"No! No! Careful with the carvings! Protect them, you beasts! Kharha! Do I have to do it all myself? Like women, all of you! Worthless!"
It was early morning in Mazandaran, but the east wing of the palace was already abuzz with activity. Scores of men were demolishing the outer wall, resulting in delicious chaos. Erik had considered a controlled fire for this work, but was now glad he had decided against it. The real beauties of the Shah's palace—like the beauties of the Shah's Court—were hidden and neglected. A prime example was the length of stunning engraved siding he had found concealed under overgrown morning glory. A half-dozen workers were agonizing over the preservation of the stones.
Erik snuck to the side of his favorite foreman. Babak was wonderfully harsh with his men, and wonderfully superstitious. He jumped when he finally noticed Erik, and did not even bother hiding the gesture he made to ward off the evil eye. Oh, yes. Power and prestige did not buy respect.
"Problems, Babak?"
The man kept his eyes focused on the toiling men. "Nothing, besides my workers having eggplant stew for brains. You'd get more use eating them than letting them work."
The rumor that Erik gained his uncanny powers from cannibalism was a recent development. It smacked of her humor—slightly amusing, rather grotesque, almost beyond belief, and impossible to disprove. Insidious, too, as demonstrated by Babak's offhanded address of the jibe. "Perhaps. I dislike eggplant, myself."
A long pause. "Well. We're not behind schedule."
"Not yet." Erik let his voice dance over the words, coaxing an implicit threat from the innocent syllables.
Babak grunted. "If we did not need to save the engraved facing— or those cursed mosaics—or—"
"But we do," Erik said. "And I factored it into my schedule." He took a moment to approach some of the nearby laborers and evaluate their efforts, effectively bringing work to standstill. He returned to Babak. "I do hate for my schedules to be ignored."
He was gratified to see Babak flinch at last. "Then we will stick to them, agha."
"Yes, that's probably best," Erik chirped. He spent another moment in silence, tallying his current resources and the immediate needs of the project. It was a tedious business for the moment, but once work started in earnest… "I want to start work on the free-standing tile work immediately."
Babak's fingers twitched into a hex sign again. "Laborers are one thing, agha. Like rats—one leaves, another replaces him. Artisans are harder to come by, and they like to be paid."
"I know," Erik glanced at the sun, still trying to shrug off the morning gloom, "Engage them."
It seemed as if every day in Persia brought Erik a new joy, ready to replace the previous favored amusement. Blue tile mosaics and Arabic calligraphy. Shady courtyards and elegant archways. Embroidered slippers and impossibly soft cashmere wool. Wonderfully versatile setars and fussy neys and bombastic tonpaks to be played. Opium had been good for two or three doses, at which point Erik found it made his voice as fuzzy as his thoughts. Sholeh zard had introduced him to the rather foreign concept of a favorite food.
The Sultana's infectious laugh.
And his favorite among favorites—at least for the day—spies.
Oh, Erik still liked to slip through the palace like a phantom, a task made easier than ever by the commotion of construction. He liked to see and hear things for himself—but how delightful to have someone inform him of what he did not have the time or inclination to attend to personally.
After all, he couldn't really be everywhere at once.
This little spy, who plied his trade in return for the tenuous promise of future favors, had reported that Erik's long-awaited banker had finally arrived.
Finally. The Shah could magnanimously acquiesce to this aspect of the remodel or that bit of demolition, but it did little good without the backing funds.
What sort of man did Naser al-Din appoint over his purse? Erik pictured any number of the government ministers, with their abundance of arrogance and equally astonishing dearth of intelligence. Given that he had also ferreted out a confession of blood-relation between the man in question and Nadir Khan, Erik supposed that sanctimonious nuisance was a safe description to assume.
Erik had fairly itched to fly over to Feridoon Ali Jah's residence at the first light of dawn, but restrained himself admirably. The Persians were not, as a group, fond of the early morning. Erik certainly would not have minded rousing the glorified accountant from his bed, but there was a distinct possibility that his servants would simply deny him entrance.
…Of course, there were ways around that. But how much did the Shah like this man who wielded considerable if quiet power? And how much might the Pivot of the Universe dislike him being meddled with?
Who meddles now, Daroga?
So Erik had forced himself to go to his work site, to observe and terrorize by turns, until the hour turned slightly more favorable for… social calls.
His destination was an almost laughably modest little house, with little touches that bordered precariously between homey and homely. It was still and quiet, but there were the tell-tale curls of smoke coming from the back of the house, the smell of fresh bread and spiced tea. And from over the high walls that enclosed a garden, a woman's laugh.
It was a curious sound to Erik's ear. He had heard much laughter in his life—nearly equal to the screams and shouts and sobs—and something about this one did not seem quite right. He tested the sound for genuineness and found it rang true. But where was the bitterness? The brittleness? Barring those qualities, the madness? This was a simple laugh: happy, subdued, but inherently truthful. No one laughed like that. At least, no one laughed like that around him.
The thought infuriated him, and he pounded on the door.
The guards that greeted Erik belied the simple life Feridoon's house advertised. They were severe men, obviously palace-trained, but Erik glowered at them. He tilted his head and allowed the light to catch his eyes. They were a loathsome color, one of Erik's innumerable unfortunate features, but very effective in supporting his role of sorcerer. He had watched many a proud Persian official cower under the force of his eyes. He wondered what warning they saw in them, as Erik seldom had a particular malice in mind. Perhaps it is the threat of your company, Erik Agha. A terrifying fate, indeed.
Feridoon's guards did not appear to be impressed, though Erik saw the slight tightness around the eyes and lips that betrayed their discomfort.
"I would speak to your master," Erik said. He tried for politeness in his tone, though it struck him as out of tune.
"The hour is early," the senior of the two men said, "and he is not prepared for… visitors."
Under the safety of his mask, Erik flinched. Who was this man, who thought he could turn Erik away with little more than a glare and a wave? Hadn't people learned yet that they could not ignore Erik? That they could not reject Erik?
"I have business with him," Erik said. "And I will not be turned away."
There was a reason why Erik loved sound—music, singing, speech. There was a power in it, as potent as any mythical spell. What one saw could be dismissed. What one felt could be ignored. What one heard… what one heard invaded the mind and the spirit. Man could be enticed by the eyes, Erik imagined, but he was captured by his ears.
If any man was a master hunter with the weapon of sound, it was Erik. He watched as his words washed over the men, as his voice wormed its way into their hearts and ate at them. But not the words, not really the words, which were simple and akin to meaningless. It was the sound of Erik's voice, the music he could will into the world with mere thought and muscle. He added a touch of pyrotechnics to the performance, for dramatics' own sake. In a minute, they might think to question him, but in a minute Erik would already be at his destination.
He pushed past the guards in the instant when they were inclined to listen to him. He strode through the public rooms of the house and to the walled garden at the back.
The guards had caught up to him by then, but Erik batted them away. They were stuttering apologies and protestations of innocence, but their master ignored them in favor of looking at Erik.
Erik returned the open observation. Feridoon Kamran Ali Jah sat on a low couch next to an unveiled woman, with a tea glass in his hand, seemingly unconcerned at the intrusion. Half of his face was a mess of scars that pulled at his eyelid and turned his lips into a grimace. For a beat, Erik felt something like pity, something like camaraderie, but it faded. Besides the scars, he was a perfectly decent looking man, with a mild expression and bright eyes. And, apparently, the ability to make his dark-eyed houri laugh like an innocent child. Did you really think he was like you, you fool? Did you think he would understand and commiserate with you over a pot of tea and plate of pastry?
"Feridoon agha," Erik greeted, omitting all of the customary good-wishes and blessings of peace.
"Erik agha," the man replied, his voice as mild as his expression. His woman made a move as if to excuse herself, but Feridoon stayed her with a touch of his finger. "Welcome to my home."
In Russia, Erik had seen many plays performed by the traveling theater troupes. Once, he had even snuck into the Marinsky Theater to see an opera. The quality of the performances, and performers, had varied greatly, but had impressed upon Erik one great truth: everyone had a role to play. The wise old man—the dissolute aristocrat—the strong-willed matriarch—the damsel in distress. All one had to do in any given situation was step back into the role supplied by both nature and artifice. Apparently, Feridoon found that congenial host suited him.
Erik personally preferred trickster.
"I have come on business," Erik announced and sat down without an invitation.
"So I imagined. Mojgan, get the gentleman some tea."
His wife moved to comply, but Erik cut in. "No, thank you, Mojgan dear."
That pushed Feridoon out of his chosen role for a moment, though the flame of indignation in his eyes died as quickly as it had been lit. "I would ask you, sir, not to address my wife."
Erik put his hand over his heart and bowed his head. "I meant no offense, agha." He looked up in time to see the woman's painted brow quirk and the barest hint of a smile. He grinned at her under his mask, and she looked back down, as if she knew. A pretty enough girl, though Erik knew his tastes ran askew from the Persian standards. Her features were too sharp to fit in with the highest standard of native beauty, but she had the darker complexion that was favored. Her downcast eyelashes cut startling, oblique lines over her cheekbones. "We Frenchmen do not care for our women to be invisible and mute." Erik did not know if that was entirely true. He was a long time away from France, and his memories of its people centered around a wan woman whispering over a rosary.
"It is simply not our custom," Feridoon said.
Erik stared at Mojgan for a moment longer than necessary, very aware of Feridoon's growing discomfort. Good. He snapped his attention back to his target. "I have brought you a list of my needs. You will see to them."
Feridoon opened a hand in gesture of helplessness. Erik did not believe it for a moment. "Surely you realize that a building project of this magnitude requires tremendous forethought—"
"I gave it tremendous forethought."
"I did not intend to imply otherwise," Feridoon replied, "but how could you be expected to be familiar with the nuances of the state purse?"
"The Shah gave me carte blanche over the budget," Erik growled.
For a moment, Erik thought that Feridoon might make a disparaging comment on that point, but he did not. "I will look over your sums. Please, come to the treasury this afternoon—midday—and we will discuss this further."
"I cannot," Erik shot back. And why not? Because of your crowded social schedule? Or because you refuse to be dismissed? "I am otherwise engaged. I will return tomorrow morning."
"You are welcome to," Feridoon replied. He was fatigued, Erik thought, with his every word betraying how tired he was. It did not strike Erik as the rosy fatigue of a newlywed—though, how could he know for sure? Bone-tiredness. World-weariness. That little stab of camaraderie hit Erik again, but he dismissed it with growing viciousness.
"At the same time as today," Erik added and arose before the man could object. "Goodbye, Feridoon agha. Mojgan banu."
He left their ugly little house and grating domesticity in the same way he entered it: quickly and presumptuously. He reached the courtyard, and from over the high jasmine-covered walls of the garden, he heard a woman—Mojgan, most assuredly.
"Well, he can't be all bad."
He laughed.
Sholeh zard is a type of rice pudding made with saffron, almonds, and rose water. It is bright yellow and almost agonizingly sweet. Also, highly addictive. It seems like something my rather childish Erik would get sick off of.