Ptolemy's Gate

random. "I was debating between two djinn from Ethiopian texts: Zosa and Karloum."
    "An interesting, if modest, choice. I suggest Karloum. Well, off you go."
    Nathaniel nodded. He took a quick sidelong glance at Kitty, who was watching him intently, then strode toward the nearest vacant pentacle. He hadn't much time: through the corner of his eye he saw strange, contorted shadows flittering above Jenkins and Lime. Heaven knew what the idiots had summoned, but with luck it would take a while for them to control their internal slaves. Before that happened, Cormocodran and Hodge would make short work of them.
    He stepped inside his circle, cleared his throat and looked around. Makepeace was watching him intently. Doubtless he was suspicious. Nathaniel grinned bleakly to himself; well, those suspicions were about to be confirmed in the most dramatic possible way.
    A final moment of preparation—he would need to work swiftly when his djinn arrived, give precise and urgent orders— then Nathaniel acted. He made an ornate gesture, cried out the names of his five strong demons and pointed at the neighboring circle. He steeled himself for the explosions, the smoke and hellfire, the sudden appearance of straining, hideous forms.
    With a miserable squelch, something small and insubstantial struck the center of the circle, spattering outward like a fruit dropped from on high. It had no discernible shape, but gave off a strong smell of fish.
    A bulge rose in its center. A small voice sounded. "Saved!" The bulge rotated, appeared to notice Mr. Hopkins. "Oh."
    Nathaniel gazed at it wordlessly.
    Quentin Makepeace had seen it also. He stepped close, inspected it. "How peculiar! It seems to be some kind of uncooked meal. With added sentience. What do you think, Hopkins?"
    Mr. Hopkins approached; his eyes glittered as they glanced at Nathaniel. "Nothing so innocent, I am afraid, sir. It is the remains of a pernicious djinni, which earlier this evening attempted my capture. Several other demons, who accompanied him, I have already slain. I fear that Master Mandrake was hoping to catch us unawares."
    "Is that so?" Quentin Makepeace straightened sadly. "Oh dear. That rather changes things. I always had such high hopes for you, John. I really thought we might work well together. Still, never mind—I have Hopkins and my five loyal friends to count on." He glanced round at the conspirators who, having finished their summonings, stood quietly in their circles. "That is enough. Our first pleasure will be to watch you and your creature die— Ulp!" He put his hand to his mouth."Excuse me. I fear I— hic! —have indigestion. Now then—" Another gulp, a gasp; his eyes bulged. "This is most curious. I—" His tongue protruded. His limbs shook, his knees sagged; he seemed about to fall.
    Nathaniel stepped back in shock. Makepeace's body gave a sudden wriggle; it writhed, somewhat like a snake, as if all his bones were newly fluid. Then it steadied, stiffened. The playwright seemed to rally. For the briefest of instants a panicked look erupted in the eyes; the tongue managed to gabble out the words: "It is . . ."
    A furious writhing drowned out the rest. Makepeace moved like a puppet on twisted strings.
    The head jerked up. The eyes were staring, lifeless.
    And the mouth laughed.
    Standing all around him in their circles, Lime, Jenkins, and the rest of the conspirators joined in the laughter. Their bodies seemed to ape their leader's; they twitched and wriggled too.
    Nathaniel stood transfixed as the noise erupted around him. It was not kind or pleasant laughter, nor was it particularly malicious, greedy, triumphant, or cruel. It would have been less distressing if it had been. Instead the sound was hollow, discordant and utterly alien. It contained no recognizable human emotion.
    In fact, it wasn't human at all.

24

    It was the soup that saved me. Fish soup, it was, thick and creamy, filling the space of the silver tureen. At first, when I was pressed hard up against the silver walls, my essence dissolved rapidly away. But unexpectedly, things got better. Almost as soon as Faquarl left me, I lapsed into silver-induced unconsciousness, and that meant my crow guise fell apart. I subsided into an oily, fluid mass, not unlike dishwater, which floated within the soup, insulated from the silver by the liquid all around. I wouldn't say I was well off exactly, but my essence was now disintegrating a good deal slower than Faquarl would have