom, both in body and creative pursuits. I want it to detail my compensation." In a smaller voice he asked, "I want books as part of said compensation. Can you do that?"

Nadir nodded. "Yes. What do I call you?"

"What?"

"What is your name?" Nadir asked. "I don't intend on drawing up a contract for 'Le Mort Vivant' Transliteration is an unwieldy art, as I am sure you know."

"What's your name?" the man countered.

"Nadir. The Daroga of Mazandaran."

He snorted. "I suppose Mazandaran does not have much in the way of crime, if you could be spared to come and get me."

"I am rather competent at my job," Nadir demurred.

"I'll be ready to leave tomorrow." He turned to return to his tent. "Until then, Daroga."

"Your name," Nadir insisted. "I need it for this contract of yours."

He paused at the entrance, "I suppose you may call me… Erik. Yes, we'll say that. Erik. Erik shall go to Persia with you. Won't Erik and Nadir have a marvelous time?"

As mentioned before, I've never read Kay's Phantom. But Nadir Kahn seems to have become a default for the good Daroga's name, and I have decided to roll with it.