The two scholars looked at each other, and the Yahadut put his hand on his heart and bowed, as if granting his space to the younger.

The younger man stepped forward to the head of the table, and waved his hand. As soon as he gathered power, Gabriel’s adamantine shield of gold exploded from the aethereal.

Gabriel was already out of his chair, his hand on his sword.

The man froze. “I mean no harm!” he cried in heavily accented Archaic.

Gabriel saw that both Blanche and Clarissa had swords in their hands.

Michael had a small shield of his own; he had clearly been learning. “Magister al-Shirazi,” he said, his voice attenuated by the shield. “It is not acceptable to summon power in the presence of the emperor without permission.”

The magister released his crafted ops. “My apologies, my lord,” he said.

Gabriel rose and bowed. “I think we’re all a little on edge,” he admitted. He put back his shields, pried his hand off the sweat-stained grip of his war sword, and forced himself to smile. “It has been a difficult time,” he said with a shrug, and folded himself back into his chair.

Considerably paler, the magister was nonetheless unshaken. “My lord,” he began again. “I would like to perform a few small demonstrations . . .”

“Be my guest,” Gabriel said. He smiled in what he hoped was a companionable way while trying to quell his shaking hands.

“Bin Maymum and I are astrologers,” he said. “We watch the stars. And both of us have read our Dame Julia.” He cast his cantrip, and a screen materialized, a glowing, rich black like his robe, and on it hung the stars, like crystals strewn on cloth. “My lord, when I heard that you were in the Antica Terra, I wanted to meet you; but in Venike I understood that you had a schedule; a timetable.” The man touched his nose frequently, an odd tic, and used an eating knife to point at his image of the heavens.

“You are not from Ifriquy’a,” Gabriel said, leaning forward.

“No, my lord. I am a gentleman of Gilan; perhaps the farthest eastern kingdom held by humans. We are the border with the Wild, just as we hear you are in Ilba.”

“Alba,” Gabriel said automatically, and then he thought of Blanche. How we love to correct each other, we humans, he thought.

“My king, Rostan Dabbaj, is a great knight and a great warrior.” The easterner’s hair and his pale good looks were explained; he didn’t look like an Ifriquy’an.

The Yahadut scholar frowned. “Surely not the easternmost,” he said. “Surely the easternmost is Qu’in.”

Al-Shirazi frowned at being interrupted. “It is centuries since we have heard anything from Qu’in,” he said.

“Perhaps my people have better communications than yours,” Bin Maymum said.