Ancelet returned the nod. “Now, I have all I need for today. The Senate meets tomorrow. I need time to muster votes so they accept your terra ignota.”

The president rose, and Prospero tried to rise by reflex, forgetting for a moment the fetters which kept him seated. “Will a majority be hard to achieve?” he asked.

It was the old Anonymous, I think, who smiled here. “Not for me. Now, I’m leaving Mycroft here with you for a little while. You two will write up a report on O.S. and the events that led to its exposure, both for Mycroft’s history and for use at the trial, concentrating on recent things, the last few weeks, the Seven-Ten list. I need to know everything. When you’re finished, tell the guards to call me, and I’ll collect Mycroft and the report myself. The report will be for my eyes only, and, once I’ve read it, I’ll give you instructions specifying what information should be made public and what should be concealed. Once you’re confident that you know what I want you to conceal, then you will tell the police that you’re ready to make a statement. Until then, you should continue to refuse to say anything to anyone, except Mycroft or myself.”

“Yes, Member President.” A pause. “The boots suit you.”

Shock delayed Ancelet’s smile at this, the highest praise that Prospero could give. “Thank you.”

They did suit him, the president’s new Humanist boots, and betrayed too that he had long been mulling over what boots he might choose should he give up his Hiveless sash for the Humanists, instead of for his bash’native Europe. The boots’ surfaces were palimpsests, the dull tan of old parchment covered with hand-inked text in antique brown, but with a different script beneath, faint but still legible, the tightly crammed script of an earlier century. Around the soles, the bronze and gold Olympic stripes of Ancelet’s medals in mathematics and oratory sparkled against the tricoleur of the French nation-strat, while on the sole the treads were crammed with letters like the type in a printing press, locked in loosely, so they shifted chaotically with every step and stamped out different almost-words.

Ancelet knocked for the guard, frowning as the bolts began their clicks and groans. “Prospero, are they treating you alright?” he asked. “Any harassment?”

“None, Excellency. Their courtesy has been conspicuous.”

“Yes, well… siege makes people careful.”

“Siege?”