English was not a language Nadir had ever undertaken a study of, but the shouts of the British ambassador's aide needed no translation.

The horses from the Shah's own stables were magnificent. They practically flew along the race course set up for the day's festivities, even the slowest of their number was nothing more than a white blur. The aide was one of quite a crowd of youngish men—Persian, Arab, Russian, French, and English—who had temporarily forgotten their professional chilliness in favor of racing fever.

Nadir was reclined some distance away from the course, but was personally quite amused by the spectators' antics. Erik was baffled.

"What is the point?" He asked, for the third or fourth time. "I don't see a point."

"What is the point of playing a magic trick for a crowd?" Nadir shrugged. "What is the point of listening to the musicians? Leave them to their fun, Erik."

Everything about Erik's posture communicated that he was unimpressed with such a notion of fun. Then again, 'unimpressed' was Erik's primary attitude of late. "Panem et circenses. It is still pointless. And boring."

If you are bored, why not attend on the Sultana? Nadir thought, with a bitterness that took him by surprise. You always find her company amusing.

"I would rather wait on the Sultana, but she says that the weather doesn't agree with her," Erik lamented, almost as if he could hear Nadir's internal commentary.

Nadir glanced up at the mild spring-blue sky. "Of course." He was hopeful that Feridoon and his little entourage would arrive soon. Erik was the most effective conversation stopper Nadir had ever happened upon. Nadir's oldest friends and acquaintances visited by for scant minutes before hurrying off to less forbidding picnics. Nadir had to wonder if Erik noticed—if Erik thought it odd. Chances were, he would simply be unimpressed.

Strange, that Nadir would have rather seen Erik delighted. He was growing sentimental as he approached middle age.

He saw Feridoon in the distance. He and his wife were making slow progress through the crowd. They were constantly stopped by either his colleagues or her friends— the cross-section of which seemed to have increased greatly over the past few months. Nadir remained cautiously pleased for his kinsman. Mojgan may or may not have possessed great political acumen, but she was at least quite capable and a source of contentment to her husband. What more, Nadir wondered, could a man really ask for?

He turned his attention away from their approach for a moment, but quickly noticed that Erik was still watching them. His gaze was fastened on the couple, and Nadir did not like it.

"Is there a problem, Erik?" Nadir asked.

"How did he end up with that face?" Erik asked.

"Feridoon?"

Erik nodded once, curtly, never looking away from the object of his interest.

Nadir's eyebrows lifted. He tried to recall if Erik had ever asked about Feridoon on such a level, but could not recall. He also could not determine if it was a sign of good or ill. "Truthfully, I am unsure of the specifics."

"But it was an injury? He was not born like that, I think."

"No. No, it was an injury. It happened some years ago—ten, or more, I believe."

Erik snorted. "Your investigative skills are most impressive, Daroga."

"I cannot say I have ever needed to investigate Feridoon Ali Jah," Nadir replied. Somewhat against his better judgment, he took a stab at offering Erik some insight. Nadir had not thought it possible, but Erik seemed even less inclined to take advice than he had been previously. However, there was no harm in trying. "There is no need to harass him so, Erik. It will neither help nor harm your cause. Feridoon grants no man favors—and I believe even you realize that he is equally disinclined to extract revenge."

"He grants no man favors," Erik repeated, under his voice. "No man."

Nadir sighed. God alone knew what went on his that brain of Erik's. God alone knew, but Nadir suspected the young man had missed his point. Again.

"Saint Feridoon approaches," Erik intoned, lapsing into French for a moment. It was the first time Nadir had heard Erik speak his mother tongue in many months. He wondered what it might signify, and shuddered.

Nadir exchanged hearty greetings with Feridoon when they finally arrived, and played the gallant older uncle to the little wife. Erik hung back, but maintained a level of civility.

"Please forgive me," Mojgan said, "I'm afraid I delayed our departure." She gestured to one of the servants following them, and the picnic Darius had set out was abundantly improved upon.

"If this is the product, I forgive you," Nadir offered.

"It is not her fault," Feridoon cut in, "the baskets were packed up last night, and we were ready to depart at daybreak. But her friend—"

"I will not have you blaming Maryam," Mojgan cut in. Her playful tone made Nadir feel… quite old.

"I will indeed blame Maryam Khanum," Feridoon said. "She had a New Year's gift delivered to my wife. It is monstrous."

"It was monstrously kind," Mojgan said.

Nadir made a polite noise of inquiry.

"It's a… piano," Feridoon said. "A very fine instrument. Apparently."

"Maryam had been taking lessons from one of the Russians," Mojgan offered, "but now that the Russians are out of favor…"

"We have a piano in our parlor," Feridoon concluded. "I'm not entirely sure what ought to be done with it."

"Typically," Erik made his first contribution to the conversation, "pianos are played."

"Hm," was Feridoon's only reply. At first, Nadir had thought that Feridoon looked much recovered from his previous illness. However, he could now see a tightness about Feridoon's eyes and lips that belied the picture of health he was putting forward.

Nadir attempted to pick up the thread of the conversation. "Are you musical, Mojgan?"

She had picked a pomegranate out of her basket and had pulled it open. She was deftly working the seeds out into a dish, and did not look up to reply to Nadir. "Musical? I play the setar, but I must say this piano baffles me."

"Can your friend not explain it to you?"

Her rouged lips quirked up. "I can't say that the Russian was able to help to Maryam. Not for lack of trying, I'm sure. I doubt she'll be able to help me."

"Perhaps it's for the best," Feridoon said.

"I play," Erik said. "Teaching it would not be difficult."

Nadir and Feridoon both turned to look at him, though Mojgan stayed focused on her self-appointed task. Erik's eyes appeared to be locked on the pomegranate in Mojgan's hands. It took another minute for her to finish taking out the seeds. Once finished, she glanced up at Erik. She smiled.

"Thank you." She picked up another pomegranate, seemingly unaware of the keen discomfort of her companions.

"Ah—Feridoon!" Some treasury official on a palanquin called out and broke the spell. "I had hoped to see you!"

Feridoon reclaimed his usual bland diplomacy, but Erik was still looking at Mojgan.

Nadir did not approve.

Well.

Well, at least not very much.

There was the irrefutable fact that Feridoon's little wife was not the little sultana, and Nadir thought it would be a very good thing for Erik to spend less time with her…

The festivities continued well into the afternoon. It seemed like all of Tehran was out and dancing, but Erik stayed silent and observed.

It seemed that just when Erik thought he finally understood the Persians, he encountered something new to baffle him.

"What in seven hells are they doing?" He found that he had used Nadir's favored expletive quite unintentionally. Luckily, the Daroga was not within earshot.

Some of Mojgan's women friends had gathered around her, and they all looked up at Erik with wide eyes. The lady herself followed Erik's gaze to two young men kicking a clump of grass between them. "Have you seen the dishes of sprouts everyone has been growing for the past few weeks? They get thrown out today, and last year's bad luck with them. "

Erik jerked his chin towards the men. The plant was kicked again, and another hunk of dirt flew off. "They must have had a very bad year."

Mojgan chuckled at that, and her friends followed suit. Erik smiled crookedly at her. She could not see the smile—thank God—but Erik thought she probably knew.

"Here," Mojgan pulled out her own silver dish of wheatgrass. "See what you can do with it."

"A challenge?" Erik asked.

Mojgan shrugged. "If you like. Just have it gone by sunset—and don't let my husband see it. He does not need the anxiety."

Erik's mood soured considerably at that, but he brushed it off. He already had a number of tricks in mind—mere trifles—to use on the helpless bit of greenery for Mojgan's amusement. She was did not laugh like some of the other harem ladies. Her enjoyment was of a gentler breed, he suspected. It had to be, for her to be content with her melancholic mate.

And she was content, wasn't she? To the entire world she appeared to be.

Erik thought on that for a moment, looking at the high, green grass growing in the little silver bowl. If all the world was a stage, and Persia was the whole world, then were not all Persians actors? He looked at Feridoon's little wife again, this time through the lens of Naser al-Din and the Sultana.

She was smiling as one of her friends—friend being another word for companion, or colleague, or conspirator, or enemy— made a good move on a backgammon board. It was the same mild smile she gave Erik from time to time.

He looked for hard edges, for delayed reactions, for something not quite right.

She must have noticed his observations. She looked up at him, still smiling, and narrowed her eyes.

Erik raged at his own gullibility. How could he be so easily fooled? A pretty smile, a cheery atmosphere, a place to idle for a few hours? Was that all it really took to lull him into complacency? Did he fancy that the Daroga or Feridoon were his friends? No! He knew better than that.

Still, he turned Mojgan's bowl of bad luck into a bowl of flame. And she smiled.

Well, Mojgan could to keep her soft eyes and soft smiles. Erik was done.

"Jadugar Agha."

Erik glanced to the side to see one of the harem eunuchs approaching him. He gestured for the man to speak.

"The Sultana commands your presence," he said.

Erik grimaced at the wording, but stood and nodded. He looked over at the group of women, and made to move away.

"Erik agha," Mojgan called after him, her voice light, "Nadir said you'll be joining us at for supper tonight?"

Erik paused. "Perhaps." And then he was away.

If you think pomegranates are too messy to peel by hand, you've never seen a Persian housewife handle one. It's some sort of culinary magic.