Ptolemy's Gate

Mandrake heard him call out for his demon. But as with the rest of the audience, he had obediently dismissed his slave, and the call went unheeded. Beside him, Mr. Collins went down without a sound.
    The song was over. Mr. Devereaux, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Empire, rose to his feet: eyes glistening with tears, he busily applauded the finale. Behind him in his box, three of his personal bodyguards were overwhelmed and slain. He plucked a rose from his lapel, tossed it down to the youth on stage. A demon stepped up close; Devereaux was insensible—he cried out for an encore. The youth on stage stooped, picked up the rose, and with a sudden spurt of energy, flourished it at the imperial box. At that moment the creature looming at the Prime Minister's shoulder stepped out from the shadows; the youth gave a squeal, fainted on his feet, swayed, toppled, and crashed off stage into the mouth of the euphonium. Devereaux stepped back in shock and collided with the demon. He turned and whimpered once; black wings enveloped him.
    To Nathaniel, all this happened in the blink of an eye. Down below, the tidal wave of imps had progressed to the front of the stalls. Every human head was bound and gagged; a triumphant demon pranced on every shoulder.
    His panicked eyes swiveled up to Farrar's box. In her seat a grinning demon sat; over its shoulder was something trussed and wriggling. He looked elsewhere—and caught a glimpse of the only, magician to mount any true resistance.
    Mr. Sholto Pinn, brooding in his box, had not removed his lenses for the simple reason he did not wear any. He had ignored Makepeace's injunction and kept his monocle firmly lodged in his left eye. Occasionally he removed it and polished it with his handkerchief. It was while he was so occupied that the wave of imps burst in upon the stalls; nevertheless, he returned his monocle to his eye in time to catch them in mid-flow.
    He uttered an oath, caught up his walking stick, and turned to see three hulking shadows tiptoeing into his box. Without preamble, Sholto raised his stick and fired a plasm—a shadow mewled and crumbled into dust; the others darted aside, one to the ceiling, one pressed against the floor. The stick fired again: the shadow on the ceiling was caught a glancing blow; maimed and whimpering, it fell to sprawl across a chair. But even as it did so, the shadow on the floor leaped forward. It seized the old man's stick and, using it as a cudgel, bludgeoned him to the ground.
    In the box opposite, Makepeace had watched this with a furrow of discontent. "It is ever thus," he mused. "No work of art can be quite perfect—it must always have a flaw. Still, Pinn aside, I think we can consider this a job well done ."
    Keeping his knife pressed against Nathaniel's throat, the playwright rose from his chair and stepped forward to better survey the scene. With agonizing caution, Nathaniel turned his head a fraction; his eyes met Kitty's. Lacking lenses, the girl had only become aware of the activity at the very end, as Finn's plasms had burst out upon the darkness, and one by one the victorious demons became visible on the ordinary plane. Eyes wide, she glanced at Nathaniel—and at last saw Makepeace and the knife. Her face showed confusion, doubt, and disbelief. Nathaniel held her gaze—his mouth worked frantically, uttering silent pleas; his eyebrows attempted complicated supplications. If the knife could just be knocked away, just for an instant, he might leap on Makepeace, tear it from his grip. Quick —if she could only act now, while the madman was distracted. . .
    Kitty looked across at Makepeace, then back at Nathaniel once again. Her brow furrowed. Sweat ran down the side of Nathaniel's face. It was no good—she wasn't going to help him. Why should she? She held him in contempt.
    Makepeace was half leaning on the balustrade, erupting into little private chuckles as he caught sight of new humiliations below. With each spasm, the knife pressed deeper into Nathaniel's neck.
    Then Nathaniel saw Kitty give the slightest of nods. He saw her tense, prepare to spring. He licked his lips, readying himself. . .
    Kitty Jones leaped forward. Instantly a bolt of green energy smashed into her, knocking her back against the balustrade, which cracked and split under the impact. Emerald fire played over her body; her limbs jerked, her hair steamed. The fire died away. Kitty slumped to the floor, her head and arm dangling out over the