A pause. “Which Brillist?”

“Giller Edison.” Martin smiled slightly. “Do you remember all their names?”

The door opened at last. This is the moment you should remember, reader, not, as the news replayed so many times, Ockham marching with hands bound behind him, the police escort fighting back the sea of hysteria that crowded around his jail. You must have seen that video, rioters pelting the silent prisoner with screams and tomatoes, like a so-called witch dragged as scapegoat to the gallows by the thirsty mob. That was not Ockham Saneer, but what we made of him, to our collective shame. Here, this is Ockham, standing in his trophy hall like the guardian statue outside an abandoned temple, facing vandal and storm with dignity. His clothes were his favorites, comfortable and alive with doodles, and the steel and deerskin of his boots were polished brighter than even I could make them. His belt he now removed, the holster with it, holding the weapon out for Martin to accept.

“I recognize that your preparations for my relief are sufficient, and your authority legitimate. As of 22:21 UT today I have been relieved. From this point I may do nothing without orders from my Hive.”

Martin took the surrendered gun with reverence, then signaled his men to storm the house and capture all within. Ockham waited silent, stretching his wrists and shoulders to prepare for hours in cuffs.

“Praeses!” called one of the police, a Cousin herself but habituated to the Latin title Masons use for a polylaw of Martin’s pedigree. “Cato Weeksbooth is in here, gagged and tied to a table leg.”

“Injured?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. We’ve also secured Eureka Weeksbooth and either Kat or Robin Typer, we can’t tell which. No sign of anyone else on this level or the upper floor. No resistance entering the computer areas below.”

Martin looked to his prisoner. “Why was Cato Weeksbooth tied up?”

Ockham met the Mason’s eyes but answered nothing.

“Where are the others?” Martin pressed. “The other Typer? Sidney Koons? Lesley Saneer? Thisbe Saneer? Sniper? Do you know?”

“Cato, Eureka, and a Typer should be enough to break in our replacements.” Ockham’s voice had an unfamiliar lightness, relaxation from a man whose work had never until now been done.

An old blood Mason can only sigh surrender before such dignity. “All’s secure up here, Papa,” he called over his tracker, “but five bash’members are still missing. How are you doing downstairs?”

“Give me time, Martin,” the Commissioner General wheezed back. “Some things have to be done subtly.”

It is a unique definition of subtlety that includes a squad of eleven well-armed guards in gas masks and a percussive charge to blast down Thisbe’s door, but perhaps Papa meant the subtlety of thought behind the execution. The instant the door shattered his force struck, like dancers pouring out into formation on a stage. They covered every corner of Thisbe’s room: the closet, the underbed, the inner door, and trained a bank of the finest, fastest stun guns on their target.