Nadir was locked in a contest of wills.
It was not an unfamiliar situation for him. In the course of his career, he had often sat in a deadlock, forced to rely on little more than his own determination and diligence. Mercifully, he had both traits in superabundance, and so usually came away victorious.
But what could a man (even a determined and diligent one) do when deadlocked with his supreme monarch? Nadir sat across from his King and Emperor, at an absolute stalemate.
"You know I have great… faith in your opinions, Nadir," Naser al-Din said. The addition of but they are merely your opinions was obvious, if unspoken.
"Have you seen this—" Nadir waved his hand vaguely, unsure of how best to describe Erik's latest trick. He had heard it called a hall of mirrors. The Shah called it the illusion room. Erik had laughed and referred to it as my little equatorial forest. Whatever it was, Nadir couldn't help but think it was bad.
The Shah did not share his reticence. "I saw the original designs."
"Before it was repurposed," Nadir pointed out.
The Shah shrugged, and they were back to their impasse.
It was at such moments that a man might mistake the Naser al-Din for an absolute fool. Ignorant, stubborn, decadent—all of the European perceptions forced to life in the Shah's limp, impassive face. Nadir knew better. But, really, was it any easier to deal with a man who appeared to be a fool than the genuine article?
"What I have not mentioned," the Shah shifted and leaned over his massive marquetry desk a little, "what I had not thought needed mentioning, was the fact that a message does need to be made. Hm? As the Daroga of this province, you surely recognize that."
Daroga should have been an honorable title. Why was it then that Nadir constantly felt like it was being thrown at him as an insult? It was an old, old term and rare outside of formal circles. Perhaps the infinitely more common near-homophone daroogha was finally stripping the title of its nobility. Perhaps even the Shah did not hear Police Chief when he said Daroga—perhaps he heard Lies.
Well, if no one else knew—if no one else cared to know—Nadir knew what his title meant, and he knew what responsibilities it carried.
"Yes, a message does need to be sent," Nadir said, "but we have ways of sending such messages. We do not need to resort to sensationalism."
"An attack was made on one of my wives," the Shah said, "sensationalism seems to me to be the only appropriate reply."
"Yes, Your Majesty. But Erik's—"
"Did you not bring the Living Corpse to me?" The Shah asked rhetorically.
Did you not ask for him? "The apparatus is untested." I hope.
Another shrug. "And have you ever seen one of Erik's innovations fail? He proved himself so far, both in the designs he provided to keep Dost Mohammed in his place, and closer to home."
"There are different ways to fail," Nadir grumbled. He caught himself and tried to marshal some small bit of courtliness. "Your Majesty, I am simply wary of using unproven methods to send so important a message. Erik is a genius, yes, but there are limits to what genius should be allowed to do."
"The only limit I impose is that such genius is used in my service."
"And what if it is one day used otherwise?"
The Shah smiled at Nadir benignly. "Then I expect you to deal with it appropriately at that time."
The interview ended. Aides that had been all but invisible for the last quarter hour suddenly appeared with a myriad of urgent matters for the Shah's attention. Naser al-Din waved Nadir away.
Nadir made his formal farewells, bowed, and backed away.
"Oh, Daroga?" The Shah was absorbed in a large folder and did not look up.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"You will attend to the other security matters involved, hm? Merci."
Nadir would certainly attend. How could he not? It had been some time since he had seen Erik perform.
He was dreading it.
The guest list was a peculiar mix of the Shah's personal friends and his political enemies. A good deal of the harem was present as well, hidden behind improvised curtains.
As far as Nadir could tell, no one was particularly happy to have been dragged out to the half-done seaside retreat. It was unnerving to be in such an unfamiliar place, the sunset light creeping into the uninhabited palace through empty window frames and the unfinished ceiling.
The Shah was personally in high humor, laughing with his ladies and draining his wine cup.
Nadir could not relax. He walked the dining room restlessly. Darius was tripping at his heels.
"Daroga!"
Nadir paused at the seat of Muhammad Khan Qajar. "Khan Agha?"
"Do you know the meaning of this?"
"As far as I am concerned, this is the lawful execution of man convicted of high treason," Nadir replied carefully.
"An execution with supper," Muhammad huffed. "If word spreads—and it will spread—the English will have all the fodder they need to cut us out of their foreign policy. Barbarism." The premier may have worn traditional robes and a turban, but his beard owned more to Tsar Alexander's bushy side whiskers and mustache than any Islamic fashion.
Nadir inclined his head respectfully. "I have it on good authority that this execution be extraordinary in the extreme."
"Oh, good," one of the premier's companions groaned, "one always wants extraordinary executions."
Nadir could not help but agree with that sentiment, but he did not show it. He excused himself and continued on his review of the posted guards and observation of the guests.
They were almost all uncomfortable. Nadir could not blame them. One never knew how evenings like this might come to an end—or who might come to an end.
All at once, the dining room was a blaze of light. Wall sconces, chandeliers—every light source in the room seemed to explode. Nadir blinked against the onslaught of brightness and turned his attention to the wall closest to the Shah.
The large curtain ascended into the ceiling, revealing a panel of dark glass. It did not run the entire length of the room, but it was large enough to command the attention of the Shah's guests.
On cue, servitors starting bringing in supper. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to them. The smallest buzz interrupted the silence of the room. It faded, reappeared, and faded again—rather like the buzz of a fly.
The sound of stumbling and cursing came from the other side of the double-sided mirror, drowning out the fly sounds. There was a shuffle, and then the roar of a lion—a man's voice exclaimed in fear and then cursed again.
This went on for some time. Then, all at once, the lights in the mirrored room came on. The Shah's guests gave a collective gasp and leaned forward.
The man in the room looked rather more collected than Nadir might have expected. True, he was already worn and depleted, his eyes blood shot and his hands twitching. Nadir knew this was not the first time he had been in this room. But he did his best to stand tall. He knew he was going to die—perhaps he had decided to try to go out with some measure of dignity.
But it was hard to maintain one's dignity when a thousand mirror images of one's own suffering reflected back.
Nadir found himself admiring the man somewhat. He maintained his composure admirably. He walked in a straight line, hands out until he reached one of the mirrored walls. His hands shook badly, but he closed his eyes and tried to follow the perimeter of the room by feel.
He lost his balance—Nadir suspected it was not his own fault—and cursed again.
Was it just Nadir's perception, or was the light brightening? The would-be assassin wiped sweat from his brow and tried to start his search for the walls again. He was having a much harder time now.
Then, the birdsong started. It was faint at first, but grew in volume. The man looked around his prison rapidly, lost his balance, and fell to the floor again.
At that point, the tree appeared.
It seemed to grow out of the very floor—first the trunk, and then the branches appeared with their little birds. Nadir's focus shifted away from the one tree and he realized with a jolt that the one tree was now a thousand. An infinite forest made of infinite reflections, the artificial sun beating down.
The man scrambled to one of the trees—Nadir couldn't even guess if it was the real one or not. He tried to sit beneath the spare branches, but there was no relief from the unrelenting heat.
Who knew how long the tortures lasted? Food sat ignored on the tables—even the wine was untouched.
The light became impossibly brighter.
The man cried.
The man raved.
He struck at the floor until his fists were bloodied.
And then the light dimmed—just a little. The reflection of the trees faded—
Something like an oasis appeared at the base of the real steel tree. The man reached for it with a trembling hand as the birdsong reasserted itself.
A rope appeared, tied to a branch. How it came to be there, Nadir could not guess. The man's bruised fingers circled around the rope—a noose. It was a noose. He snorted and babbled. He was about to release his grip, defiant.
But the lights flared again, and the forest was back, denser than ever.
Somehow—God, or perhaps the Devil, alone knew how—the noose found its way around the man's neck. He was too low to hang properly, and so cried until he was strangled of breath, his toes jerking against the floor helplessly.
The lights went out. The curtain fell. All was silence, save the distant sound of a woman's laugh.
Nadir went to rub his eyes. He was surprised to find that his hand came away wet with tears.
He wanted to feel some sympathy for the dead man. He was a villain, yes, and guilty as sin. But somehow (again, it was either God or the Devil who knew how,) the only sympathy he seemed to have was for the man who had created that room of horrors.
And with that realization, Nadir left the dining room and set out on a search.
He found Erik in the workshop behind the mirrored room. It was a mess. Erik, though a packrat, tended to be neat. Erik sat in the middle of it, his long legs stretched out before him, long arms propping him up. His red Circassian coat was thrown over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It did not bode well for him to be so surrounded by mayhem.
"Did they enjoy it?" he asked. He did not turn to face Nadir.
Nadir considered his reply carefully. "The Shah appeared to be very pleased."
"And you call me the monster." He tossed a silk purse to Nadir. "The Sultana sent me this. Go on. Take a look."
Nadir opened the purse and pulled out a long link chain made of solid gold. At the end, it looped.
"A lasso?"
"Or a leash," Erik commented brightly. "I'm not sure which."
Nadir carefully coiled the weapon into its innocuous container. "The torture chamber—"
"At last! Someone knows what to proper call it! Erik always knew the Daroga wasn't a complete fool."
"Did you test it?"
"Of course," Erik replied. After a moment he added, "On myself, Daroga. You needn't run off your head looking for lost slaves."
Erik started idly playing with the purse. For a moment, it appeared the entire bag was immersed in flame. A tiny voice screamed from within help! Help!
The illusion faded as quickly as it had been conjured. Erik peered theatrically into the bag. "Oh, dear. It looks like I was too late."
There was something in the timbre of his voice that reminded Nadir of earlier days. He came a little closer, and resisted the urge to put his hand on Erik's shoulder.
"How old are you, Erik?"
Erik shrugged. "No one knows that. Not even Erik. Which is quite a trick, because Erik really does know everything."
"Does Erik know that it is not good for him to be left alone for so long?" Nadir asked.
"Erik is always alone." A long white hand, even more scarred than it had been in months past, came up and rubbed at the back of Erik's neck. "What are you driving at, Daroga? I am tired, and I think I am mad." He paused and added in a curiously detached voice, "I loathe it when I know that I am mad."
"Come back to my house," Nadir said. "Darius will make up one of the guest rooms and we will drink tea." And try to forget.
"Taarof, taarof, taarof," Erik said back, "how many times do I need to refuse before I know if you are sincere?"
"It's not taarof. I am sincere."
"I thought we weren't friends."
Nadir paused. "We're not. Nor am I responsible for you. But it is not good for you to isolate yourself so."
"You worry for your dear Mazandaranis? Worry that poor mad Erik will shove them in mirrored rooms and drive them mad?"
"Not particularly. I am, however, worried for you." Nadir paused again. "But I am still not your friend."
Erik motioned wordlessly to his mask. "I have never expected friends."
"It is not that," at least not only that, "the fact of the matter is, Erik—you could rule the world. And I am frightened to find out what will be required to content you."
Erik laughed and shrugged. "Well, then, Daroga, I accept your unfriendly offer of hospitality. Shall we leave?"
Nadir glanced around the work room again. It seemed to him like a miasma arose from the work benches and tightly capped jars. "Yes, I think so."
The reference to Dost Mohammed is as close as I got to Erik turning "his diabolical inventive powers against the Emir of Afghanistan," as Leroux said. Honestly, I would have liked to do a lot more with that, but it kept screwing with the flow of the story. Alas.