Ptolemy's Gate (15 page)

“Go home,” the mercenary said. “You have done well. I shall report to Mr. Hopkins now. Things gather pace.”

“What if I need to contact him? Is he still at the Ambassador?”

“For the moment, yes. But do so only as a last resort. We must not attract attention.”

Under the nearby table the coil of smoke would have been hugging itself with glee, had its essence not been quite so stiff. The Ambassador was bound to be a hotel or something. Which meant I had Hopkins's address, exactly as Mandrake had required. Freedom was almost mine! Like I said, I might be a little below par, but I don't make mistakes when it comes to stealthy trailing.

Jenkins was looking a little pensive. “Speaking of that, sir … I have only just recalled … well, earlier this evening there was a fly hovering near while I spoke to Burke and Withers. It was probably innocent enough, but—”

The mercenary's voice was like distant thunder. “Is that so? And you did what?”

Jenkins pushed his little round glasses up his nose—an anxious gesture, which I could well understand. The mercenary was a full foot taller than he, and almost twice as wide. He could have snapped Jenkins's spine with a single blow. “I kept careful watch as I continued,” he stammered, “but I saw nothing.”

Naturally. Beneath the table the coil of smoke grinned to itself.

“Also I asked Truklet, my imp, to follow at a distance and report back here.”

Ah. Not so good. I ducked back out of sight and twisted to and fro, staring between the chair legs, looking on all the planes. At first—nothing. Then what should I see but a little spider come creeping, creeping along the floor. It was looking under every table, eyes brightly questing this way and that. I rose up out of view, hung undulating in the shadows. Waiting.

The little spider came creeping, creeping to my table. It passed below … caught sight of me in an instant, and reared up on its back legs to sound an alarm. The coil of smoke swept down, engulfed the spider. There was a moment's struggle, a desperate squeak.

Presently the coil of smoke moved again. It went slowly at first, in cumbrous rolls, like a python after a heavy feed, but soon began to gather pace.
³

I looked back. The conspirators were parting company; the mercenary standing, Jenkins staying put, presumably until his imp turned up.
⁴
It was decision time.

Mandrake had told me to locate Hopkins and uncover his plot, and I'd gone a fair way toward fulfilling the first request. I
could
have simply headed back to my master there and then, since by rights I'd done enough to justify my dismissal. But “rights,” particularly mine, weren't things Mandrake understood very well. He'd disappointed me before. So it was better to make absolutely certain; to hit him with so much information that all he could do was thank me humbly and show me to a pentacle.

And right now the mercenary was going to Hopkins.

The coil of smoke curled up like a spring beneath the table. I watched the floor nearby. Nothing … nothing … Two boots came into view; old brown leather, scratched and worn.

Just as they passed, I uncoiled, sprang—and in so doing, made another change.

The mercenary crossed to the door with stately steps. His coat rustled, weapons clinked about his person. A small long-clawed lizard clung to the leather of his right boot.

Outside, night had fallen. A few cars droned on a distant road. Passersby were few and far between. The mercenary let the cafe door bang shut behind him, walked a couple of paces, then stopped. The lizard dug its claws in deeper. I knew what was coming.

A throb of magic, a vibration that shook my essence to its core. The boot I was on rose, tipped, fell to earth again—it was a single step, but all around me the street, the night and the lights of the cafe had blurred into a liquid stream. Another step, and yet another. The stream of light flickered; dimly I sensed buildings, people, and broken shards of noise, but I was too busy hanging on for dear life as the seven-league boots moved without regard for normal space and time. It was like being back in the Other Place again; I would have quite enjoyed the ride had I not felt little grains of essence breaking loose from my extremities, flicking away behind us like dead embers from a fire. Even warmed as I was by my recent feed, it was beginning to be hard to maintain a viable form.

At the third step the boot rested. Instantly the blurring lights congealed, became a new set of surroundings, another part of London, some miles from the cafe. I waited for my eyes to stop revolving, then took a bleary look around.

We were in one of the parks, close to Trafalgar Square. With the onset of evening the city's commoners had straggled here to lose themselves in relaxation. In this aim they were aided by the kind authorities, who—in the months since the war turned sour—provided daily festivities of the most gaudy kind, designed to stimulate the senses and discourage contemplation.

Away over in the center of the park gleamed the great Glass Palace, a marvelous confusion of domes and minarets, all shimmering with light. Made of twenty thousand curved glass sheets set upon an iron frame, it had been built in the first year of the war, and afterward stuffed full of snack bars and carousels, bear pits and freak shows. It was popular among commoners; less so among djinn. We didn't like all that iron.

Other pavilions were dotted about the park, which was sporadically illuminated by colored imp-lanterns hanging among the trees. Here, train cars looped and plummeted, whirligigs bucked and spun; over at the Sultan's Castle sultry beauties danced before a horde of drunken commoners.
⁵
Along the central pathway vats of wine and ale were broached, and melancholy oxen turned on spits. The mercenary set off among them now, going at a human pace.

We passed Traitors' Corner, where several captive rebels dangled above the baying crowd in a cage of glass. Alongside, in another prism, a hideous black demon was visible on the first plane. It growled and pranced, shaking its fist at the awestruck throng. Beyond this, a stage had been set up. A banner proclaimed the title of the piece:
Colonial Treachery Overcome;
actors ran about, telling the official story of the war with the aid of rubber swords and papier-mâché demons. Everywhere you looked smiling ladies thrust free supplements of
Real War Stories
into outstretched hands. Such was the ceaseless noise and color and confusion that it was impossible for anyone present to think straight, let alone frame a coherent argument against the war.
⁶

I had seen it all before, many times. I concentrated now on clinging to the mercenary, who had left the central path and was striding off across the darkened lawns toward an ornamental lake among the trees.

This lake was scarcely a large affair—during the day waterfowl no doubt sat drably upon it, while children splashed about in little hired boats—but by night it held a certain quiet mystery Its margins were lost in shadows and a maze of reed beds; Oriental-style bridges spanned it, linking silent islands. A Chinese pagoda rose from one such. In front of the pagoda was a wooden veranda, extending above the water.

The mercenary made for this in haste. He set off across an ornamental bridge, boots pattering on the planking. Beyond, on the darkness of the veranda, I glimpsed a figure waiting. About his head, on the higher planes, sinister shapes drifted watchfully.

Time for caution. Attached to the boot, I would soon be spotted by even the most half-witted imp. But I could still get close enough to watch and listen. Below the walkway a reed bed stretched, thick and black. A perfect place for lurking. The lizard disengaged itself, gave a leap, fell in among the reeds. Seconds later, after yet another painful transformation, a small green snake was swimming toward the island between the decaying stalks.

I heard the mercenary's voice up above, quiet, respectful. “Mr. Hopkins.”

A gap in the reeds. The snake wound itself about a rotten branch protruding from the water and reared up, gazing toward the veranda. There stood the mercenary, and with him another man, slight, stoop-shouldered, who clapped a hand to his arm in a gesture of comradely support. I strained my weary eyes. For a brief instant I caught sight of his face: bland, even-featured, utterly unmemorable. So why was it that something in it aroused a deep sense of recognition and made me shudder?

The men moved away from the veranda, out of view. Cursing fluently, the snake plowed onward, looping through the reeds with elegant undulations. A little farther … if I could just hear Hopkins speak, get the slightest clue—

Ten reed stalks moved; five tall gray shadows isolated themselves from the mass of reeds. Ten stick legs bent and sprang. It all happened without a sound: one moment I was alone upon the lake; the next five herons plunged upon me like gray-white ghosts, sword-beaks snapping, red eyes blazing. Flailing wings cracked upon the water, blocking avenues of escape, claws slashed at the desperate snake, beaks stabbed. I coiled myself up and, fast as thinking, dived below the surface. But the herons were swifter still: one beak snared my tail; another snapped fast upon my body, just below the head. They flapped their wings and rose into the air, taking me between them, dangling like a worm.

I scanned my adversaries on the seven planes: they were foliots, all five of them. In normal circumstances I'd have decorated the city with their feathers, but in my current state to fight a single one was pushing it. I felt my essence beginning to tear.

I struggled, thrashed, and twisted. I spat venom left and right. Anger filled me, supplied a little strength. I changed, downsizing further into a small and slimy eel, which slipped free of their hold and fell toward the welcoming water.

A beak lunged.

Snap! Blackness all around.

Now this
was
deeply embarrassing. After my recent treatment of the imp,
I'd
been swallowed too. Alien essence swirled around me. I could feel it beginning to corrode my own.
⁷

I had no choice. I summoned all my energies and used a Detonation.

Well, it was loud and it was messy, but it had the desired effect. Small pieces of foliot rained down through the air, and I rained down with them, in the semblance of a small, black pearl.

The pearl dropped into the water. Instantly the four remaining herons were at the spot, hot eyes glinting, spearing their beaks in and out in feverish pursuit.

I allowed myself to sink swiftly into the murk, deep down out of range, to where the mud and ooze and rotten tangle of dead reeds concealed me on every plane.

My mind flickered; I nearly lost consciousness. No, they would find me if I slept. I must escape, return to my master. I needed to make one final effort and get away.

Giant legs stalked the gloom around me; spear-beaks fizzed, cutting the water like bullets. Muffled echoes of the herons' swearing boomed among the weeds. A small, injured tadpole wormed its way toward the shore, leaving specks of dying essence drifting in its wake. Reaching the lakeside, it broke all aging records and became an ill-favored frog, with a clubfoot and a downcast mouth. The frog skittered away into the grass as fast as it could go.

I was halfway to the road before the foliots saw me. One of them must have flown high, glimpsed my limping progress; with raucous cries they erupted from the lake, came hurtling over the dark grass.

One dived; the frog gave a frantic leap. The beak plunged into the ground.

Out onto the path, among the crowds. The frog hopped hither, thither, between legs, under awnings, leaping from heads to shoulders, baskets to prams, all the while emitting croaks and gargles, staring with its mad pop-eyes. Men shouted, women screamed, children gasped in wonder. Behind came the herons, feathers flashing, wings buffeting, blind with bloodlust. They crashed through stalls, upturned wine vats, sent dogs howling into the dark. People were tossed aside like ninepins; piles of
Real War Stories
went flying—some landing in the wine, others in the roasting pits.

Up onto the outdoor stage hopped the fugitive amphibian, under the bright imp-lights, sending one actor leaping into the arms of a second, causing a third to swan dive into the crowd. It sprang down a trapdoor, closely followed by a heron; reappeared an instant later through another, riding the head of a cardboard goblin. It leaped onto the banner above, clung there with two webbed feet. A heron reared up from below, snapped its beak, and tore the banner asunder—the strip of fabric fell, swung like a jungle vine, and catapulted the frog over the path to land beside the crystal prism where the captive demon sat.

By this point I was losing track of where I was and what I was doing. In fact, my essence was fast disintegrating: I could scarcely see; the world was awash with discordant sound. I hopped unthinkingly, changing direction with every hop, seeking to avoid the attack I knew would come.

Sure enough, one of my pursuers lost patience with the chase. It must have tried a Convulsion, I think; I'd leaped aside anyway—I didn't see it hit the prism, didn't hear the crystal crack. Not my fault. Nothing to do with me. I didn't see the big black demon give a grimace of surprise and set its long curved fingernails to the break. I didn't hear the ominous shattering when the entire globe gave way, nor the screams and wailing of the people as the demon leaped into their midst.

I knew nothing of it. I knew only the endless pounding rhythms of the chase, felt only my essence softening and seeping into liquid with every desperate hop and spring. I was dying now, but I could not rest. A swifter death flew close behind.