Koszcey

It was their last night in Nijni-Novgorod. Tomorrow they would leave for Persia, his homeland, along with the man known as Erik. Nadir Kahn walked quickly, almost at a run to keep up with the masked figure, who slinked under the setting sun. He had bade his servant Darius to take the night off, which to the interminable retainer translated into getting things ready for tomorrow's journey home.

What had given him the idea, he did not know. It had started with a simple question directed to the cloaked man, the Daroga inquiring about the local restaurants. Somehow that had swollen into a twenty-minute walk through the town, pushing by burly Russians and straggling children alike. With the dark came less people, something he imagined Erik was thankful for. It was probably the only reason that the Frenchman would be dining with him.

Nadir glanced up in surprise as he nearly tripped, being forced to stagger to regain his balance. The reason for his faux pas was irritably Erik himself, who had somehow managed to stop silently in front of him. The masked man shot him a look that was either amused or annoyed, and pointed with a tapered finger to a low-roofed building.

"There it is, the Koszcey."

The Daroga regarded the restaurant with no real feeling except a hungry twinge in his belly. Curiosity however, drove him to ask a question.

"What does the name mean?"

Erik turned to face him fully, his cloak echoing the fluid movement and his cool expression unreadable. When he spoke, his tone reminded the Daroga of one of his old tutors.

"Koszcey is an ancient wizard, a sadistic man who lives at the edge of the world. His body is immortal and almost invincible, though there is only one thing that can possibly kill him—a needle that lies buried beneath an oak tree."

While the Daroga had not been expecting a mythology lesson, it was interesting enough to prick his interest.

"What happened to the warlock?"

Though it was difficult to tell, Nadir believed the masked man was smirking.

"Some say he was killed by a Russian prince and his horse. Others say he still lives."

The way the magician phrased it sounded as if he were speaking about a still-living king, not a character whose birth probably came from campfire stories. Not for the first time, he wondered about Erik's hold on reality.

Without warning, the gaunt man turned and continued into the restaurant, the Persian rushing to catch up. Soon they were inside the building, facing a stocky Russian.

The Russian blinked once as his gaze fell on the pale mask but his gray eyes held little surprise, replaced instead by recognition.

"Dobro pozhalovat." The man's voice was soft for such a husky body, an almost humorous comparison to the bone-thin man standing in front of him.

Erik merely nodded in reply. Taking this as his only answer, the man motioned for them to follow and took them to the back of the restaurant, handing out menus then managing to gracefully saunter off.

Nadir took his seat with Erik across from him. Fingering the thick paper, his eyes widened with surprise, and a certain amount of embarrassment. His spoken Russian was passable; his reading skills were next to nothing. Squinting, he tried to make out a few letters of the strange alphabet, managing only to narrow down one dish to either onion soup or boiled children. Preferring not to take any chances, he resigned himself to order plain chicken.

When the waiter came however, the Daroga did not get the chance to speak before Erik broke in, speaking in flawless Russian that was so rapid the Persian couldn't understand it.

The waiter nodded and left. Erik turned back to Nadir, his aberrant eyes flashing unnaturally in the candlelight.

"How did you even know of me?"

The question was so sudden that he took several seconds to fully register the words. Shifting back into the large chair, he regarded the masked man. Erik was holding his gaze evenly, his expression unreadable under his stark mask. Nadir sighed; the man obviously saw through the pointless paper the shah had given him.

"A fur trader spoke of you. It caught the Shah's interest," he replied slowly.

"And? You aren't telling me everything," he chided, his eyes noticeably hooded even behind the stiffened leather.

Realizing there was no way to deter him with the second reason Persia wanted him, the Daroga fell to plainness.

"The Shah's mother is the Khanum. You were allegedly reported a sorcerer by the tradesman. It is well known throughout the court that the Khanum has a fascination with the mystic."

"She wants a magician then?"

He nodded. To his surprise, the masked man gave a brumal chuckle.

"You plan to drag me all the way to your forsaken country to simply pull a dove from my sleeve or make a scarf disappear? Persia lacks fortune tellers and jesters?"

Nadir took a drink from a glass of water, his tone growing in seriousness as he replied quietly, almost as if the anathema of the Persian court could hear him.

"I do not think the Khanum cares about white magic."

What seemed an almost remorseful sigh came from the mysterious figure.

"I suppose I am to become Koszcey then," he said flatly. "I hope Persia does not have many oak trees."

Whatever reply he might have given was interrupted by the arrival of a steaming tray of food. The waiter was attempting to hide a frown and not entirely succeeding as he distributed the food, asked if there was anything else they needed, and hastily left.

Nadir looked at the bowl before him, the mass of lumpy substance that was covered in a dark red sauce, obscuring whatever identifiable features the meal might have had. He could only react to it as a child would; backing up in his seat and shooting it a suspicious look.

"Erik, what is this?"

What had previously been a hooded gaze now resembled a serpent's. Behind the mask his eyes were golden slits while his voice was an indiscernible mix of mocking sarcasm and coldness, laced with what could only be described as selectiveness.

"Have you no sense of adventure? It won't bite."

The Persian picked up his fork, testing the firmness and finding it mostly soupy to the touch. The texture seemed to shift beneath further pressure from the utensil. Further inspection of the food was interrupted however, with the sound of boorish men shuffling into the table beside them and the mumbled sound of food being ordered.

Perhaps they would simply ignore the odd couple at the table next to theirs. After all, was a mask or a Persian that odd in Russia? But of course young men seemed to find everything worth muddling in.

The Daroga watched as the one who appeared to be the leader of the small group turned to gaze at them, first in surprise, then with his dark eyes flashing in sardonic gleefulness. He was sitting close by the masked man, pitching his voice to carry easily.

"Hey Luka, have you seen a creature like this lately?"

The lean man known as Luka, who was sitting closer to the Persian, shook his head slowly. Nadir realized they were both drunk.

"Nyet," the slender man murmured.

The Persian glanced back at Erik, who was choosing to ignore them while taking a bite of his food, which appeared to be some form of chicken. The bearish Russian however, continued.

"He's so sticklike! Like a puppet in my father's shop!"

His companion laughed roughly, murmuring something so slurred in argot that the Daroga could not make it out. Erik hunched forward slightly, remaining silent. Seeing the movement, the young man flashed a stained canine and continued with his prodding, pretending to speak casually to his friend.

"My father makes all types; small ones, big ones, some for children, some for men." He chortled at the last one, the sound itself sounding lewd. "Even some that are hideous— made for brothers to scare their sisters. Perhaps one escaped."

Nadir watched while a flutter of fear found its way into his hungry stomach and managing to quell any appetite he had. The tendons in Erik's hands flexed against the pale skin while his movements cutting up the chicken became more forceful. He did not envy the dead chicken. Still, Erik remained silent. His silence was contagious and despite his urge to snap something insulting in his native language to the men, the Persian found himself unable to summon the words. The silence however, was a spur in the side of the coltish blackguard.

"Is he mute as well as freakish?"

Before he could continue, he and his friend's orders arrived. Beginning to devour his meal, the thinner one grew silent except for an amused gleam in his eyes. The scoundrel's, the Persian noted, was the same dish as his own.

Taking a swift gulp, the boorish man hissed out sadistically, "Hey, zhopa! I'm talking to you!"

The thunder that crashed across Erik's eyes Nadir could practically feel. The masked man had laid his fork down and in one smooth motion twisted to regard the men, remaining ever silent. After a moment he turned back to his table, his stance rigid. Of course that shattered any chance of the Russian's calming down.

The Persian felt as if he were sitting next to a time bomb, prepared to blast shrapnel in his face at any moment. The Russian's face was flushing as he rammed another piece of food into his mouth, his words slurred but snapping.

"Sukin syn! Are you too much of a woman to defend yourself?"

The drunken man's voice lost all self-satisfying humor and became an enraged snarl, furious at the masked man's lack of reaction. Continuing to shovel food into his mouth, he finally ceased all restraints and shouted across the room.

"ZALUPA! YOU—"

His words were cut off in a strangled gasp. A peculiar transformation came over the Russian. His dark eyes widened as the rage left them, only to be replaced by terror, as suddenly air was not flowing into his vulgar lungs. Attempting to gag, he clutched a hand to his throat, trying to squeeze the obstruction from his gorge. The lanky companion lurched to his feet, his drunken eyes bright with alarm. There was nothing like a shock to sober one up.

The blackguard continued to keck while a trail of the sauce from his food dripped from his mouth. But the red substance was not sauce—it was blood.

More of the crimson fluid followed, spilling over his lips and sloshing onto his surprisingly clean white shirt. By this time, waiters were weaving their way through the assorted tables. In truth they were not really late. While the seconds had transcended into hours to the Persian, the man had only been choking for less than a minute.

In his frenzy, the miscreant scrabbled at his neck, further drawing blood from the strangled area. The arm however, was soon slamming down into the table as his knees buckled from lack of sustenance. The man was no thin figure and the table's legs groaned and flipped, taking the Russian down with it. A scream pierced the air from near the front of the restaurant, decidedly female.

With mute horror the poor Persian watched as the man convulsed, the blood from his mouth frothing at the corners of his bovine lips and smattering the bone-white tablecloth. And the meal! That blasted, damned meal the blackguard had eaten, identical in recipe to his own. That cursed sauce splashed across the Russian's blue-tinged cheek, coursing down in rivulets, pooling at the base of his neck. At last the spasms stopped, the need for air too great to even allow involuntary reflexes.

The bulky form stilled and his tongue, purple and swollen, lolled out like a dead gooseneck. One of the stauncher waiters stumbled over the shattered glass to the fallen Russian, putting a finger to his pulseless neck.

Finally Nadir's muscles seemed to thaw and he twisted to regard Erik, who had remained forever silent during the horrific death. The man's expression caused him to freeze once more. Erik's eyes gleamed in satisfaction and his mouth, while remaining cold, had the faintest traces of a smile. It was a hideous joy. Noticing the Daroga, he turned with sickening slowness, his scabrous gaze tearing through him while his tone, in horrid antithesis, was light.

"That, Daroga, is why you never talk with your mouth full."

Looking down at his now-cold meal, Nadir felt a true wave of horror breaking over him. He looked, and he knew. His voice would have shamed his preceding Daroga, coming out so shaken and yes, terrified, with his usual deep timbre now halting.

"Erik, what is in this… meal?"

The masked man's tone was innocent, almost surprised at the suspicion cast his way.

"Your meal? It is merely borscht. Beets, potatoes, eggs, and herbs—a Russian favorite."

The Persian would not have been more daunted if the man had whispered that it was filled with ground glass and arsenic. His hands shook as he shoved the bowl away from him, causing it to crash into his water glass with a crack. The glass tumbled to the side and water splashed from the cup, soaking the tablecloth and dripping onto the floor.

"What in Allah's name have you done?"

Erik's serpent gaze never lessened, his cold eyes as fierce as any viper. His sharp eyesight did not miss the man tucking a vial into his cloak, though he soon had the sick feeling that Erik intended for him to glimpse it. The masked man's mouth remained a line, yet his words grinned.

"Why should you know, monsieur? I am Koszcey after all."