Ptolemy's Gate (14 page)

No time to waste. The sparrow dropped like a stone to the pavement and crept, unnoticed by the hurrying throng, to the open door. In the act of passing through, I gritted my teeth and changed: the sparrow became a fly, a bluebottle with a furry rump. The flash of pain from the alteration made my flight pattern erratic; I lost track of where I was, meandered for a moment through the smoky air and landed, with a soft plop, in the wineglass of a lady who was just setting it to her lips.

She looked down, sensing movement, and saw me floating on my back an inch below her nose. I waved a hairy leg; she emitted a scream like a baboon and dashed the glass away. Wine spattered into the face of a man standing at the bar; he careered back in shock, knocking two other ladies from their stools. Cries, yells, much flailing of limbs. All around was tumult. Soused with wine, the bluebottle landed on the surface of the bar, bumped, skidded, righted itself, and hid behind a bowl of peanuts.

Well, if I hadn't been
quite
as unobtrusive as I'd wished, there was at least enough distraction for me to make a quick survey of the room. I wiped a couple of eye-facets clean and did a quickstep off the bar and up a nearby pillar, sashaying between the crisps and bags of pork scratchings. From a vantage point aloft I looked about.

There, standing in the center of the room, talking avidly with two others, was Jenkins.

The fly flitted closer among the shadows, checking the planes. None of the men had active magical defenses, though the stench of incense clung to their clothes and their skin had the pallor of the typical working magician. They were a shabby trio to be sure—like Jenkins, the others wore suits too big and too good for them; their shoes were pointed, their shoulder pads a little high. All three were in their twenties, or so I judged. Apprentices, secretaries: none gave off the aura of power. But they spoke avidly; their eyes glittered in the dusk of the Cheddar Cheese with fanatics' fervor.

Upside down on the ceiling, the fly craned its head to listen to their words. No luck—the squawking at the bar blocked out the sound. I dropped into midair, circled stealthily down toward them, cursing the lack of walls nearby. Jenkins was speaking; I flitted nearer, close enough now to smell the lacquer on his scalp, see the pores in his little red nose.

“… thing is to make sure you're ready for the night. Have you both chosen yours?”

“Burke has. I've not.” It was the weediest of the trio who spoke: rheumy of eye, concave of chest—compared to him, Jenkins looked like Atlas.
³
The third man, Burke, was scarcely better, a bandy-legged individual, shoulders flecked with scurf.

Jenkins grunted. “Get on with it then. Try using Trismegistus or Porter—they've both got a lot of choice.”

The weedy fellow let out a melancholy bleat. “It's not
choice
that's the problem, Jenkins. It's just—how powerful should I go for? I wouldn't want—”

“Not
scared
, are you, Withers?” Jenkins's smile was scathing, hostile. “Palmer was scared; and you know what happened to
him.
It's not too late to find someone else.”

“No, no, no.” Withers was aflurry with reassurance. “I'll be ready. I'll be ready. Whenever you want.”

“Are there many of us?” Burke asked. If Withers bleated like a sheep, Burke's voice was more bovine, that of a ruminative dullard.

“No,” Jenkins said. “You know not. Just seven in total. One for each chair.”

Burke gave a low hiccupping laugh. Withers sniggered in a higher key. The idea seemed to entertain them.

Withers's caution resurfaced. “And you're sure we're safe till then?”

“Devereaux's distracted with the war, Farrar and Mandrake with the restless commoners. Far too much going on for anyone to take any notice of
us
.” Jenkins's eyes gleamed. “Who, after all, has
ever
taken any notice of us?” He paused to allow a bit of mutual glowering, then popped his hat back on his head. “Right, I have to go,” he said. “I've a few more visits to make. Don't forget the imps, either.”

“But the experiment”—Burke had leaned in close—“Withers had a point. We'll need to see
proof
that it's been successful, before we … you understand?”

Jenkins laughed. “You'll
get
that proof. Hopkins himself will show you there are no side effects. But I assure you it's most impressive. For a start—”

Whup.
With that unusual sound, my eavesdropping came to an abrupt halt. One moment I was buzzing discreetly by Jenkins's ear, the next a rolled-up newspaper descended like a thunderbolt from the skies and walloped me from behind. It was a treacherous attack.
⁴
I was knocked plumb out of the air and onto the floor, head reeling, six legs akimbo. Jenkins and company looked down at me in vague surprise. My assailant, a brawny bartender, flourished the paper cheerfully at them.

“Got it,” he smiled. “Buzzing right by your ear, sir. Horrible big 'un too, very out of season.”

“Yes,” said Jenkins. “Isn't it?” His eyes narrowed, no doubt studying me through his lenses, but I was a fly on planes one to four, so it told him nothing. He moved suddenly, stretching out a foot to crush me. With perhaps more nimbleness than a wounded fly
ought
to have, I dodged and drifted off unsteadily toward the nearest window.

Out in the street I kept the pub door in view, while inspecting my tender essence. It's a sorry state of affairs when a djinni who___________
⁵
is laid low by a rolled-up piece of paper, but that was the sad fact of the matter. All this changing and being batted about was not doing me any good.
Mandrake …
It was Mandrake's doing. He'd
pay
for this, first chance I got.
⁶

I was worried that Jenkins might have suspected I was no ordinary insect, and have taken evasive steps, but to my relief he appeared at the door a few minutes later and set off back up Whitehall. I knew the fly guise would no longer wash with him, so—groaning with the pain—I became a sparrow once more, and set off in pursuit.

As dusk settled on the city, the magician Jenkins made his way, on foot, along the lanes of central London. He had three further assignations. The first was in a hostelry not far from Trafalgar Square. I didn't attempt to enter this time, but watched him through a window, speaking to a narrow-eyed woman in dowdy dress. Next he crossed Covent Garden up to Holborn, where he entered a small coffee shop. Again I deemed it sensible to keep my distance, but I got a clear view of the person he spoke to, a middle-aged man with an oddly fishlike face. His lips looked as if they'd been loaned him by a cod. Like my essence, my memory was full of holes; even so, something about him was a bit familiar…. No—I gave up. I couldn't place him.

It was a curious business all round. From what I'd overheard, some kind of plot was certainly on the boil. But these people seemed oddly unsuited for dangerous machinations. None of them was powerful or dynamic. In fact, the reverse was true. If you'd lined every magician in London up against a playground wall and picked sides for soccer, they'd have been the ones left standing at the end, next to the fat kid and the one with the plaster cast. Their general rubbishness was evidently part of a pattern, but I couldn't for the life of me tell what it was.

We came at last to a dilapidated cafe in Clerkenwell and here, for the first time, I noticed a slight alteration in Jenkins. Hitherto he had been breezy, abrupt, casual in his dealings; now, before entering, he paused as if to steady himself. He slicked back his hair, adjusted his tie, and went so far as to inspect the pimple on his chin with a small mirror he had in his pocket. Then he entered the cafe.

Now
this
was interesting. He wasn't talking to equals or inferiors any more. Perhaps the mysterious Mr. Hopkins himself waited inside. I needed to find out.

Which meant I had to gird my diminutive sparrow's loins and make another change.

The cafe door was shut, the windows likewise. A small gap beneath the door let out a slit of yellow light. With a groan of despair, I shifted and became a wisp of coiling smoke, which issued its weary way through the crack.

A warm fug of coffee, cigarettes, and frying bacon. The smoke's tip peeped under the door, reared up, and looked left and right. Everything was a little blurred—following my transformation my eyes were misting worse than ever—but I could make out Jenkins settling himself at a distant table. A dark shape sat there too.

The smoke slithered across the room, keeping low against the floor, winding cautiously around chair legs and the shoes of customers. An uneasy thought occurred to me; halting beneath a table, I sent forth a Pulse to search for hostile magic.
⁷
While waiting, I looked toward Jenkins's companion, but his back was to me: I could see no details.

The Pulse returned—virulent orange, streaked with red. Grimly I watched it fade. So there
was
magic here, and it wasn't weak.

What should I do? Leaving the cafe in a funk wouldn't help me learn Jenkins's plans, which was the only way I could secure my dismissal. Besides, if the dark figure
was
Hopkins, I could then trail him, return to Mandrake, and be free by dawn. All in all—whatever the risks—I had to stay.

Well, Prague's walls weren't built without danger or effort.
⁸
With a couple of silent undulations, the coil of smoke drifted between tables, closer and closer to where Jenkins sat. At the penultimate table I gathered my energies in the overhang of the plastic cloth, then peered tentatively out.

I could see the dark figure more clearly now, though he still faced away from me. He wore a heavy greatcoat, and also a broad-brimmed hat, which obscured his face.

Jenkins's skin was waxy with tension: “… and Lime arrived from France this morning,” he said.
⁹
“All of them are ready. They await their moment eagerly.”

He cleared his throat unnecessarily. The other did not speak. A faintly familiar magical aura exuded from him. I racked my bleary brains. Where had I seen it before?

A sudden movement across my table. The smoke recoiled like an anemone—but all was well. A waiter passed me, carrying two mugs of coffee. He plonked them down in front of Jenkins and the other. Whistling tunelessly, he departed.

I watched the next table. Jenkins took a sip of coffee. He did not speak.

A hand stretched out for the second mug—a big hand; its back was laced with an odd crisscrossing of thin white scars.

I watched the hand take the mug, raise it delicately from the table. The head turned a little as it bent to drink; I saw the heavy brow, the hooked nose, the bristles of the trim black beard. And then, too late, I felt the surge of recognition.

The mercenary drank his coffee. I shrank back into the shadows.

10

T
hing was, I knew this mercenary. Both times we'd met we'd had a difference of views, and we'd done our best to resolve it in a civilized fashion. But whether I squished him under a statue, blew him up with a Detonation, or (as in our last encounter) simply set him on fire and hurled him down a mountainside, he never seemed to suffer the slightest injury. For his part, he'd come annoyingly close to killing me with various silver weapons. And now, just when I was at my weakest, here he was again. It gave me pause. I wasn't
scared
of him, of course; dear me, no. Let's call it judiciously nervous.

As always, he was wearing a pair of ancient leather boots, scratched and worn, which positively stank of magic.
¹
Presumably it was these that had triggered my Pulse. Seven-league boots, which can cover great distances in the blink of an eye, are rare indeed; combined with the fellow's extreme resilience and his assassin's training, he was a formidable foe. I was rather glad I was well concealed behind the tablecloth.

The mercenary finished his coffee in a single gulp,
²
and rested his scarred hand on the table once again. He spoke. “So they have all chosen?” It was the old familiar voice, calm, deliberate, and ocean-deep.

Jenkins nodded. “Yes, sir. And their imps too. I hope it will be enough.”

“Our leader will provide the rest.”

Aha! Now we were getting down to business! A leader! Was this Hopkins, or someone else? Thanks to my pain, there was a buzzing in my head—I found it hard to listen. Better get closer. The smoke wriggled a little way out from under the table.

Jenkins sipped his drink. “Is there anything further you wish me to do, sir?”

“Not for now. I shall organize the vans.”

“What about the chains and ropes?”

“I will deal with them too. I have … experience in that department.”

Chains! Ropes! Vans! Put them together and what do you get? No, I hadn't a clue either. But it sounded like dirty work to me. In my excitement I wriggled a little nearer.