I spotted my Master easily, a patch of black cloth starker than our medieval setting should have had. Chagatai too stood out, incongruous, but the Delians around them were all knights in armor now, or rather some were, while others became long-robed sorcerers, a Viking youth, an elf king, a flame-bright autumnal dryad, whatever persona each had programmed their coat to generate when they stepped into this genre.

“Shall I call Alexandria for you?” one offered.

The Visitor was not looking at anyone. “Do I make the human race worse?” He asked. “I make you violate the inviolable, a Tribune’s person, the MASONS’ Sanctum, Hobbestown; I even make mankind a Deicide.”

“TM,” Chagatai coaxed, “MASON’s ready to take your call, if you’re ready.”

One last pause. “Ready.”

The Griffincloth castle became at once a different castle, MASON’s, Alexandria, the ceiling of lapis and gold and candle-stars, the floor of channeled marble. The Emperor was on his throne this time, blood-purple porphyry framing his square-cut Mason’s suit. A new suit, reader. It was black, all black, death black, save only for the right sleeve whose gray cloth promised some faint possibility of mercy. I curled against the lion’s inky mane and wept.

“I want you tracking their escape,” Caesar began. “Every sea monster, and dendan, and hippocampus, and seahound, and panoctopus, and plasma-ray, and kraken…”

“You have them,” Utopia pledged.

“You should not declare war today, pater.” Jehovah managed English.

MASON shook his head. “Fili, these laws are older than the word ‘law.’ The wheels are moving. The Empire defends itself. My enemies, all my enemies, all who in their selfish, fleeting factions sharpened the blade which has wounded my IMPERIUM, all will be destroyed. If Romanova tries to stop me, Romanova is a young and toothless power, and will hardly be a bump in my path.”

“Not today. The day after tomorrow.”

MASON squinted at his Son. “Why wait two days?”

“Because war will disrupt travel and keep all Powers occupied, including Su Majestad el Rey de España, so, in a thousand years, it will still be said that Cornel MASON declared war the day before his lover would have gone to Rome to seek permission to marry another and exclude him. I would not have that personal side effect make posterity forever doubt the justness of your choice.”

Long and black the Emperor’s silence, marred only by my sobs.

“There is precedent,” MASON pronounced at last, “for granting enemies the option of surrender. I give them three days. If those who breeched my Sanctum all surrender to me, and return unread the Oath they stole”—here the Delians winced at confirmation of the deeper blow which fired MASON’s rage—“then their executions will be… unprotracted.” He locked his gaze on Jehovah, doing the best a human can to hold His eyes. “This same mercy I offer to Sniper, Tully Mardi, and to those who shelter them. Three days.”