Ptolemy's Gate

opened the book with gentle fingers and flipped the pages slowly at random, eyes scanning the columns. He shrugged. "A work of fiction; charmingly idealistic in some of its conceits, if not wrongheaded. Some of its statements . . . well, Ptolemy's Gate is a supposed method of reversing the normal summoning process, whereby the magician, or some element, spirit or sentience thereof, withdraws for a time to the particular remoteness where demons reside; the author—by reputation this was the Alexandrine, Ptolemaeus—claims to have done it himself, though why he should risk such a terrifying ordeal is far from clear. Good enough for you? Oh, sorry—that's a question."
    "No. It's not good enough. What's the exact formula? Does he give it?"
    Mandrake clapped his head in irritation. "Kitty! Have you gone quite mad? We have more important things to—"
    "Just tell me!" She started toward him, fists clenched.
    Mandrake veered back; as he did so, the scrying glass throbbed and hummed in Kitty's hands. The baby's face returned, looking frightened and out of breath. For a few seconds it did not speak, but only wheezed and puffed immoderately. Kitty shook her head in pity. "Your slave's back. He's practically dead, poor little mite."
    The baby belched loudly, then spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Who's this trollop?"
    With pointed gallantry, Mandrake took the disc from her hands. "Just tell us what you saw."
    "It wasn't a pretty sight, boss." The baby picked its nose with an agitated finger. "Am I right in thinking this will be the last job you give me? On account of the fact that you're locked in a cell and surrounded by rampant demons preparing to take the vengeance that they've craved for thousands of years? Just wondering."
    Kitty ground her teeth with impatience. Mandrake glanced at her. "What do you think? The Infernal Coals?"
    "Anything."
    The baby gave an anxious croak and spoke at speed: "I followed your orders to the letter; you can have no complaint. First, the great spirits. Ah—they are powerful; the planes warp with their passing. There are seven; all wear actual human bodies, concealing their true forms. At their center sits Nouda; he issues rapid commands. The others scutter to do his bidding. In neighboring chambers the corpses of Whitehall bureaucrats lie like skittles. From a side room—"
    Mandrake interrupted the desperate flow. "Wait. How do the demons move? Are they comfortable in their hosts?"
    "For the most part, no. They move as if with broken limbs. But yet they sing with the joy of freedom. Would that I could join them," the baby said -wistfully. "I would set your bones upon a metal platter and make percussive music. You want more?"
    "Descriptions, yes. Empty threats, no."
    "From a side room comes a steady herd of bedraggled humans. Their arms are bound, their mouths stopped with wax and linen. The great spirits herd them like goats toward a precipice. One by one, in the center of the hall, their mouths are freed and they stand before Lord Nouda's chair. He gives them an ultimatum."
    "These humans," Mandrake said. "Describe them."
    The baby sniffed. "Tricky. . . Could you individuate a tribe of rabbits?" It considered. "Several lacked chins, while others boasted several."
    Kitty and Mandrake exchanged a glance. "It is the government."
    "Nouda gives each a choice. Following a certain formula, they must summon a spirit into themselves. The djinni Faquarl stands by Nouda's chair, holding a weighty tome: he gives them the name to call. If they agree, the procedure is carried out. If not, they are to be destroyed."
    Mandrake bit his lip. "What is the general consensus?"
    "So far, each politician has agreed to surrender his or her mind. They prefer to accept the vilest humiliation rather than a more honorable way out."
    Kitty kicked out at the wall. "Nouda isn't wasting time. He's creating his army."
    "And by doing so, removing the only people capable of resisting him," Mandrake said. "Imp, what is the situation elsewhere?"
    The baby shrugged. "It depends on your point of view. From my perspective the outlook is rosy. Few humans remain alive within this building. Beyond, in central London, great gatherings of commoners assemble, emboldened by the lack of response from the government. In Whitehall, two battalions of werewolves maintain ragged defense of the Parliament zone. A few magicians try frantically to communicate with their leaders, but to no avail."
    "Ha! Some magicians are still in action!" Mandrake