Ptolemy's Gate (35 page)

Nathaniel wore his lenses: through them the darkness of the auditorium was moderated—he saw it all. He made to spring to his feet; cold steel pressed against his neck. Makepeace's urgent whisper: “Do nothing foolish, my boy. You observe my finest hour! Is this not art of the highest order? Sit, relax, enjoy! If you move a hairsbreadth, your head will bounce into the stalls.”

More than half the auditorium had been engulfed, and still the imps poured on. Nathaniel's eyes rose to the boxes opposite; the senior magicians had removed their lenses, but they had vantage points similar to his own. Surely they would see, surely they would act … His jaw sagged in horror. In every box four or five demons, much larger than the ones below—great foliots and djinn with slim white bodies of knotted sinew—had slipped through the curtains at the magicians' backs. Up they stole behind the greatest figures of the Empire—Devereaux smiling and waving his hands to the music, Mortensen and Collins slouched, arms folded, heads nodding in their seats; Whitwell looking at her watch; Ms. Malbindi scribbling work notes in a clip-file—up they stole, ropes rising in clawed fists, gags and nets silently adjusted, until they stood motionless, like a row of towering gravestones at their backs. Then, as if at a single inaudible command, they fell upon them.

Ms. Malbindi managed a shriek that merged harmonically with the wail of violins. Ms. Whitwell, writhing in a bony embrace, succeeded in igniting an Inferno from her fingertips: it lasted an instant, then her mouth was closed and bound, her command cut short—the flame withered and died; she subsided in a mass of netting.

Mr. Mortensen struggled manfully in the grip of three fat foliots; above the orchestra Mandrake heard him call out for his demon. But as with the rest of the audience, he had obediently dismissed his slave, and the call went unheeded. Beside him, Mr. Collins went down without a sound.

The song was over. Mr. Devereaux, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Empire, rose to his feet: eyes glistening with tears, he busily applauded the finale. Behind him in his box, three of his personal bodyguards were overwhelmed and slain. He plucked a rose from his lapel, tossed it down to the youth on stage. A demon stepped up close; Devereaux was insensible—he cried out for an encore. The youth on stage stooped, picked up the rose, and with a sudden spurt of energy, flourished it at the imperial box. At that moment the creature looming at the Prime Minister's shoulder stepped out from the shadows; the youth gave a squeal, fainted on his feet, swayed, toppled, and crashed off stage into the mouth of the euphonium. Devereaux stepped back in shock and collided with the demon. He turned and whimpered once; black wings enveloped him.

To Nathaniel, all this happened in the blink of an eye. Down below, the tidal wave of imps had progressed to the front of the stalls. Every human head was bound and gagged; a triumphant demon pranced on every shoulder.

His panicked eyes swiveled up to Farrar's box. In her seat a grinning demon sat; over its shoulder was something trussed and wriggling. He looked elsewhere—and caught a glimpse of the only magician to mount any true resistance.

Mr. Sholto Pinn, brooding in his box, had not removed his lenses for the simple reason he did not wear any. He had ignored Makepeace's injunction and kept his monocle firmly lodged in his left eye. Occasionally he removed it and polished it with his handkerchief. It was while he was so occupied that the wave of imps burst in upon the stalls; nevertheless, he returned his monocle to his eye in time to catch them in mid-flow.

He uttered an oath, caught up his walking stick, and turned to see three hulking shadows tiptoeing into his box. Without preamble, Sholto raised his stick and fired a plasm—a shadow mewled and crumbled into dust; the others darted aside, one to the ceiling, one pressed against the floor. The stick fired again: the shadow on the ceiling was caught a glancing blow; maimed and whimpering, it fell to sprawl across a chair. But even as it did so, the shadow on the floor leaped forward. It seized the old man's stick and, using it as a cudgel, bludgeoned him to the ground.

In the box opposite, Makepeace had watched this with a furrow of discontent. “It is ever thus,” he mused. “No work of art can be quite perfect—it must always have a flaw. Still, Pinn aside, I think we can consider this a job well done.”

Keeping his knife pressed against Nathaniel's throat, the playwright rose from his chair and stepped forward to better survey the scene. With agonizing caution, Nathaniel turned his head a fraction; his eyes met Kitty's. Lacking lenses, the girl had only become aware of the activity at the very end, as Pinn's plasms had burst out upon the darkness, and one by one the victorious demons became visible on the ordinary plane. Eyes wide, she glanced at Nathaniel—and at last saw Makepeace and the knife. Her face showed confusion, doubt, and disbelief. Nathaniel held her gaze—his mouth worked frantically, uttering silent pleas; his eyebrows attempted complicated supplications. If the knife could just be knocked away, just for an instant, he might leap on Makepeace, tear it from his grip.
Quick
—if she could only act now, while the madman was distracted.…

Kitty looked across at Makepeace, then back at Nathaniel once again. Her brow furrowed. Sweat ran down the side of Nathaniel's face. It was no good—she wasn't going to help him. Why should she? She held him in contempt.

Makepeace was half leaning on the balustrade, erupting into little private chuckles as he caught sight of new humiliations below. With each spasm, the knife pressed deeper into Nathaniel's neck.

Then Nathaniel saw Kitty give the slightest of nods. He saw her tense, prepare to spring. He licked his lips, readying himself….

Kitty Jones leaped forward. Instantly a bolt of green energy smashed into her, knocking her back against the balustrade, which cracked and split under the impact. Emerald fire played over her body; her limbs jerked, her hair steamed. The fire died away. Kitty slumped to the floor, her head and arm dangling out over the auditorium. Her eyes were half open, sightless.

Green flames rose smoking, steaming from Mr. Makepeace's left hand, but the other kept the knife at Nathaniel's throat. His eyes had shrunk as small as raisins; his teeth were bared. “Silly girl,” he said. He gestured with the knife; it nicked the skin on Nathaniel's chin, drew blood. “Stand up.”

Dumbly, Nathaniel stood. Around the hall the command had been repeated a hundred times. With a vast rustling, all the captives rose to their feet, blind and bound and helpless, encouraged by sundry slaps and pinches from their imps. In several cases, where the experience had been too much and the victim was unconscious, one or more demons set to work to lift the body. Up in the boxes, where the djinn worked on the greater magicians, nothing was left to chance: all were swathed in thick, black nets and wrapped like sausage meat.

Nathaniel found his voice. “You have brought ruin on us all.”

Quentin Makepeace's face split into the broadest grin. “Hardly that,John. We stand at the dawn of a new age! But the curtain has come down and I must attend to the logistics. Here is someone who will ensure you retain your common sense while we are apart.” He nodded toward the back of the box. The curtain shifted. A tall figure in a black cloak stepped through; the mercenary's presence filled the space.

“I believe you know each other well,” Mr. Makepeace said, sheathing his knife beneath his frock coat. “No doubt you will have much to discuss. I will not demean you,John, by uttering petty threats, but I do have one word of advice.” He looked back from the top of the stairs. “Do not choose to die like poor young Kitty there—I still have much to show you.”

He was gone. Nathaniel stood staring at the body on the floor. Below, in a terrible silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the twittering of demons, the British government was speedily removed.

I
t was a dangerous time in Egypt. Raiders from the south had crept up past the Cataracts and put border towns to the sword. Bedouin tribes wreaked havoc on the merchant trains negotiating the desert fringes. At sea, Barbary pirates preyed on shipping. The king's advisers urged him to seek aid from abroad, but he was old, proud, and wary, and refused.

In a belated effort to appease his enemies at court, Ptolemy put his talents at their service. This, as he was happy to admit, meant me.

“You must forgive this indignity,” he said, as we sat on the roof the night before I departed. “With due respect to Affa and Penrenutet, you, my dear Rekhyt, are the most vigorous of my servants. I feel sure you will carry out wonders on the nation's behalf. Follow the orders of the army captains, and improvise where necessary. I apologize for any hardships you may undergo, but in the long run you shall benefit too. With luck, your efforts will get my cousin's agents off my back and allow me to finish my researches.”

I was wearing the semblance of a noble desert lion, and my growl was suitably low and deep. “You know nothing of the baseness of men's hearts. Your cousin will not rest until you are dead. Spies watch our every movement: I caught two priests' imps skulking in your bathhouse this morning. I had a word. In a manner of speaking, they now serve you.”

The boy gave a nod. “That is gratifying to hear.”

The lion gave a belch. “Yes, they kindly donated their essences to strengthen mine. Don't look so shocked. In our world we are all one anyway, as I have told you.”

As usual, the merest mention of the Other Place was enough: my master's eyes sparkled with a far-off light; his face became dreamy and reflective. “Rekhyt, my friend,” he said, “you have told me much, but there is more that I wish to learn. I believe that a few more weeks' work will suffice. Affa has had some experience with the shamans of a distant land; he is advising me on their methods of departing their body. When you return—well, let us wait and see.”

The lion's tail struck rhythmically upon the stones of the roof. “You should concentrate on the dangers of
this
world. Your cousin—”

“Penrenutet will protect me while you are gone, have no fear. Now—see, they are lighting the watch fire on the tower. The fleet is massing below. You must depart.”

There followed a spate of much activity for me, during which time I had no contact with my master. I sailed with the Egyptian fleet against the pirates, and fought in a pitched battle off the Barbary Coast.
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Next I marched with troops to the Theban desert and ambushed the Bedouin, carrying off a number of hostages. During our return march we were set upon by a group of jackal-headed djinn, who were only narrowly defeated.
²

Without pause for rest, I headed south to join the main body of the king's army in search of vengeance against the hill peoples of the lower Nile. The campaigns here lasted two months, ending with the infamous Battle of the Cataracts, during which I fought twenty foliots on a lip of stone high above the frothing waters. Losses were grave, but the day was won, and peace was restored to the region.
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