Despite the blood relation between them, Feridoon was an infrequent guest in Nadir's house. Nadir was hardly offended—Feridoon was an infrequent guest in anyone's house.

But it was hardly surprising when he appeared at Nadir's door the day after the incident with Erik. He had brought his little wife with him, and was glancing at shadows like a marked man. His wife looked a bit more equable. She tried smiling at her husband, a gesture Feridoon replied to with a hopeful grimace. One would have thought they were going up, hand-in-hand, to their execution. Nadir watched the interplay discreetly, letting Darius serve the refreshments.

Conversation was painfully bland. What else could it be? Nadir tended to listen or—to his chagrin, Erik was correct about this— monologue. Feridoon had cultivated an entire lifetime of silence punctuated by bland remarks about the weather. And the young woman? She took over Darius's tea-serving duties with surprising elegance, and offered nothing to the conversation.

It had been an occurrence of some note in the Court, when Feridoon had married. It had long been assumed that he had been angling for a royal bride. Why else serve the Shah so diligently, so faithfully, and so discreetly, all the while turning away the overtures of powerful prospective fathers-in-law? Nadir was probably alone in being unsurprised at his cousin's unassuming match. Of course a man who had watched endless intriguing come to cruel ends—of course such a man would find comfort in simple, silent bride who looked by turns like a mother and a sister and a village maiden.

For the moment, Nadir wished Feridoon had also thought to add gifted conservationist to his matrimonial requirements.

Feridoon conspicuously avoided mentioning Erik, or Erik's temper tantrums. Well, if he was inclined to ignore the subject, Nadir certainly would not bring it up.

"I take it you are coming to the picnic tomorrow?" Nadir asked. It was perhaps the most political question he had asked that evening, but he was quickly running out of suitably dull topics.

"We are obliged to," Feridoon replied. "The Shah has requested my presence. And the Sultana has… invited Mojgan."

Nadir looked over at Feridoon's wife and smiled at her mildly. "It is a credit to you, Lady."

For an instant her look of bland serenity quirked into something sharper, something rather like sarcasm. Not that such a gentle girl would use such a device, no. "I am cognizant of the honor, agha."

Feridoon was staring at his wife intently, as if expecting her to say more.

There was more, Nadir hazarded, and took Feridoon's intense stare as his cue. "You have been a frequent guest among the Shah's ladies, I think?"

"I have attended on them a few occasions," she said.

"The Sultana seems particularly fond of her," Feridoon added.

Nadir picked up the train again. "The Sultana is new to Mazandaran. I know little about her."

"She us different from many of the other women," the little wife said, slowly, as if she had to ration her words. "She is very young. And, at times, she is difficult to understand."

"She is not Persian," Nadir supplied. "And tastes vary."

"Yes," she said. Feridoon prompted her with another prolonged stare. "Her sense of humor is especially… foreign. It is almost incomprehensible to most."

Nadir stared at her, and she stared back. "Do you comprehend it, Lady?"

She blinked. "No, agha, I do not."

"Does anyone?" Feridoon said. This was a strange dance he was choreographing, but Nadir thought he could now discern where it was leading.

"I don't know," she said, and Nadir imagined that he could see a shadow of a past argument between man and wife. "Though she is most pleased when the magician comes to entertain."

Nadir bit his tongue until he was sure he could keep his voice even. "Erik entertains at the harem?"

"From time to time," Feridoon's wife said.

"You've seen him perform, then?" Oh, how Nadir longed for the direct question and answer of an official interrogation—something told him that the lady would agree with him. As for Feridoon… well, who knew what Feridoon would prefer? Given how this whole affair was staged—and how many of the man's family had died due to a lack of discretion—Nadir imagined he was perfectly content with the innuendo.

"I have not," she said, "I have merely heard of him being there. Properly, of course, in the outer gardens, with the nannies and guards all about. Sometimes he sings, sometimes be does magic tricks, sometimes he just… makes the Sultana laugh."

Nadir was silent for a moment. "Erik also a peculiar sense of humor."

Feridoon bared his teeth in something that could be charitably called a smile, "as I had gathered."

Nadir drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment. "Perhaps, I should speak to him—" for all the good it would do— "so he does not disturb the ladies overmuch."

"I think some people would very much appreciate that," the little wife said. She did not glance at Feridoon.

"I do not think he intends to be cruel," Nadir added. The words sounded flat and meaningless to him. How often had he listened to such weak protests in the line of duty? He's a good boy, really. I would never have imagined he could do such a thing. He had his moments, like everyone, but I can't believe him to be a killer…

The wife was regarding him carefully. "Cruel? No, I don't think his humor is cruel. Merely, uncomfortable."

"Ah. I hope he has not discomfited you," Nadir said, "we are family, after all."

Her eyebrows rose thoughtfully at this. She wore them in the classical fashion, arched and painted out almost into her hairline. The poetical term was like the wings of a bird, and in this case, it rather fit. "I am quite all right, agha."

"Nadir," he offered. "But if it does become uncomfortable for you—"

"It will not," Feridoon cut in. "Mirza Saeed requested that I return to the treasury office at Tehran to sort out a bit of an issue they are having. The Shah—alhamdulillah—has consented."

"You depart soon?"

"We would have gone today, if not for tomorrow's festivities." Feridoon was quiet for a moment, and then said. "Tehran is rather nice in the autumn."

They were spared more observations on the weather when Darius approached. Nadir half-wondered what he had thought of the entire conversation. He probably thought it was a perfectly normal exchange. Perhaps. "A palace messenger for Feridoon Ali Jah. He's to return with him at once."

Whatever emotion Feridoon had allowed to surface in Nadir's parlor instantly faded. "Of course. Ah—Mojgan—"

"I'll see your wife back to your home," Nadir said.

Feridoon arose. "I thank you. I—we shall see one another tomorrow, at least."

Farewells were made, and at the end, Nadir was left standing awkwardly at the door with the wife.

"I put myself at the mercy of your whims, agha," she said coolly.

"Do I strike you as a whimsical man, my lady?"

"No," she said. "Nor does Feridoon, but here we are."

"He worries," Nadir offered. When she did not reply, he signaled for Darius. "Come now, I shall escort you home."

Nadir arrived late to the Shah's farewell fete.

He had a better excuse than usual—a mullah had been murdered—but he knew it would not serve him well to be absent from Court today.

Arguably, it was an informal gathering: a picnic where even the Shah's wives mingled freely, and guest list was kept to an intimate half-thousand.

Nadir had to wonder where Erik was. He saw Feridoon, conversing with the other over-serious men. He spotted the wife—Mojgan— in among the harem ladies, her veil extravagantly edged in pearls. The Shah was laughing with his favorites and bestowed a benign smile on Nadir.

Nadir passed a moderately pleasant first hour, chatting with men he was either vaguely related to or who were vaguely in his debt. By the second hour, the food was being served in earnest. Erik had yet to put in an appearance, and given the way the Shah's jaw was working, Nadir supposed that he was late.

He finally stalked in like death. He had finally started to adapt to the Persian mode of dress, though he forwent the majority of fashionable decorations. They were a curious look on his tall, lean frame, and he stuck religiously to black.

Naser al-Din motioned for him to begin whatever entertainment had been arranged.

Nadir settled in, warily watching. God alone knew what he had in store.

He started out with a simple folk song, a single setar player accompanying him. At the second verse, he hesitated, and after a moment he croaked.

Nadir nearly spit out his tea. Croaked like a frog.

Erik coughed, a long hand at his throat. After a moment, he attempted to resume the song.

Croak.

Croak.

The Shah was ashen. Most of the courtiers were awkwardly looking at one another—the little Sultana sitting by Mjogan was laughing. Nadir felt himself tense. If this was sabotage—if Erik was angered by such a public humiliation—if Erik lost control—

If Erik lost control, who could stop him? Certainly not Nadir. Certainly not Erik himself.

To his relief, Erik merely stormed away, and after some minutes, the festive spirit started to revive.

Another hour passed. Nadir had been tempted to go and find Erik, but had decided against it. What good could come from confronting him—or, comforting him? Still, perhaps he should try to find him before he left for the evening…

The sound of a growling tiger was not unfamiliar to Nadir. He had been on hunts, and there were the nearly-tame specimens in the Shah's menagerie. But it was a bizarre sound to hear just outside the Palace—and it rang out over the entire assembly, coming from every direction, gaining in strength. A tiger? Ten tigers? A thousand?

Erik, of course.

Erik, Nadir hoped.

There were screams, when a great orange beast bound through the crowd. The guards looked around at each other wildly, rifles poised but unaimed. The tiger was launching itself this way and that, growling, but not attacking.

The Shah must have noticed that last, critical detail, for he held up a hand. Nadir could hardly claim that the panic subsided, but it contained itself, raging just under the surface.

The unearthly roars that surrounded the gathering continued, but started to change. It was a siren song—inhuman, primal, and oh-so-beautiful.

Erik, definitely.

Death returned to the picnic, weaving his way through the terror-paralyzed crowd.

The tiger turned to face the intruder, growling fiercer than before. But slowly, the crystalline music moved from Erik's throat to the tiger's own mouth.

They were both singing now, something like a cosmic love song. Erik led the tiger back through the crowd, and the music faded. Life might as well have faded away.

Nadir felt the spell dissipate, and managed to look around.

A thousand jaded courtiers were enthralled. Some were manslayers, Nadir knew. Almost all were liars. They were cruel, shallow, ignoble—

He saw the little Sultana, hiding in her mounds of silks. Her head was tilted curiously to one side.

He's gaze settled on Mojgan. Her kohl had run down her cheeks, but when she noticed Nadir looking at her, she smiled.