Ptolemy's Gate

debris. He did not get a chance to focus on it; he was too busy trying to cope with his lurching stomach, with the thrill of the energies awoken within him. Up into the air and down again—out of this room and through another—past a staircase blown to match wood, across a mess of masonry, boulder-sized. Through a gaping arch of ruptured stone—
    Out onto the streets of Whitehall.
    They landed, knees bent, ready to spring again. Nathaniel's head was cocked, his eyes swiveled; they saw all planes.
    "Oh no . . ." he whispered.
    Oh YES, the djinni said.
    Whitehall was aflame. Above the rooftops the lowest clouds glowed pink and orange; fiery light drained between them into chasms of blackness, pricked with stars. The great ministries of government, where imperial business never ceased, stood dark and empty. All lights were off, the street lamps too. A building to the north—was it the Education Ministry? Nathaniel could not tell—had a fire burning on an upper floor. Little flickering darts of redness waved from the windows like autumn leaves. Smoke rose to mingle with the clouds. Other blazes crackled in buildings opposite. It all had an unreal quality, like illusions in one of Makepeace's plays.
    The street was empty save for debris, toppled lamps and statues, and—lying dark and small like scalded ants—scattered human bodies. Here a limousine had been hurled through the glass front of the Ministry of Transport; there one of the vast sculptures "Respect for Authority" lay in ruins—its monolithic feet all that remained upon its pedestal. The war memorials had been likewise shattered, the road half blocked with granite. From up the slow curve of Whitehall, from the direction of Trafalgar Square, a dull explosion sounded.
    "That way," Nathaniel said. His legs sprang, he soared high, dived low. At his height he was level with the second story of the buildings; each time he dropped to earth he gave it only the lightest glancing touch before springing on. His boots rattled loosely on his feet.
    "You know I'm wearing the seven-league boots," he gasped. The wind took his breath away.
    Of course I know. I am you for the moment, like it or not. We don't need them yet. Are you ready with the Staff? There's something up ahead.
    Past the war memorials, past abandoned cars. The body of a wolf lay in the middle of the road, along with tatters of barbed wire, warning signs, the remnants of a police cordon. Ahead was Trafalgar Square. Nelson's Column rose into the night, bathed in a mustard-yellow glow. Small explosions echoed back and forth beneath it. Among the stalls and booths of the tourist market, little shadows fled and scattered. Something bounded at their heels.
    Nathaniel came to rest at the edge of the square. He bit his lip. "It's chasing the people."
    Bit of sport. Probably thinks she's back at the Colosseum. . . [1] Look! That man survived a Detonation. Some of these guys have resilience.

[1] Slaves and prisoners of war were given iron knives and sent into Rome's great arena to combat captive djinn. The Roman elite used to just love the comedy chases and all the hilarious methods of death.

Nathaniel placed a hand over his eyes. "Your thoughts went in different directions there. Keep it simple. I can't cope."
    Okay. Staff ready? Well then, here we go-o-o-!
    Before Nathaniel could prepare himself, his legs had given a bound: he was across the road, in among the burning stalls. Down through the smoke—past a cowering woman and a small child. A hop, a leap. . . Straight ahead, standing by a fountain, bent like a beast—the body of Clive Jenkins. Pale green fires burned behind his eyes; his mouth hung slack, distended. Yellow vapor curled from his hands.
    Nathaniel stared in shock, with difficulty regained control. He raised the Staff—
    His legs leaped once more. He found himself flying through the air. At his back, an explosion; tiny pieces of concrete struck the side of his face. He landed on the head of a lion statue, directly beneath the column.
    "What did you move us for?" he shouted."I was just getting ready—"
    Another second and we'd have been blown apart. Got to be faster. Naeryan's an afrit; she doesn't waste time. [2]

[2] I first encountered Naeryan in Africa during the Scipio campaigns. Her favorite manifestation was as a lissom belly dancer, who would lure—

"Will you stop doing that? I'm trying to concentrate." Nathaniel focused the Staff, readied himself. . .
    Well, hurry it up. She's