The doorman did not glance from his cachet—a lazy doorman—and the provost on guard at the street entrance was equally indifferent as Rodvard went past, feeling a trifle unreal after so long close indoors. Remigorius was compounding a philter with mortar and pestle; he hailed Rodvard almost boisterously, laughing over the figure he made in his false facial hair. “What! Will you have a career as a ladies’ lap-cat, now that you’ve turned seducer by profession? Well, I have summoned you here because things mount to a crisis. The court’s finance is utterly broke, and the High Center holds that we must move fast, for though there are stirrings in the west, it seems they move in the direction of Pavinius.” Said Rodvard; “We are likely to be broke ourselves. Mme. Kaja’s a traitor.” Pestle stopped in mortar; the doctor’s face seemed to narrow over the midnight thicket of his beard and a soft pink tongue came out to run a circlet round his lips. “I’ll mix that bitch a draft will burn her guts out. Give me the tale.” Rodvard told it all plainly, with the hiding on the rooftop and the household of the Amorosian woman, over which last Remigorius’ eye held some anxiety. “The one who came here? You did not tell her of our fellowship? These people of the Prophet’s rule lie as close together as so many snowflakes, and though they’re as deep against the court as we, I would not trust them. But touching your affair of the old singer—” he placed one finger to his cheek and held his eyes averted, so that Rodvard could not see where his true thought lay “—you’re too censorious. I see no real treason there; she’s deep in double intrigues and must keep up an appearance, beside which, no doubt, there is something of an old woman’s green-sickness for a younger man. It may all have been by order of the High Center, indeed; you’d certainly have been saved yourself by some tale, for you are now too valuable. Now for our affair; you are to take the stage at dawning for Sedad Vix, where you are to be writer for Count Cleudi at the conference of court.” Rodvard’s eyes sprang open wide. “The court? Will I not be known?” “Ah, nya, you’re not involved now in this pursuit of the provosts. The only one that could establish your communion with the witch is cared for.” “What—who would that be?” “Your pensionnario doorman. An accident happened to him last night but one; was found in the river this morning, thoroughly dead and green as a smelt.” Remigorius waved a hand goodbye to Udo the Crab and whipped to his main theme, the conference of court. Florestan the Chancellor, the army restive for want of pay, the revenues hypothecated, the question of a great assembly, Cleudi intriguing, the time come for all terrible measures. “But Mathurin can discover all this as clearly as I,” said Rodvard (a little quickfire of suspicion running through him).