Ptolemy's Gate (37 page)

“All right, fine. Well, some might have been killed, but most, I think, are alive, but gagged and tied so they can't summon anything. We all got rounded up and taken out the back of the theater, where a group of vans was waiting. Everyone got bundled in; they threw the ministers in one on top of the other, like sacks of beef. The vans left the theater and drove here. No one outside the theater is any the wiser yet. I don't know where the prisoners have been taken. They must be locked in somewhere close. That's what Makepeace is seeing to now, I think.”

Kitty's head ached. She struggled to grasp the implications. “Was it him who”—she looked down at her side—“did this to me?”

“He did. An Inferno. Close range. When you tried to”—his pale face flushed a little—“when you tried to help me. You ought to be dead; in fact, we thought you
were
dead, but just as the mercenary was taking me off, you groaned and dribbled, so he scooped you up, too.”

“The mercenary?”

“Don't ask.”

Kitty was silent for a time. “So Makepeace is taking over?”

“It seems he thinks he is.” The magician scowled. “The man's quite mad. How he plans to rule the Empire without a governing class, I can't imagine.”

Kitty gave a snort. “Your governing class wasn't doing so well, let's face it. He might be an improvement.”

“Don't be a fool!” Mandrake's face darkened. “You haven't the slightest idea what—” He controlled himself with difficulty. “I'm sorry. You're not to blame. I shouldn't have brought you to the theater in the first place.”

“True.” Kitty looked around the chamber. “But what gets me is I don't understand why either of us has been brought
here.
”

“Nor me. We've been singled out for some reason.”

Kitty regarded the man walking to and fro beside the Council table. There was an air of nervousness about him; he frequently consulted his watch and looked over toward a set of double doors. “He doesn't look that hot,” she whispered. “Can't you whip up a demon and get us out of here?”

Mandrake groaned. “All my slaves are on a mission. If I could get to a pentacle I could summon them here easily, but without one, and with my fingers tied like this, I'm stuck. I haven't got so much as an imp on tap.”

“Useless,” Kitty snapped. “Call yourself a magician.”

A scowl. “Give me time. My demons are powerful, especially Cormocodran. With luck, I'll get a chance to—”

The doors at the end of the hall burst open. The man by the table swiveled around. Kitty and Mandrake craned their heads.

A small procession walked in.

The first few persons were unknown to Kitty. A diminutive man with round, moist eyes, built like a winter twig; a dull-faced, somewhat slatternly woman; a middle-aged gentleman with pale, shiny skin and protruding lips. Behind them came a young man, slender, sprightly of step, with oiled ginger hair and glasses perched on a little nose. About these four an air of suppressed excitement seemed to hang: they tittered, grinned, and looked about them with quick, nervous movements.

The bandy-legged man beside the table hurried to join them. “At last!” he said. “Where's Quentin?”

“Here, my friends!” In through the doors strode Quentin Makepeace, emerald frock coat flapping, chest puffed out like a bantam cock's. His shoulders rolled, his arms swung with an insolent swagger. He passed his companions, clapping the ginger-haired man soundly on the back, ruffling the hair of the woman and winking at the rest. On toward the table he went, glancing up and down the room with proprietorial ease. On noticing Kitty and Mandrake sitting by the wall, he gave a plump-fingered wave.

At the Council table Makepeace selected the largest of the chairs, a golden throne, ornately carved. He sat himself, legs crossed; with a flourish, he drew from a pocket an enormous cigar. A snap of the fingers: the cigar tip burst into smoldering life. Quentin Makepeace placed it between his lips and inhaled with satisfaction.

Kitty heard Mandrake beside her give a gasp of rage. She herself saw little but the ostentatious theatricality of the performance. If she hadn't been a prisoner, she might have been amused.

Makepeace made an expansive gesture with the cigar. “Clive, Rufus—would you be so kind as to bring our friends over?”

The ginger-haired man approached, followed by his thick-lipped companion. Roughly, without ceremony, Kitty and Mandrake were hauled to their feet. Kitty noticed that both conspirators were regarding Mandrake with malevolent dislike. As she watched, the older man, lips moistly parted, stepped forward and struck their prisoner hard across the face.

The man rubbed his hand.
“That's
for what you did to Lovelace.”

Mandrake smiled thinly. “Never been slapped by a wet fish before.”

“I hear you were
looking
for me, Mandrake,” the ginger-haired man said. “Well, what are you going to do to me now?”

From the golden chair a mellifluous voice projected: “Steady, boys, steady! John is our guest. I have affection for him! Bring them over, I say.”

A grip on Kitty's shoulder; she was propelled forward to stand with Mandrake on a rug before the table.

The other conspirators had seated themselves. Their eyes were hostile. The sullen-faced woman spoke. “What are they
doing
here, Quentin? This is a crucial time.”

“You should kill Mandrake and have done,” the fish-faced magician said.

Makepeace took a puff on his cigar; his little eyes sparkled with merriment. “Rufus, you are far too hasty. You too, Bess. True, John is not yet part of our company, but I have high hopes that he might become so. We have long been allies, he and I.”

Kitty took a sharp side-glance at the young magician. One cheek was scarlet where the blow had struck. He did not reply.

“We haven't got time to play games.”This was the little man with wide, wet eyes; his voice was nasal, whiny. “We need to give ourselves the power you promised.” He looked down at the table, ran his fingers over it in a gesture at once covetous and fearful. To Kitty he seemed weak and cowardly, and angrily conscious of this cowardice. From what she could see, none of the conspirators was any different, save for Makepeace, radiating self-satisfaction from his golden throne.

The playwright tapped a dollop of ash from his cigar onto the Persian carpet. “No
games
, my dear Withers,” he said, smiling. “I can assure you I am perfectly serious. Devereaux's spies have long reported that—among commoners—John here is the most popular of the magicians. He could give our new Council a fresh, attractive face—well, certainly more attractive than any of
you.
” He grinned at the displeasure he had caused. “Besides, he has talent and ambition to spare. I have a feeling he's long desired the chance to kick Devereaux out and start again…. Isn't that right, John?”

Again Kitty looked at Mandrake. Again his pale face gave no inkling of his thoughts.

“We must give John a little time,” Quentin Makepeace said. “All will become clear to him. And you will shortly get all the power you can handle, Mr. Withers. If only the good Hopkins would hurry along, we can proceed.” He chuckled to himself—and with that noise, with that name, Kitty knew him.

It was as if a thick veil had fallen from her eyes. She was back in the Resistance again, three years before. On the advice of the mousy clerk, Clem Hopkins, she had gone to a rendezvous in a disused theater. And once there … a dagger held to the back of her neck, a whispered conversation with an unseen man—whose words of guidance led them to the abbey and to the dreadful guardian of the crypt….

“You!” she cried out.
“You!”

All eyes turned to her. She stood stock-still, staring at the man on the golden throne.

“You
were the benefactor,” she whispered. “You were the one who betrayed us.”

Mr. Makepeace winked at her. “Ah! You recognize me at last? I
wondered
if you'd ever recall.… Of course,
I
knew you as soon as I saw you with Mandrake. That's why it amused me to invite you to my little show tonight.”

At Kitty's side John Mandrake stirred at last. “What's this? You've met before?”

“Don't look so shocked, John! It was all in a good cause. Through my associate Mr. Hopkins—whom you will meet shortly; he is currently tending to our captives—I had long followed the activities of the Resistance. It amused me to watch their efforts, to see the outrage on the faces of the fools in Council as they failed to track them down. Present company excepted, John!” Another chuckle.

Kitty's voice was expressionless. “You knew about the monster in Gladstone's tomb, but you and Hopkins still sent us there to get the Staff. My friends
died
because of you.” She took a small step in his direction.

“Oh
tush
.” Quentin Makepeace rolled his eyes. “You were traitorous commoners. I was a magician. Did you expect me to
care
? And don't come any closer, young lady. Next time I won't bother with a spell. I'll cut your throat.” He smiled. “In truth, though, I was on
your
side. I hoped you would destroy the demon. Then I'd have taken the Staff from you for my own use. In fact”—he tapped his cigar, refolded his legs, and looked around at his audience—“in fact the outcome was mixed: you ran off with the Staff, and let Honorius the afrit escape the tomb.
What
an impact Honorius made! Gladstone's bones, hopping around the rooftops with a demon encased inside! A marvelous spectacle. But it set Hopkins and me thinking …”

“Tell me, Quentin.” Mandrake spoke again; his voice was soft. “This Mr. Hopkins was supposed to have been involved with the golem too. Was it so?”

Makepeace smiled, and paused a while before answering. He's
performing
the whole time, Kitty thought. He's an incorrigible show-off, treating this like one of his plays.

“Of course!” Makepeace cried. “Under my direction! I have my fingers in many pies. I am an
artist,
John, a man of restless creativity. For years the Empire has been going to rack and ruin; Devereaux and the others have mismanaged it disgracefully. Did you know that several of my plays have actually had to close in Boston, Calcutta, and Baghdad, thanks to local poverty, unrest, and violence? And this endless war! … Things have got to change! Well, for years I have watched on the sidelines, experimenting here and there. First, I encouraged my good friend Lovelace in his attempt at rebellion. Remember that decidedly
large
pentacle, John? That was my idea!” He chuckled. “Then came poor Duvall. He wanted power, but he hadn't a creative bone in his body. All he could do was follow advice. Through Hopkins I encouraged him to use the golem to spread unrest. And while the government was distracted”—he beamed at Kitty once again—“I nearly acquired the Staff. Which, by the way, I fully intend to take into my possession this very night.”

To Kitty, most of this meant nothing; she gazed at the hateful little man in the great gold chair, almost quivering with fury. She saw, as if from far off, the faces of her dead companions—with every word, Makepeace defiled their memory. She could not have spoken.

By contrast, John Mandrake seemed to be becoming almost talkative. “This is all very interesting, Quentin,” he said. “The Staff will certainly be useful. But how will the government be run? You have emptied all the departments. That is bound to cause problems, even with such titanic figures as these in your team.” He smiled around at the sullen conspirators.

Makepeace made an easy gesture. “Some of the prisoners will be freed in due course, once they have sworn loyalty.”

“And the others?”

“Will be executed.”

Mandrake shrugged. “It seems a risky prospect for you, even with the Staff.”

“Not so!” For the first time Makepeace seemed annoyed. He rose from his chair, tossed the remnants of the cigar aside. “We are about to augment our power with the first creative act in two thousand years of magic. In fact, here is the very man who will show you. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—Mr. Clem Hopkins!”

A meek and diffident figure stepped into the room. Three years had passed since Kitty had last set eyes on him, sitting at a cafe table in the pleasant summer air. She had been little more than a girl; she'd drunk a milk shake and eaten an iced bun while he'd asked her questions about the stolen Staff. Then, when she'd failed to supply the information he required, Mr. Hopkins had gently betrayed her once again—sending her to the house where Mandrake waited to entrap her.

So it had been. As the years had passed, and the scholar's features had faded from her memory, his shadow had grown inside her, spread like a contagion at the back of her mind. He sometimes taunted her within her dreams.

And now here he was, stepping quietly across the rugs of the Hall of Statues, a little smile on his face. His appearance seemed to awake a great excitement in the conspirators; there was a stirring of anticipation. Mr. Hopkins came to stand beside the table, directly opposite Kitty. He looked at Mandrake first, then at Kitty. His pale gray eyes surveyed her, his face expressionless.

“You traitor,” Kitty growled. Mr. Hopkins frowned a little as if in some perplexity. He showed not the slightest hint of recognition.

“Now then, Clem”—Makepeace clapped him on the back—“do not be put off by the presence of young Kitty here. It is just my little joke to remind you of your Resistance days. Don't let her get close, mind. She is quite the little vixen! How are the prisoners?”

The scholar nodded eagerly. “Quite safe, sir. They cannot go anywhere.”

“And what about outside? Is all quiet?”

“There is still unrest in the central parks. The police go about their business. No one knows we have left the theater.”