It was Nadir's professional opinion that Erik was adjusting entirely too well to life in Mazandaran. Oh, there had been that one dreadful moment when Nadir was sure that Erik would end up with his head on the executioner's block and drag Nadir down with him. The moment had passed as inexplicably as it had arrived. The Shah, typically never one to forget a wrong done to him, had simply given Nadir the assignment of watching over Erik and helping him acclimate. There had been a stern warning thrown in and the terrible sound of Nadir's fate being woven inseparably in with Erik's.
The idea had been enough to give Nadir indigestion, and he was quite sure that the reality of it would eventually result in a heart attack.
Erik, of course, had found the entire idea delightful. That seemed to be the fiend's favorite word for most everything that Nadir found distasteful—delightful.
"You don't know what light is, boy," Nadir grumbled in return.
"I don't?" Erik had replied. "I don't."
But for that matter, Nadir had to wonder if he really knew what darkness was either.
At first, Nadir was forced to witness every stunt and performance the young man in the mask pulled, per his position as Erik's Keeper. It had been an uncomfortable role to play, and Nadir could have sworn that his hair had grayed more in the first month of Erik's presence in Mazandaran than it had in the entirety of his life previous. It could have been worse, he supposed. It helped that Erik was genuinely talented. He quickly became a permanent fixture at the Shah's side, entertaining with his voice, his increasingly complicated feats of legerdemain, a gift for mimicry, and that biting wit that toed a very fine line between funny and unsettling. He had the impunity of any court jester of old.
It seemed, for a time, that the transition would prove smooth and that Nadir would one day soon be able to return to his ordinary life. These hopes—seemingly so benign, so attainable—were soon dashed.
Erik had stalked into the main room of Nadir's home and flopped onto a divan, his red Circassian coat spreading out around him like so much blood.
"Why do you live so far from the Palace?" he asked. Nadir took a moment to reflect on just how gifted his charge must be. He had attained a shocking level of proficiency in the Persian language. Now, a scant two months after his arrival in Mazandaran, he was fluent enough to whine in it.
"I have a life outside of the Court." Nadir refrained from pointing out that he preferred to have a life outside of the whims of Naser al-Din's eyes. Erik was still an unknown quantity in his mind, but there was something about him, some glint in those uncanny gold eyes, that suggested that he might like to indulge in mischief for mischief's sake. He had seen hints of it at the Shah's dinner table more than once. Nadir was not so arrogant as to assume that he would escape it fully from Erik's whims. There was no reason to give him unneeded information.
"What is it that you even do?" Erik pressed.
"Well, what do the policemen in France do?"
"How should I know?" Erik shrugged.
Nadir snorted and was about to give a brief outline of his duties as the Chief of Police in Mazandaran— a position that consisted mainly of enforcing land boundaries and locking up the occasional Bábi, or sporadically overseeing the investigation of some crime that was particularly baffling or whose principals were especially exalted— when an unearthly voice arose from the tea set that graced the low table before him.
How terribly rude of you, Nadir Khan, not to offer poor Erik a glass of tea!
The voice chilled Nadir to his very bones. It took him a moment to recover, cursing himself for how ridiculous he must have looked staring slack-jawed at a teacup. The embarrassment served to infuriate him.
"What in the seven hells do you think you are doing?" he demanded. It was his best voice of command, a tone that had made innumerable miscreants and princelings cower.
Erik laughed. "Well, my dear Daroga, it is quite simple," he pivoted in the divan to sit cross-legged, "one of the Shah's guards started spreading the most absurd rumors about me. Started calling me a magician and a sorcerer—this is after that little trick I did with the mirrors last week— and I thought to myself, well, why not? So I took up the dark arts—called up a devil and traded a song for, oh, unlimited power."
"This is not a matter to joke about, Erik," Nadir said. "Be serious."
"Oh, all right. It was two songs, and my powers are confined to the earthly realms."
"Stop." Nadir resisted the temptation to spring to his feet and pace. No, it would not do for Erik to see him so rattled. Calm. Calm. "I do not know how such a claim would be met where you come from, but here? There will be those who believe you, and will not take to the idea kindly. It is not merely the humble man who will reject you out of superstitious fear. At the very least, you will make an enemy of the clergy—and they are not be trifled with. You are setting yourself up for disaster—and me along with you."
Nadir could only watch as Erik laughed again. He chuckled until he stumbled into a mad cackle that lasted entirely too long. He eventually quieted and returned to lying on the divan. He brooded and sulked for a minute before declaring, "I'm bored."
Relief came to Nadir unexpectedly, and in the form of a sketchbook.
He had sought out Erik, hoping to talk sense into the man before a particularly solemn Court event. He disliked going into the rooms Erik had claimed in one of the outer buildings of the palace. In short order, they had been transformed from comfortable guest quarters into a veritable shop of curiosities, its special stock being the macabre. The air was thick with conflicting scents: incense and spices, acidic chemicals and what he could have sworn was gunpowder.
Nadir could swear that Erik could sense his discomfort and, very likely, took delight in it. Well, being in the Shah's service was far from a guarantee of comfort in life.
"…Do not press Kabiri," Nadir said, on his second glass of tea, "he is Mahdeh Olia's man, and lacks humor."
"Ah, do I finally get to meet the infamous Queen Mother?" It was one of the first times Erik had interjected, though he did not bother looking up. His attention was locked on a leather bound book. He had drawn on page after page of it since Nadir had arrived, keeping it carefully angled away from his guest's eyes.
"Don't be ridiculous. She'll be with her women," Nadir said, "and even if you did, she wouldn't like you. Malek Jahan Khanum is a consummate politician—and you are nothing to her agenda."
"What is her agenda?"
Nadir weighed his options. Information always seemed like a very dangerous thing to put in Erik's hand—but how much worse might it be for him to stumble about blindly? "To keep as much power within the Qajar aristocracy as possible."
"Is that not also the Shah's… agenda?" The scrapes of Erik's pen were loud and grating.
"Not to the same degree. The Shah likes whom he likes. He bestows favors and positions on those he likes, with their bloodlines being a secondary concern. Madeh Olia plays favorites as well, of course, but it is almost guaranteed that her favorites will come from the right families in the right tribes."
Erik did not deem the rest of the conversation worthy of his participation, and Nadir grew weary of monologue.
"What are you even doing?" he demanded. He arose sharply and pulled the book from Erik's hands. It was a feat he would have been unlikely to succeed in, had he not caught Erik by surprise.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Erik huffed.
Nadir thumbed through the book. The pages contained meticulous architectural drawings—arches, walls, masonry patterns, courtyards… They were surrounded by sloppily penned numbers and words that were, probably, French.
Nadir settled on one page, a concept for a full building. "This is the palace."
"No," Erik snatched the book back. "That is what the palace ought to be."
"Where did you learn to do this?" Nadir asked. He could not claim any great familiarity with the art and science of architecture, but there was something about Erik's drawings… they struck him as both beautiful and feasible.
Erik grumbled. "Here and there."
"Here and there?"
Erik sulked again and mumbled something that might have been I grew up around a mason. His eyes, surrounded by his black mask, were murderous. Nadir dropped the subject and they spent a moment in silence.
"The Shah…" Nadir struggled for the right words, or at least for a sign from heaven to stop him from speaking, "the Shah is ink drawing enthusiast."
"I know," Erik said. "His are awful. If funny, for all the awfulness."
Nadir glowered at the young man before him—the young man who had so many talents just waiting to be uncovered, with an intelligence that frightened Nadir, and an apparent desire for a very short life. Nadir marveled at him for a moment, and then remembered his face, and pitied him. "There is talk of rebuilding the palace."
"There should be. It's falling apart."
"There might be an opportunity for… some of your designs to be brought to life."
Erik froze and his eyes narrowed. "These are not designs, Daroga. It is a design. One cannot pick and choose from it."
Nadir held up his hands. "I merely said: an opportunity."
"An opportunity," Erik repeated.
"An opportunity."
Nadir was relieved when Erik at last seemed to find his place in the Court. It was not, as Nadir might have expected in the early days, with the musicians or the menagerie of oddities the Court collected as amusements. It was a surprisingly useful office he now occupied, even if the power it lent him gave Nadir pause.
As the direct result of those black ink visions of a palace fit for the heir of Cyrus, Erik had been placed over the repairs of Mazandaran.
He had talent for the work, Nadir thought, though he wore the mantle of authority like it was an ill-fit.
"I need money," he complained when Nadir came to check on his progress one day. "The Shah tells me to use whatever funds I deem necessary, but the treasury does not release them to me!"
"Funds for the palace remodel are handled by Feridoon Kamran Ali Jah," Nadir said.
"I know! I know! But where is the man? Never once have I seen him in Mazandaran, and letters to his house in Tehran go unanswered! He is nowhere to be found, and I need the money now." Nadir was surprised that Erik had not stamped his foot for good measure.
"I believe he has gone to visit family, to procure a wife for himself." Nadir said. "He shall not return to Mazandaran for a few months, at least."
"That won't do," Erik growled, "I'll just have to find something else to do until he comes."
At the time, Nadir had merely smirked at the sulky childishness he had come to expect from Erik, rather like a too-indulgent uncle might. In later years, he would look back on Erik's words as a terrible omen he had been too blind to notice. But how was he to know that in Erik's search for something to amuse himself with for a few weeks he would find the little sultana?