Ptolemy's Gate

"What's this? You've met before?"
    "Don't look so shocked, John! It was all in a good cause. Through my associate Mr. Hopkins—whom you will meet shortly; he is currently tending to our captives—I had long followed the activities of the Resistance. It amused me to watch their efforts, to see the outrage on the faces of the fools in Council as they failed to track them down. Present company excepted, John!" Another chuckle.
    Kitty's voice was expressionless. "You knew about the monster in Gladstone's tomb, but you and Hopkins still sent us there to get the Staff. My friends died because of you." She took a small step in his direction.
    "Oh tush" Quentin Makepeace rolled his eyes. "You were traitorous commoners. I was a magician. Did you expect me to care'? And don't come any closer, young lady. Next time I won't bother with a spell. I'll cut your throat." He smiled. "In truth, though, I was on your side. I hoped you would destroy the demon. Then I'd have taken the Staff from you for my own use. in fact" he tapped his cigar, refolded his legs, and looked around at his audience—"in fact the outcome was mixed: you ran off with the Staff, and let Honorius the afrit escape the tomb. What an impact Honorius made! Gladstone's bones, hopping around the rooftops with a demon encased inside! A marvelous spectacle. But it set Hopkins and me thinking. . ."
    "Tell me, Quentin." Mandrake spoke again; his voice was soft. "This Mr. Hopkins was supposed to have been involved with the golem too. Was it so?"
    Makepeace smiled, and paused a while before answering. He's performing the whole time, Kitty thought. He's an incorrigible show-off, treating this like one of his plays.
    "Of course!" Makepeace cried. "Under my direction! I have my fingers in many pies. I am an artist, John, a man of restless creativity. For years the Empire has been going to rack and ruin; Devereaux and the others have mismanaged it disgracefully. Did you know that several of my plays have actually had to close in Boston, Calcutta, and Baghdad, thanks to local poverty, unrest, and violence? And this endless war! . . . Things have got to change! Well, for years I have watched on the sidelines, experimenting here and there. First, I encouraged my good friend Lovelace in his attempt at rebellion. Remember that decidedly large pentacle, John? That was my idea!" He chuckled. "Then came poor Duvall. He wanted power, but he hadn't a creative bone in his body. All he could do was follow advice. Through Hopkins I encouraged him to use the golem to spread unrest. And while the government was distracted"—he beamed at Kitty once again—"I nearly acquired the Staff. Which, by the way, I fully intend to take into my possession this very night."
    To Kitty, most of this meant nothing; she gazed at the hateful little man in the great gold chair, almost quivering with fury. She saw, as if from far off, the faces of her dead companions—with every word, Makepeace defiled their memory. She could not have spoken.
    By contrast, John Mandrake seemed to be becoming almost talkative. "This is all very interesting, Quentin," he said. "The Staff will certainly be useful. But how will the government be run? You have emptied all the departments. That is bound to cause problems, even with such titanic figures as these in your team." He smiled around at the sullen conspirators.
    Makepeace made an easy gesture. "Some of the prisoners will be freed in due course, once they have sworn loyalty."
    "And the others?"
    "Will be executed."
    Mandrake shrugged. "It seems a risky prospect for you, even with the Staff."
    "Not so!" For the first time Makepeace seemed annoyed. He rose from his chair, tossed the remnants of the cigar aside. "We are about to augment our power with the first creative act in two thousand years of magic. In fact, here is the very man who will show you. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—Mr. Clem Hopkins!"
    A meek and diffident figure stepped into the room. Three years had passed since Kitty had last set eyes on him, sitting at a cafe table in the pleasant summer air. She had been little more than a girl; she'd drunk a milk shake and eaten an iced bun while he'd asked her questions about the stolen Staff. Then, when she'd failed to supply the information he required, Mr. Hopkins had gently betrayed her once again—sending her to the house where Mandrake waited to entrap her.
    So it had been. As the years had passed, and the scholar's features had faded from her memory,