Ptolemy's Gate

Mr. Mandrake ample time to draw out a small pocket mirror and inspect himself carefully. He smoothed down his shorn hair where it stuck up in a tuft; he brushed a few motes of dust from off his shoulders. Satisfied at last, he immersed himself in the papers on his desk—a model of zealous, well-kempt industry.
    He recognized that such preening was laughable, but he did it anyway. He was always self-conscious when the Deputy Police Chief came to see him.
    A brusque knock; with light feet and deft, decisive movements, Jane Farrar entered and crossed the room, carrying an orb-case in one hand. Mr. Mandrake half stood courteously , but she waved him back down.
    "You don't need to tell me what an honor this is, John. I'll take it as read. I've got something important to show you."
    "Please. . ." He indicated a leather chair beside the desk. She sat, laying the orb-case heavily on the table, and grinned at him. Mandrake grinned back. They grinned like two cats facing each other over an injured mouse, sleek and strong and confident in their mutual distrust.
    The golem affair three years earlier had ended with the death and disgrace of the Police Chief, Henry Duvall, and since then the Prime Minister had not seen fit to appoint a successor. In fact, in a mark of his increasing distrust of the magicians around him, he had awarded himself the title, and relied upon the Deputy Police Chief to do most of the work. For two years Jane Farrar had fulfilled this role. Her aptitude was well known: it had allowed her to survive a close association with Mr. Duvall and work her way back into Mr. Devereaux's favor. She and Mandrake were now two of his closest allies. For that reason, between themselves they were achingly cordial; nevertheless, their old rivalry bristled beneath the surface.
    Mandrake found her disconcerting for another reason. She was still very beautiful: her hair long and darkly gleaming, her eyes wry and green beneath long lashes. Her looks distracted him; it took all the confidence of his maturity to keep pace with her in conversation.
    He slouched casually in his seat. "I've got something to tell you too," he said. "Who's first?"
    "Oh, go on. After you. But hurry up."
    "Okay. We must get the PM interested in these new abilities some commoners are getting. Another of my demons was spotted yesterday. It was kids again. I don't need to tell you the trouble this brings."
    Ms. Farrar's elegant brows furrowed. "No," she said, "you don't. This morning we've got new reports of strikes by dock workers and machinists. Walkouts. Demonstrations. Not just in London, but the provinces too. It's being organized by men and women with these unusual powers. We're going to have to round them up."
    "Mmm, but the cause, Jane. What is it?"
    "We can find out when they're safely in the Tower. We've spies working through the pubs now, getting information. We'll come down hard. Anything more?"
    "We need to discuss the latest attack in Kent too, but that can wait till Council."
    Ms. Farrar reached out two slender fingers and unzipped her case, pulling back the cloth to expose a small crystal orb, blue-white and perfect, with a flattened base. She pushed it toward the center of the desk. "My turn," she said.
    The magician sat up a little. "One of your spies?"
    "Yes. Now pay attention, John—this is important. You know that Mr. Devereaux has asked me to keep close watch on our magicians, in case anyone tries to follow in the footsteps of Duvall and Lovelace?"
    Mr. Mandrake nodded. More than the American rebels, more than their enemies in Europe, more than the angry commoners demonstrating on the streets, the Prime Minister feared his ministers, the men and women who sat at his table and drank his wine. It was a justified anxiety—his colleagues had ambitions; nevertheless it distracted him from other pressing business. "What have you found?" he asked.
    "Something." She passed a hand across the orb, leaning forward so that her long black hair fell down around her face. Clearing his throat, Mandrake leaned forward too, enjoying (as always) her scent, her shape, their shared proximity. Dangerous and feline as she was, Ms. Farrar's company had its charms.
    She spoke a few words: grains of blue ran away across the surface of the orb to collect in a pool near the bottom. The upper surface was left clear. Here an image formed—a face of shadows. It flickered, moved, bul did not draw near.
    Ms. Farrar looked up. "This is Yole," she said. "Yole has