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then.” Rogerian waited, clearly anticipating the rest of Sanct’ Germain’s instruction.
    “When you come back into the city, take the occasion to complain of repairs needed. You may lament my strict requirements in such circumstances, saying that I will not listen to reason. Tell them that I insist on prompt repairs, and that I am not willing to be satisfied with less than full compliance with my orders. In weather like this, the rectifications must be done quickly or worse damage may ensue.” Sanct’ Germain was already pulling off his silver collar. As he set this down on a low wooden chest with a pair of Burmese dragons carved on its panels, he pulled the hem of his paragaudion up, tugging the garment over his head and turning it inside out with the same movement; he tossed it aside as he reached for his black linen kalasiris in which he slept. “If I have not risen, wake me in an hour; I cannot afford to lie abed very long, so be accurate in your timing. Use the old water-clock, in the atrium.” This relic of the Roman occupation had proven one of the most useful devices in the house; it was one of the things he would miss when he was gone from Toletum.
    “An hour; very well,” said Rogerian, preparing to leave the room.
    “Oh, and Rogerian,” Sanct’ Germain said, stopping Rogerian in mid-motion. “I will need a gift for Viridia; nothing elaborate, but enough for her to remember me with kindness.”
    Rogerian considered the matter for a moment. “Would some of the silk do? There are six or seven bolts of it left in the storeroom. It does not promise too much, but few women in Toletum can boost of wearing silk from China.”
    “An excellent notion. Perhaps we should take a few of the bolts with us. Not of fine cloth, but good, sturdy wool and thick linen. No doubt they would make welcome gifts for our hosts in our travels.” He bent to remove his leggings, and when he had put them aside, he added, “Cut them into generous lengths, enough for good-sized garments. They will be more easily carried off the bolt, and we will have more to give, having smaller portions.”
    “As you wish, my master,” said Rogerian.
    “You are very good, Rogerian. Thank you.” He watched the door close, then went into his bedroom, a chamber of such austerity that it might have been a monk’s cell; it contained Sanct’ Germain’s bed atop three large chests, the clothespress near the foot of the bed, and a stand for books which just now held an unlit lamp and Pliny’s
Historia Naturalis.
Sanct’ Germain pulled back the black coverlet and lay down on the thin mattress, falling into a sudden and profound sleep, taking restoration from his native earth in the chests below.
    When Rogerian rapped on Sanct’ Germain’s outer door an hour later, he found Sanct’ Germain just risen and finishing shaving; clothes fresh from the press were laid out on the low couch in the sitting room. “You should have summoned me,” said Rogerian.
    “You have more urgent tasks,” said Sanct’ Germain as he wiped the last of the oily soap from his face with a length of old cotton. “I have shaved myself for many centuries without needing my reflection to guide me.”
    “Just as well,” said Rogerian. “I have taken a bolt of bronze silk from the storeroom; it is in the library. Your gray gelding is saddled and waiting for you in the stable.”
    “How are the other preparations going?” Sanct’ Germain asked as he picked up the horseman’s dalmatica of black wool. This Roman garment was more than a century out of fashion but it was of superior quality, and no one would regard it as inappropriate for the foreign al-chemist to wear such clothing. “I need my high boots.”
    Rogerian opened one of the chests against the wall and pulled out a pair of tall Mongol boots lined in goat hair. The heels and soles were thicker than was usual for Mongols, a detail that no one in Toletum would know. “The preparations are going well. I