Ptolemy's Gate (39 page)

Nathaniel's brows knotted with frustration. He fidgeted with the cords that bound his hands. All he could do was wait until Makepeace freed him and let him step within a pentacle.
Then
he could act. In an instant his servants would be summoned and the traitors brought to account.

“My friends, I am ready! Come, Mandrake, Ms. Jones—you must join the audience!” Makepeace was standing in the nearest circle, shirtsleeves rolled up, collar undone; he had adopted a heroic pose: hands on hips, pelvis thrust forward, legs wide enough to straddle a horse. The conspirators congregated at a respectful distance; even the mercenary showed sufficient interest to stalk a little closer. Together, Nathaniel and Kitty approached the pentacle.

“The time has come!” Makepeace cried. “The moment toward which I have worked for so many years. Only the thrill of anticipation, my friends, keeps me from bursting with my pent emotions!” With a dynamic flourish, he removed a lacy handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “How much sweat, how many tears have I shed to get so far?” he cried. “Who can tell? How much blood—?”

“Secretions aside,” Rufus Lime inteqected sourly, “hadn't you better get on with it? Some of those candles are burning low.”

Makepeace glared at him, but returned his hanky to his pocket. “Very well. My friends, following the success of Hopkins here in subduing a demon of moderate power”—Hopkins gave a little smile, which might have meant anything—“I have decided to apply my more considerable ability to the taming of a greater entity.” He paused. “This very evening Hopkins located in the London Library a volume listing the names of spirits from ancient Persia. I have decided to make use of a name he found there. My friends, here and now, before your very eyes, I shall summon into myself the greater demon known as … Nouda!”

Nathaniel uttered a small exclamation.
Nouda?
The man was mad. “Makepeace,” he said. “Surely you're joking. This procedure is risky enough without trying something so powerful.”

The playwright pursed his lips fretfully. “I'm not joking, John, just ambitious. Mr. Hopkins has assured me that control is simplicity itself—and I am
very
strong-willed. I hope you don't mean to imply that I'm not up to this.”

“Oh no,” Nathaniel said hastily. “Not at all.” He leaned close to Kitty. “The man's a fool,” he whispered. “Nouda is a
terrible
entity; one of the most fearsome recorded. It left Persepolis in ruins.…”

Kitty leaned over, whispered back. “I know. Destroyed Darius's own army.”

“Yes.” Nathaniel nodded. Then he blinked. “What? How did
you
know?”

“John!” Makepeace's voice was tetchy. “Enough canoodling! I need silence now. Hopkins—if you see anything go amiss, reverse the process; use Asprey's Overrule. Right. Quiet, all.”

Quentin Makepeace closed his eyes, bent his head toward his chest. He flourished his arms and flexed his fingers. He breathed deeply. Then he lifted his chin, opened his eyes, and began to declaim the incantation in a loud, clear voice. Nathaniel listened hard: as before, it was a simple enough Latin summons, but the strength of the oncoming spirit meant that it had to be reinforced with multiple word-locks and tortuous subclauses doubling back on themselves to shore up the binding. He had to admit that Makepeace spoke it well. Minutes passed—his larynx never faltered, he ignored the perspiration running down his face. There was a hush in the chamber: Nathaniel, Kitty, the conspirators—all watched, transfixed. Most avid of all was Mr. Hopkins—he was leaning forward with his mouth open; he had a slightly hungry look.

On the seventh minute the room grew cold. Not slowly, but in an instant, as if a switch had suddenly been pressed. Everyone began to shiver. On the eighth minute came the sweetest of fragrances, that of meadow flax and celandine. On the ninth minute Nathaniel detected something in the pentacle with Makepeace. It was there on the third plane—something hazy, fluctuating, sucking in the light—a dark, horned mass, now tall, now broad, with arms that spread out and pressed against the pentacle. Nathaniel looked down; he thought he saw the inlaid boundaries of the circle bulge out a little in the floor. The features of the newcomer could not be seen. It towered over Makepeace, who spoke on, quite oblivious to his new companion.

Makepeace came to the climax of his command, the moment when he bound the demon inside himself. With a cry, he spoke the final words: the dark figure vanished, like blinking.

Makepeace stopped. He was quite still. His eyes looked out beyond his audience, as if at something far away.

Everyone watched, frozen to the spot. Makepeace did nothing; his face was blank.

“Hopkins,” Rufus Lime said hoarsely. “Dismiss it … Quick!”

With a great cry, Makepeace sprang into life. It was quite without warning. Nathaniel cried out, everyone jumped; even the mercenary stepped back.

“Success!” Makepeace leaped from the circle. He clapped his hands, capered, hopped, skipped, and twirled. “Success! Such triumph! I cannot begin to tell you …”

The conspirators inched closer. Jenkins peered out above his glasses. “Quentin … is it true? How does it feel … ?”

“Yes! Nouda is here! I feel it within! Ah—for a moment or two, my friends, there was a struggle—I admit it. The effect was disconcerting. But I commanded it most strictly, with all my power. And I felt that demon shrink back and obey. It is subservient within me. It knows its master! What is it like? Hard to describe.… It is not painful exactly.… I sense it like a hard, hot coal within my head. But when it obeyed—I felt such a surge of energy! Oh, it cannot be imagined!”

With this, the conspirators erupted into raucous celebration; they squealed and jumped for joy “The demon's power, Quentin!” Lime shouted. “Use it!”

“Not yet, my friends.” Makepeace held up his hands for calm; the room fell silent. “I could destroy this room,” he said, “turn all of it to powder if I chose. But there shall be time enough for fun once you have followed me. Go to your pentacles! Summon your demons! Then we shall set about our destiny! We shall seize the Staff of Gladstone and take a stroll through London. I believe some commoners are busy demonstrating. Our first task will be to put them in their place.”

Like eager children, the conspirators scampered to their circles. Nathaniel grasped Kitty by the arm, drew her to one side. “In a moment,” he hissed, “I will be called upon to join this madness. I will pretend to do so. Do not be alarmed. At the last minute I shall use the pentacle to summon a troupe of the strongest djinn. With luck they will destroy Makepeace and these other fools. At the very least we shall have the opportunity to escape!” He paused triumphantly. “You don't seem overly impressed.”

Kitty's eyes were tired, red-rimmed. Had she been crying? He hadn't noticed. She shrugged. “I hope you're right.”

Nathaniel swallowed his irritation; in truth, he was nervous too. “You'll see.”

Across the hall the summonings began: Rufus Lime, eyes tight shut, fish-mouth open, intoning his words in a muttered croak; Clive Jenkins, glasses removed from his little nose and held anxiously between his hands as he spoke in a rapid monotone. The others, whose names Nathaniel could not remember, stood in solitary postures, hunched, erect, shaking, stammering out their incantations, making the necessary gestures. Hopkins and Makepeace walked approvingly among them.

“John!” That was Makepeace; with a trill of delight, he bounded over. “Ah! Such energy! I could leap to the stars!” His face went serious. “Not holding back on us, are you, boy? Why aren't you in a circle?”

Nathaniel raised his hands. “Perhaps if I was untied?”

“Ah, yes. How discourteous of me. There!” A snap of the fingers; the cords burst into lilac flames. Nathaniel shook himself free. “There is an empty pentacle in that corner, John,” Makepeace said. “What demon have you chosen for yourself?”

Nathaniel chose two at random. “I was debating between two djinn from Ethiopian texts: Zosa and Karloum.”

“An interesting, if modest, choice. I suggest Karloum. Well, off you go.”

Nathaniel nodded. He took a quick sidelong glance at Kitty, who was watching him intently, then strode toward the nearest vacant pentacle. He hadn't much time: through the corner of his eye he saw strange, contorted shadows flittering above Jenkins and Lime. Heaven knew what the idiots had summoned, but with luck it would take a while for them to control their internal slaves. Before that happened, Cormocodran and Hodge would make short work of them.

He stepped inside his circle, cleared his throat and looked around. Makepeace was watching him intently. Doubtless he was suspicious. Nathaniel grinned bleakly to himself; well, those suspicions were about to be confirmed in the most dramatic possible way.

A final moment of preparation—he would need to work swiftly when his djinn arrived, give precise and urgent orders—then Nathaniel acted. He made an ornate gesture, cried out the names of his five strong demons and pointed at the neighboring circle. He steeled himself for the explosions, the smoke and hellfire, the sudden appearance of straining, hideous forms.

With a miserable squelch, something small and insubstantial struck the center of the circle, spattering outward like a fruit dropped from on high. It had no discernible shape, but gave off a strong smell of fish.

A bulge rose in its center. A small voice sounded. “Saved!” The bulge rotated, appeared to notice Mr. Hopkins. “Oh.”

Nathaniel gazed at it wordlessly.

Quentin Makepeace had seen it also. He stepped close, inspected it. “How peculiar! It seems to be some kind of uncooked meal. With added sentience. What do you think, Hopkins?”

Mr. Hopkins approached; his eyes glittered as they glanced at Nathaniel. “Nothing so innocent, I am afraid, sir. It is the remains of a pernicious djinni, which earlier this evening attempted my capture. Several other demons, who accompanied him, I have already slain. I fear that Master Mandrake was hoping to catch us unawares.”

“Is that so?” Quentin Makepeace straightened sadly. “Oh dear. That rather changes things. I always had such high hopes for you, John. I really thought we might work well together. Still, never mind—I have Hopkins and my five
loyal
friends to count on.” He glanced round at the conspirators who, having finished their summonings, stood quietly in their circles. “That is enough. Our first pleasure will be to watch you and your creature die—
Ulp
!” He put his hand to his mouth. “Excuse me. I fear I—
hic!
—have indigestion. Now then—” Another gulp, a gasp; his eyes bulged. “This is most curious. I—” His tongue protruded. His limbs shook, his knees sagged; he seemed about to fall.

Nathaniel stepped back in shock. Makepeace's body gave a sudden wriggle; it writhed, somewhat like a snake, as if all his bones were newly fluid. Then it steadied, stiffened. The playwright seemed to rally. For the briefest of instants a panicked look erupted in the eyes; the tongue managed to gabble out the words: “It is …”

A furious writhing drowned out the rest. Makepeace moved like a puppet on twisted strings.

The head jerked up. The eyes were staring, lifeless.

And the mouth laughed.

Standing all around him in their circles, Lime, Jenkins, and the rest of the conspirators joined in the laughter. Their bodies seemed to ape their leader's; they twitched and wriggled too.

Nathaniel stood transfixed as the noise erupted around him. It was not kind or pleasant laughter, nor was it particularly malicious, greedy, triumphant, or cruel. It would have been less distressing if it had been. Instead the sound was hollow, discordant and utterly alien. It contained no recognizable human emotion.

In fact, it wasn't human at all.

24

I
t was the soup that saved me. Fish soup, it was, thick and creamy, filling the space of the silver tureen. At first, when I was pressed hard up against the silver walls, my essence dissolved rapidly away. But unexpectedly, things got better. Almost as soon as Faquarl left me, I lapsed into silver-induced unconsciousness, and that meant my crow guise fell apart. I subsided into an oily, fluid mass, not unlike dishwater, which floated within the soup, insulated from the silver by the liquid all around. I wouldn't say I was well off exactly, but my essence was now disintegrating a good deal slower than Faquarl would have expected.

Flickers of awareness came and went. One moment I thought I was far away in Egypt, talking with Ptolemy for the last time; the next I was watching fragments of cod and halibut drift by. Occasionally Faquarl's declaration echoed in my mind:
From tonight, we take revenge.
Sounded ominous for somebody. Well, they were welcome to it. I was tired. I'd had enough. I was glad to be somewhere quiet, dying on my own.

And then, all of a sudden, the soup was gone; the freezing taint of silver likewise. I was freed from the tureen.