After three weeks—or had it been a month?—of intense, unrelenting work on his kingdom by the sea, Erik gave into Nadir's pestering that he ought to take a break. He left the construction site before nightfall, attempted to choke down a plate of chelo kebab, and threw himself into bed, resolved to sleep for a few hours at least. When that failed, he drank three bottles of disgustingly young Shirazi wine. Unfortunately, he also happened upon a left over plate of bamieh. The result was a night tormented by unusually vivid nightmares.

A wan woman sat at a concert piano, a lace shawl slipping off of her porcelain shoulders. Her long fingers were poised over the keys and she announced, "This is Handel's capriccio in G minor."

Erik wanted to tell her how wrong she was, that she was playing a Circassian folk tune, but he found his lips sewn shut. Panic blinded him for a moment—he clawed at his face, a howl trapped in his throat, imploring the woman to cut through the threads and to stop playing the wrong song. He realized then that he was in the rafters above a stage. He fell forever, until the waters of the Caspian swallowed him. The pale woman looked at him from just above the surface, her head tilted. Erik tried to beg her aid, but she could not hear him. She looked pensive for a moment, like a Venetian Madonna, and then disappeared as Erik sank ever further down.

The blue-eyed accountant was waiting for him at the bottom, surrounded by gold coins and glittering jewels. The sea water magnified his scars bizarrely, until his entire face was barely recognizable. He turned the pages of his ledger, and wrote down Erik's name under the column entitled Debit. Or was it Damned? He sighed at Erik and said, "Cherchez la femme, pardieu! Cherchez la femme."

Erik complied and looked around until he saw the Sultana, lulling on silken pillows and gutted sturgeon. Roe spilled out of their opened bellies and caught in the currents.

The Sultana arose, strangely pale and green eyed like the Russian rusalkas. She cut through the stitches that closed Erik's mouth with her painted fingernails and laughed when she drew blood. She called him a frightful beast, laughing all the while, and commanded him to kiss her.

He reached out through the water and removed her veil. The skin of her face came along with it. She laughed again, raw muscle pulling into a rictus grin. Blood flowed from her, polluting the water until the whole world was red. Still he kissed her, for she let him. And then everything was blood, nothing but ruby red blood, in his eyes, his mouth, his nose…

He awoke violently ill, and spent the better part of the morning failing to fight off nausea.

For the first time, he regretted turning down Naser al-Din's offers of supplying him with a servant body. At the time, Erik had been revolted by the implied invasion of his privacy. Now, he was revolted by the thought of getting up to make tea. He tried snapping his fingers.

Nothing happened, of course, great magician that he was.

Fools, the whole world of Mazandaran was fools. They couldn't tell the difference between a magician and an illusionist. Erik could, even in this muddled state. It was easy: one was real, one was not. But, oh, what he would give…

It was some little time before noon when Erik at last pulled himself out of bed. The lethargy, he decided, was due to his distracted neglect of his person over the past several weeks. It most certainly was not due to over indulging in wine and sweets.

His pet palace could survive a day without him. Perhaps. Probably. With that hopeful thought, Erik set about righting himself. He washed and hacked his hair into some semblance of order, scraped off the absurd black wisps that comprised his beard, and shook out the clothes he had left scattered around his quarters.

Erik would not go so far as to say he felt more human once his space and person was tidied, but he did feel better.

He avoided the temptation of his sketchbook. Nothing good would come from it, he was sure. He already had more rooms outlined than there was space for in his palace, more entertainments devised than there was currently an audience for, and more suppositions of what the Sultana looked like under her veil. The night's imaginings came back to him, and he winced. No, nothing good would come of the sketch book today. Well, there were books to be read and new illusions to devise— and music.

His collection of instruments had been rather neglected of late. Lutes and dulcimers and goblet drums—tars, santurs, zarbs, Erik repeated to himself— sat in one corner of his living room. He picked up his latest acquisition, a tar with mother-of-pearl inlay. It was a pretty little gift from the pretty little Sultana, but soul-shatteringly out of tune.

Well. Erik could fix that. He plucked at the strings and adjusted them accordingly.

Music was a curious thing. Erik did not think much of it. It was just a tool, an ever-present tool. As long as he breathed, he would never truly be without an instrument.

His voice forced people to trust him, to believe whatever verities or vagaries (or vulgarities) the notes presented them with. Surely that was the whole point of music: to tell a tale and wrench sympathy from the listener. To make a person understand, to force them to hear what they might refuse to see.

Erik would think it terribly sad, if it wasn't so much to his advantage. It was lucky that Erik knew music, that mastery over it came so easily. He saw how some struggled – the Court musicians came to mind—for years. And for what? So little was accomplished. Perhaps they would gain proficiency in one or two arts, if they were very lucky.

Poor little humans, with their unsteady fingers and unreliable throats and untrue ears. How awful it must be, to live with so many boundaries.

…But if being human was such a sad fate, why should Erik bother himself trying to be one? Why try to force himself into their tight mold, to live with them and like them? Why not build his own little kingdom? Somewhere far from timid or curious eyes, a place where he could sing to the sky and never cause or be caused trouble again.

Ah. A cave, then. An empty, lonely cave.

It would probably be damp.

No. No, it wouldn't do.

Not yet, at least. By Erik's best guess, he was just over twenty. Did he really want to spend the next fifty-odd years even more isolated than he already was?

He was a bit too vigorous in tuning the tar, and one of the strings snapped.

Damn black moods. They were as inevitable as nightfall, and Erik doubted this would be the last instrument to suffer from them. He turned a sigh into a hum (lest be become too much like Feridoon Ali Jah) and pocketed the tar string.

Perhaps something could be done about it—after lunch.

Nowshahr without the Shah in residence was rather like Nowshahr with the Shah in residence. The marketplace was quiet during the afternoon, most of the vendors reclining in the shade idly. Those who were not napping murmured at Erik's presence, though they were quick to quiet when he looked at them.

It's the Shah's sorcerer.

They say his mother was a devil's whore.

He uses his black magic to hide his true face from the Shah… how else can you explain him still being here?

How comforting to know how little people varied from one place to another. Who would have thought that a sunny Persian fishing town would be so like a bustling Russian trading center or a distinguished old Italian city or—

Or even a sleepy little village in Normandy?

Erik approached one particular man, who openly kept his hand on the nazar hanging in his stall. Erik nearly laughed at how the man flinched when he was obliged to step away from the amulet to serve his customer. (Erik also nearly laughed when he noticed that the man did not refuse the monies give him. Oh, Lord, deliver us from temptation, indeed.)

Erik departed with an ironic bow and hot buttered broad beans. He did not pay a visit to the wine merchant.

It was tempting to go off and find some nice spot overlooking the coast, to eat his lunch in peace and find solace in the undeniable beauty of the strange country he had found himself in. The mask quashed that whim, for he could not eat with it on, and he would not remove outside of his house.

Perhaps it was time to make a new one, something more civilized that this blank black broadcloth. Something that better mimicked real face, something distinguished…

"The devil returns to hell, then."

Erik slowed. These were not the words of some superstitious tradesman, or frightened village woman.

"I hear he herds the swine for Satan there," a second voice added.

How—how— had Erik failed to hear the approach of three men? Laborers by their looks, strong men. And evidentially suicidal.

No. No. No. He could not think that way. He was Erik. Jadugar Agha, they called him. Agha. Master.

Lord.

Who did Lord Erik need to fear? Who would dare to raise a fist against him?

Well, perhaps they would not strike him, but they certainly had no qualms about knocking his fava beans to the ground. And they, it turned out, were five.

Erik watched the beans fall. Was it just him, or could he hear each one as it dropped into the dirt? What funny little shadows they cast! Long shadows in the late afternoon, making each small bean seem three times its size. It was a wise tactic, Erik supposed, one often used by animals. Sometimes the aggressors would depart, if they realized their prey was simply too large.

He thought he might try to imitate the pale green beans, but as he straightened and squared his shoulders, a fist connected with his mask.

It did not dislodge—he had tied it very securely that day—but the idea that it might have enraged Erik. He caught the next blow and returned it, caught another and returned it three-fold.

But five men! Four, maybe, but five? There would be no help from the not-so distance tradesmen, of course. There never was. Bad odds, Erik thought, and he did not think he could get away with his childhood tactic of letting attackers beat on him until they grew bored. No, these brutes would take stronger measures to ensure his demise than a kick in the ribs or tossing him twitching into a canal. No, these were the sort of ruffians that played with knives or swords or maybe even pistols. At the very least a hammer and chisel, and somehow that simply seemed worse.

And Erik? What did Erik have? The fifth man landed a blow that temporarily floored him. His mask finally came off, dust covered. Erik stared at it; empty eye holes stared away from him. The coiled string from his Persian lute had tumbled out of his pocket and lingered in the dirt. The mask seemed to look at it.

The Daroga's voice spoke into his ear. Or was it his heart? What did men listen with, really?

He strangled his victim with this.

…He strangled a man with this? Oh, yes, I see… Erik's hand closed over the catgut as he came to his feet. Over the jugular—ah, yes, just a little pressure.

Though I have no comment on the quantities, I can attest to the fact that dry white wine and what basically amounts to honey-soaked doughnut holes is not a good combination. I don't know what Erik was thinking. It seems to me that this whole mess could have been avoided with a nice bowl of soup. That said, writing a brilliant character when you yourself are not a genius is peculiar and at times frustrating exercise.