“Consorbin inermis est, Caesar.” (The Cousin is unarmed, Caesar.—9A)

“Let them come in.”

Inside, a lone carved chair, severe enough for a monastery, broke the rows of icons and relic shelves that crammed Jehovah’s hall. There sat MASON, fidgeting with the black cuff of his left sleeve as scenes of the world’s degeneration sparkled across his lenses. “Have you been taking care of yourself since last night, Cousin Foster?”

Carlyle, like any sane woman, trembled. “MASON? Why are you…”

“I am waiting to see my son. You were seen with us at Madame’s. The press will be after you soon, if they are not already. I can chase them off, if you like. I am firmer with them than Kosala is. Or if you prefer shelter, my Sanctum Sanctorum in Alexandria is open to you.”

The sensayer floundered. In the madness at Madame’s, MASON had been one more of a bank of cardboard witnesses, while only Carlyle and her parents were true players. Only now, seeing the suit of imperial gray, the famous face without press light to hide the care lines, did it sink in that she had met the Emperor.

“I haven’t had any trouble so far, but I haven’t been home yet. Do you think… is…” Carlyle choked.

MASON is so accustomed to his presence striking others dumb that I think sometimes he is surprised to hear a stranger manage a complete sentence. “You are here to see Jehovah?” he asked gently.

“Yes. Are they…”

“Upstairs.” Between his spoken words, Caesar’s fingers fed others to the computer, which routed them across his Empire. “What do you think of the Prince of Asturias?”

Carlyle frowned. “You mean the Crown Prince of Spain?”

At such proximity Carlyle says she could see the gray in Caesar’s hair, not sophisticated frosting as photographs suggest, but streaks of real age, subtly heavier on the right side, spreading. “Their Majesty once told me that Crown Prince Leonor had done more good by being born than they have in their whole life since. The existence of a living heir stabilized Spain and Europe, promising a safe succession, and giving the Spanish strat the hope it needed to endure the queen’s suicide. Since then the Prince has run wild in bad company, aided their father’s political enemies, has probably literally slept with Casimir Perry, and has done far more to shame the royal house than even the public knows, but still the King is glad they have a son, however rotten. Would you call such a prince good because their existence aids the world, despite their deeds?”

“No.”

“Then you are not bad because of the evil which your birth has caused.”

Kind words. Carlyle had not had kind words since Julia’s, before she felt truth’s poison arrow fly. “I don’t… I don’t…” I doubt there was a real full sentence in her mind.

Chagatai poked her head around the corner now, friendly in her livery, like a mastiff trained as perfectly to charm children as to rip throats. “Carlyle Foster! Good of you to come again. Are you here for me or for TM?”