I'm so glad that some of my old readers are still out and about, and pleased by Mojgan's return to cyberspace.

A bar of fine Persian silver would have been sufficient to attire Erik in silks for a year. It was a tempting thought, for he had an innate love of fine things, but he had seen ugly men swagger about in neat tailoring before. It did nothing to help them, and none were as hideous as Erik was. He contented himself with two new coats and a pair of good boots. Of the coats, one was a cherkesska of black wool, complete with fourteen capped cartridge cases. Only two were filled with anything as blasé as gunpowder. The rest were tricks of his trade—though if pressed for an answer, he could not say just what that trade was. The other coat was in a similar style, red, and Erik developed an immediate fondness for it. It was garish in all the ways he liked best.

He wore his fine coats despite the weather, which grew ever warmer as they neared Persia.

The Daroga had tried to provide him with a more suitable wardrobe, but Erik resisted. The Daroga was an unforgivable meddler, and Erik thought it best that the dour man with the jade eyes quickly learn that Erik would not suffer meddling in his affairs with grace. He said as much to the Daroga at the onset of their journey.

The Persian merely offered a tight smile. "Everyone will try to meddle with you, Erik," he said, "and many will succeed. So you might as well be comfortably dressed."

Erik had not replied, though he did use one of his cartridge cases to conjure a small cloud of red smoke and deftly procured his hand fan behind the distraction.

Darius, the errand boy, had stared in wonder as Erik flicked the fan with easy, elegant motions. The Daroga had rolled his eyes and sniffed. Erik could not help but laugh when the man then started to sneeze.

They continued in this manner for most of the journey, with the Daroga occasionally making overtures of friendship that quickly devolved into lectures. The man was surprisingly adept at scuttling through bits of three or four languages to make a point. Or, if not a point, than at least a prod. The good Daroga appeared to delight in prodding, much to Erik's irritation. It had been a mistake to admit to being French—it was amazing how much material the man could derive from that one small fact.

"Have you heard much news from France?" the Daroga asked. When Erik declined to reply, he continued on. "The newspapers from Paris are regularly delivered to Tehran. You may enjoy reading them."

"Hmm," Erik replied. "Yes, who wouldn't be simply dying for eight-month old society columns?"

"The Shah will be most pleased—he speaks French fluently and is a regular correspondent of his Imperial Majesty Napoleon the Third."

"Ah."

"Do you perhaps have family you would like to communicate your new circumstances to? The Baron de Pichon is the chargé d'affaires for the French Embassy, and I am sure that passage for letters can be easily arranged."

Boredom prompted Erik to action. "Pichon, you say?" Erik exclaimed, clapping his hands together, "ah! All is well if Pichon is there!"

Nadir started. "You know the Baron?" It was to his credit that he did not sound convinced.

"What do you think, Daroga?"

The Daroga was silent for all of three minutes before launching into a monologue about the current political balance Persia maintained with England, France, and Russia. Erik was half-astonished that the man would exert so much effort in trying to educate him—but not so astonished that he felt compelled to listen.

By the time they reached their destination, Erik was seriously considering how many, many ways Nadir Khan might meet with an unpleasant end. The feeling appeared to be mutual.

"I shall be glad to be rid of you," the Daroga sniffed. It was a habit of his, when he was being especially sanctimonious, or thought Erik to be particularly childish. It was fast becoming an invasive part of his manner. "I shall be glad when my Imperial Master tires of you and casts you out as the villain I know you to be."

Erik grinned under his broadcloth mask and spooked the Daroga's horse just as it was being handed off to a groom.

The Daroga cursed wildly and a bit too colorfully for Erik to follow. Later, he would hear whispers that the Daroga had been beset by a wicked spirit—after all, how else did a man as infamous for his calm and cool nature as Nadir Khan become so prone to losing his temper?

Wicked spirit, indeed! Well, it wasn't as if Erik had not heard that one before. A very familiar epitaph, that. In a roundabout way, it made Erik feel as if he was home.

The introduction to the Shah was delayed three times, which gave Erik ample time to stalk about the palace, observing and learning how to stay hidden in this place.

They were not in Tehran, Erik soon learned, but in the Shah's seaside retreat of Mazandaran.

Erik was not impressed. The palace was in dire need of remodel—repairs were being made, but in an unforgivably slapdash fashion. Not to mention that all of the new work was being done after the European fashion, which clashed awfully with the native architecture and the landscape.

It was rather tragic, given the astonishing blue of the ocean and the almost monstrous green of the mountains. Erik would have built a marble palace instead, all pure white stone. Something striking, but still very much as part of the landscape. It would look like a fairyland in the mists and fogs that were captured between the sea and mountains; like an oasis during the blaring heat of the day.

Then again, if Erik could have rebuilt the entire court, the people as well as the buildings, he would have. For the most part, he found it aesthetically offensive and criminally lacking in vision. But, well, that was mankind for you, wasn't it?

When the time for his audience with the Shah Qajar finally came, Erik waffled between dreading the interview and looking forward to pointing out two or ten things the man had done unforgivably wrong. The building itself, of course, and the placement of the guards for another. And, lest he forget, the criminal abuse of a sitar he heard coming over the wall of the women's' enclave…

"Do not say anything to embarrass me." The Daroga had been in hiding ever since he had handed Erik over to the cowering household staff, but now reappeared as Erik's official escort. He wore an emerald and sliver aigrette pinned to his turban, which looked ridiculous on him. "And don't say anything that could get me killed!"

Erik splayed his long fingers over his heart in mock dismay. "Get you killed, Daroga? You were a charming traveling companion—all those fine meals of pork belly, and the gossip about the military commanders, and that delightful luncheon with the Russians—"

"You may fancy yourself a wit," the Daroga growled, "but the walls have ears here, and not much sense of levity."

"Well perhaps I would be more aware of such things if you had not abandoned me," Erik replied. He pitched his voice mystically low and let it echo off the far wall. "A young man—alone in the world—friendless—is compelled to set his fate in the hands of a diabolic messenger who promises him safety and riches but instead leaves him to fend for himself in the den of jackals…"

"I never promised that you would be safe," the Daroga pointed out. "I am not a liar."

Erik prepared to mock him on this last point, but instead found himself ushered into the audience chamber. It was much the same as the rest of the palace—the native opulent taste being eaten alive by European fads, a mass of people caught between piety and dissolution.

Erik wore his black coat today, and his black mask, so that he stood like a pillar of cloud in the midst of a riot of rainbows. Every eye locked on him.

He stood where he was told to stand, bowed when he was prompted to bow, all the while loathing himself for playing along.

Naser al-Din Shah was not difficult to spot, and Erik kept his eyes fixed on the man. He was in his mid-thirties at least, with a moustache that drooped in two limp tuffs. Not an impressive man in of himself, but he lounged in his ornate chair as only a man in full control of his destiny could, and there was a curl to his lip that suggested he was unaccustomed to being denied anything. The curl quirked into something like a smile when he met the Daroga's eyes.

"Ah, Nadir! Continually cementing your worth, are you? Keeping my paradise safe and still finding time to bring the world to me?"

"The whole world lies at your feet, my Lord," the Daroga replied. The words sounded awkward coming from the Daroga, Erik thought. The language was formal in the extreme, he fancied, and the grandiosity of the idea went against everything Erik had come to expect from Nadir. On the one hand, the hypocrisy disgusted him. On the other hand… well, Erik knew a script when he heard one. A part of him half-pitied the Daroga for being so poorly cast.

"Well, what have you brought me, then?" the Shah asked.

"That which you sent me to seek," the Daroga replied, "the man with the voice of heaven."

"What is it that he is called again?" Never once did the Shah spare a glance for the rain cloud standing before him.

"He is called Erik." The Daroga paused and then managed not to stumble over the words: "le Mort Vivant."

The Shah gave a sudden bark of laughter and turned to face Erik fully. Then, with the most appalling accent Erik had ever heard French beset by, said: "A Frenchman, are you! How delightful! I've always had a sort of affection for you French. What are you, Parisian? Well?"

Erik replied in Persian. "No, sir. From a small village in Normandy."

"Normandy? On the Channel, then. A number of Roman ruins, yes? Have you seen them?"

"Some." Erik felt no compulsion to point out that he had not been in France since his childhood. There were too many questions to be asked along that path.

The Shah turned back to the Daroga and switched, mercifully, back to Persian. "Fine work, Khan Agha. Really quite excellent. A Frenchman who speaks with a Persian tongue! Now, he is the one that is rumored to be as ill-favored in face as he is blessed in voice, yes?"

Erik caught the movement of Nadir's tight nod out of the corner of his eye.

"And the voice is wonderful?"

Another nod.

"Excellent!" He turned to Erik. "Remove your mask then, my good man."

Erik could feel his chest constrict and his hands bind into fists seemingly of their own accord. He sought out avenues of escape and calculated which would be his best option. They were actions born out of a lifetime of being cornered and outnumbered, now as natural and automatic as breathing. He desperately clamped down on the feeling. One hand relaxed and his breathing regulated.

He spoke in his lowest, darkest voice. "I would prefer not to, Majesty."

The room did not actually quiet, Erik noticed. If anything, there was a rush of audible shock, but Erik was focused. He saw the Shah, he was saw his escape route and all of the potential obstacles in his way. He was dimly aware of the Daroga.

"Erik," the Daroga whispered, "just do it."

"No."

The Shah tilted his head thoughtfully. "I asked you to remove your mask."

"You did. I declined."

"Come now," the Shah's voice pitched higher, "none of this nonsense." He jerked a bejeweled hand in Erik's direction, and one of the guards came forward.

It was simple instinct that prompted Erik's movements, just as a bird might battle sea winds to take up roost, or a dog might bare its teeth in a snarl at an attacker. The guard was disarmed and relegated to the tiled floor without any particular thought on Erik's part, and a second one joined him in swift order.

It was then that Erik saw his future, as clear as any saint or seer. He would run from this, just as he had run from everything else in his life—like a frightened boy or untamed animal. What a foolish waste! Here was opportunity, here was a chance to start building some sort of life, and he would have it end before it began.

He had also left his red coat in his rooms on the other side of the palace, and he would be sorry to lose it.

A surrender went against every bone in his body and every scar on his skin, but Erik could see in the Shah's eyes that it was the only real option he had. He let himself fall to his knees, head bowed and hands spread wide in peace.

Now the room was truly silent, and that grated on Erik. He broke the silence with song—a simple song, something by way of apology. A glance up showed that they were all caught in the spell, even Nadir who had heard him before. The Shah had the audacity to tap his foot.

Erik finished cleanly and then, still in his most angelic voice, offered his apologies. "Do forgive me," he said, willing the words to whisper in every corning of the room. He slipped his mask off and lifted his face to the Shah.

Naser al-Din blanched and sputtered. "It will not happen again." Was that a command to Erik? Or was it a promise on his part? Erik imagined that even the Shah was unsure.

Erik smiled, and refrained from wincing as he heard the distinct sound of retching on the other side of the room. He also managed to stamp out a flame of violence that ignited when someone laughed. "It will not," he murmured.

"Cover yourself," the Shah commanded. "And come tomorrow to the fete of my Prime Minister. You will sing."

"I will sing," Erik echoed.

The Shah dismissed him. "Nadir, a word…"

Erik set his mask back on and swept the room with a final look. For an instant, he locked gazes with a pair of smiling eyes that peered between the carvings in the wall that separated the women from the men. He nodded at those eyes, and was followed out by the sound of laughter. It wasn't quite a pleasant sound, but there was quite a bit of mirth in it.

Erik smiled.

Naser al-Din Shah was a notorious history and geography junkie. Who knew?