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Shonnzi had been sitting close by, unable to face participating in the Phazels' ritualized wallow in misery.

"Time Lords are like that," he said. "Aren't they?"

The night crackled with frost. Above the twinkling inert lights of the City's Olmesian Quarter, Pazithi Gallifreya was a burnished sickle in the sky. To the west, snow clouds loomed on the horizon.

"Those who plot the destruction of others, often fall victim themselves."

Pelatov's Collected Sageries — an illuminated folio of the classical repository, surface bound in leviahide with a scroll-screen of tempered quartz. Limited edition.

Rassilon slid the volume to the back of his desk with mild irritation. The foreword he had been inveigled to input for the screen-tome eluded him. He found the philosopher brethren of the Third Century pompous in the extreme. It annoyed him to have to write some portentous frippery praising a long-dead scholar, who undoubtedly bored his students five thousand years ago as much as he bored his readers today.

"The Ancients have much to teach, but one should not dwell amongst them forever."

Could anything from so long ago be held relevant to today's world? Pelatov had unwittingly damned himself. There was only Now. Rassilon must never slide into that trap. It was abhorrent that any civilization could be founded on superstition and barbarism. These only weighed down any advance. But the Mythic schools, resembling and run like factories, dealt in holy lies and taught the children religious ignorance. They reinforced what was already in the dark Gallifreyan soul. The people must believe in something and so belief was supplied and readily packaged, and blood flowed readily in the holy Games.

Yet it was an honour to be asked for such an inscription. But he might change his mind again tomorrow.

Pazithi the mystic, the virgin moon Goddess, still watched over them, and was still worshipped. Yet even with the antique telescope at his window, he could make out the industrial complexes that fouled her sacred surface with angled shadow — the dust-grubbers and smelting furnaces that raped her divine celestial beauty.

He tabbed through the pages of his journal. It had been a year to the day since his visit to the inner Temple. No one had seen the Pythia in that time. No public appearances or private audiences. Occasional bulletins stated that she was in good vitality, but as her 170th suncycle approached, she deemed it prudent to work on public affairs in privacy. Other duties were delegated to the closed ranks of her staff and the Court of Principals.

Rassilon's own information network was confounded by the barriers of officialdom that surrounded the Pythia. Her staff were unbribable and beyond infiltration.

After a lost harvest and a second winter that dragged on into spring, popular feeling was rising. The thought-pool of the City resounded with rumour and guttersniping. When the people were hungry and cold, their humour deepened to mask the unrest. The latest laboured riddle ran "When is the Pythia like a lost pipe-cleaner?" As yet Rassilon had failed to catch the punchline.

Most rumours said that the Pythia was dead and no successor had been named. But Rassilon still felt her thoughts, like waves of hatred directed at him. And the campaign of contrived slurs against his name was endless.

Amid his own public appearances and speeches, his journal reminded him that tomorrow he was due to see Prydonius again. This would be the third visit that the Hero had made to Rassilon's office above the west wing of the Academia Library. Prydonius was the last ally that Rassilon had expected, but the Admiralty was angry at the lack of funding for the Empire Fleets. They were further incensed that the Time Projects should be continuing after the loss of the Scaphe the year before.

"A leader's greatness is best judged by the quality of her advisers."

"Shut up, Pelatov, you obsequious groveller!" said Rassilon out loud. But the old philosopher had certainly known how to write a catchy sagery.

An alerter purred and a bubble retina glittered into