Even Erik's horse disliked the Shah. The beast would rather edge closer to the sheer drop in front of it than stay curbed near Naser al-Din. Erik reached down and gave the horse a pat.
"Hrmm," the Shah was observing Erik's seaside palace with a critical eye. It was the first time he had taken more than a cursory glance at the construction site, or an interest beyond tile work or archways or rose bushes. "Ahem." Erik had taken him on a closer tour of the grounds, but for a project of this scale it was often better to see it from a distance. They had gone up to Erik's preferred prospect, trailing retainers and servants all the way up the hill side. "Hm."
Erik's grip on his reins tightened. If he made one more—one more—of those ambiguous sounds— Well, it wouldn't matter if Naser al-Din was the Shah of Persia or the King of Heaven or a Russian peasant. Erik would kill him. He knew it as surely as he knew he had his catgut in his coat pocket. The Shah was dancing on his last nerve, and making a mess of the steps.
"Well, Erik," the Shah finally said. "Well, Erik. It seems to be very fine."
"Yes," Erik replied. After a moment, he proceeded to the next part of his script. "Thank you, your Majesty."
The Shah's mustache twitched in amusement. "Indeed, it is hard to believe the project was started—what? A mere nine months ago? Impressive."
"Thank you, your Majesty."
"And my treasury officer tells me that you are—ah—making the best of your resources."
Did that 'ah' count as one more sound? Could he just strangle the man and be done with it? Erik tried to take a breath, but his new mask—a slightly daunting black and gold piece from the Sultana—made such necessary business rather difficult. "Yes, your Majesty."
There was another flash of amusement from the Shah, this time in the form of a wheezy chuckle. "Well, that's enough of this for a day, hm? Ride with me, won't you?"
Erik complied and kept pace with the Shah. He chattered about inanities for a time. He chattered about the French in French and the Russians in Russian (Erik had not thought something worse than the Shah's French had been possible. He had been wrong.) He spoke at length on his new premier, Muhammad Khan Qajar, and the freedom his new triumvirate government would afford him. Serious subjects, Erik would have thought, but the actual content of the Shah's speech was as gossamery as his dancing girls' apparel.
"Do you hunt, Erik agha?"
Erik considered his reply carefully. "For what?"
"What does man usually hunt?"
Man, Erik thought. "Beasts, I believe." Is there a difference?
The Shah turned in his saddle. He pointed to a peak that cut a stark white jag against the cobalt sky. "The old myths say that Zahhak dwelt up there on Mount Damavand—depending on the myth, he is either a dragon or a dragon of a man. Regardless, he possesses all the sins in the world. Heroes hunt dragons. However, I intend to hunt leopard and bears there instead."
"It better befits a king, I suppose," Erik said.
The Shah smiled and turned away from the mountains. "And what does a magician hunt, hm?" When Erik remained silent, the Shah answered his own question. "A magician hunts snakes, I think."
"Perhaps."
"I fear there will be many snakes about now," the Shah sighed. "Poor Nuri, dead just a handful of months, and already snakes are slithering about on his good name. I think you will need to be most wary, even in Mazandaran." He gave that sidelong stare that Erik had become so familiar with.
"It helps to know who to be wary of," Erik said.
For the next half hour, the Shah prattled on. He never gave Erik names, but positions and circumstances so specific so as to be unmistakable. He never said what he expected Erik to do, never gave direction. I think you will figure something out, yes?
Oh, yes. If there was one thing Erik had developed a talent for, it was figuring things out.
He had recently come into possession of a newspaper—an imported newspaper, called Le Epoque. He had thumbed through it out of curiosity, trying to see if this relic of his past struck him as foreign or familiar. As it turned out, the answer was both. The language had fairly leapt off of the page and nestled intimately against his heart. But the content of that language was as strange as Persian skies or Russian fairgrounds or any other far-flung horizon. The Police Commissioner, one article referenced. A banker. The actress. Grocers. The managers of the Opera Populaire. Navy captain. The editor of this journal. Erik imaged that such people existed in their regional variations the world over. Nadir was a sort of police commissioner, wasn't he? And merchants supplied the palace with everything from silks to green groceries, did they not? And yet all the professions seemed so very far away from Erik's world so as to render them unintelligible. Where would he fit in a newspaper article?
He was forcibly reminded of those aimless thoughts now.
The Shah was signing death sentences. Erik would surely carry them out. What did that make him? An executioner? He did not like the sound of that. A butcher, who took orders for this part of lamb and that part of a bull? A bit of both, like a Roman carnifex? This past Monday, the Shah ordered his carnifex, Erik, to carry out the order against so-and-so... If not that, then what? Aedifex, artifex? (He had to stop there, for his Latin was shaky and he could only come up with 'panifex' to add to his list of possible professions, which was patently absurd.)
He eventually parted ways with the Shah. Naser al-Din was eager to prepare for his hunting trip. Erik was eager for him to depart.
He was not the only one.
"His Majesty is leaving tomorrow at sunrise," the Sultana said. "No one knows when he'll be back!"
"Though chances are," Erik said, "he will be back."
She laughed and praised Erik as though he was some sort of pet who had done a clever trick. Erik did not particularly mind. The Sultana had been in better spirits since her return to Mazandaran. Tehran was not the right setting for her, Erik figured. There were too many competing powers in the capital city, too many things to disrupt her amusements. In Tehran, the harem was hemmed in ways that never really occurred in Mazandaran.
Erik also suspected that she loathed the prominence of politics—probably as much as he did, if not more so.
She took some time to resettle amongst her layers of striped silks after her laughing fit. "Well, we'll see if he comes back the same man. Or if his new government just saps his manhood right away."
Erik looked up from the santur he was restringing. "My lady's too pretty for politics," he said in his sweetest tones.
She giggled, her dark eyes narrowing. "You don't know that! You really can't!' She leaned closer. "Should I take off my veil, jagariman?"
Erik looked back down at the instrument, his mouth dry. "That is for you to decide, Sultana."
"Yes, it is," she said. Her posture hunch a little and she leaned back again. "You know, the farm girl's been around again."
"Mojgan?" He was somewhat surprised to hear she had been to harem recently. Nadir had tried to keep her on a tight rein until her husband returned, and Erik couldn't quite blame him.
"Yes, Mojgan," the Sultana said. "The woman drives me to distraction. It's taarof, taarof, taarof. I just want to scream."
"She is rather kind." He spoke too quickly, and realized almost immediately how ill-considered his words were. "But it is hard to tell with Persians."
The Sultana stared at him blackly. "I can tell." Tiny hands rearranged her robes with short, furious movements. "You like her."
"I like you more," Erik replied earnestly. "Why even mention her?"
This seemed to refocus her and she resumed her story. "Some of the girls like her reading—now that she can read aloud again—and she's been going through one of the Shah's history books, the one with all of the French kings and queens and what-nots."
The Sultana paused and Erik made an encouraging sound. "She read all about fealty," the Sultana said, "and the oaths good knights would make to their ladies. You know about this?"
"I'm familiar with the idea," Erik said, "it is no longer common." Erik has the impression that it was an altogether extinct custom, but he did not mention that.
"Well, then, what of that?" The Sultana sat up very straight. "I want your homage, Jadugar Agha."
"You have it," Erik replied.
She sighed, exasperated. "No, Erik. I want you to give me an oath." After a moment, she asked, "do I not deserve it?"
Erik blinked slowly. This was a curious sport for the Sultana. But, if he were honest, she seemed to be entirely constructed of whims and whimsy and silk. "If not you, then who?"
She shifted from side to side, her eyes almost shut for smiling. "On your knees, Erik."
With great deliberation, Erik set aside the santur and stood. He approached the Sultana and stood for a moment, considering her.
Kneel, you fool, his mind whispered. Is she not your heart? Did not her laughter save you, when you might have thrown away your life? If so, do you not owe her your life?
Yet his joints rebelled, even as they had refused to cooperate that first day before Naser al-Din. Abasement, debasement, mortification, humiliation. "I am my lady's dog," he said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, and he found that he could get down on a knee. "Erik is his lady's dog."
"And Erik will serve his lady," she said.
"Of course. What shall Erik do for you?" He looked up at her, lost himself in her dark eyes. "Shall the roses sing for you? Shall the stars fall?"
"Hm," she tapped her fingers together. "Yes. Yes, I think so. One star at least."
Erik came to his feet and bowed theatrically. "My lady's wish—"
"Back down, Erik," she said primly, "I haven't named the star yet."
It was easier to kneel before her the second time. "Pardon?"
"The star. The star I want felled," she said, "but I think you know."
Erik knew that he had an elaborate firework setup he had been looking forward to displaying, but he suspect that was not what she was driving at. "Sultana…"
"Feridoon," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "No one will miss him—not anymore, at least—not since the Shah gave al-Mamalik power over the whole treasury. And you hate him—I know you hate him. You hate him as much as I hate—" She cut off suddenly. "But I am your liege lady, am I not? I don't need to explain myself."
"Yes," Erik said, very carefully. "But even you do not have the power of life and death."
"No," she said, "but my sorcerer does. Does he not?"
"Your sorcerer…" Erik paused for a moment, willing his hands to stop their mad clenching, "your sorcerer would take a life to guard your life. Your sorcerer would lay down his own life for you."
"But my dog will not bite for me," she said coldly. "Your fealty leaves something to be desired, Erik."
Erik felt like a vise had been put around his heart. "Erik is—"
"It does not matter, does it?"
"—sorry," he finished. He recovered something of his wit. "I've never had liege lady before, after all."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but after a moment she softened. "And I am glad for it! Here, now. Let me look on my dog, then. I will see if your contrition is true, and decide your fate accordingly. Don't shy away from me, Erik."
Erik winced as she untied his mask. He tried to remain still, but his eyes darted wildly, settling on everything besides her face.
After a moment, she patted his head. "You are an ugly mongrel, Erik. But you're my ugly mongrel." She handed his mask back to him. "Now, you have the dulcimer tuned? Play me something. I want to cry."
Erik had played until the Sultana cried. What strange tears they were, noiseless but they made her kohl run and stain her veil. She eventually fell asleep. Erik had departed when her slaves took her away to her bedchamber.
His head was filled with music, quarter tones and strange vibratos that part of him wanted to call wrong, wrong, wrong but nevertheless drowned out the mayhem of his thoughts. He wanted to throw the santur at the garden wall, it the vague mad hope that it would explode into more music—more sound—pure symphony or pure cacophony, he did not care. Just something, anything to change him from Erik into something—anything— better.
He almost did not notice to legion of eunuch guards he was walking past. Even in noticing, he did not pay them any heed, until a voice spoke from the center of the crowd.
"You are Erik."
Hearing that name brought Erik to a cold stop. No, no. There are no Eriks here. All the Eriks in the world are dead and gone— gone far, far away. Erik has run away to the gypsies, you know. He turned, and could have shrieked with laughter. Was it possible? A full year he had been in Persia—more than a year, nearer to two—and for the first time, he was face to face with Malek Jahan Khanum.
He had seen her from afar, on rare occasion. She rarely left the inner harem—he had never seen her in this outer courtyard. She was a large woman, and her robes made her seem squatter than she was. There was something of her in Naser al-Din's face: a slight droop to the eyes, a heaviness in the jowls—features that disguised any strength of character and could easily lead a fool to underestimate the person behind the face.
Erik managed a slight bow. "Mahdeh Olia," he greeted. After a moment, he added, "Khanum."
She did a peculiar trick with her eyebrows, lifting them in the middle and drawing them down at the sides. It created a caricature of concern. "I had hoped to speak with you."
No, no, no. There is no one here to speak with. You'll have better luck speaking with the pillars. "Yes?"
She stared at him, as if she could calculate his worth. You can't. You can't possibly know what Erik is worth. Or what he is not worth, for that matter. "His Imperial Majesty—my dear son—is leaving tomorrow. Did you know?"
"I did."
"He will not return for some time," she continued.
"Indeed?"
"Now he has—" she stumbled over her next words, as though they left a bad taste in her mouth—"handed over his executive authority, he has more time to devote to his… subjects."
Leisure. The word she had wanted was leisure. Erik did not correct her.
"I have vowed to keep some small account of Mazandaran in his absence for him," she continued. "He said that he left you with some orders, but neglected to specify what they were."
Erik blinked at her.
"Well?" She prompted.
"Well what?"
"What has my son charged you to do?"
Erik tilted his head and continued to stare at her. Her countenance had not altered. She still looked a little concerned, a little worried—rather like a put upon housewife. Erik wanted to laugh. "How can that possibly concern you?"
Nadir's voice floated into Erik's ear. Malek Jahan Khanum is a consummate politician—and you are nothing to her agenda.
Apparently, something had changed, though Erik could not guess what.
"My concern," she said, voice desperately earnest, "is the concern of a mother for her child. You can understand that, can you not?"
"No," Erik replied slowly, "I cannot."
They stood at an impasse. Erik became acutely aware of her retinue of guards. They were numerous and lethal-looking.
"You have nothing to gain from reticence."
"Nor have I anything to lose," Erik said.
"Your loyalty does you credit." The Shah could have learned something from his mother, Erik thought. But as for what that 'something' was… well, Erik could not quite put a finger on it.
"My loyalty is not an issue."
Her mask was starting to slip, starting to fracture. "You speak very quickly, magician." No. Her mask was not slipping. She was lowering it. But was she revealing the truth or another mask?
"A trait we have in common," Erik said.
"The only one, I think," she replied. "So, it is true, then. Your loyalties lie elsewhere." She jerked her head in the direction of the inner harem. "I had hoped it was not so. It is a sad thing to see a man led about by a girl."
"Are you trying to provoke me?" Erik asked lightly.
"No, I am trying to offer you a valuable friendship," she said, "but I think you are refusing it."
"I find myself without the need for friends," Erik replied. "But I also find myself without the need for enemies."
"That is not how it works," she said. "But you know that. Foolish boy. How far do you think you will get, as the favorite of a passing fancy?"
"How far will I get, as the pawn of on old woman living past her powers?" Erik should have known better—but Erik was there enough to control the tongue in his very mouth.
They stood, several paces apart, and stared at one another. Madeh Olia smoothed her chador, beckoned her guards with a finger, and departed back to the inner courtyards.
Erik remained in place until they had all passed from his sight.
Well, Erik. Well, Erik, you idiot dog Erik. What happens next?
He threw down the santur in place of a gauntlet, and left the palace.
Trying to figure out how Erik fits in to this world—and trying to maintain some sense of historical context—has been a trick. I debated quite a bit on bringing the Shah's mother into play, considering the typical representations of her character. But this time frame was sort of her last hurrah in politics, so, you know, history won out. I'm also finding the Sultana increasingly disturbing. That, alas, is necessary to the plot—how else will we end up with a mirrored torture chamber?