Gisel had been silent, nearly motionless throughout, adding to the sense of strangeness, never looking out when he pulled the curtains. Intense, coiled, waiting. The perfume in the litter was of sandalwood and something else he didn't recognize. It made him think of ivory, in the way that all things reminded him of colours. One of her ankles lay against his thigh. Unaware: he was almost certain she was unaware of that.

Then they had come, finally, to the door behind the Great Sanctuary and Crispin had put into motion-a movement into time again, as they left the enclosed world of the litter-the next part of what he supposed would have to be called a plan, though it was hardly that, in truth.

Some puzzles, even for one engaged by them, were intractable. Some could destroy you if you tried to solve them, like those intricate boxes the Ispahani were said to devise, where turning them the wrong way caused blades to spring out, killing or maiming the unwary.

Gisel of the Antae had handed him one of those. Or, seen another way, shifting the box a little differently in his hands, she was one of those tonight.

Crispin took a long breath, and realized that they weren't together any more. Gisel had stopped, was behind him, looking up. He turned back and followed her gaze to the dome that Artibasos had made, that Valerius had given to him-to Caius Crispus, widower, only son of Honus Crispus the mason, from Varena.

The lamps were burning, suspended from their silver and bronze chains and set into the brackets that ran with the windows all around. The light of the white moon, rising, was coming in from the east like a blessing of illumination upon the work he had achieved here in this place, in Sarantium after his sailing.

He would remember, he would always remember, that on the night when she herself was burning with directed intent like a beam of sunlight focused by glass onto one spot, the queen of the Antae had stopped beneath his mosaics upon a dome and looked up at them by lamplight and moonlight.

At length she said, "You complained to me, I remember, about deficient materials in my father's chapel. Now I understand."

He said nothing. Inclined his head. She looked up again, at his image of Jad over this City, at his forests and fields (green with spring in one place, red and gold and brown as autumn in another), at his zubir at the edge of a dark wood, his seas and sailing ships, his people (Ilandra there now, and he had been about to begin the girls this morning, filtering memory and love through craft and art), his flying and swimming creatures and running beasts and watchful ones, with a place (not yet done, not yet) where the western sunset flaming over ruined Rhodias would be the forbidden torch of falling Heladikos: his life, all lives under the god and in the world, as much as he could render, being mortal himself, entangled in his limitations.

Much of it done now, some yet to do, with the labour of others-Pardos, Silano and Sosio, the apprentices, Vargos working among them now-taking form under his direction on walls and semi-domes. But the shape of it, the overarching design, was here to be seen now, and Gisel paused, and looked.

As her gaze came to him again, he saw that she seemed about to say something else, but did not. There was an entirely unexpected expression on her face, and long afterwards he thought he understood it, what she had almost said.

'Crispin! Holy Jad, you are all right! We feared-"

He held up a hand, imperious as an Emperor in this place, urgent with apprehension. Pardos, rushing up, stopped in his tracks, fell silent. Vargos stood behind him. Crispin felt a flicker of relief himself: they had obviously elected to remain in here all day and night, were safe. He was sure Artibasos was somewhere about as well.

"You haven't seen me," he murmured. "You are asleep. Go now. Be asleep. Tell Artibasos the same if he's wandering here. No one saw me." They were both looking at the hooded figure beside him. "Or anyone else," he added. She was unrecognizable, he devoutly hoped.

Pardos opened his mouth and closed it.

"Go," said Crispin. "If I have a chance to explain after, I will."

Vargos had come quietly up beside Pardos: burly, capable, reassuring, a man with whom he had seen a zubir. Who had led them out of the Aldwood on the Day of the Dead. He said, quietly, "Is there no help we can offer? Whatever you are doing?"

He wished there were, Crispin realized. But he shook his head. "Not tonight. I am glad to see you safe." He hesitated. "Pray for me." He'd never said anything like that before. He grinned a little. "Even though you haven't seen me."

Neither man smiled. Vargos moved first, taking Pardos by the elbow, leading him away into the shadows of the Sanctuary.

Gisel looked at him. Did not speak. He led her across the marble floor and the vast space under the dome into an ambulatory on the other side, and then to a low door set in the far wall. There he drew a deep breath and knocked-four times quickly, twice slowly-and then a moment later he did it again, remembering, remembering.

There was a stillness, a waiting time, as long as a night. He looked at the massed bank of candles at the altar to their right, thought of praying. Gisel stood motionless beside him. If this failed, he had nothing in reserve.

Then he heard the lock being turned on the other side. And the low door of the only plan he'd been able to devise swung open before them. He saw the white-robed cleric who had opened it, one of the Sleepless Ones, in the short stone tunnel behind the altar at the very back of the small chapel built into the wall of the Imperial Precinct, and he knew the man and gave thanks-with his whole heart-to the god, and he was remembering the first time he'd passed through this same door, with Valerius, who was dead.

The cleric knew him as well. The knock had been the Emperor's, taught to Artibasos and then to Crispin. Working by lamplight, they had opened for Valerius on more than one night through the winter as he came at the end of his own day's labours to look upon theirs. Much later than this, many times. He'd been named the Night's Emperor; it was said he never slept.

The cleric seemed blessedly unperturbed, only raised his eyebrows, without speaking. Crispin said, "I have come with one who wishes to join me in paying a last tribute to the Emperor. We would speak our prayers by his body and then here again, with you."

"He is in the Porphyry Room," the cleric said. "It is a terrible time."

"It is," said Crispin, feelingly.

The cleric had not moved aside. "Why is your companion hooded?" he asked.

"That the common folk not see her," Crispin murmured. "It would be unseemly."

"Why so?"

Which meant there was no help for it. Even as Crispin turned to her, Gisel had pushed back her hood. The cleric held a lantern. Light fell upon her face, her golden hair.

"I am the queen of the Antae," she murmured. She was taut as a bowstring. Crispin had a sense she would vibrate like one if touched. "Good cleric, would you have a woman parade through the streets tonight?"

The man, visibly overawed-and looking at the queen, Crispin could understand why-shook his head and stammered, "No, of course… no, no! Dangerous. A terrible time!"

"The Emperor Valerius brought me here. Saved my life. Purposed to restore my throne to me, as you may know. Is it not seemly in the eyes of Jad that I bid him farewell? I would not rest easy if I did not so."

The small cleric in his white robe backed up before her, and then he bowed and he shifted to one side. He said, with great dignity, "It is seemly, my lady. Jad send Light to you, and to him."

"To all of us," said Gisel, and walked forward, ahead of Crispin now, ducking at the arch of the low stone tunnel, and then through the small chapel and into the Imperial Precinct.