Only mildly fazed by the Chief Sensayer’s condescension toward their Imperial Master, the guards approached the would-be assassin, but had to stand back like any mortals while the dragons kept their prey. The Utopians who had ringed Jehovah had now fanned out around the courtyard, their long coats transforming the Masons’ uniforms, one making them into living calligraphy, another into trees shading a sun-swept lake whose lily pads supported toy-sized tenements and halls and clock towers, where prompt frog denizens hopped about in coats and hats. The Masons frowned as they waited for the dragons to withdraw. There was no obvious cause for the delay, but the twitch of silent Utopian lips and fingers showed they were consulting some broader constellation. At last the glassy cheetah dropped the confiscated gun into a Mason’s waiting bag. Then all at once there were no dragons, no cheetah, no archaeopteryx, no thrum of robots with their lazer lights, and no Utopians. The world felt dim.

“Wait! MASON!” It was the ex-Brillist Mitsubishi, Jess Tilden-Crowner, who was brave enough to call to the departing Emperor.

Caesar does not rise from his seat lightly. “What?”

“Tell us J.E.D.D. Mason isn’t your successor.”

His eyes grew dark. “Lex prohibit conloquium de Imperatore Destinato.” He translated himself: “The law forbids discussion of the Imperator Destinatus.”

Tilden-Crowner pressed on. “Sniper’s whole cause is fired by everyone thinking J.E.D.D. Mason’s going to take power in every Hive. Just announce they aren’t your successor and it’ll all die down.”

MASON’s words were stony as the obelisk in Alexandria, where the grim law stands inscribed in all the great languages of the ancient age when it was supposedly carved. “Lex prohibit discussion of the Imperator Destinatus. This is your second warning. There will not be a third.”

Tilden-Crowner has deep reserves of courage. “I know you want us to know it isn’t them. That’s why you adopted them in the first place, since it’s common knowledge that a porphyrogene never becomes Emperor. But people are paranoid. Just say it publicly, that they aren’t your successor. That’s all we need to end this!”

MASON nodded to the one among his guards who wore the gold and blue cording of a Romanovan deputy over his Masonic gray. The guard at once placed a heavy hand on the offender’s shoulder. “Jess Tilden-Crowner, I place you under arrest for public and repeated violation of the First Black Law, action likely to result in extensive or uncontrolled loss of human life, which, as clarified by Senatorial Consult 2147–129, covers public discussion of the Imperator Destinatus. You will come with me.”

I saw little more, nor did I have time then to wonder whether Julia had somehow planned this, too, the elegant removal of her most ambitious potential replacement.