Ptolemy's Gate

been keeping watch on a certain junior magician who has aroused my interest. Name of Palmer, second level, works in the Home Office. He has been passed over for promotion several times and is a frustrated man. Yesterday Palmer reported in sick; he did not go to work. Instead he left his apartment on foot and made his way to an inn near Whitechapel. He wore common workman's clothes. Yole here followed him and can relay what occurred. I think it will interest you."
    Mandrake made a noncommittal gesture. "Please proceed."
    Jane Farrar snapped her fingers and spoke into the orb. "Show me the inn, with sound."
    The shadowy face retreated, vanished. An image formed inside the orb—rafters, whitewashed walls, a trestle table beneath a hanging brass light. Smoke drifted against grimy pebble-glass windows. The viewpoint was low down; it was as if they were lying on the floor. Dowdy women passed above, and men in rough-cut suits. Faintly, as if from far away, came laughter, coughing, and the chink of glasses.
    A man sat at the trestle table, a burly gentleman in middle age, somewhat pink about the face, with gray flecks in his hair. He wore a shabby overcoat and a soft cap. His eyes ranged ceaselessly back and forth, evidently scanning the people in the inn.
    Mandrake leaned closer, taking in a gentle breath: Farrar's perfume was especially strong that day. There was something pomegranaty about it. "That's Palmer, is it?" he asked. "This is an odd angle we've got. Too low."
    She nodded. "Yole was a mouse by the skirting board. He wished to be unobtrusive, but it was a costly error, wasn't it, Yole?" She stroked the surface of the orb.
    A voice from within, whimpering and meek. "Yes, mistress."
    "Mmm. Yes, that's Palmer. Ordinarily a very dapper fellow. Now—this is important. It's hard to see from down here, but he has a pint of beer in his hand."
    "Remarkable," Mandrake murmured. "This being a pub and all." Definitely pomegranates. . . and possibly a hint of lemon. . .
    "Just wait. He's watching for someone."
    Mandrake considered the figure in the orb. As was to be expected in a magician among commoners, Mr. Palmer seemed ill at ease. His eyes moved constantly; sweat glistened on his neck and shiny forehead. Twice he lifted his glass as if to drink his ale; twice he halted with it at his lips and replaced it slowly on the table out of sight.
    "Nervous," Mandrake said.
    "Yes. Poor, poor Palmer."
    She spoke softly, but something in her tone carried the sharpness of a knife. Mandrake breathed in again. That hint of tartness was just right. Set off the sweeter scent quite nicely.
    Ms. Farrar coughed. "Something wrong with your chair, Mandrake?" she inquired. "Any farther forward and you'll be in my lap."
    He looked up hurriedly from the orb, narrowly avoiding crashing his forehead into hers."Sorry, Farrar, sorry." He cleared his throat, spoke in a deep voice. "It's just the tension—can't pull myself away. I wonder what this Palmer's game is. A most suspicious character." He pulled absently at a cuff.
    Ms. Farrar regarded him for a moment, then gestured at the orb. "Well, observe."
    Into view from the side of the orb came a newcomer, carrying a pint of beer. He went bareheaded, his ginger hair slicked back, dirty worker's boots and trousers shuffling beneath a long black raincoat. With casual but deliberate steps, he drew near to Mr. Palmer, who had shuffled over on his bench to make room for him.
    The newcomer sat. He placed his beer upon the table and pushed his glasses higher on his little nose.
    Mr. Mandrake was transfixed. "Wait!" he hissed. "I know him!"
    "Yole," Farrar ordered. "Halt the scene."
    The two men in the orb were half turning their heads to greet one another. At her command, the image froze.
    "That's good," Farrar said. "You recognize him?"
    "Yes. That 's Jenkins. Clive Jenkins. Worked in Internal Affairs with me. Still may do for all I know. Secretary level. Going nowhere. Well, now. This is interesting."
    "You wait." Her fingers snapped; Mandrake noted their pale pink nail polish, the soft color of her cuticles. The image in the orb restarted: the heads of the two men turned, nodded at each other, looked away. The newcomer, Clive Jenkins, took a sip of beer. His lips moved; half a second later, his voice, tinny and distorted, was audible in the orb.
    "Now then, Palmer. Things are moving fast and it's decision time. We need to know if you're in, or if you're out."
    Mr. Palmer took a long drink from his