Ptolemy's Gate

the stench of incense clung to their clothes and their skin had the pallor of the typical working magician. They were a shabby trio to be sure—like Jenkins, the others wore suits too big and too good for them; their shoes were pointed, their shoulder pads a little high. All three were in their twenties, or so I judged. Apprentices, secretaries: none gave off the aura of power. But they spoke avidly; their eyes glittered in the dusk of the Cheddar Cheese with fanatics' fervor.
    Upside down on the ceiling, the fly craned its head to listen to their words. No luck—the squawking at the bar blocked out the sound. I dropped into midair, circled stealthily down toward them, cursing the lack of walls nearby. Jenkins was speaking; I flitted nearer, close enough now to smell the lacquer on his scalp, see the pores in his little red nose.
    "... thing is to make sure you're ready for the night. Have you both chosen yours?"
    "Burke has. I've not." It was the weediest of the trio who spoke: rheumy of eye, concave of chest—compared to him, Jenkins looked like Atlas.[3] The third man, Burke, was scarcely better, a bandy-legged individual, shoulders flecked with scurf.

[3] Atlas: a marid of unusual strength and muscular definition, employed by the Greek magician Phidias to construct the Parthenon, circa 440 B.C. Atlas shirked the work and bodged the foundations. When cracks appeared, Phidias confined Atlas below ground, charging him to hold the building up indefinitely. He may still be there, for all I know.

Jenkins grunted. "Get on with it then. Try using Trismegistus or Porter—they've both got a lot of choice."
    The weedy fellow let out a melancholy bleat. "It's not choice that's the problem, Jenkins. It's just—how powerful should I go for? I wouldn't want—"
    "Not scared, are you, Withers?" Jenkins's smile was scathing , hostile. "Palmer was scared; and you know what happened to him. It's not too late to find someone else."
    "No, no, no." Withers was aflurry with reassurance. "I'll be ready. I'll be ready. Whenever you want."
    "Are there many of us?" Burke asked. If Withers bleated like a sheep, Burke's voice was more bovine, that of a ruminative dullard.
    "No," Jenkins said. "You know not. Just seven in total. One for each chair."
    Burke gave a low hiccupping laugh. Withers sniggered in a higher key. The idea seemed to entertain them.
    Withers's caution resurfaced. "And you're sure we're safe till then?"
    "Devereaux's distracted with the war, Farrar and Mandrake with the restless commoners. Far too much going on for anyone to take any notice of us" Jenkins's eyes gleamed. "Who, after all, has ever taken any notice of us?" He paused to allow a bit of mutual glowering, then popped his hat back on his head. "Right, I have to go," he said. "I've a few more visits to make. Don't forget the imps, either."
    "But the experiment"—Burke had leaned in close—-"Withers had a point. We'll need to see proof that it's been successful, before we. . . you understand?"
    Jenkins laughed. "You'll get that proof. Hopkins himself will show you there are no side effects. But I assure you it's most impressive. For a start—"
    Whup. With that unusual sound, my eavesdropping came to an abrupt halt. One moment I was buzzing discreetly by Jenkins's ear, the next a rolled-up newspaper descended like a thunderbolt from the skies and walloped me from behind. It was a treacherous attack. [4] I was knocked plumb out of the air and onto the floor, head reeling, six legs akimbo. Jenkins and company looked down at me in vague surprise. My assailant, a brawny bartender, flourished the paper cheerfully at them.

[4] What made it worse was that it was a copy of Real War Stories that did the deed. Mandrake's paper! Another injury to add to my list of his endless crimes.

"Got it," he smiled. "Buzzing right by your ear, sir. Horrible big 'un too, very out of season."
    "Yes," said Jenkins. "Isn't it?" His eyes narrowed, no doubt studying me through his lenses, but I was a fly on planes one to four, so it told him nothing. He moved suddenly, stretching out a foot to crush me. With perhaps more nimbleness than a wounded fly ought to have, I dodged and drifted off unsteadily toward the nearest window.
    Out in the street I kept the pub door in view, while inspecting my tender essence. It's a sorry state of affairs when a djinni who *****[5] is laid low by a rolled-up piece of paper, but that was the sad fact of the matter. All this changing and being