Darius clearly remembered the first time he saw Nadir Khan. It had been raining hard, and Darius was disturbed by the loud knock at the door—it sounded like a crack of thunder heralding doom, he had thought. That likely had more to do with the fact that he was learning to read out of the epics rather than any real suggestion of ill-omen. It was too late for one of his father's customers to be stopping by. Even if it was a customer, his father had not yet returned home.

With that thought in mind, Darius determined that he would not go to the door. Instead he would stay by the warm fire and finish up the stitching work his father had left for him. Then a second knock came, even sharper than the first, and Darius jumped to his feet almost against his will. He cracked the door open, trying not to let in the cold air.

The Khan stood outside. Not that Darius knew he was a prince of the blood, but he was dressed like one. He had on a long cashmere coat, richly ornamented but badly muddied and stained. A large gilt sword hung off of a pearl-studded belt. His beard was conservatively long, but he wore an astrakhan hat in the latest style.

"This is Hossein the tailor's home?" the man asked. Darius wanted to flinch away, to escape those sharp eyes, so weirdly pale against his dark skin.

But his father taught him how to be mannerly, and how to mask nervousness with politeness.

"Yes, agha," Darius said, "but he is not home."

The man had stepped in without an invitation. Darius could hardly have refused him, anyway. "And who are you?"

"I'm Hossein's son," Darius replied, trying to stand tall.

"Your name, boy?"

"Darius."

"Darius? Da-ri-us?" the man repeated. He seemed to take up the better part of the room, and when he went to stand in front of the fire, he blocked out most of the light. "Not Daryush?"

It was an often posed question and Darius gave an often repeated answer. "Baba says that Daryush can be hard to pronounce, but that Darius is the same name for all the Westerners. So it doesn't matter if we become allies of the English, the French, or the Russians—they'll all be able to say my name."

The Khan had the most peculiar expression on his face. He looked exhausted—like Father last month, when he needed to complete a large order and both his assistants were ill. He looked sad—also like Father, in the months after Mother had died. And for a moment, he looked a little amused. Also like Father.

"Baba says," Darius continued, "that we cannot avoid the future, so we should try to greet it graciously and with hospitality."

The Khan snorted. "Unassailable logic." After a moment, he added, "don't worry. My mother named for the most hated of the Shahs. We all bear the weight of our parents' generation." He continued to just stand there, looking a little lost, and making Darius ever more confused.

"If you hang up your coat there, it'll dry faster," Darius offered, "You can wait for my father."

The man did remove his coat, but he lost the glint of humor in his eyes. "I'll not be waiting for your father. Is your mother at home?"

Darius informed him that his mother was three years dead.

The Khan grew ever graver. "Have you uncles, then? Or older brothers?"

All that remained of the family was Darius's grandmother. "She's probably in the kitchen, agha."

"Fetch her," he commanded.

Darius obeyed without a thought of how odd the request was. And his grandmother complied with little fuss, leaving Darius in the kitchen to tend the fire and make tea.

It was not long before Darius heard his grandmother's voice, raised in a heaven-shattering wail. Darius dashed out to her rescue. She was doubled over on the couch, sobbing, while the Khan still stood stiffly by.

"Ah, Darius," he said, as if the woman's tears were just another part of the outside storm to be ignored. "I think I ought to tell you of your father—"

"He's dead," Darius said. It was obvious. What else would reduce his grandmother to such a state?

The Khan nodded. "Now listen to me carefully. Your baba did nothing wrong. It was simply unfortunate circumstances—it was not his fault."

Darius could remember murmuring Inshallah softly, could remember how the Khan winced.

"I know the man responsible, and I will see your baba will receive justice. I promise you—he will have justice."

He left a small purse of gold tumans with Darius and departed. The door closed with another doomsday crash, but Darius did not quite come out of his stupor.

Eventually he did, and he eventually noticed the Khan's fine coat left up to dry.

It was sad how badly damaged it was, for it was remarkably fine fabric and workmanship. Darius could now see that some of the stains were mud and some were blood. He washed them out carefully, and wondered if the blood belonged to his father.

He mended the tears and mimicked the woven pattern with embroidery where the damage was too extensive.

Darius tried on the coat when the repairs were complete. It brushed the floor on him, though he recalled it was just knee-length on the Khan.

He asked and begged and pestered everyone he could think of who might know the man. At last, someone figured that a tall, dark nobleman who bothered with trifling murders was probably Nadir Khan—the Daroga of all Mazandaran, who lived just near the Nowshahr Palace.

Darius did not allow himself to be daunted. The Khan had promised that there would be justice, and Darius thought that justice was probably a very difficult, a very costly thing to get. So he wrapped up the coat and borrowed a neighbor's donkey and left for Nowshahr.

The Daroga's steward did not want to admit Darius, and it was only lucky timing that the Khan happened to notice his visitor at all.

He was less frightening in the daylight, though no less tired looking.

"Darius," he said, after a brief moment of thought, "the tailor's son."

Darius had been mentally composing a speech ever since he had left home at dawn. Something about gratitude and hope and gallantry—it was gone now, and he simply held out the coat.

The Daroga took it thoughtfully, looking over Darius's handiwork. He sighed. "Tell me, Darius, how well do you make tea?"

Perhaps that was actually the first Darius saw Nadir Khan. He was tired, and sad, and ever so determined—and ever so kind.

And it was for that man, who had not changed a jot in the five years since, that Darius willingly went out to speak with the Sorcerer.

The Daroga had told Darius more than once not to refer to Erik agha as Jadugar agha.

"He will be entirely too pleased by it," the Daroga grumbled, "and he is a boy— not a magician!"

Well. If Erik agha was a boy, then Darius was a baby.

Darius supposed that God alone knew what Erik agha really was. God, or perhaps the Devil. That face—that face was seared into Darius's memory like a waking nightmare. He had seen it three times over the past few months, and it seemed to become worse with each revelation.

Darius had seen much in the service of the Daroga. He had seen the victims of violence, beaten and mutilated beyond recognition. He had seen corpses, decayed and wormy. They repelled, but always one was able to think here now was a man, here now was a woman.

With Erik agha… one looked, and one saw Death, with all his powers of the supernatural. Where was the man—where was the boy—in that face and with that voice? Had there ever been one underneath that grinning hellion visage?

These were very bad thoughts to be dwelling upon, if Darius would soon be face to (thank God for His mercy) mask with the creature in question. He willed himself into composure as he approached the construction site.

He was about to ask where Erik agha was, when a fearful scream came from one of the tents, followed by a mad cackle that seemed to shake the very foundation of the new buildings. Well, that answered that question. He braced himself, prayed, and touched his dagger before going off towards the mayhem.

He recognized one of the servants from the treasury office, cowering outside of the tent. "Erik agha is in there?..."

The boy trembled. "He is arguing with Feridoon-sultaneh."

From what Darius could tell, it was less of an argument and more of a tirade. His grip tightened on his dagger hilt. Not that it would do much good. Darius had watched Erik agha take down better men—even the Daroga—with his superhuman speed and strength.

"I am here to deliver a message to Erik agha from my master, the Daroga of Mazandaran," Darius said. The words comforted him. He was here to discharge a duty—a quest — and he would not fail it. There was a lull in the violent speech, and Darius entered the tent, already half-bowing.

A scribe was huddled in the corner, lips trembling with fear. He held a blood-soaked cloth to the brow of one of his fellows, who cried and blubbered like a child.

Feridoon agha sat utterly impassive in the center of the tent. Papers had been thrown about him, and an ink horn appeared to have been emptied over his head.

The Living Death stalked the place, launching curses out in what Darius could only assume was the language of the damned. His mask was gone, and Darius gave in to the impulse to look down and screw his eyes shut.

After a moment, he heard someone clap, as if in delight. "Why look! The Errand Boy's errand boy!"

Darius lifted his head. "Agha."

The monster flung his arms out wide, as if it was in his power to bestow the whole world on Darius. "And what can we do for you, dear boy? What is it you have come to bother us and irritate us with?"

"My master—"

"You are all dirty slaves to someone!"

Darius paused, and trembled, and then began anew. He bowed his head again. It was a sign of respect, he told himself, not fear. Not horrible, gut-turning fear. "The Daroga does ask that you attend on him this afternoon—"

"He summons?" Darius felt Erik agha come closer, like a cemetery chill. "He calls for Erik to come to him? He calls, like Erik is a dog to obey his command?"

Darius looked up, and found the monster's face mere inches from his own.

Here now was a—was a—

Here now was Death, here was Azrael the Archangel of Death, here was all the dying and damned of the world—and Darius was staring into his face, and into his eyes.

He saw his father, awash in blood. He saw the world, condemned to flame for its unholy horrors. He saw himself, with a twisted neck and an unmourned passing. He saw—

The next thing he saw was Feridoon agha, standing over him. Most of the ink had been cleaned off his face, though it still smudged into his scars and glistened in his trim beard. His mouth was set grimly and helped Darius up.

Darius did not expect Feridoon agha to say anything—the man was infamous for his reserve, and it seemed unlikely that he would communicate more than necessary to a servant. Darius was therefore surprised when the man sighed and spoke.

"He is," Feridoon agha paused, and then seemed to force himself on, "a horrible man."

"He has a wonderful voice," Darius offered. "He sings like an angel." He felt ill, like he had been slain and then forced back to life.

"Does he?" Feridoon agha commented. "Well. I've never been able to tell setar music from screaming peacocks, so what difference is it to me?"

I have a confession. In the early days of this story, way back in 2012, this was one of my favorite chapters. It felt like a digression then, but I was so charmed by Darius I couldn't help myself. So, herein is an example of a story escaping its author's control. I never managed to get it back.