Ptolemy's Gate

his shadow had grown inside her, spread like a contagion at the back of her mind. He sometimes taunted her within her dreams.
    And now here he was, stepping quietly across the rugs of the Hall of Statues, a little smile on his face. His appearance seemed to awake a great excitement in the conspirators; there was a stirring of anticipation. Mr. Hopkins came to stand beside the table, directly opposite Kitty. He looked at Mandrake first, then at Kitty. His pale gray eyes surveyed her, his face expressionless.
    "You traitor," Kitty growled. Mr. Hopkins frowned a little as if in some perplexity. He showed not the slightest hint of recognition.
    "Now then, Clem"—Makepeace clapped him on the back—"do not be put off by the presence of young Kitty here. It is just my little joke to remind you of your Resistance days. Don't let her get close, mind. She is quite the little vixen! How are the prisoners?"
    The scholar nodded eagerly. "Quite safe, sir. They cannot go anywhere."
    "And what about outside? Is all quiet?"
    "There is still unrest in the central parks. The police go about their business. No one knows we have left the theater."
    "Good. Then it is time to act. My friends, Hopkins here is a marvel, an absolute gem. He breathes ideas like you and I gulp air; he dreams 'em in his sleep, digests 'em with his dinner. It was he who first noticed the unique properties of the afrit Honorius. Isn't that right, Clem?"
    Hopkins gave a little smile. "If you say so, sir."
    "Hopkins and I immediately observed that the demon inhabited Gladstone's bones. It was not a mere guise, an illusion of essence: the skeleton was real. The demon had mingled with the actual bones. An ambitious idea occurred to us: why not summon a demon into a living body—specifically, the living body of a magician? If the magician could control the demon, and use its power—what wonders he might perform! There would be no more need for pentacles, for fiddling about with runes and chalks, no more risk of fatal errors! Indeed, summoning itself would soon become unnecessary!"
    Kitty had learned enough from Mr. Button to realize the radical nature of this proposal; she knew enough to share Mandrake's utter disbelief. "But the risks are far too great!" he was saying. "That commoner in your workroom—he heard the demon talking in his head! It would have driven him mad!"
    "Only because he did not have the will to suppress the demon." Makepeace was impatient now; he spoke quickly. "With individuals of intelligence and strong personality such as us, the effect will be harmonious."
    "You don't mean you're all going to take this risk?" Mandrake protested. "Surely not! The effects might be catastrophic! You don't know what might happen."
    "Oh, but we do, we do. Hopkins summoned a demon into himself two months ago, John. He has suffered no ill effects. Isn't that right, Clem? Tell them."
    "That's right, sir."The scholar seemed embarrassed to be the focus of attention. "I summoned quite a powerful djinni. When it entered, I felt a certain struggling, like a living worm inside my head. But I merely had to concentrate and the demon accepted the inevitable. He is thoroughly quiet now. I hardly know he's there."
    "But you are able to call on his power and knowledge, aren't you, Hopkins?" Makepeace said. "It is really quite remarkable."
    "Show us!" the female conspirator whispered.
    "Yes, show us! Show us!" Around the table the plea was taken up, over and over. Each face shone with furious, avid hunger. To Kitty they seemed wicked, but also helpless, like nestlings waiting to be fed. She was filled with a sudden repulsion; she longed to get away.
    Makepeace's eyes were glittering slits; he nudged the scholar's arm. "What do you think, Hopkins? Show them a little, just to whet the appetite?"
    "If you think it appropriate, sir." The scholar took a step back, bent his head in concentration. Then, without apparent effort, he rose into the air. Several of the conspirators gasped. Kitty glanced at Mandrake; he was watching openmouthed.
    Hopkins rose six feet above the floor, then drifted off, away from the table. When he was some way distant, he raised a hand, pointing it at an alabaster statue on the far side of the hall. It showed a bald, stocky magician smoking a cigar. There was a flash of blue light—the statue exploded in a shower of sparks. The ginger-haired magician whooped with excitement; the others stood and clapped, or banged the table in wild joy. Mr. Hopkins rose