There was power in blood.
Nadir knew that for an unquestionable, utterly unalienable fact. It was a conviction free of superstition, born out of what Nadir had witnessed with his own eyes.
A man who had spilt blood was fundamentally different from one who had not. It was as simple as that. It did not matter if it had happened in self-defense, or line of duty, or even if it was murder.
Blood had power, and Nadir pitied the man who unleashed it upon himself.
Nadir had killed, of course, in the pursuit of justice. Any number of crimes might warrant a death sentence, and he had indirectly sent many to that fate. Other occasions had called for a more personal level of involvement. Either way, he had killed, and been altered for it, and had seen the alteration in innumerable others.
He had seen it in Erik, back at that Russian fairground. He had known then that Erik had played with blood, and could only hope that he would desist in the future. A foolish hope, as part of the way a man was changed was a tendency to see life as a little less than sacred.
He had expected that Erik would one day act rashly, that he would make a mistake in the heat of a moment. Perhaps Nadir would have felt a little sad, if that had happened, for he was not unfond of the boy. Perhaps even a little concerned, considering how Naser al-Din had twined them together. But ultimately, Nadir would have felt quite vindicated. Things would have happened exactly he had supposed they would, and no one could say that he had not tried to sound a warning.
How was it, then, that Nadir had not foreseen this outcome? It was obvious, painfully so, after the fact.
It had been difficult to extract the story for Erik, but Nadir was left with a clear enough idea of what had happened.
The Shah had seen something that could be of use to him, and had so used it. It, in this case, was Erik. How had Nadir not foreseen this? Not only was the situation far from unusual, it was positively inevitable.
Was Nadir imagining the accusation in Erik's eyes, that glint that blamed the Daroga for failing to warn him of this very predictable trial?
He must have imagined it, considering that Erik had refused to look at Nadir since he had started his confession.
He had been quiet for some time now, leaning back on the divan, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. His black mask was a void.
"Do you think I'll be arrested?" Erik asked. His voice no longer jerked with tension. He had not referred to himself in the third person, and he had taken on an oddly detached, analytical tone. Was that better that his earlier uncomfortable weepiness? Nadir could not be sure. He imagined that it was, in fact, a sign for the worse.
"It is possible," Nadir returned dispassion for dispassion. "It depends on how badly the Shah requires a scapegoat."
"Even though I did the Shah's… bidding?" He spat out the word like poison.
"As you say—who witnessed the command? The Shah's own servants? What will they say in your defense?"
Erik laughed darkly and rubbed his neck. How old was he? Nadir wondered. He seemed a child so much of the time—but there were moments where Nadir could believe that he was the oldest man on Earth.
"If it comes to that," Erik said, "will you arrest me?"
"Likely." Very likely. Not only would such an arrest fall under Nadir's jurisdiction, but it would be seen a fit demonstration of his loyalty to the Shah and his government. Nadir was slowly growing numb as daylight crept into his home. Erik sat, immobile.
"You will not let me escape," Erik added. It was not a question, or even an accusation. A simple fact, treated matter-of-factly.
"No," Nadir conceded. "I will not."
Erik nodded. "I wouldn't ask you to. Not really."
Child. Definitely a child.
Against his better judgment, Nadir could not help but offer him the right of a child. "You could stay here. As long as you need to. If you need to. I suppose."
Erik turned to look at him again, for the first time in what seemed to be so many, many hours. There might have been a glimmer of humor in his eyes, but Nadir could hardly be sure. "Thank you. But… no. No, I shall leave you now. Mustn't always hide in the shadows. Must face the day."
Nadir hoped that his relief did not show too plainly on his face. Lucky Erik, with his mask. If only he could learn not to emote so much with his body language… well, if he lived he might learn many things.
One could hope.
They clasped hands awkwardly and Nadir silently prayed for Erik's protection.
Erik stalked the land like a plague. He went through the city market, along the beach, and weaved around the neighborhoods that surrounded the palace.
What to do, what to do…
It was possible that nothing bad would come to Erik from Sayid al-Davood's death. He had been careful—not a single thing could be found to connect Erik to the crime.
Only the Shah could expose him, or at least use some minion to expose him. Erik supposed that Nadir was now a threat, as well, but he doubted anything would come of that. He was a silly, sentimental fool, that Daroga.
Erik took some comfort in that.
What to do…
So it all hinged on the Shah, like everything else in this accursed world-within-a-world of Mazandaran.
How did one neutralize the threat of an absolute monarch?
Erik supposed he could hardly give Naser al-Din the same treatment as Sayid al-Davood, though that would have a certain poeticism.
Erik's stomach rolled at the memory of last night, and he was caught being vomiting and laughing, crying and singing. There had been an element of horror to the entire thing, as befit a danse macabre. But there had been something else, something that snaked around the innate repellence the deed incited. It bit at Erik. There had been that chill sense of professionalism that he had not known he had possessed and had been proud to discover. And…
It was not joy, Erik told himself firmly. Something, springing from his oldest memories, told him that joy at a death was a sin, and that a sin was a monstrous thing indeed.
No, it was not joy. It was… relief.
Al-Davood was unknown to him. But the man could have been an enemy to Erik, or could have become an enemy—God knew that Erik had a talent for making them. But a dead man could hardly hurt you, now could he? The young man may have never hurt Erik before, but now it was certain that he never would.
Erik's world was a better place, all for the loss of one person.
Was it a fair trade? Erik hardly knew.
One thing was certain. If the Sultana found out about the whole business, she would laugh.
And she did have the most wonderfully tuneful laugh.
Erik had little idea how long he had walked, though it hardly mattered. Mazandaran had barely started to rouse by the time he was back at the palace. He took the chance to change his clothes and brush his hair.
It would never do to go in before the Shah in an untidy state.
He walked across the royal grounds openly and with a swagger. No doubt the Shah would be conferring with his ministers at this time of day, but probably quite casually in light of last night's type of festivities.
The guards did not deny Erik entrance. Why would they? Erik nearly giggled, giddy. It was a mad game he had come to play, like holding a half-loaded pistol to his own head.
He was announced and allowed into the Shah's presence.
A dozen other officials were there, adding their personal flocks of secretaries and underlings to the Shah's own brood. They scarcely paid Erik attention as he went through the formal motions of greeting and obeisance.
The Shah's eyes were heavy, but he nodded and half-smiled at Erik. Business continued as usual.
"Your Highness," Erik pitched his voice to carry through the entire room. "I have completed the assignment you gave me."
Business did not stop, but it did slow. The Shah looked at Erik, a little confused, a little irritated, and, as realization overtook him, rather pleased. This gamble might well pay off.
"It is done?" the Shah asked.
"Yes." Erik stared at the Shah. One more word—one more phrase—that was all Erik needed. He had enough of an audience, enough in the way of witnesses. Just a word… "I hope to your satisfaction."
"I'm sure," the Shah said. After a moment, he added. "Why, yes. Yes, very good."
The messenger arrived then, with better dramatic timing than Erik could have hoped for. Oh, yes. This could be quite… a triumph.
Sayid al-Davood was dead. Sayid al-Davood was murdered. And as the Shah, who everyone knew had little in the way of lost love for the young man, responded perfectly.
He grew quiet, and he looked at Erik, and every eye in the room followed suit. And those last words resounded- yes, very good.
Let the Shah's Court— so adept in the art of dissembling, in reading nuance, in catching innuendo—reconcile themselves to that.
Erik merely tilted his head proudly, and when the Shah nodded to him, left without a word.
Erik knew the Persians well enough to expect that the news would travel on wings. But he had not expected the changes it wrought to happen so quickly.
Erik walked the palace grounds, and whenever he allowed himself to be seen, people flinched away from him.
They had always done that, of course, but in a different manner. They had a gleeful sort of horror of Erik—the Shah's pet performer. They had shied away from him, all the while laughing at his grotesqueness. If they were superstitious, as so many Persians were, they had an intangible dread of him, one that was easy enough to ignore at will.
Always there had been mockery and repulsion and jocularity at Erik's expense—and little more besides.
Now, that spark of humor beneath their horror had vanished, and Erik found that delightful.
He took a horse from the royal stables and rode out to the site of the Shah's new building project. It was a surprisingly fine prospect, with thick woods to the south and a view of the ocean to the north.
Erik spent hours there with his notebook. He built a castle out of the sunbeams and birdsong, a fabulous creation that the Shah would never really appreciate. It was Erik's masterpiece, drawn out of that part of Erik that could so easily rule the world. His palace, in his world where he wielded absolute power over life and love and faces.
How easily he could do it. He had watched Sayid's eyes, ruled by terror, as he had looked at Erik's face. He had believed it had been a demon out of Hell to drag him to death, and perhaps he had been right. He was a young, strong man, but utterly powerless against Erik.
At first, Erik had desperately wanted to forget what he had done, and that look in Sayid's eyes. But now? Now, that he was surrounded by his fantasy domain, he knew he ought never forget. It was an entirely too useful thing to forget.
The waves were playing violently with the shoreline. Erik stared at them, king of the world. He laughed and cried and then he sang to the sea.