Ptolemy's Gate

beyond was hidden.
    So where—?
    A cough. Just behind the plinth.
    Nathaniel moved; not fast, but as fast as he could. The pain in his shoulder prevented him putting weight on his right arm. With the left he levered himself into a crouching position, then slowly rose.
    On the other side of the plinth the mercenary was standing, surrounded by the billowing cloud of yellow-green vapor. He still held the knife; his eyes were fixed on Nathaniel. But he leaned heavily on the plinth top, and coughed with every breath.
    Slowly he drew himself up. Slowly he started to walk around the plinth to Nathaniel.
    Nathaniel backed away.
    The bearded man moved with the utmost care, as if his limbs pained him. He ignored the boiling Pestilence, which ate away his cloak, which bit into his black clothes, into the thick black socks upon his limping feet. He stepped away from the plinth.
    Nathaniel's back bumped against the wall at the far end of the chamber. He could go no farther. His hands were empty. He had dropped the silver disc somewhere as he ran. There was no defense now.
    The Pestilence swirled ever darker around the oncoming form. Nathaniel saw a grimace flicker across the mercenary's face, perhaps of doubt or pain. Was his resilience waning? It had already been forced to cope with the shadows' long assault, and now the Pestilence beat against it too. . .Had the skin changed color? Was it perhaps a little yellowed, a little blotchy . . . ?
    The remorseless steps continued; the pale blue eyes pierced him.
    Nathaniel pressed back against the stones. Instinctively his hand closed around the Amulet; the metal was cold to the touch.
    The cloud of Pestilence gave a sudden flurry, billowed around the mercenary like a cloak. It was as if it had suddenly found a puncture, a weakness in his armor. It swirled like a storm of hornets enveloping a foe, stinging, stinging. The mercenary kept walking. The skin on his face cracked like old paper. The flesh below fell inward, as if being sucked dry. Color drained from the jet-black beard. The pale blue eyes stayed fixed upon Nathaniel with consuming hatred.
    Closer, closer. The hand that held the knife was shriveled, nothing but a knot of bones beneath a rind of skin. Now the beard was gray, now it was white; cheekbones protruded through the hair like jags of slate. To Nathaniel, it seemed the mercenary smiled. The smile broadened, displayed impossible extents of teeth. . . The skin on the face fell away entirely, to leave a gleaming skull with clipped white beard and pale blue eyes, which gave a burst of brightness and suddenly went out.
    Bones in black clothes. Its step became wholesale collapse; it dropped, splintered, crashed down upon itself, scattering a mess of rags and scraps about Nathaniel's feet.
    The malignity of the Pestilence diminished; what remained of it was sucked away into the Amulet as Nathaniel hobbled back across the room. He came to the plinth. Viewed through his lenses, the collective aura of the treasures hurt his eyes. Brightest of all was the Staff. He reached out his hand (noting subconsciously the patina of little wounds upon his skin) and picked it up. He recalled at once the smoothness, the lightness of the aged wood.
    Nathaniel felt no triumph. He was too weak. The Staff was in his hand, but the mere notion of activating it daunted him. The pain in his shoulder made him nauseous. He caught sight of the culprit—a bloodied silver disc lying on the tiles. Beside it was a second disc—the one he'd dropped. Stiffly he stooped and placed it in his pocket.
    The Staff, the Amulet. . . Anything more? He considered the array of objects on the plinth. Some—the ones he had heard of—were of no immediate use; others were gloweringly mysterious, and best left well alone. Without further delay, he departed the room of treasures.
    On his way back through the passages the guardian shadows, attracted by the pulsing auras of the Staff and Amulet, attempted to waylay him. Their freezing blue radiance was absorbed by the Amulet; any individuals that flung themselves upon Nathaniel were, in short order, sucked into the piece of jade. Nathaniel was unmolested. As he went, he retrieved the seven-league boots; a few minutes later he crossed the line of tiles and came out into the entrance room.
    His scrying glass lay on the desk.
    "Imp, you have three tasks, then you are free."
    "You've got to be kidding. One of them's impossible, right? Making a rope of sand? Building a bridge to