Ptolemy's Gate (34 page)

“Good. How long's it taken?”

“Twelve minutes, sir. I had to come the long way around. The center of town's still barricaded off. There are demonstrations in the parks. A lot of police activity.”

“Well, with luck we'll miss the beginning of the performance.”

Kitty Jones spoke for the first time on the journey. As before, he was impressed by her poise. “So what
is
this play I must endure?”

Nathaniel sighed. “A Makepeace premiere.”

“Not the one who did
Swans of Araby
?”

“I'm afraid so. The Prime Minister is a fan, therefore every magician in the government, from Council down to third secretary, must attend the show on pain of his absolute displeasure. It is of the first importance.”

She scowled. “What, with a war going on, and people rioting in the street?”

“Even so. I have vital work of my own tonight, but I must put it aside until the curtain falls. I just hope it's got a lot of intervals.” He felt the shape of his scrying glass inside his coat—between acts, he would check on the progress of his djinn.

They entered Shaftesbury Avenue—a cluttered curve of restaurants, bars, and theaters, many recently rebuilt in finest concrete under the government's slum clearance measures. Glowing neon lights, a new invention from Japan, spelled out the names of each establishment in pinks, yellows, mauve, vermilion; throngs of lesser magicians and high-caste commoners milled upon the streets, accompanied by watchful Night Police. Nathaniel looked for evidence of social disorder, but the crowds seemed calm.

The limousine slowed, pulled into a roped-off area beneath a golden awning. Police and black-coated Security magicians stood behind the barricades; a few photographers knelt below them, cameras set on tripods. The front of the theater was a blaze of light; a smart red carpet ran between the street and its open doors.

A short, round gentleman stood upon the carpet, hands frantically waving. As the car drew to a halt, Quentin Makepeace bobbed forward and thrust open the nearest side door.

“Mandrake! At last you're here! We haven't a moment to lose.”

“I'm sorry, Quentin. Trouble on the streets …” Since witnessing the playwright's unsavory experiment with the commoner, Nathaniel regarded him with extreme dislike. The man was a pestilence and needed to be removed. All in good time.

“I know, I know. Come on, out with you! In three minutes I must be on stage! The hall doors are shut, but I have space for you in my personal box. Yes, yes—your girlfriend too. She is far prettier than you or I; we can bask in her radiance! Come on, chop-chop! Two minutes and counting!”

With a series of prods, tugs, and encouraging gestures, Mr. Makepeace ushered Nathaniel and Kitty out of the car, along the carpet and through the theater doors. The harsh light of the foyer made them blink; they fended off bowing attendants, proffered cushions, trays of sparkling wine. The walls were covered with posters advertising the play: most featured Quentin Makepeace, grinning, winking or looking profound from a variety of angles. The man himself stopped at a narrow staircase.

“Up there! My private box. I will join you presently. Wish me luck!” Then he was gone, a diminutive whirlwind of oiled hair, gleaming teeth, bright and sparkling eyes.

Nathaniel and Kitty ascended the stairs. At the top was a drawn curtain. They pushed it aside and ducked through into a small enclosure hung with satin drapes. Three ornamental chairs faced a low balustrade; beyond and below lay the stage—half concealed behind thick curtains—the orchestra pit and a sea of stalls, filled with minutely moving heads. The lights had been turned low; the crowd murmured like the wind in a forest; in the depths the orchestra emitted discordant sounds.

They sat, Kitty in the farthest chair, Nathaniel beside her. He leaned over, whispered in her ear. “This is quite an honor for you, Ms. Jones. You are without doubt the only commoner present. See in that box opposite? That fellow leaning forward with the uncouth eagerness of a schoolboy? That is our Prime Minister. Beside him sits Mr. Mortensen, the beloved War Minister. The one with the paunch is Collins, of the Home Office. In the box below, with a scowl upon his face, sits Sholto Pinn, the famous retailer. To the left, yawning like a cat, is Whitwell, of Security. Ms. Farrar, of the Police, is in the box beyond—”

He broke off—as if sensing his scrutiny, Jane Farrar had glanced at him across the great dark gulf. Nathaniel gave her an ironic salute, a little wave. His feeling of reckless excitement had grown with the passing minutes—if all went well, Ascobol and the others would soon have Hopkins under guard. He would see how dear Ms. Farrar handled
that
tomorrow. With a certain ostentation, he bent his head close to Kitty Jones's again. “What a pity your Resistance is no longer active,” he whispered. “A well-directed bomb here would decapitate the government.”

It was true. The stalls below were filled with all the secondary ministers, their wives, their assistants, deputies, and special advisers. He saw the obsessive craning of heads as each person compared their position with those of their rivals; he saw the flash of binoculars, heard the rustling of sweetmeat wrappers, sensed the excitement radiating from the crowd. On the second and third planes a number of small imps were visible hopping and jigging upon the shoulders of their masters, busily inflating their chests and biceps to improbable sizes and exchanging insults with their neighbors.

The noises from the orchestra dwindled. A violin shrieked once; all was still.

Lights faded in the auditorium. A spotlight illuminated the curtains at the center of the stage.

Silence.

A drumroll; an ecstatic fanfare from the trumpet section. The curtain twitched and was flung aside.

Out strode Makepeace, resplendent in a frock coat of crushed green velvet. He spread his arms like a mother to her babes and welcomed the audience's applause. Two bows to the balconies, one to the stalls. He raised his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind, too kind. Please!” The cheering died away. “Thank you. Before the show begins, a special announcement. It is a privilege—nay, an honor!—to present my latest little trifle to such a distinguished audience. I see we have a full complement of the great, led by our wonderful arbiter of good taste, Mr. Rupert Devereaux.” A judicious pause for enthusiastic cheering. “Quite so. And it is because of the affection that we all feel for dear Rupert that I have penned
From Wapping to Westminster
, a small diversion based on his inspiring life. As you will see from the program notes, only the scene in the nuns' dormitory is fictitious; the rest of the marvels, sensations, wonderments, and prodigies are firmly based on fact. I hope you are educated and entertained!” A brief bow, a broad smile. “As usual with my productions, may I request that no flash photography takes place. It can put off the performers. In addition, several of the special effects used onstage tonight are magical in origin, created by a crew of willing demons. These illusions will be most satisfactory if you watch without your lenses in. There is nothing more likely to ruin the enjoyment of a wedding scene than seeing a couple of round-bottomed imps emitting the fireworks in the background.” Laughter. “Thank you. Can I also request that all personal demons are dismissed for the duration of the show lest they prove distracting. Enjoy the evening. May it be one you never forget!”

A step backward; a swish of the curtain. The spotlight went out. All across the auditorium came a faint rustling and popping—the sounds of lens cases being removed from bags and jacket pockets, opened, filled, shut fast again. The magicians uttered terse commands: their imps shimmered, dwindled, and vanished.

As he removed his lenses, Nathaniel glanced at Kitty Jones, who sat impassively watching the stage. She didn't
seem
likely to try anything foolish; nevertheless, he knew he was taking a risk. Fritang had been dismissed and all his other active demons were off pursuing Hopkins. He had no servants readily at hand. What if she reverted to her former type?

A roll of drums, a rush of violins in the darkness below. Horns blared in the distance: a militaristic fanfare, which swiftly became a jaunty music-hall theme. The curtains swept aside, revealing a beautifully painted depiction of a London street scene forty years before. Tall town houses, market stalls, a flat blue sky behind, Nelson's Column in the background, fluffy pigeons on strings flying to and fro. A procession of barrow boys wheeled carts on stage from either side; as they met in the middle they exchanged loud Cockney pleasantries and began slapping their thighs to the music-hall beat. With a sinking heart, Nathaniel knew that the first song was already upon them. He sat back in his chair, thinking despairingly of the scrying glass in his pocket. Perhaps he could just slip off and check what was going on—

“Not a bad beginning, eh, John?” As if he had sprung up from a hidden trapdoor, Mr. Makepeace was at his side, settling into his seat, wiping perspiration from his forehead. “A nice little number. Sets the scene admirably.” He chuckled. “Already Mr. Devereaux is transfixed. See how he laughs and claps his hands together!”

Nathaniel peered into the darkness. “You have better eyesight than I. I cannot make him out.”

“That is because you have taken out your lenses, like a good obedient boy. Put them back in again and see.”

“But—”

“Put them back in again, my boy. Here in my box different rules apply. You're exempt from the general direction.”

“But what about the illusions?”

“Oh, you'll see enough to keep you entertained. Trust me.” A hearty chuckle.

The man was a capricious fool! With a mixture of annoyance and bemusement, Nathaniel returned his lenses to his eyes. By viewing the second and third planes, he was instantly able to reduce the darkness in the auditorium and make out the magicians on the far side. As Makepeace had said, Devereaux was craning forward, eyes riveted on the stage; his head nodded to the music. The other ministers, in various attitudes of dejection and dismay, had given themselves up to the inevitable.

On stage the Cockney barrow boys skipped off, leaving the way clear for the appearance of the young Prime Minister-to-be. The pale thin youth that Nathaniel had met at Richmond now dawdled from the wings. He wore a school blazer, shirt and tie, and a pair of short trousers from which his hairy legs plunged a disconcerting distance. His cheeks had been heavily rouged to give him the appearance of childish vigor, but his movements were oddly listless. He flopped to a standstill beside a cardboard postbox and began a quavering oration. In the darkness at Nathaniel's side Makepeace gave a cluck of dissatisfaction.

“Bobby has proved
such
a trial,” he breathed. “During rehearsals he developed a most dreary cough, and became quite wan. It is my belief he is consumptive. I had to give him a mighty slug of brandy just to get him on.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Do you think he has enough energy to last the night?”

“I think so. It is not a long production. Tell me, how does Ms. Jones enjoy the show?”

In the secrecy of the half-dark Nathaniel's eyes flitted toward the girl sitting beside him. He made out her elegant profile, the pleasant gleam of her hair, her face contorted into a grimace of fathomless boredom. Despite himself, the expression made him grin. He—

The grin froze, and faded. After a pause he leaned back toward Makepeace. “Tell me, Quentin,” he said. “How
exactly
did you know this lady was Ms. Jones?”

He looked; Makepeace's small eyes gleamed in the darkness. A whisper: “I know
many
things, my boy. But hush! Hush now! We are coming to the climax of the performance!”

Nathaniel started, frowned. “
Already?
This is admirab—remarkably short.”

“I had to bring it forward, thanks to Bobby's indisposition. He would have murdered the main soliloquy; not enough breath. But—silence now. Are your lenses in? Good. Then watch.”

Nathaniel's eyes returned to the stage, where he found nothing to excite him. The orchestra had struck up again. Propped against the postbox, the youth attempted a solo, his nasal whine periodically interrupted by hacking coughs. Other than him, the stage was bare; one or two of the house fronts wobbled in a breeze from somewhere in the wings. Mandrake looked in vain for some evidence of a climactic magical illusion. Nothing—on second
or
third planes. What did Makepeace mean?

A ripple of movement caught his eye on the second plane—not from the stage, but from far off at the very back of the theater, down behind the farthest stall. At the same instant Makepeace nudged him with an elbow, pointed. Nathaniel looked, and looked again, his eyes wide in stupefaction. In the darkest shadows he could just make out three exit doors leading to the lobby, and through these doors came creeping a multitude of tiny demons. Most were imps (though one or two—slightly larger, with more ostentatious crests or plumage—were possibly types of foliot), but all were small and all were silent. Their feet and hooves, claws and stumps, tentacles and sucker-tips passed across the theater carpet without a sound, their eyes and teeth glittering like glass. Their clever hands held loops of rope and cloth; their owners hopped and sprang, skittered and dodged, darted forth with eager speed toward the back row of the stalls. The leaders leaped onto the seats and without delay fell upon the persons sitting there—two or three imps to each. Rags were stuffed in mouths, hands seized and bound together with rope; heads were wrenched back, blindfolds applied; in seconds the magicians of that row were captives. Meanwhile the tide of imps surged on, leaping across to the row in front, and to the next; and still through the doors replacements came in an endless stream. So sudden was the onslaught that most of the audience was secured without a noise: a few managed the briefest squeals, only to be drowned out by the thrumming violins, the swell and sob of the clarinets and cellos. On across the stalls the demons swept in a thin black wave, horns flashing, eyes blazing; while ahead of them the magicians stared fixedly at the stage.