Ptolemy's Gate (18 page)

12

N
ight had fallen upon the Prime Minister's mansion at Richmond. Upon the western lawns a number of tall columns had been built; from their tops burned colored imp-fires, illuminating the scene with weird radiance. Servants in the vibrant garb of firebirds and salamanders drifted here and there, offering refreshment. From the black wall of trees beyond the lake, invisible musicians played a sweet pavane; the sounds carried gently above the voices of the guests.

The great ones of the Empire meandered about the garden, talking quietly, listlessly, looking at their watches. They wore formal gowns and dress suits; their features were concealed behind ornate masks depicting animals, birds, and demons. Such parties were among Mr. Devereaux's many extravagances, and had become quite common during the period of the war.

John Mandrake leaned against a pillar, watching the guests drift by. His mask was made of flakes of moonstone, sewn cleverly together to resemble an albino lizard's head. Doubtless it was skillful, an object of wonder, but it still didn't fit. He found it difficult to see and had twice stepped into the flower beds. He sighed. No word yet from Bartimaeus … He would have expected
something
by now.

A small group passed him, a peacock surrounded by two attentive she-lynxes and a fawning dryad. In the peacock's paunch and self-important strut he recognized Mr. Collins; the women were probably lower magicians from his department, eager for advancement. Mandrake scowled. Collins and the rest had not been slow to criticize him when he'd brought up the Staff in Council. He'd spent the rest of the meeting enduring a dozen sly insinuations, as well as Devereaux's frosty glances. No question about it, his proposal had been ill advised, a foolish blunder for a politician.

To hell with politics! Its conventions smothered him—he felt like a fly caught up in a choking web. His whole
life
was spent appeasing Devereaux, fighting off his rivals. An utter waste of time.
Someone
was needed to steady the Empire before it was too late.
Someone
had to defy the others, and use the Staff.

Before he'd left Whitehall, Mandrake had descended to the vaults below the Hall of Statues. He had not been there for years; now, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, he was surprised to see a line of red tiles embedded in the floor at the far end of the chamber. A portly clerk, who had leaped up from a desk, approached.

Mandrake nodded to him. “I wish to inspect the treasure vaults, if possible.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mandrake. Would you follow me?”

They crossed the chamber. Beside the red tiles the clerk halted. “At this juncture, sir, I must ask you to remove any magical objects about your person, and to dismiss any invisible presence. The line marks a boundary. Beyond the tiles nothing magical is permitted, not even a Charm. The merest trace will invoke a terrible sanction.”

Mandrake scanned the dim, bare corridor ahead. “Really? Of what kind?”

“I am not permitted to say, sir. You have nothing eerie to declare? Then we can proceed.”

They entered a maze of blank stone passages, more ancient than the Parliament buildings above. Here and there were wooden doors, dark openings. Electric bulbs lit the central corridor. Mandrake looked hard, but saw no clue to the hidden trap. The clerk looked only straight ahead; as he walked, he hummed quietly to himself.

At length they arrived at a great steel door. The clerk pointed. “The Room of Treasures.”

“May we go in?”

“That would not be advisable, sir. There is a viewing grille, if you desire.”

Mandrake stepped forward, flipped back a tiny hatch in the center of the door. He squinted through. Beyond was a brightly lit room of considerable size. Far off, in its center, stood a plinth of pink-white marble. On the plinth, in open view, were the most precious treasures of the government—a little pile of ornaments, glinting with a dozen colors. Mandrake's eyes instantly picked out the long wooden Staff, rough and unadorned, with a plainly carved knobble at its head. Beside it he glimpsed a short gold necklace, with a small gold oval suspended from it; in the center of that oval came the deep, dark flash of jade.

Gladstone's Staff and the Amulet of Samarkand … Mandrake felt the sharp internal pain of dispossession. He scanned the first three planes: there was no evidence of hexes, wires, webs, or other guards. Even so, the tiles around the plinth were an odd green color; they had an unhealthy look.

He stepped from the grille. “What guards the room, if I am permitted to be told?”

“A Pestilence, sir. A particularly voracious one. Would strip you to the bone in seconds, sir, should you decide to enter unadvisedly.”

Mandrake looked at the clerk. “Quite. Very well. Let's go.”

*  *  *

A gust of laughter drifted from the house. Mandrake stared down at the blue cocktail in his glass. If his visit to the vaults had proved one thing, it was that Devereaux fully intended to cling to power. The Staff was out of reach. Not that he actually intended to … well, he didn't know
what
he intended. A sour mood was on him; the party and all its fripperies left him cold. He lifted the glass and gulped the liquid down. He tried to remember when he had last been happy.

“John, you old lizard! I see you skulking on that wall!” Across the lawns came a short, round gentleman, splendidly attired in turquoise evening dress. His mask depicted a ferociously laughing imp. On his arm was a tall, slender youth wearing a mask like a dying swan. The youth giggled uncontrollably.

“John, John,” the imp said. “Are you or are you not having the devil of a time?” He slapped Mandrake playfully on the shoulder. The youth guffawed.

“Hello, Quentin,” Mandrake murmured. “Having fun?”

“Almost as much as dear Rupert.” The imp pointed toward the house, where a capering figure with a bull's head was illuminated against the windows. “It
does
take his mind off things, you know. Poor dear.”

Mandrake adjusted his lizard mask. “And who is this young gentleman?”

“This,” the imp said, hugging the swan's head to him, “is young Bobby Watts, star of my next extravaganza! A boy of meteoric talent! Do not forget, do not forget”—the imp seemed a little unsteady on his feet—“that the premiere of
From Wapping to Westminster
is almost upon us. I am reminding everyone. Two days, Mandrake, two days! It is guaranteed to change the lives of all who see it! Eh, Bobby?” He pushed the youth away from him roughly. “Now, go and get us another drink! I have something to say to my scaly friend here.”

The swan's head departed, stumbling across the grass. Mandrake watched him silently.

“Now, John.” The imp drew close. “I've been sending you messages for
days.
I believe you've been ignoring me. I want you to come visit me. Tomorrow. You won't forget, will you? It's important.”

Beneath his mask Mandrake wrinkled his nose at the smell of drink wafting from the other man. “I'm sorry, Quentin. Council dragged on and on. I couldn't get away. Tomorrow it shall be.”

“Good, good. You always were the brightest one, Mandrake. Keep it that way. Good evening, Sholto! I believe I recognize you in there!” A hulking figure with the incongruous mask of a baby lamb was passing; the imp detached itself from Mandrake, playfully jabbed the newcomer in the belly with a finger, and waltzed away.

The lizard and the lamb regarded each other.

“That Quentin Makepeace,” the lamb said in deep, heartfelt tones. “I do not like him. He is impudent, and I believe mentally unsound.”

“He has high spirits, certainly.” Privately Mandrake shared the sentiments. “Well, well. I have not seen you for some time, Sholto.”

“No indeed. I have been in Asia.” The big man sighed, leaned heavily upon his stick. “I am reduced to scouting for my own goods now. Times are hard.”

Mandrake nodded. The fortunes of Sholto Pinn had never fully recovered after the destruction of his flagship store during the golem's reign of terror. Although he had laboriously rebuilt his shop, his finances became parlous. This coincided with the war and the disruption of trade; fewer artifacts were finding their way to London, and fewer magicians were willing to buy them. Like many in the last few years, Pinn had aged noticeably. His massive frame seemed slightly shrunken; his white suit hung listlessly about his shoulders. Mandrake felt a certain pity for him.

“What news from Asia?” he asked. “How goes the Empire?”

“These
foolish
costumes—I swear they have given me the most ridiculous one of all.” Pinn lifted the lamb's mask and dabbed a handkerchief at his sweating face. “The Empire, Mandrake, is floundering. There is talk of rebellion in India. Hill-magicians from the north are busily summoning demons for the attack, or so word has it. Our garrisons in Delhi have asked our Japanese allies for assistance defending the town. Imagine that! I fear for us, I really do.” The old man sighed, replaced his mask. “How do I look, Mandrake? Like a sprightly lamb?”

Inside his mask Mandrake grinned. “I
have
seen nimbler.”

“I guessed as much. Well, if I'm to make an idiot of myself, I'll do it on a full belly. You, girl!” He raised his stick in an ironic salute and departed in the direction of a serving maid. Mandrake watched him go, his momentary good humor evaporating rapidly on the chill night air. He looked up at the blank night sky.

Sitting in a garden long ago, a pencil in his hand.

He tossed his glass behind the column and set off in the direction of the house.

*  *  *

In the hallway of the mansion, a little apart from the nearest knot of revelers, Mandrake saw Jane Farrar. Her mask—a bird-of-paradise with slender apricot plumes—dangled from her wrist. She was stepping into her traveling coat, held out for her by an impassive servant. At Mandrake's approach he drifted away.

“Going so soon?”

“Yes. I'm tired. And if Quentin Makepeace buttonholes me about that wretched play of his once more, I shall strike him.” She pouted prettily.

Mandrake came close. “I'll escort you back, if you like. I'm just about finished here too.” With a careless motion, he removed his mask.

She smiled. “I have three djinn and five foliots to escort me, should I require them. What can you offer me that they cannot?”

The melancholy detachment that had been growing in Mandrake all evening now ignited into sudden recklessness. He cared nothing for implications or consequences; Jane Farrar's proximity emboldened him. He lightly touched her hand. “Let us take my car back to London. I will address your question as we go.”

She laughed. “It is a long journey, Mr. Mandrake.”

“Perhaps I have many answers.”

Jane Farrar slipped her arm through his; together they progressed along the hall. Several pairs of eyes watched them as they went.

The mansion's vestibule was unoccupied, save for two menservants standing ready at the door. A log fire crackled beneath a wall of stags' heads and faded coats of arms, stolen long ago from foreign hearths. A great stained-glass window on the opposite wall depicted in flat perspective the buildings of central London: the abbey, the palace of Westminster, the main government offices standing beside the Thames. The streets were filled with adoring crowds; at the center of the palace courtyard sat the radiant figure of the Prime Minister, hands raised in a gesture of benediction. The glass glinted dully in the hall lights; behind rose the dark slab of night.

Below the window sat a low green couch, laden with silken cushions.

Mandrake stopped. “It is warm here. Wait while I find my chauffeur.”

Jane did not disengage her arm, but looked toward the couch. “Or we could
both
stay here a while …”

“True.”

He turned to face her, his body tingling. She gave a little shudder.

“Did you feel that too?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said softly, “but don't talk.”

She pushed him away. “It was our sensor webs, you fool. Something's triggered them.”

“Oh. Yes.” They stood listening to the wood snapping in the fire, to the noise of muted revelry from the garden beyond the passage. Distantly above it all came a high, shrill whine.

“That's Devereaux's nexus alarm,” Mandrake said. “Something's broken into the gardens from outside.”

She frowned. “His demons will intercept it.”

“Sounds like they're attacking the intruder …” From somewhere beyond the stained-glass window strange cries echoed in inhuman throats, together with great noises, like rolls of thunder rebounding off distant mountains. The two magicians stood quite still. Faintly they heard shouting in the garden.

The sounds grew in volume. A man with dark glasses and a dinner jacket ran past, muttering an incantation as he did so. Dark orange plasms flared in his cupped hand; with his other hand he flung open the main door and disappeared outside.

Mandrake made as if to follow. “We should go and see—”

“Wait, John!” Jane Farrar's eyes were fixed upward, on the window. “It's coming this way.…”

He looked up, transfixed, at the panes of glass, which were suddenly illuminated into brief glories of varied color by a flash of light beyond. The noises escalated further. Now it was as if a hurricane bore down upon them—a screaming, whistling blast of madness and ferocity. Louder and louder it grew. They shrank back. Explosions sounded, and hideous yells. Another flash: and for an instant they saw outlined the silhouette of a giant, monstrous shape, all tentacles, wings, and scything claws, hurling itself toward the window.

Mandrake gasped. Farrar screamed. They fell back, pawing at each other.

A flash: the black shape filled the window. It collided with the glass—

Plink!
A small pane in the middle of the window, the one depicting the Prime Minister, burst into a thousand pieces. Through it came a tiny object, flashing emerald in the hall light, arcing through the air. It fell on the tiles before them with a soft, sad sound, bounced once limply and lay still.