Ptolemy's Gate

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.
    Nathaniel wore his lenses: through them the darkness of the auditorium was moderated—he saw it all. He made to spring to his feet; cold steel pressed against his neck. Makepeace's urgent whisper: "Do nothing foolish, my boy. You observe my finest hour! Is this not art of the highest order? Sit, relax, enjoy! If you move a hairsbreadth, your head will bounce into the stalls."
    More than half the auditorium had been engulfed, and still the imps poured on. Nathaniel's eyes rose to the boxes opposite; the senior magicians had removed their lenses, but they had vantage points similar to his own. Surely they would see, surely they would act... His jaw sagged in horror. In every box four or five demons, much larger than the ones below—great foliots and djinn with slim white bodies of knotted sinew—had slipped through the curtains at the magicians' backs. Up they stole behind the greatest figures of the Empire—Devereaux smiling and waving his hands to the music, Mortensen and Collins slouched, arms folded, heads nodding in their seats; Whitwell looking at her watch; Ms. Malbindi scribbling work notes in a clip-file—up they stole, ropes rising in clawed fists, gags and nets silently adjusted, until they stood motionless, like a row of towering gravestones at their backs. Then, as if at a single inaudible command, they fell upon them.
    Ms. Malbindi managed a shriek that merged harmonically with the wail of violins. Ms. Whitwell, writhing in a bony embrace, succeeded in igniting an Inferno from her fingertips: it lasted an instant, then her mouth was closed and bound, her command cut short—the flame withered and died; she subsided in a mass of netting.
    Mr. Mortensen struggled manfully in the grip of three fat foliots; above the orchestra