This is my longest and least canonical piece—it's also the one I'm the most ambivalent about. It doesn't quite fit in with any of the other shorts. But what could I do? Leroux plainly said that Erik spent time cavorting around with Vietnamese pirates. How am I supposed to leave that alone?

Vietnam, 1860

The Tonkin sailors thought that Erik was an ill-omen of colossal proportions, but they did not mind having him around when there was a difficult job to do.

Trinh Văn Minh, the captain's favorite lieutenant, explained it this way: "You're a French bastard, Erik. But you must be wicked bad luck for the French, so you're good luck for us."

I'm bad luck for everyone, Erik thought, most of all myself. He desisted from commenting to that effect. It wasn't the sort of thing one brought to the attention to a ship full of superstitious men. Especially when one was nearly half a day out from shore.

Even with Minh's assurances, Erik saw how the others backed away from him. No matter. Erik figured that he was now somewhere around twenty-five and had lived with people skirting away from him for—well, as long as he could recall.

He had always managed conjure up some talent to off-set his… misfortune. He had been a quick student in Italy. In Russia, he had learned how to use his voice. As for Persia—well, never mind about Persia. Never mind about Constantinople, for that matter, and the only thing to mind about his last jaunt to Saint Petersburg was the opera…

Here, in the waters surrounding Vietnam—waters that swarmed with a French armada determined to bring the native peoples in line—all that mattered was that Erik was unusually strong and swift and could teach his shipmates creative taunts to hurl at the invaders.

"I think you're an awful person," Minh commented one day, when they had docked in his own small village. Erik did not reply, and frankly did not mind. There was something about Minh that defied malice. "You fight against your own people—your own blood. It sickens me. You deserve my sister's cooking. It's awful."

"But does it sicken you?" Erik asked.

Minh paused. "No. At least not very much."

"Thanks again for inviting me to dine with you," Erik replied dryly.

Minh shrugged. "You'd be murdered if you stayed in port."

Or someone would attempt murder. And someone would fail, and there would be blood, and there was a part of Erik's soul was glutted on blood.

As soon as they arrived, Minh's sister launched into a tirade at her brother. She spoke in pure, prestissimo Vietnamese, as opposed to the inelegant but workable Vietnamese-French-Chinese pidgin Erik usually used. He was at a loss for the specifics, but Erik caught a number of colorful epithets that informed him of the general nature of her discourse.

She did not like the French, she did not like Erik, and she did not like Minh for bringing such a man into the house she kept. She hurried away to continue cooking.

"I despair of my little Diem," Minh commented lightly. "She only blacks her teeth when we go to visit our grandparents."

Again Erik refrained from comment.

He was fed and lived to tell of it. Later, Diem made up a pallet for Erik to pass the night on, glowering all the while.

Erik had long since discovered that idleness at night did not suit him. He would inevitably be caught between sleep and waking nightmares. Sometimes angels sang to him. Sometimes the Virgin Mary berated him for tracking mud indoors. Sometimes the Sultana laughed. But always—always—the night turned into a pandemonium of devils and gore.

Just thinking about the prospect of it set Erik's teeth on edge. When the little household finally fell silent, Erik slipped out. The moon was full and bright, the air humid, and Erik could not help but wonder how he ended up here?

How had he ended up anywhere? Was it really possible that a man might live his entire life in one place, might die in the house he had been born in?

Erik tested out the idea. Was that a horrible fate—or a marvelous one?

What would it be like, to find a place and settle?

Lonely, he concluded.

But was he not always lonely, as it was?

And what if he did not need to be lonely?...

When he returned to the house, he found little sister Diem sitting outside in the bright moonlight. One of the local instruments sat in front of her, a large dan bau, and she coaxed low, miserable sounds from its single string.

"What are you doing?" She demanded when she caught sight of Erik. "You don't want to oblige me to scream. I can shake the souls of my ancestors out of the afterworld."

Erik walked past her, back into the house. "Don't be stupid, little sister."

The looting Erik did with the Tonkin would not make him rich. That did not much matter to him. He had funds enough squirreled away. But there was much to be learned from the sailors—well, pirates, if one wanted to be fanciful. Insurgents, if one did not. Ingenious uses of reeds, Erik thought, and clever water proofing techniques. But more than that, there was an opportunity. It was an embryo of a plan that Erik could hardly admit the existence of to himself. But if he wanted it to succeed, he needed French goods and French coin, and he could find both if he stayed with the Minh and his ship.

Alas, the weather was distressingly bad for some time, the seas too dangerous to brave. And when that happened, Erik paid a small sum to stay with Minh.

Diem still hissed at him on occasion, but the true malice of her words faded.

"I blame Diem on our good, late father," Minh complained as the rain beat outside. "He filled her head with the legend of Lady Trieu. There's something that she had said—ah, I don't quite recall—little sister! Hey!"

Diem poked her head into the room. "Yes?"

"What's that thing that Lady Trieu said that you love so much and use against me whenever I try to find a husband for you?"

Diem glanced between her brother and Erik. "I'd like to ride storms, kill sharks in the open sea, drive out the aggressors, reconquer the country, undo the ties of serfdom, and never bend my back to be the concubine of whatever man."

"Especially not a French one, I imagine," Erik said idly.

She blinked and withdrew.

There was a brief break in the rain, allowing the opportunity for one more raid, and it met with all the success Erik could have hoped for. Very soon now, very soon. As soon as the weather was better…

"What are you doing?"

Erik had borrowed—commandeered— Diem's four stringed lute and was attempting to play an aria on it. "I thought it was fairly self explanatory."

Diem sat across from him and stared. "Why do you where a mask?"

"Because I'll too beautiful for this earth," Erik snapped back. He was going mad here, he thought, slowly and differently from any other madness than had ever touched him.

"As I thought," Diem said, "what are you playing?"

"A song from an Italian opera."

"An opera?"

"A sort of musical play."

"It doesn't sound… right," she commented. She had picked up Erik's pidgin faster than he would have thought.

"It's not written to be played on this sort of instrument," Erik admitted. "But I wanted to see if I could get an idea of how something composed for an orchestra might sound."

"Can you?"

"More or less," Erik paused, fingers hovering over the strings. He dropped his voice. "I've started to write something. I want to know what it really sounds like."

"An… opera?"

"Just an idea of one," Erik said.

"Play it," she said.

Erik huffed. "No."

"You stole my dan ty ba. It's only fair."

"I don't even know…"

"What do you need to know?" she asked. "You know the strings. You know how to feel the music. That's enough. But you already know that, I think." She lifted her chin. "So play."

Erik glared at her, but she did not flinch away. After awhile, his fingers started to move, almost of their own volition. It was like trying to keep his head above water—desperately necessary and monstrously difficult. But the idea was there, the core and soul of the song, and he managed to pull it out of four strings and a few frets.

He finished a little weakly, but Diem was frozen in place. "There's a… character. Don Juan. A wicked man with tremendous luck in… love. It's a story about him. I think."

"It doesn't sound right." She paused. "It's horrible." Another pause. "Frightening." An even longer pause. "It makes me sad." She stood and left Erik alone.

His eyes felt raw, and he realized that tears had tracked under his mask. How glad he was that he would be leaving.

He did not have to wait long on that score. Fair skies soon overtook the brutal rains. Minh prepared for another voyage, and Erik did likewise.

"You're wicked for abandoning the crew now," he grumbled, "You're a vile man. But at least you paid rent."

The shook hands awkwardly.

On the day Erik departed, he arose and dressed in a decent dark suit he had plundered from a French officer. It hung loose on him, but was not altogether ill-fitting. He trimmed his hair and dusted off a soft felt hat. He arranged his francs and a set of travel papers that were water damaged beyond recognition.

Diem met him outside of the house. She was with her dan bau, strumming dolefully. She glanced at him. "You'll be killed traveling in those clothes."

"No, I won't," Erik said.

She held a soft note for a long time. "I could come with you."

Erik blinked at her. "Don't be stupid, little sister. I'm going home."