Ptolemy's Gate

yellow and orange tabards, decorated with the arms of Aragon. They sent Infernos raining down upon the city center."
    "Meanwhile another band of demons savaged a section of Kent," Ms. Whitwell continued. "I believe Mr. Mandrake dealt with that." She sniffed.
    "I did," John Mandrake said blandly. "The enemy force was destroyed, but we have no evidence where they came from."
    "A pity." Whitwell's thin white fingers tapped a rhythm on the table. "Even so, the problem is clear: this is a European-wide phenomenon, and our main forces are not on hand to crush it."
    Mr. Devereaux nodded wearily. "Indeed, indeed. Does anyone else fancy a sweetmeat at this moment?" He looked around. "No? Then I shall venture one alone." He coughed. A tall, gray shadow stepped from nowhere around his chair, and with spectral fingers laid a golden tray before him; it was piled high with yellow pies and pastries. The shadow withdrew. Devereaux selected a glazed doughnut. "Ah, excellent. Jane— pray give us the police's perspective on the domestic situation."
    Ms. Farrar adopted a languid pose that nevertheless displayed her figure to fine advantage. "Frankly, it is troubling. Not only do we have these raids, which are hard to deal with, but there is the matter of commoner disruption. More and more people are seemingly resistant to magical attacks. They see through illusions, observe our spies. . .Inspired by their example, strikes and demonstrations have been held. I regard this as potentially more important even than the war."
    The Prime Minister wiped fragments of sugar from his mouth. "Jane, Jane, we must not get distracted. Commoners can be dealt with in due time. They are restless because of the war." He looked meaningfully at Mr. Mortensen.
    Ms. Farrar inclined her head; a strand of hair fell attractively across her face. "It is your decision, of course, sir."
    Mr. Devereaux slapped a hand against his thigh. "It certainly is! And I decide that we shall now have a little break. Coffee and sweetmeats all round!"
    The shadow returned; with varying degrees of reluctance, the ministers accepted their refreshments. Mandrake slouched over his cup, looking at Jane Farrar again. It was true that they were allies in Council: distrusted by the others, favored by Devereaux, they had long been thrown together. But that meant little. Such allegiances could change at the drop of a hat. As always, he found it hard to resolve her strong personal allure with the cool flintiness of her personality. He frowned; it was a curious fact that, despite his self-control, despite his belief in the virtues of magicians' rule, viewing someone like Farrar close up made him feel, deep down, uncertain, hesitant, clouded by unease. Still, she was very beautiful.
    When it came down to it, of course, all the Council made him feel uneasy. It had taken all his inner steel to maintain his status in their company. They each radiated ambition, strength, cleverness, and guile; none of them ever acted against their own interests. To survive, he had done the same.
    Well, perhaps this was the natural way. Had he ever met anyone who had acted otherwise? Unbidden, the face of Kitty Jones came into his mind. Ridiculous! A traitor, violent, tempestuous, untamed. . .He made a doodle in his pad: a face with long dark hair. . . Ridiculous! Anyway, the girl was dead. He crossed it out hurriedly.
    And further back—long, long ago now—there had been his art tutor too. Ms. Lutyens. Funny, he could no longer clearly recall her face—
    "Didn't you hear me, John?" That was Devereaux, speaking almost in his ear. He felt little flakes of sugar doughnut being blown against his cheek. "We are discussing our position in Europe. I was requesting your opinion."
    Mandrake sat up. "Sorry, sir. Um, my agents tell me there is discontent as far afield as Italy. There have been riots in Rome, I understand. But it is not my area."
    Gaunt, severe, stick-thin, the Security Minister, Jessica Whitwell spoke. "But it is mine. Italy, France, Spain, the Low Countries. Everywhere it is the same. Our troops are at an all-time low. What is the result? Dissent, riot, rebellion. All Europe is erupting. Every last malcontent under the sun is preparing to strike at us; we will be fighting in a dozen countries before the month is out."
    "This is no time for exaggeration, Jessica." Mr. Mortensen's eyes were steely.
    "Exaggeration?" A bony hand slammed against the table; Ms. Whitwell stood. "This will be the worst uprising