Ptolemy's Gate

goggles, a red beard. . . gone. Makepeace in disguise? Easy to imagine now.
    During the golem affair Nathaniel had been surprised how easily the playwright had discovered the location of the fugitive Kitty: that must have been Hopkins, then—Makepeace's contact with the Resistance. Nathaniel ground his teeth. How swiftly Makepeace had won him over, used him as an ally, played him for a fool. Well, the matter wasn't over yet.
    Stony faced, Nathaniel watched Mr. Hopkins hurrying past to obey his leader's orders. So this was the mysterious scholar he had sought so long! A demon's power coursed through the villain's body—of that there was no doubt. But the meek little man would hardly be a match for Cormocodran, Ascobol, and the others if Nathaniel could only bring them to his side. Yet while Hopkins worked his mischief here, the incompetent djinn were a mile away, waiting vainly for him at the Ambassador Hotel!
    Nathaniel's brows knotted with frustration. He fidgeted with the cords that bound his hands. All he could do was wait until Makepeace freed him and let him step within a pentacle. Then he could act. In an instant his servants would be summoned and the traitors brought to account.
    "My friends, I am ready! Come, Mandrake, Ms. Jones—you must join the audience!" Makepeace was standing in the nearest circle, shirtsleeves rolled up, collar undone; he had adopted a heroic pose: hands on hips, pelvis thrust forward, legs wide enough to straddle a horse. The conspirators congregated at a respectful distance; even the mercenary showed sufficient interest to stalk a little closer. Together, Nathaniel and Kitty approached the pentacle.
    "The time has come!" Makepeace cried. "The moment toward which I have worked for so many years. Only the thrill of anticipation, my friends, keeps me from bursting with my pent emotions!" With a dynamic flourish, he removed a lacy handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his eyes. "How much sweat, how many tears have I shed to get so far?" he cried. "Who can tell? How much blood—?"
    "Secretions aside," Rufus Lime interjected sourly, "hadn't you better get on with it? Some of those candles are burning low."
    Makepeace glared at him, but returned his hanky to his pocket. "Very well. My friends, following the success of Hopkins here in subduing a demon of moderate power"— Hopkins gave a little smile, which might have meant anything—"I have decided to apply my more considerable ability to the taming of a greater entity." He paused. "This very evening Hopkins located in the London Library a volume listing the names of spirits from ancient Persia. I have decided to make use of a name he found there. My friends, here and now, before your very eyes, I shall summon into myself the greater demon known as. . . Nouda!"
    Nathaniel uttered a small exclamation. Nouda? The man was mad. "Makepeace," he said. "Surely you're joking. This procedure is risky enough without trying something so powerful."
    The playwright pursed his lips fretfully. "I'm not joking, John, just ambitious. Mr. Hopkins has assured me that control is simplicity itself—and I am very strong-willed. I hope you don't mean to imply that I'm not up to this."
    "Oh no," Nathaniel said hastily. "Not at all." He leaned close to Kitty. "The man's a fool," he whispered. "Nouda is a terrible entity; one of the most fearsome recorded. It left Persepolis in ruins. . ."
    Kitty leaned over, whispered back. "I know. Destroyed Darius's own army."
    "Yes." Nathaniel nodded. Then he blinked."What? How did you know?"
    "John!" Makepeace's voice was tetchy. "Enough canoodling! I need silence now. Hopkins—if you see anything go amiss, reverse the process; use Asprey's Overrule. Right. Quiet, all."
    Quentin Makepeace closed his eyes, bent his head toward his chest. He flourished his arms and flexed his fingers. He breathed deeply. Then he lifted his chin, opened his eyes, and began to declaim the incantation in a loud, clear voice. Nathaniel listened hard: as before, it was a simple enough Latin summons, but the strength of the oncoming spirit meant that it had to be reinforced with multiple word-locks and tortuous subclauses doubling back on themselves to shore up the binding. He had to admit that Makepeace spoke it well. Minutes passed—his larynx never faltered, he ignored the perspiration running down his face. There was a hush in the chamber: Nathaniel, Kitty, the conspirators—all watched, transfixed. Most avid of all was Mr. Hopkins—he