The Legislature breaks for seven months, and reconvenes on the brink of revolution.

In that time, Risen has taken to crying in quiet corners. It's a queer thing, and he's not sure why he does it. He will be absolutely fine one moment—winding his way down the broad corridors of the Hall of Emeralds, listening to the musicians playing their horrid water lyres in the gardens, thinking of very little but the weather (always the weather)—and then, the next, he will find himself resisting the irresistible urge to weep. He goes about it in quite a dignified manner, at least. He doesn't make vulgar noises or anguished yelps. He doesn't heave or gasp, or contort his face into strange shapes. He simply stands motionless, open-eyed, silent, letting the hot tears course down his face and chin and mouth and onto the pristine white of his collar.

Once, he did this in an old shed at the edge of the gardens. For minutes, as the dust settled on his shoulders, he stared at an abandoned rake and wept copiously. Then, when the tears stopped, he dried his face with his tie, smoothed back what was left of his hair, and went back to his walk.   

He tells his friends that he's going mad in his old age, and they aren't certain whether he is joking. Really, he's not quite certain himself.