Erik had heard that Naser al-Din had just recently begun to 'come into his own,' as the expression went. He had sat on the Peacock Throne for a decade at least, and was finally starting to play the part of a serious—rather than merely earnest—monarch.

If this was the Shah at his most dedicated and serious, Erik was amazed that the Qajar reign had survived so long.

The Daroga's voice drifted through Erik's mind unbidden. You think it wise to insult the hand that guides your fate?

Well, if Naser al-Din controlled Erik's fate, then Erik was a trained monkey. Then again, if there was such a thing as fate, Erik might as well be a ghost. Why bother living a life that was not your own?

For all that, Erik came to the Shah's audience chamber when he was summoned.

The usual brigade of secretaries and musicians swarmed around the imperial personage, like so many flies around a… well, Nadir had been chastising Erik to be more polite. The Shah did not pay them any heed. He was dressed in an unquestionably traditional style that day: a long paisley coat worn over loose trousers and a belted tunic. He grimaced a smile at Erik, prompted him through every conceivable formality, and finally settled in for the discussion of 'important matters'.

Important, indeed.

"The mosaic designs are—" the Shah switched from his clumsy French to Persian—"absolutely exquisite. Perfect harmony of form and function. I could not have done better myself."

In theory, Erik probably should have argued that last point, insisting that the royal imagination would have undoubtedly topped whatever feeble caprices Erik had managed to conjure. He could not quite come up the words for that, and settled for not voicing his wholehearted agreement that, yes, his own design was certainly superior. "Thank you, my Lord."

If the Shah had sensed Erik's insult of omission, he deigned to ignore it. "Unfortunately, I simply cannot allow the Court to be so disrupted," he sighed. "Complaints about the noise, complaints about the dust. And would we have done, when construction moved on to the harem? No, no, no. I am glad of the repair work done here, but the renovations are unnecessary and entirely too disruptive."

It was one of those horrible moments where time slowed for Erik. He had a score of such memories, of the moments when his world collapsed around him. Blood rushed to his face and fingertips. "You did not care for Erik's designs? Or perhaps you think there had been a mismanagement of time? Of resources?"

"Calm your heart, Erik," the Shah said. He seemed amused by Erik's rage, clearly unaware of how deep it ran.

"How can I be calm? How can you expect Erik to be—"

"The project changes, but remains. I want a retreat from my retreat—you will take your designs and apply them to that."

Erik turned the idea over and over. "I see."

"There is a spot I am fond of, not ten miles away."

A promising thought, if it was reliable... "There is no existing structure?"

"The land was cleared for development some years ago. Nothing came of it. There might be the beginnings of a foundation… I really can't recall."

"I thought you were fond of the place."

"I am! That is why you will build be a home there." The Shah snorted, "You are as skittish as a new slave girl."

Erik pulled out of his slouch. "When can see the new site?"

"Next week, perhaps?" The Shah shrugged. "I have need of you until then."

"Performing, no doubt."

"That is why I ordered you brought to my court. All else is extra." Erik expected to be dismissed, but the Shah apparently had other matters in mind. A curious change overtook him: his face drew in, his eyes widened, his mustachios drooped. He dismissed his secretaries with a tense jerk of his hand, and waited for them to leave before speaking again. He had Erik's full attention, and fidgeted under it. "Speaking of performances—the khattack dance you did?..."

"What of it?"

"I would have not thought you were familiar with it."

"I watched the Pashtuns perform it last month."

"You… watched it?"

"Yes." Erik had also practiced it tirelessly, acquiring an interesting array of bruises and gashes from the swords along the way. But there was no need to point such a thing out. A playact ought to appear effortless. All the Shah needed to know was that Erik could make swords dance like sprites and lightening.

"It was astounding. The music—the song—the blades. Reminds a man that his place is on the battlefield, that enemies ought not be allowed their peace."

Erik murmured something noncommittal.

The Shah was paler than ever. "Then you are comfortable with swords?"

"More or less." It was a trap, Erik knew. He had walked into enough of them in his short life to recognize one by the tune of the air and the hum of the trappers.

The Shah was an absolute cacophony. "Knives, then?"

"I find that I have little need for them, outside of art, under Your Majesty's auspices." It was as close to flattery as Erik could manage and the Shah's eyes crinkled, amused at the attempt.

"But you can use them, yes?"

"I could arrange an interesting display, for the next banquet, I am sure."

"No, no! That is not what—" Naser al-Din cut himself off with a sharp gesture. He switched topics abruptly. "Are you familiar with Nasrullah Nuri?"

"Your former Premier?"

"The same. He has been out of power for as long as he was in power—and yet!" The Shah fidgeted more, and scowled. "I have nothing but fondness for the man, personally. But can a monarch rule on his personal feelings alone? Would your own Napoleon the Third be swayed by his affection for a man?"

"I can hardly comment."

"And I hardly think so! Surely the proud blood of his forefathers would prompt him to favor… action over individual. As for me… ah, Nuri left us in a woeful state of disorder. He wished to return to old ways—what is that phrase the Christians have? As a dog to vomit? In that way, Nuri would have left off the good of the new and returned to the foul old. So while I still love the man, and have bestowed the utmost benevolence upon him, he cannot remain in my court."

Erik was quiet in the face of the Shah's outburst. "I see."

"Do you?" the Shah asked. He did not await further reply. "He has a cousin here, who works tirelessly in the advocacy of his kinsman. Perhaps you are familiar with him?..."

"Sayid al-Davood?"

The Shah laughed sharply. "I knew you paid more attention that you claim to. An eloquent youth, Sayid. A persuasive man. A rising star." The Shah's tone grew darker with each word. "A traitor in all but deed."

There was a long silence in the Shah's office, and Erik drummed a tattoo on the arm of his chair to break it. It ended up sounding like a requiem march. "Why tell me?"

Naser al-Din mumbled vaguely. "You are so discreet. You travel the palace without displacing a shadow. And your skill with a blade… surely these are talents you must long to exercise."

"Exercise… how?"

More vacillating vagaries.

"Yes, but what do you mean for me to do?"

More excuses. More innuendo. It nearly drove Erik mad. He bit his tongue briefly, to remind himself that he was not trapped in a nightmare. "What," he spoke clearly, distinctly, "is it that Your Imperial Majesty wishes of me?"

At last, the Shah met Erik's eyes, and in an extraordinarily businesslike tone of voice said, "you will kill Sayid al-Davood. You will do so discreetly, and before week's end."

"Will I, indeed?" Erik asked mildly.

"Well?"

The question hung heavily in the air. There was only one answer for it, wasn't there?

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I will."

Nadir had made one of his requisite appearances at the Shah's table. He had sat with Feridoon, who said precious little, as was his wont in company. He was too cautious a man to make a decent dining companion, but Nadir could hardly blame him.

Erik had been there as well, of course, flittering around the edges of the gathering. He sang twice and conjured a flock of doves to delight the guests and irritate the dancers. Nadir had caught his eye, but had not been able to speak with him.

He should be glad that he had managed to practically wash his hands of the madman, but found that he was merely concerned. Heaven knew what sort of trouble the boy was finding. Or rather, what trouble was finding the boy.

The party had broken up in the early morning hours, as usual, and Nadir had returned home pleasantly fuzzy and quite unconcerned. Perhaps a late start to his work would be in order. Perhaps even a day off…

Such wonderful dreams were broken when Darius stumbled in to wake him before dawn.

"The sorcerer's here," the boy mumbled, sleep-addled.

"The sorcerer?..."

"Erik agha," Darius clarified. "He will not leave."

Nadir valiantly hung on to the last remnants of peace. He gave up in short order and stumbled out of bed, swathed in a blanket.

"What have you done now?" he growled as he entered his sitting room. He could just make out Erik's shadow in the half light. Nadir paused, silent, and looked at him. Erik was bent over, his long arms cradling his head. "Erik?"

The sound Nadir heard might have been sniffling. He hoped to God it was not. There was a reason he had never pursued the idea of fathering children. Several, in fact, but the idea of being responsible for crying youths in need of guidance had been a strong one.

Fate was a funny thing.

He steeled himself. "Erik?"

Erik quieted and turned his head towards Nadir slightly. His weird gold eyes caught a scrap of candlelight and reflected it a hundred times over. "Daroga. I think… I think that Erik has made a terrible mistake."