Sometime after the verdant forests of Mazandaran gave way to the more sallow highlands of Tehran Province, Nadir ran into a shepherd. The flock was cutting across Nadir's path. He had chosen to wait. His horse stepped high in impatience before finding a patch of edible greenery to amuse itself with. The shepherd had bobbed a bow in Nadir's general direction, far more concerned with the mass of woolly beasts under his charge than courtly manners.

Nadir was underway in good time, and the entire incident should have faded from mind. Travel was constructed of hundreds of such moments, indistinct in their multitude. But this one stuck with him, and Nadir found himself wondering how such a life would suit him. What would it be like, to be beholden to nothing but pasture grounds and weather? What would it be like, to be a simple tender of livestock—not a tender of men?

Perhaps it really wasn't so different a life than the one he led. Fair weather allowed the shepherd to stay close to home—so a Shah in a fair mood allowed Nadir peace. Predators of lambs kept the shepherd armed and wary—so enemies of order kept a sword at Nadir's side and an executioner at his call.

Nadir wanted to laugh at himself. To make the Shah as inevitable as a winter storm, to claim man as uncontrolled as beast, to equate simple performance of duty with life itself. It sounded absurd to his educated ear, but it held true in his heart. His heart beat, therefore he served.

So it had been for as long as Nadir could recall—so it would be until there was no one left in heaven or on Earth to serve.

Erik would not stand for such a life, Nadir thought. Thousands had rebelled against a life lived at another's behest. If he wasn't mistaken, the Americans far across the seas were fighting a war over some such matter even now. And yet—

His father had always found his joy in service. He had lived and died in a useful, if unglamorous position. Rather like—well, rather like Nadir was doing now. The difference was his father had done so with a dozen children at home and a permanent smile on his face. Nadir supposed that he had Darius, who rather like an over-earnest nephew. And he supposed that he had Erik, who was rather like… an Erik.

God alone knew when last Nadir felt like smiling.

Surely, there was still time for all of that. Surely, the boy who had stood before Fath Ali Shah, all earnest servitude hidden by peacock pride, looked out from Nadir's eyes. And if he looked out from Nadir's eyes, surely he could see the bits of good Nadir had accomplished over time, and surely he could smile at that.

Surely, but no. Not while the older and sadly wiser Nadir looked around and knew it was not enough. It would never be enough. There would never be enough happiness in the world for Nadir to happen upon it for himself, and he was wholly unwilling to steal it from someone else.

But. But. He could be content and the surest way to contentment was being of use.

And so, Tehran. Tehran, though Nadir hardly thought he would be useful there. But the Shah had commanded Nadir to meet him there, and Nadir went where he was commanded to go.

He ended up crossing paths with the Shah's party some distance outside of the city proper. At first, Nadir thought it would be the sheep incident all over again, and he prepared to wait out the train. It was the sort of thing only royalty could manage—a mass of people, a mobile city in state, with the entire accompanying infrastructure on horse and palanquin and foot.

Some sharp-eyed denizen had recognized Nadir in spite of his unpretentious travel garb. He was soon ushered into the heart of the world-within-a-convoy.

The Shah was ambling forward on foot. His fine Arabian gelding was walking close by with a groom holding the reins. Perforce, Nadir dismounted and walked alongside him.

"I think we shall have very fine weather for the New Year," the Shah said by way of greeting. He was trying out his French again, and Nadir grudgingly followed his lead.

(Your French is comparable to the Shah's, Erik had said. He has a larger vocabulary to misuse, but your accent is a little better. After a moment of reflection, he had added: but I'd rather you did not offend my ears by attempting to improve by means of repetition.)

"It usually is, Nadir replied.

The Shah shot an amused look at Nadir, and switched back to Persian. "Is the Magician with you?"

"No. He said there were some things that had to be done on the… palace before he left Mazandaran. But he ought to be in Tehran by tomorrow." Nadir did not tack on an impolitic I hope.

"I hear that the new buildings are impressive," the Shah said. His voice was entirely too neutral of Nadir's liking.

What else have you heard, Your Majesty? He wanted to ask badly, but knew he better not.

There had been that terrible moment with Erik some months back, when Nadir thought the end had come. The boy had blood on his hands—his hands, and on a scrap of wire. He had been saved by circumstance, by the off chance that some had backed up his claim that he had acted in self-defense.

If it really was self-defense—which Nadir had professionally endorsed, but privately questioned—it was certainly a notable one. Nadir had seen the bodies. Four of the five men who had attacked Erik had been slain. The first one had been alarming, to say the least. Sloppy workmanship, murder done in fear rather than malice, but horrifying all the same. Bruises blackened the whole of the man's neck, blood had poured forth from where the wire had cut and torn the skin. It was impossible to say if he had been strangled or if he had bled to death. The other three corpses were a study in frightening proficiency—each one a cleaner, more efficient demise than the previous. The final man had barely a sign of what caused his death left on him.

And then there was Erik. Erik, who must have had the very grace of God keeping him from real harm. Erik, who had come out of the whole affair with steady hands and darting eyes. It had taken weeks before he would really speak to Nadir—to anyone. He communicated with his workmen by notes, penned in off-putting red. As for Nadir, if he was lucky, Erik might speak to him of Erik.

Erik doesn't want to see you right now.

Erik is doing fine. Why do you keep bothering Erik?

Erik has nothing to say to you.

Nadir had finally snapped and asked, "If you are not Erik, who are you?"

That had been met with silence at the time, but a few days later Erik had stopped by and said, "I want a glass of tea."

Nadir might have cried for joy. But it soon became apparent that this was a new Erik, a different beast altogether. This was not the devil-masked singer from the fairgrounds, nor the shake-shouldered boy assassin of months past, nor the unpredictable but not unpleasant Erik agha that had been slowly emerging. No, this was a grim Erik, unnervingly self-possessed in public, but immensely secretive and always armed.

Nadir did not like this Erik—and he had an unpleasant suspicion that this Erik was rather out of his reach.

The Shah was still talking about the new retreat in Mazandaran. Nadir made the appropriate replies. Yes, it really was quite something. Yes, it was being built astonishingly fast. Yes, it was fit to be a royal residence.

"Well, so long as he arrives in time for the festivities," the Shah said at last. He looked skyward again. "I think I shall ride on ahead a bit. Goodbye, Nadir."

There was a paradox about people. Actually, there were many, the human race being almost entirely conjured from contradictions, but there was one in particular Erik had in mind.

The more people were gathered together, the less observant they became. The lone man might look in empty shadows or glance over his shoulder. But the man positively surrounded by possible enemies? He looked no further than his own nose.

And so this paradox created another paradox for Erik personally. How he loathed to be in a crowd—but how he loved to be ignored. The people of Tehran were doing a fine job ignoring Erik, distracted by their festival mood. And so he wove through a crush of people, uncomfortable and going mad in the midst of their jollity.

At least someone was enjoying themselves. At least life on whole was not simply there for all to suffer through.

The Daroga would say that Erik was being self-indulgent. Well, what of it? Who else did Erik have to indulge? And if he was going mad—again, as the Daroga would say—what of that? Why bother staying sane in an insane world?

People were singing in the streets. They were laughing and jesting, as if the passing of a year was something to delight in. Erik could not understand it.

(There was part of Erik that wondered if he might have been more understanding if this fuss had been made some time in January, and if there had been galette des rois to look forward to. He thought not.)

Golstan Palace was still some ways away, but Erik could see it peeking out on the horizon like some malevolent fairy city. The sun was just slipping away, and the royal buildings were ablaze with light. Incandescent, as if good fortune was a moth that could be seduced by flame.

Was the palace itself the flame—and if so, were the courtiers actually the moths? And if so, how quickly would their poor little wings roast?

No, no, no. If Erik hoped to be alert enough to survive the night, he could not allow himself to give in to tangents. He must be focused. Focused and alert, alert and wary, wary and ready for whatever the shadows decided to send him.

He haunted the public halls of the palace easily. They seemed to be as full of people as the streets outside. The poor received of the Shah's plentiful charity, eating and laughing as much as the walled off courtiers. It was suffocating. Still, Erik forced himself to be calm, to walk about and observe. No one paid him the slightest heed here, either. After all, when Erik wished to be unseen, unseen he remained.

The gardens were of little relief, until he started to draw closer to the forbidden women's quarters. He situated himself outside of one of the smaller, walled-off areas. It was quiet, and the night was comfortably balmy. Perhaps his frayed nerves would steady themselves enough for him to put in an appearance in the Shah's presence. He stayed near the garden for some minutes, listening to his own breathing. Ah, but here was something else!

He could hear someone moving behind the latticed walls, and his comfort immediately vanished. Perhaps it was just some weary reveler, looking for a similar respite—or perhaps it was something more sinister, perhaps it was—

He stared between the open stonework into the shadowed garden for a long minute before the intruder took shape. It seemed to be something of a lump sitting at the fountain's edge.

After another moment, he recognized the little mound of veils and robes, and his heart rejoiced. Oh, how he had hoped to see her. How he had missed her and her sandstorm laugh. He stayed in the shadows and on the right side of the garden wall, but kept her in his sights.

He hummed vaguely, listening for the echoes of the area, and then threw his voice into one of the bushes. A little birdsong, out of place at this evening hour, drifted into the garden. Erik let it become louder, a bit more structured, until the Sultana clapped her hands enthusiastically.

"My Magician is back!" She exclaimed.

There was no one around to hear her, and Erik let his voice fall to her side. "Sultana."

"Oh, where are you? I can't see you!"

"I hardly wish to be seen."

"Oh, you're outside of the garden, aren't you? You ass! I want to see you! It's been an age!"

Erik glanced at low wall. It would be easy enough to climb… but, no. It would be a pointless risk. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities?"

"Enjoy them? Pah. This whole place disgusts me, jagariman."

"Oh?"

"They are horrid people—all of them. I wish you'd kill them all, and then I wouldn't be obliged to suffer them anymore." The pile of silk seemed to collapse in on itself. And though Erik was pleased beyond reason to see his little Sultana again, he recognized a sulk when he saw one.

"Then who would wait upon you?" Erik asked.

"You would!" She laughed and Erik laughed along with her. What a funny image—Erik and his Sultana, all by themselves, dancing over the corpses of this bloated court.

Rather against his will, his mind turned to one of the men who had attacked him all those months back. He remembered his eyes, how they had bulged and burned, and he felt sick for the remembrance.

"Now, now. I could sing for you and make you playthings—but you would need someone else to mend your clothes and cook for you."

She fell into a huff again. "It hardly signifies now! Would you know, they've economized. I am a Sultana—and my allowance has been cut."

Erik, who viewed his salary as something of a novelty, pretended not to be confused. "Who would do such a thing to you?"

"Oh, you'll be in sympathy with me, Angel of Death," she said. "It was the ever-in-my-lord's-grace accountant. That wicked Feridoon Ali Jah! Why did you not wring his neck when they set him on your affairs all those months ago?"

Erik had managed to put the man out of mind for some time, but the Sultana's words brought back a rush of memories. The unshakable accountant, who shared the Daroga's talent for quietly manifesting disapproval. "I figured he would have been too missed."

"Hardly."

"Would you have me do something about him now, Sultana?" Erik offered. He loathed the words even as they slipped from his mouth. It was a horrible thought that chilled him to the core, and yet—oh, she would laugh. She would laugh and clap and maybe even let Erik kiss her hand…

For half a moment he was sure she would consent, but her demeanor had changed again. "It's been too long since I've had my Magician about," she said. "I've grown so frightfully independent. I'm having my own fun with him."

He heard the guards entering at the other end of the garden. "I think you're about to be summoned, Sultana."

"I'd rather stay out here."

"But duty calls," Erik teased. He disappeared to her laughter, which followed him like a song. He made his way slowly to the great dining room, were hundreds were arrayed around the Shah. They were rejoicing over the New Year—or at least over the exquisite girls that were dancing for their entertainment. He saw Feridoon Ali Jah at the edge of the room, serious and serene in the sea of revelry. Erik sat down next to the Daroga and waited to be noticed.

It took longer than expected. Erik would not have suspected the Daroga of being so susceptible to wine.

"Oh, Allah the merciful," the Daroga grumbled when he finally did catch sight of Erik. "They put bells on the big cats in the Shah's menagerie. Do I need to get one for you?"

Erik spied a little bell that had fallen off of one of the dancers' costume. He procured it easily and covertly removed the clapper. He then tossed the silent bell back and forth, the Daroga's eyes following the motion. "You may try."

"I'm obliged to keep a closer eye on you, you sneak," the Daroga sniffed. "You're going to have to come with me tomorrow, so you don't cause mischief. Though I loathe to bring you into the houses of my friends and family."

"You have friends?"

The Daroga ignored him. "Come around the house by nine tomorrow morning. If you aren't there, I'll come and find you."

"I beg your pardon, but are you saying that you want me to accompany you on your New Year's Day social calls?"

"I do not want to," the Daroga said. His voice was grim, as Erik imagined any general might be on the eve of war. "But I must."

Erik had half-expected the Daroga to forget their engagement. It was in that spirit that he showed up at the Daroga's city apartments, ready to annoy him. It was almost a disappointment that the Daroga did indeed recall the conversation, and was still intent on carting Erik about with him.

"How tipsy did you think I was?" he demanded.

"Rather. You were quite free with your speech."

"Of course I was. One expects that from a man who has been in the cups."

Erik observed him closely for a moment. "You—" befuddle, intrigue, confound—"irritate me."

The Daroga smiled, a brief cut of predatory white against his dark face. "We shall see my cousin Feridoon first."

Erik complained about the choice of destinations until they arrived there, arguing that the accountant surely would not wish to see him either.

"Behave," the Daroga commanded, straightening his lambskin hat with one hand while clutching a festival-looking box in the other. Erik had offered to carry it for him, but the offer had been refused in rather unpleasant terms. What did the good Daroga think of Erik, in that he could not be trusted to carry a simple box of baklava?

"God knows what sort of vile substance you might slip in with it," the Daroga grumbled.

Erik did not need to playact his perturbation. With one hand splayed over his heart, he assured the Daroga that he would never do such a thing. "As it is, poisons are only good for cheap tricks. Even the accountant would deserve a better send-off."

The Daroga simply glared at him and made his way up to the house.

The house itself interested Erik mildly, in that it seemed wholly Persian. There were no superfluous French moldings or Italianate railings to be seen—just pure, striking geometry overlaid with exquisite handiworks.

They paused upon entering the covered courtyard with its. The Daroga made a sound of displeasure.

"This is… quite wrong."

Erik glanced about. No, there were no assailants hiding in the shadows nor any overtly aesthetically offensive elements to be seen. "Truthfully, I'm surprised the accountant has such decent taste. His house in Mazandaran is awfully ugly."

"Quiet, boy," the Daroga said, continuing a slow observation of the courtyard.

Beneath his mask, Erik's brows arched. It had been some time since the Daroga had been quite so cavalier with him. He could not decide is he had missed the offhanded treatment or not.

"Perhaps they are not here," Erik offered. The house did seem very quiet, and Erik could not conceive what else the Daroga would be so put-off by.

"Perhaps," the Daroga replied noncommittally and approached the door.

A servant let them in, and the quiet of house was quickly broken by a shuffle of slippers and skirts.

"Is the doctor back, Omid?" It was the wife, of course. Mojgan. Erik hardly knew why he was surprised to see her. It was her own house, after all, and it was a day when she would be expected to play hostess. But if she was a hostess, then she was a much put-upon one. She was beautifully dressed in floral-embroidered green, with a gossamer veil over intricate braids, and henna-tipped hands—but she was as drawn as a corpse, an autumn's death costumed in spring's raiment.

When she realized it was the Daroga standing before her, she tried to pull her lips out of their grim line and smile. She failed.

"Peace to you, Nadir," she said, rather like an actress might declaim her lines, "and to you, Erik agha."

"I hope this New Year will be kind to you," the Daroga replied mildly. Oh, the Daroga. He was ever so bland, patient, even. What was he awaiting?

"I do hope," she agreed, her eyes darting between the Daroga and Erik. "I beg forgiveness for such a pitiful greeting—but my husband is unwell. We are hardly fit to receive visitors at the moment."

"I gathered as much," the Daroga said. "A cold brought on by the change of weather, perhaps?"

Mojgan half-shrugged. "I hardly know. He was fine—and then…"

"I would like to see—" the Daroga cut himself off, and Erik realized that he was being stared at.

"My husband would very much like to see you," Mojgan said carefully. She looked over to Erik. "If Erik agha would not mind keeping me company in the sitting room?"

Erik decided to cut off the protests that were obviously forthcoming from the Daroga. He bowed neatly to Mojgan. "Thank you, Lady."

She nodded at Erik and her lips quirked again in a non-smile. It was a funny look, one that almost suggested that they were in conspiracy with one another. That was a thought worthy of a pause. "Omid will show you in to my husband's chambers, Daroga."

The Daroga kept his gaze fixed on Erik in silent chastisement. Erik spread his hands in innocence. Erik has done nothing. It was the woman. Cherchez la femme. Still, he departed with the man servant, and left Mojgan to Erik. Or was it Erik to Mojgan?

He followed her into a room that seemed as incongruous to her mood as her celebratory dress. There was a beautifully set table, covered in dainties and delicacies and fresh flowers. It was rather like a birthday feast set up in a mausoleum. The window shudders had been thrown open, but the spring sun could not cut through the too-still gloom. Two women, probably standing in the capacity of duennas, stayed near the walls.

"Your husband was taken ill suddenly, I suppose," Erik said after some time. He could only walk the perimeter of the room for so long. He could feel Mojgan's eyes following him to and fro. She was sitting on a low couch, and he came to stand in front of her.

"Rather."

An idea formed in Erik mind, coming coupled with a whisper of rosewater and the words my own fun with him. "He did not fall sick at last night's banquet, did he?"

She was quiet for too long. "I hardly know. He was fine for most of the—well, for some time after we returned home at least." High color crept into her pale cheeks, and Erik wondered for a moment if she was perhaps ill as well. He would not put collateral abuses beyond the Sultana. Indeed, he would rather expect it. "But by this morning, he was doing very poorly. He had such pains in his stomach, and could not take even a sip of water."

He thought he ought to say more, but what was there really to say? Mojgan prompted him with a few question about his building project, and Erik replied technically. She was not an audience he was accustomed to playing to.

The Daroga saved him from a flat encore. "The doctor has come again, Mojgan. I believe all will be well, but we will take our leave of you."

Erik was half-inclined to stay, just to defy the Daroga's highhandedness, but he supposed that would not be gentlemanly. Another time, perhaps.

There were well-wishes made and overly optimistic phrases exchanged. But no amount of rote sympathetic magic could disguise the bizarre tableau they made: Erik awkward, Mojgan devastated, and the Daroga—well, the Daroga very mad, indeed.

He stared at Erik, even as they walked on to their next destination. Erik ignored him.

"I don't like to guess," the Daroga said, "it ill-becomes an inspector to guess. But if I had to guess, I'd guess it to be a distillation of castor bean. Mild, I think. Administered last night."

Erik blinked slowly. "From what Mojgan said, it could just as likely be a touch of a stomach disorder."

The Daroga's fists clenched and relaxed. "Do not dare to presume such a familiar air."

Erik was relieved that the Daroga could not see how he flinched at that. Why should he care what the man thought? Yet the words were too sharp, the voice too accusatory for Erik's taste. "Why are you angry at Erik?" he said. His voice sounded entirely plaintive, and he tried to be firmer. "I've done nothing."

The Daroga was silent for a little while longer. "See that you don't. To play at death underneath the Shah's very eyes—it will not do, Erik. It will not do."

"Well," Erik huffed. "I did not do, either. Don't you believe me?"

The Daroga was silent again.

It was some days later, when Erik was entertaining the Sultana, that the matter of Feridoon's illness came up.

"Ah!" Her dark eyes sparkled with delight. "Then you've guessed my secret!"

"Have I?" Erik asked. "I admit to not understanding the joke. Make a man sick for a few days—why bother?" Now, giving a man a theatrical fright was worth a laugh, and killing a man was a matter altogether different. But this—this seemed like a half-done job, either way.

"It's because Persians are stupid with their superstitions," the Sultana said. "I thought you would understand. You always understand."

Erik went for an amateurish trick of pulling a rose out of his sleeve. He offered it to the Sultana and she giggled. "Tell me."

She leaned in closer, so Erik could smell the rosewater and tobacco that seemed to cling to her. "Feridoon is an ass."

"There was a time when you said he was no concern of yours," Erik pointed out. It didn't matter that he agreed.

"Well, you bring the farmer girl to play, and so I concern myself. He thinks that he can make his year good simply by thinking it so for a few hours. The Shah is the same way—it is so stupid. You and I know better. But Feridoon—"

The scene arrayed itself before Erik, of a quiet, devout man trashing in agony. "Spent his Nurooz thinking that he was about to die," Erik said, quietly.

"And it is a thought that will haunt him for the year at least. Whether it comes true or not—well! That is another matter entirely." Her eyelashes fluttered, as if she expected Erik to make some reply.

He mulled on the idea for some time. He was pleased that the Sultana was pleased, of course. He was delighted to be in her confidence. But as for the trick itself?

He thought of Feridoon's wife, and her twisting henna-painted hands. How worried she had been! How much fear in her eyes, as if she had been the one facing death.

If Erik took ill, who would stand vigil over him? What pretty woman would pace her parlor and wring her hands over his fate?

When he realized that the answer was a simple none, he also realized the full humor of the Sultana's sally. He laughed at it, laughed at the great joke of an accountant's ailments and his wife's worries. Indeed, he laughed until he cried.