Second turn. He was careful about it, for good reason; but his young artist behind him would not know why. "Ravine to the right; wall to the left, " he murmured under Hannibal's explanation - a small bit of guidance not designed to interrupt.
And Erik could see Hannibal's points. He himself hadn't expected a doctor to so easily choose to take life. Then, Erik had learned long ago that the better one knew the human body, the easier it was to disable or destroy it. Hannibal, he reasoned, must be an accomplished killer.
And Erik hoped that he was also an artistic one. There could be beauty in murder. He'd drawn several masterpieces for the Shah himself. The best ones were the earlier ones, before he'd grown weary of the constant spill of blood, before his mind had grown so saturated with the sickly sweet coppery scent that he couldn't do without the charms of the poppy when he needed rest.
But then, it seemed that Hannibal would be an artist in everything he did - piano, surgery, or murder.
"If you wish," he said, his voice having grown graver than before. "But I understand your drift."
At the next trap, Erik pressed the second and third chordal progressions -- and again, the floor shifted to follow the same descent as what they'd been traveling before. In just a few more steps, they would be well into the last cellar, even farther down from where he made his own sanctuary. Would he show the boy that house on the lake?
Perhaps. Perhaps later. It seemed enough to lead him to the Corridors of Death. They were very close.
"How many have you killed in the City?" he finally asked.