A good man would have made an effort to change. He would not merely regret his missteps, but repent of them and try to do better, to be better. An ordinary man would have simply been paralyzed into inaction, afraid of making another false step.

As for an evil man... Erik supposed that an evil man would continue in his evil ways gleefully, savoring each wicked deed and remembering such actions fondly.

What, then, was Erik? Erik, who sat staring at the head of Shir Hosseini desperately trying to recall having removed it from its body. He was sure that he had. The cut looked like something he would do. There was an element of finesse, of artistic vision that he could recognize in spite of the sick feeling that had settled deep in his stomach. And if that was not enough to convince him, there was also the dried blood underneath his fingernails.

Yes, Erik had certainly killed the eunuch. But when? (Last night, the waxy, rictus cheek proclaimed.) And why? (The Sultana, his traitorous, all-a-blank memory supplied.)

He reached out and then paused, his hand just short of the dead man's face. He remained frozen for a moment, processing some vague thought on the irony of dead men being allowed to have faces, even if they did not possess a body. The moment passed and he pushed the eyelids down.

The Daroga would surely have something to say about this.

He could picture him easily. He could imagine him standing at the door to Erik's workshop (didn't Hosseini reside at the Nowshar Palace? How did Erik end up with him here and where, where was the rest of him?) The Daroga would look between Erik's mask and the corpse's face for a deceptively short period of time. Then his bland Imperial Officer expression would alter into a look Erik was well acquainted with. There would be the bemused set of his lip, the ashen cast of his cheek, the hard spark in his eyes. They were small things, really. Little quirks, barely noticeable to the casual observer, but Erik had learned to read him well.

Who would have imagined such a thing, back when Erik first met him in Nijni Novgorod? Then, the Daroga had looked every inch the bored, stuffy Imperial envoy and Erik would not have been able to discern where the mask ended and the man began. He could have observed frustration in the Daroga, annoyance, maybe even anger at having been sent on an errand so beneath his dignity. But that awful disappointment, that gutting look of betrayal—as if Erik had cut off the Daroga's own head and not some palace servant's!—no, Erik would not have been the recipient of such looks then.

But now?

There would be disappointment written in all his looks, but no mercy. He had made it very clear a very long time ago that there could be no mercy.

…if he found out.

Erik heard laughter and realized it was his own. He stopped short, chastised himself for the impropriety of it all, and arose to scrub away the blood. He was really quite done with Persia, he told himself. It was entirely too hot in the summer and too depressing in the winter and too filled with brown-eyed women. And his kingdom-by-the-sea—construction workers had given way to artisans who would soon give way to courtiers.

And then where would Erik be? This was his kingdom, his castle, but it wouldn't be his court to fill its halls. He could haunt his hidden passageways and sneak in the shadows, as he always had. But he could he stand to do so here? Could he stand to be exiled into the darkness, if the darkness was of his own invention?

He had thought of commandeering the new palace for himself, of living in its main suites and filling its harem with his own mass of veiled beauties. But he was not mad enough to confuse that dream with reality. The Shah had commissioned the palace—he would live in it when the fancy struck him, fill its halls with his treasures both material and mortal, and never really care about it or its architect.

It was a point of cold consolation that Erik's palace would outlast Naser al-Din. It would outlast Erik, too, he supposed. Perhaps that fact lifted the project from being the caprice of a king or the vanity of a madman and made it something better, something worthwhile.

He found himself at the Daroga's house through no fault of his own. It was perhaps habit—or was he trying to dispel any shadow of guilt that might color his actions? What better alibi than the company of the man who might arrest you? Erik pushed that thought away even as he pushed the door to the courtyard open.

The house was uncharacteristically bright-looking. The windows had been thrown open, their draperies fluttering out into the courtyard like so many forward women. There was the bustle of housekeeping coming from all corners. In the middle of it all was not Nadir, but Mojgan. She was sitting cross-legged in the parlor with a half-strung setar across her lap.

"Hello, Erik," she said, as if his sudden appearance didn't bother her. "Nadir isn't here right now, though I would think he'd be back shortly. Would you like tea? Khadija, would you get more tea, please?" When Erik didn't move further into the room, she set the setar aside and looked at him sharply. "Are we going to pretend that we've never spoken before?"

A minute passed and she was still staring at him. He cleared his throat. "If you'd like."

"No, I would not like that," she said. She had a length of catgut in her hand—something that struck Erik as very wrong until she started winding it onto the setar. "Shall I say please? Please come in, please sit down, please have some tea."

Erik obeyed with some good grace and sat on the settee near Mojgan. She tested out her new string. It was a decent starting point, but not quite in tune. Erik wordlessly held out his hand for the instrument. It was a bad idea, for as soon as Mojgan handed it over she set her undivided attention upon Erik.

"I haven't seen you in weeks," she said.

He focused on the catgut, tuning until his ear was pleased. "Did you want to see Erik? I would not have thought so, considering what happened the last time."

"The last time I saw you, you ran out of my house like I had set dogs on you," she pointed out. "That salve worked well, by the way." She turned to profile and tapped her nose. "Look—not even a freckle to show for it."

"That's good," Erik murmured. "At least that's good."

"Erik," she said, with a hint of censure, "come, let us be friends." She did not extend her hand—no good Persian woman would offer her hand to a man unrelated to her—but her eyes were welcoming.

"I—" Erik could hardly believe his own voice, when he replied with a simple, "yes."

There was silence for a while, as Mojgan served tea and Erik compared the loose pieces of catgut for the last string.

"There has been talk of you in the neighborhood recently," she said. "And it hasn't been good."

"I did not know that was a recent development," Erik replied.

She laughed a little. "Well, perhaps not. But it this is different. There has been talk that you will be leaving soon. That you are bored."

"I hardly see how that would rate as good gossip. Would it matter one way or the other?"

"Are you thinking of going home?"

Erik puzzled over her tone. It didn't sound like simple curiosity. Was it concern? Accusation? Hope? "Well, if you open an atlas, I'll throw a pin at it. Perhaps I'll go where it sticks and call that home."

"Then you are leaving."

Still that tone—something like loss, something like sadness. "I'd be a fool to leave," Erik said at last. "The Shah pays me too much."

"That is not a denial," She smiled a dry smile, more biting than brilliant. "But I cannot blame you. I've thought of leaving, as well."

He stopped work on the setar for a moment, utterly appalled. "Absolutely not!"

The smile turned into a laugh. "How like a man you are! Even Nadir had the decency to bite his tongue when I brought up the possibility. He just glared at me."

"Where would you go?" He gave the strings a final testing strum before handing the instrument back to Mojgan.

"That is the question, isn't it?" It was a question she didn't answer. Her attention was back on the setar. She started a song, a simple folk melody that she played with more soul than technical finesse. Though at least Erik didn't feel like his ears were bleeding. She stopped abruptly in the middle with a nod. "Yes, that does sound better. Thank you."

"You have family," Erik pointed out.

"Yes, I do. And I should go back to them. It would be right. It would be proper."

"Then why not?"

"Why do you not return to Europe?" she countered. "If you are bored and you do want to leave— why not go back there?"

Erik pushed off the settee and walked the perimeter of the room. Why wouldn't she turn away? Why did she insist on watching him pace? "Why don't you answer the questions put to you?"

"Why don't you?" At least she turned away then, choosing to look over Erik's handiwork with the strings rather than Erik himself. "I have clearly been spending too much time with the Daroga. I was never in the habit of investigation and interrogation before."

Erik could not help but be grateful for the change of subject. "And where is the Daroga today? He is being a very poor host to his pretty little cousin."

"I confess I am here in the role of housekeeper, not cousin," she said. "He has some business to conduct with his colleagues and wanted to stage a supper for them. Since his steward, er, moved on, he asked me to oversee the servants for the day and direct the preparations."

"That does sound like him—work given as a token of friendship."

"I don't mind. I've felt useless enough for the past few months."

Before Erik had a chance to make any sort of reply—or redirection—a kitchen slave came in to fetch Mojgan. She excused herself, promising a quick return, and left Erik to his own devices.

He took the opportunity to drink his tea. It was obviously Darius's special blend, deeply spiced with cardamom and with the telltale golden gleam of saffron. But Mojgan had brewed it dark and strong in rose water and served it already sweetened. It was the smell and taste of the harem, Erik decided. No, not the harem, where the Shah played and she ruled. It was the ordinary harem, the private rooms and private lives of forcibly commonplace men and innately extraordinary women. To Erik, it seemed to be part way between the scent of home and the perfume of fantasy—perhaps the fantasy of a home?

There was a new bustle outside of the house, shortly followed by the Daroga. The little fear that had crouched at the back of Erik's skull for the entire morning retreated somewhat. The Daroga seemed no more hostile than usual. If anything, he was looking at Erik with a little less suspicion than was his custom. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend, of course," Erik held up his half-empty tea cup.

"Visiting or pestering?"

"Visiting. I only pester you, not Mojgan."

The Daroga sniffed, but said nothing. He took a seat across from Erik and stared.

Erik stared back. On a whim, he threw his voice into the teapot. "Oh, dear, why hasn't Darius—"

"Don't," the Daroga grumbled, "I'm not in the mood to humor you today."

"Are you ever?" Erik asked. "Well, I hear that you are obliged to conduct business tonight. I don't blame you for your ill humor. I am glad that I needn't have much to do with building the palace anymore—Persian business was sucking my soul out."

"You are glad the project is nearly over?" He still stared at Erik, just as Mojgan had stared at him. "Truly? You won't be bored?"

"I am always bored," Erik pointed out, "it is the curse of genius."

"Is it?" the Daroga's tone was utterly flat. "I had no idea."

"I wouldn't expect you to. Do you need any entertainment for your little party? I could sing, Mojgan could dance—no?" Erik always thought it peculiar that people thought that he had an evil eye. The Daroga was surely the master of it.

"And why do you want to eavesdrop on my colleagues? I am sure you already know all about the topic of the hour."

"Do I?"

Another sniff, God damn him. "I should think so." There was a pause when Darius reappeared with fresh tea for his master. Nadir looked much more content once he had a glass in hand. "It isn't as though his return doesn't concern you."

"You know, you don't tease well," Erik decided that a huff would properly meet the Daroga's sniffs. "I will not ask you, since you plainly do not wish to tell me."

"I told you, I have no desire to play at your games…" the Daroga trailed off thoughtfully. He set down his tea, smoothed his mustache. "Erik. You know that Shah is returning to Mazandaran."

"The Shah is always coming and going," Erik replied. "What does it matter to me?"

The Daroga leaned back, his countenance closed and wary. "Need I remind you that you are here at the Shah's pleasure? Rather, his sufferance! He is coming in no small part to see your palace—and someone should have informed you. The fact that no one did… cannot you not see what that might signify?"

The possibilities were manifold, Erik privately conceded, and few were pleasant. But outwardly, he remained in his hunched repose and glowered at the Daroga. "You are paranoid."

"And you are a fool," the Daroga sighed. "What has happened to you? A year ago, this would have sent you into a flying rage and a whorl of conspiracy. Now, you sit and call me paranoid." After a moment, his voice altered and Erik nearly groaned. God, but spare him Nadir the Caring and Nadir the Earnest. But, no… "You cannot be seen to lose your bite, Erik."

That surprised Erik into a laugh. "I never thought to hear those words fall from your lips! If I were, in fact, to become a domesticated animal, I would have thought you happy."

"I would be. But not at the expense of your life," the Daroga paused broodingly, and generally seemed very discontented with his lot in life for the space of half a minute. "After all, I can never forget that the Shah glued my destiny to yours." He sipped his tea, his face more naked than Erik had ever seen before. "Cruel bastard."

It was not entirely true that Erik avoided his Imperial master when the Shah finally did amble into Mazandaran. It was merely a matter of not seeking him out. He did not bother going to Court. He did not bother going to his construction site when he knew the Shah would be there- and the Shah was there surprisingly frequently.

Apparently, he had decided to do a complete inspection himself. He went into every room, looked at every surface, and questioned every under contractor he ran across. He never expressed approval or disapproval. He merely came every few days to wander and search. Not a single fountain fixture escaped his perusal.

He never once asked for Erik.

A full two weeks passed before that summons came.

Erik put on his best coat, his blandest mask, and his most marked swagger. He suspected that the effect was rather lost on the Shah, who looked at Erik with abstracted eyes when he bothered to look at all.

"I find myself most pleased with the progress on the palace," the Shah said. "The caliber of your work is on par with the greatest geniuses of our land."

Erik made no comment, but the Shah did not seem to need it.

"…indeed, it will stand as a unique homage to the splendor of the house of Qajar for generations upon generations…"

Had he always pontificated so much? Or had Erik simply lost his tolerance for it?

"…it begs the question, 'how can such genius be put to further use?' I have given the matter much thought…"

He outlined so many projects: art in stone and flesh, in plaster and blood, in wood and soul. He promised—without ever really promising—unimagined riches and great power. In a blink of an eye, he might have the world.

But the world, as outlined by Naser al-Din, seemed curiously dull. It was full of false hopes and half-realized dreams.

And it could vanish, in the blink of an eye.

But he had not lied to Mojgan. He would be a fool to leave the Shah's service. He was too well-paid, and commanded respect beyond his wildest dreams.

Have you thought, perhaps, to dream bigger?

The Shah finally asked a direct question, one that was owed a direct answer.

"No," was the answer Erik gave.

The Shah's brows pulled together. His mustachios pulled down. "No?"

"I have no interest in taking on another project right now," Erik said.

"And what do you intend on doing, hm?"

Ah, that was question that Erik had less of an answer for. He shrugged.

The Shah scowled. "Where do you intend to go?"

"Nowhere," Erik replied. For the moment, at least.

"Hm."

There was an uneasy silence. Erik found himself eying the guards with a new wariness. But they held their places, the Shah never once looked at them.

"But, you will, of course, still attend me when I call," the Shah smiled anemically, "my guests are seldom so… entertained."

"Of course," Erik said.

"Of course. Hm." He inclined his head slightly, a dismissal without flourish. Or courtesy, Erik noted.

Erik bowed and started backed away.

"Oh, Erik? I would hope you would stay close by for the time being—I am sure I will have need of you before I leave for Tehran."

Erik knew a threat when he heard it, but he paid it no mind. He bowed again, and departed the audience chamber.

The world—well, the world may not have been bright. It may not have been any more promising or kind than it had been that morning. But it was a free world, and Erik delighted in that.

"Jadugar Agha," a voice called from the shadows. One of the eunuchs appeared from a side hall, "you are asked for in the harem."

Erik stopped dead. He wavered, as if two physical forces wanted to drag him in opposite directions and neither could overpower the other. One pulled him toward laughing dark eyes and the alluring power of danger. The other destination was one of comfortable discomfort, of familiar aloneness.

The eunuch noticed the hesitation, "the Sultana—"

"I know," Erik growled. "I know."

The lesser of two evils, then. He took a step forward, and then another, and went home.