Ptolemy's Gate

face was gray, but his voice was calm. There was dried blood on his neck. "That's impressive resilience you've got there. Can you see through illusions too?"
    She shook her head irritably. "Where are we? What's—?"
    "The Hall of Statues at Westminster. This is the room where the Council meets."
    "But what's happened? Why are we here?" Panic engulfed her; she pulled frantically at her bonds.
    "Calm down. . . we're being watched." He jerked his head toward the figure by the table. It was someone Kitty didn't know, a young man with long, bandy legs, still pacing back and forth.
    "Calm down?" Kitty gave a strangled cry of fury. "How dare you? If I was free—"
    "Yes, but you're not. And nor am I. So shut up for a minute and let me tell you what's happened." He leaned in close. "The whole government was taken captive in that theater. Everyone. Makepeace used a host of demons to subdue them."
    "I've got eyes, haven't I? I saw all that."
    "All right, fine. Well, some might have been killed, but most, I think, are alive, but gagged and tied so they can't summon anything. We all got rounded up and taken out the back of the theater, where a group of vans was waiting. Everyone got bundled in; they threw the ministers in one on top of the other, like sacks of beef. The vans left the theater and drove here. No one outside the theater is any the wiser yet. I don't know where the prisoners have been taken. They must be locked in somewhere close. That's what Makepeace is seeing to now, I think."
    Kitty's head ached. She struggled to grasp the implications. "Was it him who"—she looked down at her side—"did this to me?"
    "He did. An Inferno. Close range. When you tried to"—his pale face flushed a little—"when you tried to help me. You ought to be dead; in fact, we thought you were dead, but just as the mercenary was taking me off, you groaned and dribbled, so he scooped you up, too."
    "The mercenary?"
    "Don't ask."
    Kitty was silent for a time. "So Makepeace is taking over?"
    "It seems he thinks he is." The magician scowled. "The man's quite mad. How he plans to rule the Empire without a governing class, I can't imagine."
    Kitty gave a snort. "Your governing class wasn't doing so well, let's face it. He might be an improvement."
    "Don't be a fool!" Mandrake's face darkened. "You haven't the slightest idea what—" He controlled himself with difficulty. "I'm sorry. You're not to blame. I shouldn't have brought you to the theater in the first place."
    "True." Kitty looked around the chamber. "But what gets me is I don't understand why either of us has been brought here!'
    "Nor me. We've been singled out for some reason."
    Kitty regarded the man walking to and fro beside the Council table. There was an air of nervousness about him; he frequently consulted his watch and looked over toward a set of double doors. "He doesn't look that hot," she whispered. "Can't you whip up a demon and get us out of here?"
    Mandrake groaned. "All my slaves are on a mission. If I could get to a pentacle I could summon them here easily, but without one, and with my fingers tied like this, I'm stuck. I haven't got so much as an imp on tap."
    "Useless," Kitty snapped. "Call yourself a magician."
    A scowl. "Give me time. My demons are powerful, especially Cormocodran. With luck, I'll get a chance to—"
    The doors at the end of the hall burst open. The man by the table swiveled around. Kitty and Mandrake craned their heads.
    A small procession walked in.
    The first few persons were unknown to Kitty. A diminutive man with round, moist eyes, built like a winter twig; a dull-faced, somewhat slatternly woman; a middle-aged gentleman with pale, shiny skin and protruding lips. Behind them came a young man, slender, sprightly of step, with oiled ginger hair and glasses perched on a little nose. About these four an air of suppressed excitement seemed to hang: they tittered, grinned, and looked about them with quick, nervous movements.
    The bandy-legged man beside the table hurried to join them. "At last!" he said. "Where's Quentin?"
    "Here, my friends!" In through the doors strode Quentin Makepeace, emerald frock coat flapping, chest puffed out like a bantam cock's. His shoulders rolled, his arms swung with an insolent swagger. He passed his companions, clapping the ginger-haired man soundly on the back, ruffling the hair of the woman and winking at the rest. On toward the table he went, glancing up and down the room with proprietorial ease. On noticing Kitty