“Stay still and calm, all.” Rumormonger Natekari does not have to raise her voice. “Something is happening at the Sanctum Sanctorum in Alexandria.”

Obedient in their wisdom, the Blacklaws kept their seats, and all tuned in to witness the abomination. The Masons did not. They rushed to Him. They had planned for this, studied every millimeter of the room, of every room the Porphyrogene enters. Half manned the exit, while the others plunged in a spearhead movement down the center aisle to retrieve Him from the podium to their safe custody. The Blacklaws rose to block them, not all in one force, just a few, a stand of wardens, individual but terrible, like breakers in a storm.

“You dishonor us, Masons,” Natekari’s tone was as black as her sash, “to think we cannot protect a guest in our own house.”

“It is our task to move the Porphyrogene to safety during crisis.”

Lightning her glare. “You have already failed to protect your own Sanctum Sanctorum. This sanctum”—she gestured to the hall’s aged wood—“remains inviolate.” The Blacklaw Tribune shot a glance of warning at Jehovah’s Utopian escort too, but the Delians stayed well clear, hololemurs and floating faerie lights watching in silence as the Masons faced the noble savages.