Ptolemy's Gate

before we could see beyond the trees to the center of the palace, directly below the highest domes of soaring glass. Here, in an open space, wedged between a gaudily painted merry-go-round and an area of picnic tables, we saw a throng of humans, perhaps a hundred strong, huddled together like penguins in a winter storm. They were marshaled by seven or eight of Nouda's spirits, who stood on every side. Rufus Lime's body was among their vehicles, as was—I knew this from an agitation within Nathaniel's mind— that of the Prime Minister Rupert Devereaux. From the authority of their movements, the spirits seemed comfortable in their hosts. Their auras had spread far around the outlines of the bodies. It was not they, however, who attracted our attention.
    Look at Nouda, Nathaniel thought. What's happened to him?
    I had no answer. Up on the roof of the merry-go-round, perhaps twenty meters ahe.ad and as many below us, the old body of Quentin Makepeace was standing. When we'd last set eyes on it, Nouda had been having a little trouble getting to grips with the limitations of his host. Now, belatedly, he seemed to have got the hang of it. The legs were firmly planted, the arms loosely folded, the chin high—he had the exact posture of a successful general, mid-campaign.
    He also had horns.
    Three black ones, to be exact, poking from his forehead at irregular angles. One was long, the other two mere stubs. And that wasn't all. Some kind of dorsal spine had split the back of his shirt; a gray-green flange protruded from his left arm. The face was waxy and irregular, swollen with internal pressure. The eyes seemed living flames.
    That's unexpected, I thought.
    His essence is breaking out of the body. It was Nathaniel's boundless capacity for stating the obvious that made him so charmingly human.
    As we watched, the horns, spine, and flanges shrank back into the skin, as if by a stern effort of will. A quivering, a shaking: a moment later they sprang back, bigger tha n ever. From the open mouth the great voice came roaring. "Ah! The discomfort! I feel the old burning! Faquarl! Where is Faquarl?"
    He's not happy, Nathaniel thought. His power must simply be too great. The fabric of his host is breaking apart and he's lost its protection.
    Can't help that he's been wolfing down humans since he got here. That must have swelled his essence. ... I surveyed the commoners cowering below him. Looks as if he's still hungry too.
    This ends now. All Nathaniel's unhappiness and dissatisfaction had coalesced into cold, hard fury. His mind was a piece of flint. Think we can pick him off from here?
    Yes. Aim carefully. We'll have one chance only. Better make it a strong one.
    Now who's stating the obvious?
    We were still crouched, peering through the ornate iron railings that bounded the gantry. As Nathaniel composed himself to stand, I erected a precautionary Shield. When the strike was done, the other spirits would no doubt seek revenge. I scanned the possibilities. . . First an evasive leap, either to the palm tree, or backward onto the sushi bar roof. Then down to the floor. Then—
    That was enough forward planning.
    Nathaniel stood. We pointed the Staff at Nouda, spoke the words—
    A tremendous explosion, as expected.
    Only, not around Nouda, but all around us. My Shield just about held firm. Even so, we were blown sideways down the gantry and through the glass wall of the palace in a shower of crystal fragments, to go spinning out over the entrance steps and down to the darkness of the ornamental gardens far below. We landed heavily, our fall only partially buffered by the Shield. The Staff, torn from our grip, clattered distantly on the path.
    Our dual consciousness was shaken apart by the impact; for a few seconds we vibrated separately in a single head. As we lay there, groaning independently, the body of Hopkins came drifting out through the shattered aperture high above. It floated down to the steps and approached on foot, at a calm and steady pace.
    "It's Mandrake, isn't it?" Faquarl said, in conversational tones. "I must say, you're a persistent little fellow. If you'd had any sense-you'd have been a hundred miles away by now. What on earth's got into you?"
    If he only knew; We lay on the soil, trying hard to focus. Slowly our vision steadied, our intelligence realigned.
    "The Lord Nouda," Faquarl continued, "is a little fractious at the moment and needs careful handling. His temper would not be improved by being stung by