The Caspian coast was alive with activity, for the Shah was leaving Mazandaran.

Again.

Erik wondered if such fanfare was really warranted. It seemed to him that the Shah had spent very little time actually at his Mazandarani court this time. Mostly, he had roamed the mountains and the surrounding provinces, attempting to maintain the illusion that he was leaving the government to his council. Erik did not think it was a trick long for the world.

For once, Erik was not involved with the pageantry.

"I would like to see the seaside retreat complete by the New Year," the Shah had said, "You can do that, yes?"

Erik shrugged and used a single, extremely informal word to signify his consent.

The Shah half-smiled, choosing to be amused, and waved Erik away.

Erik could not complain. It suited him to have some project to work on, some goal to strive for. He would have happily remained at his kingdom by the sea for… well, forever. If not forever, then at least for the rest of the year.

The Daroga had other plans. He had resumed his role of Erik's Watcher with a diligence that bordered on vengeance. Erik was unsure of what to make of it.

"The Shah is departing tomorrow morning," Nadir said, picking his way around the stacks of tiles surrounding Erik. "He has put out a grand feast of charity this afternoon."

"Really? I had no idea. Is that why half of my skilled laborers have abandoned me?" Erik smiled viciously, the curve of his lip just visible under the rim of his mask, "You have eased my mind of a great burden, Daroga. I had thought it was my ill humor that drove them away. I had just resolved to repent of myself and become a better man. But now I see there is no need. Thank you!"

Nadir knocked off a tile from the top of a stack. He had the decency to look sheepish when he saw that the blue enamel had chipped, but it was not enough to deter him from further trivialities. "I know you have little interest in picnics. But tonight, one of the local troupes is performing. I think you should attend."

For the first time since Nadir's arrival, Erik actually stopped fiddling with a mosaic panel and looked up. "Should I indeed?"

"You will enjoy yourself," the Daroga sounded uncommonly certain.

Erik simply stared at him for a while. "Thank you, but no."

"You are welcome, and so yes. Will you come back to the house with me, or will I be obliged to come and collect you?"

"I have no desire to sit through several hours—because you know it will be several hours—of tedious amateur theatrics."

"Certainly not amateurs, Erik. And I do not think you'll find it tedious. It's tazieh." The Daroga tried to smile at him, his hands spread wide. He was much too… earnest. It grated on Erik's nerves.

"Why is this so important to you?"

"You haven't been the same since…" Nadir trailed off, probably in a way he thought was meaningful.

Erik nearly laughed. "If that were true, wouldn't you be pleased about it?"

Apparently, Erik had finally subverted the last of Nadir's patience. The Daroga rolled his eyes and grumbled. "It's music. You like music."

"I like good music." After a beat, Erik returned to his mosaic. "And stop using such infantile phrases. I am not a child."

"Erik—"

"Not a child," Erik held up a hand, "However, if I do not find the performance to my liking, I cannot guarantee that I will not throw a tantrum."

Nadir considered this for a moment. "You will like it." With this final pronouncement, he wandered off, leaving Erik alone.

It would have been easy enough to elude the good Daroga for the rest of the day. It was certainly a tempting thought. But Erik, driven by forces he could not properly identify (fear, affection, boredom—did it really matter?), accompanied Nadir back to Nowshahr.

It turned out that the performance was wholly separate from the earlier, open feast. One of the large palace rooms had been turned into an impromptu theater. The humidity of the summer evening was stifling. Erik was not impressed.

"I do not know why we are here," Erik grumbled. "If they needed a room for a stage performance, I designed a very nice one at the seaside palace."

"The seaside palace is still under construction," the Daroga pointed out.

"It is complete enough."

"Man is a peculiar creature," Nadir replied with great equanimity. "When presented the option between a familiar, comfortably furnished room and a strange, drafty one, they almost always choose the former."

Erik harrumphed. "The ventilation is terrible. Lighting's bad, too."

Nadir still appeared unmoved. "The acoustics are very fine." He accepted tea from a passing servitor—Erik merely glared and sent the boy scurrying away. Nadir lifted an eyebrow.

"It could be poisoned," Erik said in reply.

Nadir looked down into his tea cup. "Yes, it could be." He took a sip anyway. After a moment, he added, "there are worse ways to die."

Erik fell silent, watching the Daroga from the corner of his eye. The man baffled him, with his courtly polish and professional persistence and his personal—indifference? Irreverence? It would have been simpler if the Daroga had been a smaller man, easy to categorize. The bitter miser or the brash captain or the bashful lover—but life was not an Italian comedy sketch, now was it? That was, perhaps, a blessing.

At long last, the Shah ambled into the room, drawing cheerful praises from the assembled audiences. Were they wishing him well, or wishing him gone? Erik did not know. He ignored the Shah, only making a formal show of obeisance when Nadir jabbed him in the ribs. He ignored the entire assembled audience, for that matter, and kept his eyes trained on the empty stage, waiting for the tazieh to begin.

Eventually, it did begin—with an ear-splitting wail.

Erik found it curious how Persian music still sounded so alien to him. He genuinely enjoyed it, had learned to play it, and yet…

The play progressed from that single wail to a whole host of wails and trills and drawn out notes. They were playing out some mythological tale, filled with a considerable amount of sentiment, not to mention violence.

One of the characters was killed. The singers wailed. Nearly everyone in the room wailed as well, overcome with emotion. Even the Daroga looked a little glassy eyed in the half-light. Erik was given to understand that was the entire point of the tazieh genre, to force an audience into feeling.

Erik certainly felt, but he suspected it wasn't quite the feeling the composer or performers had in mind.

It was said that tazieh was 'Persian opera.' Erik somehow doubted that it was an accurate comparison. He had heard opera before, and it was magnificent in the truest sense of the word. It was great, and grand, and splendid. He could remember standing outside of a theater in Venice, the faint sounds of the orchestra running up his limbs and through his soul. The same thing had happened years earlier. . He had a vague memory of being in some cathedral somewhere (Italy? France? Or was it actually Russia? They all had over-sized, grandiose churches and Erik had spent more than his fair share of time hiding in them.) Music reverberated beautifully off of those vaulted ceilings—and that chant, something about days of wrath and moaning and mourning, echoed in Erik's heart. It was as if every bit of music he encountered attached itself to him, wove itself into the very fabric of his being.

Tazieh was something different. It resonated in him, yes, but it resonated incorrectly—like a badly tuned instrument. It was not part of him, just as Persia was not—

Not what? Not home? Home was such a deceptive idea—was it a place? A state of being? A dwelling of body or of affections? A single constant in a mad world? Didn't home usually involve love? But, no, not for Erik—never for Erik.

The only thing Erik could think of when confronted with the word 'home' was—

Running.

Running far and fast and forever…

It was a cold, cold version of home, but it certainly qualified as a constant.

By the time the play ended—and it had indeed been a waste of hours—Erik had worked himself into a passion to equal any of the tearstained Persians.

"I told you that you would enjoy it," the Daroga said. He even gave Erik's shoulder a hearty pat, a gesture Erik returned by flinching away. "You did, didn't you? You didn't throw a tantrum, after all."

Erik was actually surprised at how reasonable his voice came out. "It was fine."

It was not. Nothing was right in Erik's world at moment. Discordant music, bad ventilation, and a sense that running would be inevitable.

…However.

Where there was life, there was hope. Erik was still alive, and he knew where to find hope.

And maybe a home.

The Shah was gone, and with him most of his household. There were always those who stayed behind: servants, minor family members, or even wives.

The Sultana had stayed in Mazandaran, because 'the sound of the sea didn't make her want to die anymore.'

Erik had not had much time to spend with her in recent weeks, but that would change soon enough. He had worked night and day to complete the harem rooms in the palace— his palace.

And now the Sultana—his Sultana—was wandering through the rooms he had designed for her, followed by her coterie of ladies and guards. He glanced over the group briefly.

The Sultana caught the action and whined, "You're looking for the farm girl again!"

By now, Erik knew not to reply with any direct reference to Mojgan. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "I am merely trying to determine who will scream the loudest when we go past the right wing—I made the wall supports from skulls."

"Ah, there's my angel of death," the Sultana giggled. "I was starting to think he had flown away. But, no, he's been making something pretty for his sultana."

Erik actually found the skulls rather gauche, but he knew she would appreciate the touch. He swept into a wide, low bow. "My lady, where first on your grand tour?"

They both enjoyed the 'tour' immensely. The Sultana, because Erik knew how to entrain her; Erik, because he delighted in making such entertainments for her.

The rest of the group seemed a little sick by the end, and they scattered when they stopped for a light luncheon in the half-finished gardens.

Erik snapped his fingers and the maintain fountain bubbled to life. He had tinted the water theatrically red and scented it with rose, and the Sultana clapped.

She sat at the edge of the fountain, watching the red water pour out of the stone lions' mouths. A maidservant brought a plate of dainties. Neither ate. The Sultana broke apart the little cakes and rolled the crumbs between her fingers before tossing them down to the ground.

Erik didn't even bother touching the food. It was enough to watch her. He sat on the ground, her skirts fanned out next to him. He could not feel the silk brushing his coat shoulder, but he could imagine it. The guards were standing at a good distance, and the ladies were practically hiding inside the buildings.

Erik saw his opportunity. "I have a question for you, Sultana."

She waved at him to continue, which did not seem like sufficient attention to Erik.

"It's important," he said.

She shrugged.

Well. Perhaps she would be more inclined to attend once she knew what the question was. Erik breathed in for a moment, held the breath, and then asked: "Do you love me?"

Erik watched her veiled head swivel in his direction and tilt. "What?"

"Do you love me?" He reached out to her for a moment and then let his hand drop. He suspected that it should have been easier to force out the words a second time. It was not.

She laughed at him. "You ass. What a question!"

"This is important!"

"Well," she shrugged and laughed again, "I suppose I have a fondness for you."

Erik picked at his cuff and straightened his coat. "I… adore you."

"Of course you do!" She patted his head gamely. "You're my bad, mad dog! All dogs love their mistresses."

"I wish to be more," Erik whispered.

"More than a dog?" She sniffed. "Don't want that. We all have our places in the world, and we can't change them. Nobody can. Some of us are born sultanas and will die sultanas and no one can change that—not even sultans or shahs. And some of us are born dogs and will die dogs, and no one can change that—not even sultanas."

"Some dogs can run far and fast," Erik said, pleading. "Some sultanas can, too—especially if they are little enough for a dog to carry. They can run and run and run until what they are doesn't matter. Dogs can be men and sultanas can be sweethearts!"

The little sultana was very quiet. All at once, her robes rustled and she stood. "Go away, Erik."

"Sultana—"

Her fingers turned to claws and she dug into her veil, leaving trails of cake crumbs and smears of honey. "Go away! Go away, little dog! And stop barking at me!"

Erik realized that he had shifted onto his knees, his hands had a death grip on the edge of the fountain. He tried to let go—tried to reach for her, but his fists would not slacken.

He used his voice, his very best voice that owed more to stolen moments in opera houses and cathedrals than he would have liked to admit. "Soraya."

She leaned down suddenly and stared into Erik's eyes. Her own were unfathomably dark—like deep water at midnight, or fresh ink, or—his musings were cut off when she spoke, her voice unusually level. "I will scream."

Erik almost laughed. "And will they come if you—"

"Yes," she said, quietly, "yes, they will. And some of them aren't afraid of you. Get up, Erik. Get up, and go away."

Erik stood automatically. "I thought—"

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter," the Sultana said, singsongish now. "It doesn't matter, when we're all on our way to hell. Run along now. Run back to hell. Maybe I'll catch up to you one day."

Erik listened. Erik ran.