Ptolemy's Gate

again."
    "Very likely."
    "Yet you trust me?"
    Ptolemy laughed. "What else have I been doing all this time? When did I last bind you within a pentacle? Look at you now—you're as free as I am. You could throttle me in a blink and be gone."
    "Oh. Yeah." I hadn't thought of that.
    The boy clapped his hands. "Well, the time has come. Penrenutet and Affa are already dismissed; I have no obligations left. So—it is your turn. If you want to hop into the pentacle, I'll set you free."
    "What of your own security?" I glanced around the darkened room. Slats of light from the shutters ran like claw marks across wall and floor. "With us departed, you're helpless if your enemies find you."
    "Penrenutet's last task was to take my guise and ride south along the old highway. He let himself be seen. The spies will be following his caravan. So you see, dear Rekhyt, I have thought of everything." He motioned to me. I stepped into the circle.
    "You know, you don't need to risk yourself in this experiment," I said. I was looking at his narrow shoulders, his scrawny neck, the skinny legs sticking out beneath his tunic.
    "It's not an experiment," he said. "It's a gesture. It's redress."
    "For what? Three thousand years of slavery? Why take the burden of so many crimes? No other magicians have ever thought this way."
    He smiled. "That's just it. I'm the first. And if my venture goes well, and I return to record it, many others will follow after me. There will be a new era between djinn and men. I've made some of the notes already, Rekhyt—my book will take pride of place in every library on the Earth. I won't be there to see it—but who knows, perhaps you will."
    His passion won me over. I nodded. "Let's hope you're right."
    He didn't answer, only snapped his fingers and spoke the Dismissal. The last thing I saw as I departed was his face gazing after me, confident, serene.

22

    Kitty woke to a light that blinded her and a sharp pain in her side. As the seconds passed, and she lay quite still, she became aware of the blood pounding in her head and the dry-ness of her open mouth. Her wrists ached. There was a terrible smell of burned cloth and a tight pressure around one hand.
    Panic swelled inside her chest; she wrenched at her limbs, opened her eyes, sought to lift her head. She was rewarded with scattershot pain and certain insights into her situation: her wrists were tied, she sat against something hard, someone was crouched beside her, looking into her face. The pressure on one hand was suddenly released.
    A voice. "Can you hear me? Are you all right?"
    Kitty opened one eye a fraction. A dark shape swam into focus. The magician, Mandrake, bent close; he wore a look of concern mixed with relief. "Can you speak?" he said. "How do you feel?"
    Kitty's voice was weak. "Were you holding my hand?"
    "No."
    "Good." She was acclimatizing to the light now; both eyes opened steadily and she looked about her. She sat on the floor at the edge of a great stone room, older and grander than anything she had experienced. Thick pillars supported a vaulted ceiling; on the floor, beautiful rugs were spread upon the flagstones. Around the walls, in many recesses, stood statues of regal men and women dressed in bygone costumes. Magical globes drifted against the vaulting, creating an ever-changing pattern of light and shadow. In the center of the room sat a brightly polished table and seven chairs.
    On the near side of the table a man was walking up and down.
    Kitty struggled to shift her position, an operation made difficult by the cords binding her wrists. Something dug into her back. She cursed. "Ah! Can you—?"
    Mandrake held up his hands, bound tightly together with the fingers swathed in thin white cord. "Try wriggling to the left. You're leaning against a stone shoe at the moment. Careful—you've been badly knocked about."
    Kitty shifted her bottom sideways and became marginally more comfortable. She looked down at herself. One side of her coat was blackened and burned away; she could see tattered fragments of her shirt beneath and, hanging loose in an inner pocket, a singed corner of Mr. Button's book. Her brow furrowed. How had—?
    The theater! In a rush, she remembered: the explosions in the box opposite, the raising of the lights, the sea of demons in the stalls below. Yes, and Mandrake next to her, pale and frightened, with the fat little man holding the knife to his throat. She had tried—
    "I'm glad you're alive," the magician said. His