Chapter Text
1862
Erik
Nadir possessed the singular habit of appearing at the most inconvenient times and dissolving into invisibility at the moments when he was most required. Perhaps that is why he survived so long. His peripheral presence at court allowed him to assume the guise of a nonthreatening family member, and he played the part well. Like a family member, he abandoned me that day. Such was my curse.
My conversation with Ahmad the night before had put me in a bad mood. The man was a dead end. He proclaimed to have information, yet when the time came to reveal it, he would mysteriously claim ignorance. I was not so impressed. It became clear that he knew nothing, for no one told him anything. The information I found at the opium circle became less and less useful, and I needed answers.
When I asked Ahmad about this, he only shrugged, high and happy. “My wife handles much.”
Our supply of pressed glass proved a real headache. I sourced large-pane glass from Pennsylvania, so as not to anger one European country over the other. Only the current war meant shipping had slowed. I needed another supplier, else construction would be frozen indefinitely. My position would be questioned, and I would be relegated to court musician again. I needed a new supplier, preferably from Great Britain, which would be cheaper than French glassmakers, who were loath to sell their product to Orientals. I knew such an action would anger the Russian faction, so the purchase would need to happen quietly. I needed Nadir’s network.
I sought him out that day, searching the gardens, his favorite. He was not at prayer, nor with His Majesty. After an hour of this silly investigation, I located a servant around the citadel– a butler of sorts– with many connections. I suspected he was richer than many advisors. After bartering his rate, I reluctantly granted him a handful of toman.
Nadir’s home stood at the end of an unimportant thoroughfare. No windows appeared on the street; the tall, plain wall comprised of sun-dried brick blocked passersby from viewing. After meandering through the city streets, I was glad to enjoy the privacy. My reputation had preceded me, and the inhabitants stared as if the devil walked amongst them. Their muttered insults and wide berths marked me a pariah. Nadir had promised Persia was less superstitious. He was wrong. People were the same everywhere.
I knocked the heavy iron koobeh, signaling my arrival as a man, but no footsteps followed. A firm push gave me access. There was no lock.
That must be remedied. Nadir was stupid sometimes.
The home’s hashti was small and unadorned. I rinsed the city dust away, suddenly feeling much like an intruder, though the Daroga felt no qualms about barging into my apartments. Like many Persian homes, little furniture decorated the interior. Instead, woven wool rugs lined its entirety. A center courtyard connected everything– and to my surprise– a decent herb garden sprouted.
“Bābā?”
I stopped. Surely, this was the right home? Nadir had spoken of no child. The servant could have lied.
“Bābā? Have you brought me something?” The voice rasped, a high-pitched squeak.
Through the corner of the room, tucked beneath a heavy quilt, lay a young boy. His skin carried a dull, translucent sheen of a lingering fever. I stepped into the room.
I imagined my large, cloaked silhouette blocking the sunlight might strike fear in any child, but the boy's eyes appeared milky and unfocused. He stared blankly in the middle distance above my shoulder. Putting down his toy horse, he struggled to rise.
"Bābā?" the boy repeated, his voice lifting with a lilt. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, but a hacking cough racked his small frame, leaving him breathless and trembling against the cushions. I stalled, unsure of what to say. Children avoided me, and I did not enjoy interacting with them.
“I am an associate of your father’s. I came to speak with him, but it seems I have intruded. I will come back another time.”
The boy squinted, as if my language had been lost on him.
“From the Grand Palace?” The boy seemed to remember himself. Then, “Are you the masked man? The one who will build the palace? Erik? You speak funny.”
His hopefulness, as opposed to people’s usual carefulness, gave me pause.
“Persian is not my native tongue. You need not fear me, boy. What is your name?”
“Reza.” He sank back into the cushion, as if exhausted. “Where are you from? You will not harm my father, will you?”
The thought disgusted me. His curious questioning reminded me of someone. “Of course not. I am a friend of your father.” I wanted to take the words back, but stopped myself.
My gaze dropped to the wooden horse he clutched in his palm over his chest, which rose and fell with shallow, rattling effort. I recognized the sound. This was no simple cold. “You are the magician! I know it by your voice. Father said that it was beautiful. Father said you are heartbroken, and that is why you work so hard. He told me he sent your designs all the way to France! Are you from there? Do you like my horse?”
Consumption.
“Designs, what are you speaking of?” I knelt, placing my hand on the toy horse. “May I see it?”
He hesitated, then pushed the toy into my hands. Despite my proximity, he did not cower, though I knew he could sense my size and perhaps faint colors. He followed my form well enough.
“A playhouse! He said he was doing it for your own good.”
That meddling old fool… I had not missed his eyes tracing over my desks. If he had snatched something…I assumed he spoke of the opera house designs. It was a pipe dream, a fantasy I immersed myself in during my time away from work. Better than manically drawing Gianna.
“Your father carved this? I traced the rough cuts of the wood with my gloved hands.
“Yes. He said it looks like the Shah’s finest stallion. Is it beautiful?”
The carving was clumsy, the legs uneven– the work of a stressed man trying desperately to please his ailing son. “It is magnificent. Just like the Shah’s.” I placed my gloved palm near the boy’s forehead and felt the heat of fever even through the kid leather. “Your father is a brilliant statesman, Reza, but he knows nothing of ventilation.”
"Mother did not want the sickness to spread to our neighbors."
Yet another detail Nadir never mentioned. I walked over to the small niche, or taqcheh, in the corner of the room. Searching through the humble pantry of dry goods, I found it- dried chamomile and a bundle of wild mint from the courtyard. Then I set some water aside to boil. I took my pointing trowel and dug into the dried mud wall. Such a design invited dust, and without windows…
“What are you doing?”
“I am going to fix the air in here, and then I am going to fix your tea.” I took pains to catch nothing structurally important. But goddmanit, why had the man not put in windows? The sickness had nowhere to air out. Lighting the small charcoal stove, I tossed handfuls of the dried concoction. A crisp, aromatic steam billowed into the room, cutting through the stagnant, dusty air and mingling with the fresh air from outside. “Breathe it in, Reza. Deeply.”
The boy did as I said. He coughed sharply once, twice, then let out a long, clear breath. “My chest does not hurt so much now.”
I handed him the tea. “Now sip that until your father comes home.”
I dusted off my pants, though they were clean.
“Will you be back?”
I did not want to overpromise to the child, so I exited as quietly as possible. “Make sure your father does not cover the windows.”
My next appointment took me to the Harem. The heavy scent of ambergris and crushed rosewater hung thick in the inner palace. Under the strict rules of the purdah, men were barred from entering. My monstrous, semi-human status, combined with my musicianship, granted me access if I stayed behind the layers of curtain and lattice structures. I was an object, not a man. The persona served me well enough.
Despite my role as architect, I found myself unwilling to part with the task here. Perhaps it was the private quarters- the women never spoke to me, nor I to them. Perhaps what drew me was seeing their soft eyes sparkle in wonder. And sometimes I wondered if the Harem’s exclusivity attracted me.
Today, Ahmad’s wife adjusted her silk ruband with a flick of her wrist, her dark eyes steady and entirely unimpressed. I did not know her name, only her influence. His comment earlier left me wondering. Every week, she positioned herself in the center of the women, her head higher, her posture more rigid than the others. I envied them for their loose-fitting Chador and Niqāb, which concealed much. Ahmad’s wife wore it like a crown.
When I brought the violin to my shoulder, the feminine chatter died, as it always did. The notes slithered through the lattice screens like smoke. Through my own mask, I scanned the sea of bright, multi-colored silk skirts and heavy jewelry to find the woman. There was no fear in her eyes, as some of the women often reacted. She seemed interested, leaning forward and granting a soft applause when I finished. I wanted to address her, but it would not be welcomed, and I would probably never be allowed to enter the harem again. Inhaling, I inclined my head to the small alcove at the far end of the room, hidden and private. I highly doubted it would work.
She had no reason to speak to me. I was an architect and jester of sorts. Her reputation could be questioned, or worse, I could be accused of something terrible. Such was the risk in this delicate game. I made to turn when she rose, dismissing her court of women and the two eunuchs who served them. They gathered elsewhere in the large place, more akin to a parlor than anything I had seen here, and began taking tea– far away from the alcove.
Taking advantage of the sudden flurry of activity, I melted into the curtains and feigned my exit.
“You play as if you have buried everyone you ever loved.”
“The dead are the only audience who truly listen, Khanum.” I used the honorific because her name escaped me, though I doubted such an intimate measure would be welcomed. She stood a short woman who bespoke a stealthy grace beneath her coverings. She and her husband did not match each other, I decided. She saw too much, he too little. “One of us would be in quite some trouble were they to find us here.”
“Surely not I. Surely your risk is worth it, I hope.”
“Ahmad tells me you know much about supply lines. I have encountered quite a problem and need British glass. Perhaps we can help each other.”
“My husband believes you are a clever stray Nadir rescued from the Russian border, Monsieur,” she said, her Persian immaculate and devoid of the flowery ta'arof the men wasted over their pipes. “Why should I give you information? What could you possibly have that I want?”
“Ahmad is losing favor. Some say he is spreading gossip unnecessarily.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I have heard this and have wondered. Nothing has changed in the last months, save you.”
I feigned shock. “Why, lady, would I target the Shah’s brother-in-law? He who has shown me nothing but kindness?”
“I see you, young Erik. I see your ambition. You would do well to hide it more carefully. We are dying to see under the mask, and I am afraid we will only see if you are dead.”
I stood straighter. Her head barely reached my chest. “Perhaps I can invite Ahmad to some meetings this week.”
She lowered her chador just enough to expose a sharp, determined jawline, staring as if ascertaining if she would have me as an enemy or friend. "I can have those Russian supply lines cleared by the end of the week. My cousin's agents can bypass the Caspian inspectors entirely, routing your crates through the private merchant caravans directly to your workshops in the palace vaults. No records. No delays. You said you needed stone?"
“Glass.”
“Ah.” She stared past me. The women sipped tea; a meal would be served soon. The lack of wrinkles around her eyes told me she couldn’t have seen her thirtieth birthday. “Do the French not have glassmakers? Such a purchase would prevent conflict between the two factions.”
“The expense is too much.”
“And who are you to determine what the Shah can and cannot afford?” Her eyes were fierce, angry. She protected her brother from much, I assumed.
“I have not said anything.”
“But you have. Be glad you came to me. Does His Majesty know of this?”
I laughed. “Of course not.”
“If I do this.” She looked ready to strike out. “I have a few requirements of you. One, you must design the room with the best views as mine in the new palace. Second, take his cat. I hate that thing.”
I chuckled. Ayesha was not so bad.
Her eyes met mine. “You protect my husband. You ensure he does not make a fool of himself in these meetings and do not set him up for failure.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Only God can do that, Khanum.”
To my shock, she grabbed my ear, her nail piercing the sensitive skin. I could have pinned her swiftly, but the action would have likely led to my execution, so I settled for wrapping my hand around her wrist in warning.
She did not balk, only dug harder. “Do these things, boy. And you will have your pretty glass.”
I swallowed the bitter taste of my pride. “Very well, lady.”
She released me, meandering over to her circle and waving her hand out for tea.
I walked out, head high. Things were going well. My list of allies grew, and though protecting Ahmad would be quite the tiresome task, I was mollified by the fact that the palace construction went as planned. The Shah cared not about questions of supply. I would speak to him later, tell him the pause of work was a mere enigma in our larger scheme. Gianna’s scarf settled in my grip, and I fingered the scratchy wool. My steps echoed through the narrow hallway.
The corridor was a long tunnel of shadow broken only by sporadic oil torches. In these thoughts, I barely noticed two men approach from behind. The scuff of leather against stone was too soft to be unintentional. I slowed my pace. In the next pool of torchlight, a figure emerged, then another, spilling from a side archway. They said nothing, wearing plain merchant’s clothes and looking unremarkable.
I had no weapons to draw. It was forbidden to carry blades or guns in front of the Shah, and I had fallen away from the habit. I realized too late that such a mistake might mean my doom.
The first man lunged. His aim went low, and the silver glint of his dagger aimed at my thigh. I stepped forward, invading the man’s space. He dropped, my knee connecting with the assassin’s chest, arresting his momentum. He smelled clean. This was no street thug. The man gasped, and my hand snatched his knife.
The other man swung a short blade, piercing my shoulder. I cried out, turning and plunging the dagger in the man’s neck. Hot, thick rivulets gushed out of his wound. His bravado had vanished, replaced by a raw, naked terror. I spat the coppery substance back at him, falling to the stone.
My original attacker was moving, closing the distance. He pulled out some kind of thread, thin and unwieldy, as he struggled to use it. His eyes spoke of wringing my neck. When he flicked the thread, I ducked, dragging the lifeless body in front of me. The thread caught.
It acted like fishwire, slicing through muscle and sinew.
I sprang into motion. Dropping the body in front of me, I tackled the man, who worked to undo the now red string from the man's neck.
Despite his smaller size, he was strong and trained. He evaded my fists and made to flip us over. I thought of the lasso, so effective and so silent. Grabbing the scarf, I wrapped the wool around his neck.
It wasn’t a slow strangle. It was brutal and inefficient, the wool exerting only so much pressure. I did not realize how long it would take. He flopped against me like an animal, and I used his own forward energy to pull him off balance.
“Who sent you?” I demanded, out of breath.
His hand waved. I released the scarf. “Die, Jinn-zadeh!”
Demon-spawn. I resumed the strangulation, my arms heaving with effort. “I have heard worse.”
The wool bit into his neck, and after several minutes, the thrashing became twitching. Then movement ceased altogether.
I released the scarf, yanking it from the corpse. The sudden urge to boil it overcame me. The first body lay in a pool of spilled wine on the grey stone. The silence hung heavy. I pocketed the knife and examined the thread-like weapon, surprised by how effective it was. I placed it in the other pocket, away from the scarf.
These were surely hired men. Rage boiled within me.
I demanded an audience with His Majesty. He ushered everyone out, their faces wide-eyed at my haggard appearance. I looked behind me to see a trail of bloodied footsteps.
Once I explained my situation to the Shah, he did not look as perturbed as I would wish.
“Well, it was certainly not I who ordered it. I am sure Daroga will lead an efficient investigation. Have you seen him today?”
“No.”
“Such a public scene." How unfortunate. "You look quite the fright, Magician. What update do you have on the palace?”
The Shah’s pet name for me caused my hands to shake. I wanted to use my new weapons on his fat neck.
“All is well. Now what will you do about my potential death?”
His head fell to the side, and he scribbled something in this notebook. There were no notes in there. I had scoured through it myself. Doodles and Quranic verses.
“As I said, we will have an investigation. You are clearly fine. There is nothing for me to do about this.”
“Someone close to you did this. So you have a runway court, unbefouled by your own rule.” I had a few ideas, namely Ahmad, but did not say anything. Madame le Khanum could easily order my death as much as her husband could, and something told me having him as an enemy was more preferable.
“Careful, guest. Do not tire your welcome.”
He had not called me this in many months, and I straightened. I was a foreigner. A commoner. I erred in my estimation of our friendship. One could never be friends with an emperor. I had deluded myself.
“Your palace will never be complete if I am dead.”
“Despite your thinking, I do not wish your death. You have served me well.”
“Then why do you sound so calm about it?”
“What do you wish me to do? Kill my own brother-in-law? I doubt you would.”
I thought of Theodore Post. I would very much enjoy wringing his neck.
“You knew.”
“Surely you do not think me so stupid.” He sat back. “Ahmad likes his games. He has put you in your place, for all intents and purposes.” The scratching of the ink pen irritated me. “But I am left in a distinctly problematic situation, because this episode has left me without an executioner. And now I must go through the tiring process of finding another. Do you know anyone who is willing to kill for hire? Maybe Ahmad can find this out for me.”
My heart thumped in my chest. It would be an opportunity to solve this problem, to cultivate more fear. Then all would cower before me. Ahmad could use the chance to curry more favor. I would not allow it. “I can.”
“You?”
“I killed the two of them, did I not? Clearly they are not so well trained, and it is clearly not so hard.”
“You say you have killed before?”
“Not in your country, your Majesty.”
He smiled and nodded. “Very well.” He gave me a paper. “This is to be done within the week.”
I grabbed the papers, bowed, and practically flew to my apartments, panting. Opening the heavy door, my heart stuttered at the view of my private quarters. I stepped across the threshold and paused.
Ransacked.
Chest drawers were ripped out and upended. Blueprints, books, and music sheets lay scattered, smashed oil lamps strewn across the floor. The rugs were flipped upward to search underneath them. The air stunk of whale oil and copper. The fat settled in greasy pools.
My bruised knuckles clutched the knife, and I tossed the red scarf down onto a chair.
Nadir stood just inside the doorway, stepping carefully around a broken porcelain bowl. His hand rested on the hilt of his belt knife, eyes scanning the destruction before landing on me.
“I heard the commotion from the lower courtyard. I came as fast as I could…but they were already gone. What did they seek?”
I set the weapon down, exhausted. “Evidence of betrayal, I assume. Though one would think finding evidence precedes an execution.” I dug through the bureau, finding the pictures of Gianna bloodied and shuffled through. A dark red smear colored her face. A dark, angry loathing settled in my gut. Ahmad would pay. Khanum would never know it was me.
He stepped over a pile of overturned books. His boots crunched on broken glass and snatched the royally sealed document from my grasp. I let him open it.
His eyes widened.
“They ambushed me outside of the Harem! Men with blades, sent by Ahmad. The Shah knows of this and offered me immunity and a new title.”
He shook his head. “You took a leash.”
“Well, when you finish your stupid investigation, just know I already found the culprit.” I located the strange threat and handed it to him. "They tried to use this- what is it?"
Nadir's face paled. "Get that thing away from me."
"A weapon, clearly. It was so silent. Perhaps I will use it on my first assignment."
Nadir's face paled. "It is the weapon of choice of assassins from British India. That is all I will say about the matter."
Satisfied, I put the weapon away.
It seemed he was not done with lecturing me. “The Shah does that for your sake; But others will take this as permission to kill you. You just accepted death in all but physical form. No noble will ever shake your hand again, eat from the same dish, or look you in the eye. Forget Opium circles, or visiting the Harem again.” His throat tightened. “This is wrong. I should never have taken you here. You were too ambitious.”
“Do not preach to me! I went to your home to seek your help. Do you know what I found? Your boy. For two years you kept him a secret from me. What were you afraid of?”
Nadir’s eyes brightened. His jaw ticked. “I hid him to protect him! From the court, from the Shah, and from men like you. My son has nothing to do with the blood you spill. So stay away from him, Erik, or I cannot protect you.”
I sighed, staring at the picture of a smiling Gianna, an errant curl sticking out. What would she think?
What had I done?
“He is sick. Your wife was sick too.”
The fight seemed gone from him, and he sat across from me. “Yes.”
“That house needs fresh air. You must feed him chamomile and mint to soothe his lungs. I ground it up, so it should last you the week.”
Nadir shook his head slowly, as if surprised. “You nurse a sick child only to murder two men.”
“Those men attacked me first,” I bit out. “I promised Ahmad’s wife I would not harm him.” Waving the crisp parchment, I added. "It seems this Russian agent is the only one dying this week."
“Then it seems no one truly wants an investigation.”
We sighed. It didn’t seem the time to play chess, so I grabbed the brandy I kept hidden in the wall. The idiots did not find it. I poured two glasses, pushing one forward when Nadir refused.
“You corrupt me,” Nadir said.
I said nothing to that, only downed the brandy in one swallow and poured another. “Have you news?”
“It seems the war is at a deadlock. No side is winning.”
Same as before. My anger flared, and I remembered what Reza mentioned earlier. “Might I remind you, next time you sneak off, then, that I already have a position here. Your job is to find information on the American War, not enlist me in amateur competitions in France!”
“How did you..?”
I shrugged. “Reza.”
“Because you are a genius, Erik. And because if you stay here, playing executioner for a tyrant in a city that tries to murder you in your own home, that genius will die in a gutter with a knife in its back. I sent them because you deserve a world bigger than this court. The ambassadors were visiting, so I showed them the designs. They seemed very interested."
“They were mine. My private work. You had no right to take them. No right to show them to the French ambassadors- or anyone else.”
“Someone had to save your talent from your own madness.” He took a sip of the brandy. Then another.
“This is merely a means to finish my masterpiece. As if someone like me would ever receive the opportunity to build something like this again!” It was well worth my life. I did not care.
Gianna was not here.