I'm posting all three of the last chapters of 'Part I' today, as some family business came up that will require my attention for the rest of the week. Hopefully, I'll be starting in on Part II next Monday- but at least you'll have a complete story for now!

Nadir nursed a water pipe well into the night, silent and dazed-looking. An amateur in the field of crisis might have been well and truly dazed, he thought, given the day's tumult of events. Darius had looked more than a little overcome when Nadir dismissed him for the night. He had acquitted himself admirably that day, but the stress had taken its toll. Even Erik had been uncharacteristically compliant, agreeing to stay away from Nadir and Mojgan until his own situation was dealt with. And dealt with it would be, Nadir was sure. He could see gears grinding behind those uncanny yellow eyes.

Well, Erik could attend to his own plots.

Erik may have been a genius, after all, but Nadir was a professional.

He spent the night meditating on Mojgan's situation and the course of action they had decided upon.

If they travelled light and rode hard, she could be home in four, five days. But that was impractical on several accounts. While he had no doubt that Mojgan would rise to the occasion, it was unrealistic to expect her to leave everything behind and ride like a solider.

And an immediate departure was out of the question—the Sultana was too angry, her men too vigilant. They would more than likely be overtaken before leaving Nowshahr. Better to play on the idea that Mojgan was ill, to let the Sultana's men become bored and complacent.

There was also the question of an escort. Nadir could hardly take her himself, though he would have under other circumstances. He trusted Darius, but he was known in many circles and his absence might give rise to as much suspicion as Nadir's would. There was Erik—but, no. None of her servants would do. A trusted deputy could be engaged, though Nadir imagined that could be construed as an abuse of his position.

No matter. He had already hedged his bets.

He worked methodically, making plans and contingency plans. He mapped routes and estimated supplies. By sunrise, he knew what he could do and when he could do it. It was now a matter of keeping safe until the right opportunity to implement his work would arise.

It had been pleasant, he thought, to have had something like a family around again. But all earthly pleasures were temporary, and this one had run its course.

The charcoal in his pipe burned out, and Nadir went to bed.

In a show of bravado he did not feel, Nadir left early the next morning. Darius stayed behind, armed with a bizarre array of weaponry that he had dug out of the storeroom.

"Don't you dare answer the door with that rifle in view," Nadir said. "We cannot show our fear."

Darius had merely nodded and seen Nadir to the door.

Nadir made his usual rounds in the city, asking for personal reports from a number of the inspectors and deputies under his jurisdiction.

"Bring them to my house when you can," he said. It was not an unusual request and with the New Year rapidly approaching, no one thought it peculiar that the Daroga wanted his records updated and in good order.

This led to a stream of well-trained, well-armed officers of the peace appearing at Nadir's house at frequent and rather unpredictable intervals for several days. It was as good as a garrison for keeping the Sultana's tigerish men off of his doorstep and confirmed one of Nadir's dearly held hopes—that it was just the Sultana out to attack, and she did not have the support of other key players at the palace. Yet.

When a palace messenger did come early one morning, it was not from or about the harem.

"His Imperial Majesty commands me to place this letter into your hands," the messenger said formally. He discharged his duty and departed, leaving Nadir to stare at the heavy parchment in his hand.

Mojgan was keeping to the guestrooms and Darius was out in the stables. And Erik—who knew? Nadir did not know if he was glad for the solitude as he broke the seals and read his fate.

It was vague only in its brevity—in straightforward terms, the missive requested and required Nadir's attendance upon the Shah that very afternoon. But not, he noted with a firm jaw and a weak heart, at Nowshahr. No, Nadir was to meet the Shah in the Great Hall of Erik's seaside palace.

He had to wonder just what he would find there.

Nadir the man wanted to push that consideration aside, for it only caused him anxiety. But the Daroga, who really had first place in all things, insisted. It was foolish to walk into a bad situation without forethought. And if, perchance, it was really a benign situation—well, then, no harm done.

But to my heart, Nadir thought, grumpy.

"You look as sullen as Erik," Mojgan appeared from the back of the house. She was casually arrayed in a loose over robe of green wool. Her hair was unbraided, and covered only with an embroidered cap in the Armenian fashion. Nadir realized that both items could be cast off quickly, if Mojgan needed to return to the guestroom and counterfeit illness. It wouldn't take a great imagination to believe her sick—her cheeks were hollow and her eyes tired.

Perhaps she was sullen-as-Erik, too.

"The sky is dark and the wind is sharp," Nadir said, "and I have a long ride ahead of me."

"Court dress," she commented.

"An audience with the Shah," Nadir confirmed.

"Good," she said.

Nadir gave a short, surprised laugh. "Good?"

She lifted her eyebrows. "Didn't you know? I'm dying from the suspense."

"It could go badly," Nadir pointed out. He was feeling philosophical.

"Of course," she said. "But at least it will go."

In the absence of Darius, she helped Nadir gather his things. He half-wondered how she knew where everything was. She helped him with his heaviest coat and, after a moment, disappeared into the backroom. She returned holding a glittering emerald and pearl bar-pin, which she had Nadir fasten to his collar.

"Feridoon said that the Shah gave him that after he was injured in Herat," she said. "As if a bit of sparkle was worth the risk of a man's life. And you know how Feridoon felt about jewelry. But when he wanted to Shah to pay attention to him, to remember who he was dealing with, he would wear it."

"And the Shah would listen?" Nadir asked, with a half-smile. "You do realize that your husband was rather more superstitious than he let on?"

Mojgan shrugged. "I don't know if it ever really worked. But perhaps it did. And perhaps the Shah needs to remember just who he is dealing with."

Nadir kissed her cheek in farewell. "Say what you will about the Shah, joonam. If there is one thing he never forgets, it is who he is dealing with."

Some hours later, he stood in the center of the grand entry hall of Erik's palace. It was one of the few rooms well and truly completed, from the mosaicked floor to frescoed ceiling. He wonder if, when the palace finally came to life, and there were a hundred men milling about, if it would be any less overwhelming.

Would the roar of fountains, with their malevolent gilt lion guardians, subside to a background trickle? Would the endless company of support pillars, elegant and almost stark in their mirror and white marble raiment, fade against the rainbow of robes the courtiers would wear?

For a moment, the pillars did fade in his mind's eye. They were replaced by a mirrored forest of metal trees, and Nadir knew that—no matter what else—there was one thing that would never fade from the palace. Erik.

"It will be more than a year before the interior is livable."

Nadir nearly jumped, but a lifetime of self-control allowed him to merely turn quickly in the direction of the Shah.

Naser al-Din looked… gleeful? "Regardless of that, Erik has left us with a marvelous canvas."

"Sire," Nadir said, with a deep bow. "I most humbly beg your pardon, for I—"

"Did not see me?" Yes, that was definitely glee in the Shah's voice. "Yes, that was the general idea."

Nadir gave the entire foyer a quick, critical inspection. "Majesty, surely we are not the only ones here?"

"Oh, no. My men are here," he offered a serene smile, "though I know I hardly need them when I am in such good company as that of my cousin."

Nadir mumbled all of the right words, honored and gratitude and duty in some order or another.

The Shah set a sort of rambling pace around the perimeter, which Nadir kept step with. "I had the most fascinating visit from our friend the magician a few days ago. Perhaps you know something of it, hm?"

"To be perfectly honest, Sire, our friend the magician is rather better at sleight of hand than I might wish," Nadir said. His bemusement was very real.

"Oh, no. No, I like his sleight of hand very much," the Shah said. "Especially when I am let in on all of the little tricks of the trade." He gestured uncharacteristically wide, and Nadir just barely caught a glimpse of the Shah's hand pressing against one of the pillars. He nodded towards the wall. "Why don't you go in, Daroga? Don't fret: a flower's a good from the back as the front, and it's perfectly safe."

Thinking of every other time he had thought of one of Erik's ingenuities as 'perfectly safe,' Nadir walked towards the now not-so-hidden door. The Shah followed him, somewhat to Nadir's relief.

"Well?" The Shah asked. "What do you think?"

A small lantern sat near the door, casting weak light to Nadir's right and left. "It would appear to be a service passage," he replied.

The Shah sniggered. He pointed at a portfolio, leaning against the shadowed wall near the lantern. "One might think that, if one did not know any better. Take a look, Daroga. Our friend the magician is also a very great friend of trapdoors."

The portfolio contained numerous drawings—blueprints—marked with red ink. The mess of lines untangled itself before his eyes, and saw a veritable labyrinth of passageways behind walls. Erik's work, no doubt.

"Take the lantern and follow me," the Shah commanded. He set off to the right, taking a dizzying array of turns. He consulted the blueprints a few times, and paused when they came to an intersection. "Do you know where we are?"

"No, Sire," Nadir said.

The Shah pointed to the blueprint. The lantern light caught the glint of his ring. "We are just coming to the morning rooms on the south side. Do you know what they are doing there?"

Another "No, Sire."

"It is still under construction. Now—silence." He continued down one of the corridors and then stopped. "Listen."

For a moment, Nadir heard nothing besides the faint din of construction. But, then—footfalls. Then, voices.

"…So Maman said that Azra was trying to kill us all."

"What? Because the eggplant was too spicy?"

"She made Azra cry—hey, don't let that drop!— and then Azra was angry at me for not standing up for her."

"Ah, Hooman, I told you an Afghan wife would be more trouble than she was worth."

"But I like spicy eggplant…"

Nadir turned to see the Shah smiling. "It as if there wasn't even a wall between us."

The Shah nodded sagely. "Not a word can be spoken in this entire palace without the chance of being overheard—if you know where to listen."

"And… Erik told you where to listen?" Nadir supposed.

"A surprise for me, he said," the Shah commented, "a gift of sorts."

They started heading back, this time at a slower pace.

"It does make one wonder," the Shah said, "What other gifts Erik might have up his sleeve—and who he might give them to in the future."

Nadir considered his next words carefully. "I believe Erik to be content in his service to your court, Your Majesty."

"Come now, Nadir," the Shah said, "dissembling sits badly on you."

"I believe it to be true," Nadir said.

The Shah shook his head slightly. "Oh, no. No. You may wish it so, but that does not make it true. Hm. I will be seeing Erik tonight. I feel we have much to discuss. You, of course, needn't worry about any of it."

Nadir's blood went cold and he had to consciously prevent his hands from curling into fists. They emerged out of the gloom of Erik's hidden passageways and back into the main hall. A half dozen of the Shah's men had now taken up visible posts. Nadir kept his face impassive.

"Well, Nadir," the Shah handed off the blueprints to an aide that appeared at his side, "it is always pleasant to see you." He reached out and embraced Nadir, giving him the traditional three kisses. He paused for a moment, his hands still on Nadir's shoulders, his eyes locked on the emerald pin Mojgan had provided. "I know I can always count on your faithful service."

"My Liege," Nadir said deliberately.

The Shah turned away with a smile. Nadir felt sick.

He continued sick for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Darius dogged his heels.

"Agha," he said, as twilight came, "you seem distressed."

"And it is your duty to concern yourself with my distress?" Nadir snapped. He immediately felt badly for it. But he said nothing, merely let his expression soften.

Darius understood—the boy almost always understood. He nodded and made to leave the room.

"How long have you assisted me?" Nadir asked before he had reached the door.

"It has been nearly seven years," Darius replied.

"So long?" Nadir murmured. "Too long, then. You're capable enough, and man enough—next time I see Salman agha, I will ask him what positions are available in the province. In another few years, you would do very well overseeing one of the smaller districts, I think."

The boy was quiet for a moment. "No, agha."

"Don't be silly, Darius. You may be young, but you have had a good head for the law—more so than many officers. At this point, I am merely keeping you from gaining the experience you need."

"No, agha." He was still quiet, but firm.

Nadir was exasperated. "No, what?"

"No, I will not run away. I will not abandon you," Darius said.

"Is that what you believe it would be?" Nadir sighed.

"Yes, agha."

Nadir sighed and rubbed his eyes. "There may be a time, very soon, where I will be the one running. Take my help while I may yet give it."

"Well," Darius said slowly, "you do not make tea very well, agha. You will always need me to make it for you."

Nadir was almost caught into laughing—laughter so he would not cry. He might have laughed (he might have cried, but he would not think on that) if a crash had not come from the back. Nadir was on his feet in an instant and Darius was already heading towards Mojgan's room. They didn't have the chance, for the commotion came to them.

Erik stumbled into the parlor, his coat torn and his hands bloodied. Mojgan trailed in behind him.

"He came through my window—"

"What the hell are you doing, Erik? Darius, is the cook?—"

"Gone for the night," Darius replied. "But Jadugar agha—"

Erik had gone down to his knees, his hands gripping his hair. He let out a pitiful wail and then looked up.

Nadir froze.

"Erik, where is your mask?"

Erik stared up at him with uncomprehending eyes. He gibbered for a moment—in French—too fast, too agitated for Nadir to follow. It was a horrible thing to see—the pencil line of his lips, too wide for his jaw, pulling back over teeth that looked yellow against the blue-white of his skin. The nose flaring in agitation, with its strange truncated shape dominated by cavernous nostrils. The eyes, as uncanny as light emanating from the empty sockets of a skull. Even his hair, too black and fine and lank, seemed to cut an unnatural line across his forehead. Suddenly, he composed himself and the image was even more monstrous. He looked as old as time and as ageless as hell.

His voice, when at last he screeched something out in Persian, was inhuman. "He tried to take out my goddamned eyeballs!" Then back down he went, doubled over in what looked like physical pain.

Nadir hazarded to look up. Darius's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Mojgan was still staring at Erik. Her skin was drained of all color, and she had one hand latched across her mouth.

Nadir got down on one knee. "Erik. Erik. This important. Did anyone see you come here?"

Oh, how he wished he hadn't gone to the floor. Erik peered up at him, his death's head face too close, too horribly close for comfort. There's a boy in there, Nadir reminded himself, look at his eyes—a boy's eyes. Lost.

But he did not look like a lost boy for long. With a snarl, Erik leapt to his feet and threw himself into a violent pacing around the room. "See you? See you? See you? Who do you think they saw? Who sees Erik? No one sees Erik! No one!" He stilled and spun on his heel and stared. "Who can see a ghost?"

"Erik," Nadir tried again, quietly, "I need to know."

He threw back his head and laughed—oh, what a horrible laugh. A parody of joy, a reality of madness. The Devil must laugh like that, Nadir thought. And, oh, he must be laughing now, right in tandem with his finest creation.

He laughed and laughed and cried—while Nadir stood watching, and Darius stood praying, and Mojgan stood crying. And eventually, he quieted and spoke in the most reasonable voice.

"No. No one saw me. They think Erik went in the direction of the sea."

"They will come here," Nadir said, "but we have some little time. Sit. Sit and speak."

Erik sat and Erik spoke. In dry tones and unembellished terms, he spoke of coming into the Shah's audience chamber, of noticing the high number of guards and the low number of courtiers.

He spoke of how cordial the Shah was, how effusive his praise of Erik's masterpiece of a palace.

"He thought to lull Erik into complacency," Erik said, "but Erik knew better. He gave Erik gifts—so much gold! So much silk and cashmere! Beautiful red cashmere, so that Erik might make up a new coat. You know the coat, the Circassian coat with all of its tricks."

"I know the coat," Nadir interrupted, also knowing the beginning of a tangent, "what did the Shah do after he gave you the gifts?"

"He said the nicest things!" Erik exclaimed. In the Shah's voice, he continued, "Erik agha, when first I heard of your magnificent voice, I had no idea of the magnificent mind behind it. Your talents surpass the greatest of the old masters. You have built me a marvel—but you must never build such a marvel again."

Silence fell for too long, and Nadir could see that Erik was getting lost in his thoughts and memories. "And then what? What happened next?"

Erik shrugged. "He said that he thought to take temptation away from me. For how, he asked, could I build another palace like my palace if I could not see?" He paused and looked around the room, as if for the first time. "Where did Darius go? I want him to get me tea. I'm parched. And a glass for Mojgan. She looks… hm. Faint. You look faint, Mojgan."

"No," Nadir cut in.

Erik huffed. "Such inhospitality—"

"Too many cups," Nadir said. "Erik, you must leave. Nowhere in Mazandaran will be safe now—you have fled from an Imperial order." The words died and turned to ash on his tongue.

Erik tilted his head and gave him a curious look. "Oh, yes. You've figured it out now. I wouldn't ask you to let me escape. Not really." He stood and offered Nadir his wrists. The gesture was dramatic, but his hands shook like any other condemned man's. "Bind me, then. Take me to the palace. Serve your master.

And you swear, then, to serve the peacock throne? For all your days to be loyal helper of the crown? Fath Ali Shah had asked him that, so many years ago. Nadir had replied so earnestly, so assuredly, and the old Shah smiled. Of course you will, Nadir Khan. You are a man of honor. Keep that honor, Daroga.

Daroga, the Shah had said.

Daroogha, the Sultana had said.

And now Erik, whether he knew it or not, was asking Nadir to choose which one was true.

Darius slipped back into the room. "Daroga, there are men coming up to the courtyard."

They would be at the door in an instant, and so an instant was all the time Nadir had to make a choice. He pointed at Erik and then at Mojgan. "Both of you, hide."

Mojgan nodded and started to walk away, but Erik stood stock-still.

"Erik," Nadir hissed in an undertone. "Go."

"I—" he opened and closed his mouth several times, "I—"

"Erik, come," Mojgan said quietly. When he still wouldn't move, she grabbed his hand and started pulling him away.

His eyes stayed on Nadir until he was out of the room.

There was but a moment to breathe before a firm knock sounded. Nadir arranged himself back on his couch, with his papers, as he had been some time earlier. He nodded at Darius, who went to the door solemnly.

In a glance, Nadir took in the armaments of the guards, their wary stance and well-trained eyes. Only two entered, standing just behind Salman.

Interesting choice. Salman was not an officer of the palace, but of the police. He was one of Nadir's direct subordinates and— dare he think it?—a friend. But Nowshahr was also under his jurisdiction, and if there was a fugitive on the run—

"Daroga agha," he greeted. "No, don't rise. This will just take a moment."

"Official business, Salman?" Nadir asked.

Salman's frown was lost in his silver beard, but it showed along his brow. "Yes. The Shah has put out an order for the execution for the Frenchman known as Erik."

"Execution?" Nadir asked. His voice sounded faint in his own ears. He knew what Erik was fated for, no matter the blinding, but it was still jarring to hear the word spoken aloud.

"He escaped the custody of the palace," Salman continued. He spoke slowly, clearly, as if Nadir was a child. No—as if Nadir needed to understand his rights. Do you know what you are saying? Do you know what you are confessing to? "It was thought that he may well come to you."

"I knew this day would come," Nadir said, truthfully. "And I think Erik knew, too. He will not come here."

Salman looked at him and blinked slowly. "I beg your pardon, Daroga. But I must ask this outright. Nadir Khan, have you seen or in any way communicated with Erik at any time today?"

"No," Nadir said, and so damned himself.

Why, why, why? Why did he cast off a lifetime of faithful service for a madman? Why did he protect a murderer at the potential cost of his own soul? Why did he betray his every standard of honor, his very sense of justice for that foolish boy?

This is justice, Daroga. This is mercy.

His old colleague— his old friend— accepted his answer with a respectful bow of his head. "It goes without saying that, should Erik come to you, he must be detained."

Nadir replied with his own perfunctory nod.

Salman paused one last time. A look of profound distaste crossed over his face for a moment before being smoothed away by professionalism.

What cloak and dagger play are you obliged to do now? Nadir wondered.

"I had heard that your—ah—cousin?—your cousin was ill," Salman said.

"She was," Nadir said. "But she is well again."

Salman looked quizzical. "Then she has returned home?"

"Yes," Nadir said. "To her brother-in-law's."

The confusion melted away, and Salman was now looking at Nadir very sharply. He had always admired that particular expression of Salman's—it was unnerving and profoundly useful during interrogations. "When was this?"

"Just a few days ago." How easily the art of courtly speech melted into outright lies!

Salman's expression changed again. He lost his sharp edge and now looked at Nadir with something like pity. "I shall let that be known, then."

"It is not a secret," Nadir said.

"No," Salman said, "I suppose it would not be. Farewell, Daroga."

"And to you, Salman."

He shut the door behind Salman, but did not lock it. He spent a moment, with his eyes closed and his heart shredded. But it rebuilt itself quickly, harder than ever, and he opened his eyes. He nodded to Darius and indicated that he should keep watch.

He went back to rooms Mojgan kept, but found them dark and empty.

"Mojgan?" he whispered. "Eri—"

"Here," Erik arose from the shadows near the bed, swathed head to toe in black cloth. He moved easily in the gloom, and opened one of the large chests on the opposite wall. He took out a few stacks of bedding. "Out you come."

"That was damned uncomfortable," Mojgan groused, rising out of the box and smoothing her dress.

"You are lucky to be so short," Erik pointed out. He then turned to Nadir. "I heard."

"What did you hear?" Nadir asked.

"All," was the reply.

A fierce sentiment overtook Nadir for a moment and his eyes burned with unfallen tears. He tramped down on the feeling and kept his voice steady. "You need to leave. You need to disappear."

"So does she," Erik jerked his head towards Mojgan.

"I will take care of that," Nadir said.

"No. I will." Nadir could practically see Erik rolling his eyes under the cloth. "Besides, you couldn't sneak her out of the province if you had a potion for invisibility. But I—I'm a magician, if you haven't heard."

Mojgan looked between the two of them rapidly. "I need to leave, then? And Erik as well?"

Nadir nodded. "Yes, but—"

"I trust him," she said.

"I don't," Nadir growled.

"But you love him," she said. How easily the words spilled from her lips, but Nadir doubted she knew what she was really saying.

"No," Nadir replied. He stared at the shadow of Erik. "No. He sold his soul to the devil, after all."

"You have such a bad memory, Daroga," Erik said, "I just traded with him. Two songs."

"Two songs," Nadir repeated. He took a deep breath and prayed he was doing the right thing. "Darius!"

The boy appeared near the door.

"Agha?"

"Darius, get a change of your clothes," Nadir said, "something with a long robe—and a turban."

Darius nodded and hurried off. He returned in short order and handed the garments to Mojgan. She looked incredulous for a moment, but then nodded and excused herself.

"Which route shall I take?" Darius asked.

"You will stay here," Nadir said. "Erik is taking Mojgan."

A lemon couldn't have produced a more sour expression on Darius's face. But, after a moment, he nodded—Nadir supposed it was a night to simply accept one's fate. "Is there anything I can?..."

"No," Erik said. "I can handle it."

"Of course." Darius offered a bow. "Agha."

"Errand Boy."

After a long silence, Erik said, "Well, I told you that Erik and Nadir would have a marvelous time. Did I not?"

Nadir laughed and laughed. And then he cried.