Ptolemy's Gate

streaked with red. Grimly I watched it fade. So there was magic here, and it wasn't weak.
    What should I do? Leaving the cafe in a funk wouldn't help me learn Jenkins's plans, which was the only way I could secure my dismissal. Besides, if the dark figure was Hopkins, I could then trail him, return to Mandrake, and be free by dawn. All in all—whatever the risks—I had to stay.
    Well, Prague's walls weren't built without danger or effort.[8] With a couple of silent undulations, the coil of smoke drifted between tables, closer and closer to where Jenkins sat. At the penultimate table I gathered my energies in the overhang of the plastic cloth, then peered tentatively out.

[8] Or indeed by me. The battalions of imps I'd forced into my service had a frightful time, while I reclined in my hammock at a safe distance, gazing at the stars.

I could see the dark figure more clearly now, though he still faced away from me. He wore a heavy greatcoat, and also a broad-brimmed hat, which obscured his face.
    Jenkins's skin was waxy with tension:"... and Lime arrived from France this morning," he said.[9] "All of them are ready. They await their moment eagerly."

[9] Lime! That's the name I was searching for. The fish-faced man in the coffee shop had been one of the conspirators in the Lovelace affair five years before. If he was coming out of hiding suddenly, things were definitely hotting up.

He cleared his throat unnecessarily. The other did not speak. A faintly familiar magical aura exuded from him. I racked my bleary brains. Where had I seen it before?
    A sudden movement across my table. The smoke recoiled like an anemone—but all was well. A waiter passed me, carrying two mugs of coffee. He plonked them down in front of Jenkins and the other. Whistling tunelessly, he departed.
    I watched the next table. Jenkins took a sip of coffee. He did not speak.
    A hand stretched out for the second mug—a big hand; its back was laced -with an odd crisscrossing of thin white scars.
    I watched the hand take the mug, raise it delicately from the table. The head turned a little as it bent to drink; I saw the heavy brow, the hooked nose, the bristles of the trim black beard. And then, too late, I felt the surge of recognition.
    The mercenary drank his coffee. I shrank back into the shadows.

10

    Thing was, I knew this mercenary. Both times we'd met we'd had a difference of views, and we'd done our best to resolve it in a civilized fashion. But whether I squished him under a statue, blew him up with a Detonation, or (as in our last encounter) simply set him on fire and hurled him down a mountainside, he never seemed to suffer the slightest injury. For his part, he'd come annoyingly close to killing me with various silver weapons. And now, just when I was at my weakest, here he was again. It gave me pause. I wasn't scared of him, of course; dear me, no. Let's call it judiciously nervous.
    As always, he was wearing a pair of ancient leather boots, scratched and worn, which positively stank of magic.[1] Presumably it was these that had triggered my Pulse. Seven-league boots, which can cover great distances in the blink of an eye, are rare indeed; combined with the fellow's extreme resilience and his assassin's training, he was a formidable foe. I was rather glad I was well concealed behind the tablecloth.

[1] In contrast to most of my master's shoes, which just positively stank.

The mercenary finished his coffee in a single gulp,[2] and rested his scarred hand on the table once again. He spoke. "So they have all chosen?" It was the old familiar voice, calm, deliberate, and ocean-deep.

[2] It must have been piping hot, too. Boy, he was tough .

Jenkins nodded. "Yes, sir. And their imps too. I hope it will be enough."
    "Our leader will provide the rest."
    Aha! Now we were getting down to business! A leader! Was this Hopkins, or someone else? Thanks to my pain, there was a buzzing in my head—I found it hard to listen. Better get closer. The smoke wriggled a little way out from under the table.
    Jenkins sipped his drink. "Is there anything further you wish me to do, sir?"
    "Not for now. I shall organize the vans."
    "What about the chains and ropes?"
    "I will deal with them too. I have. . . experience in that department."
    Chains! Ropes! Vans! Put them together and what do you get? No, I hadn't a clue either. But it sounded like dirty work to me. In my excitement I wriggled a little nearer.
    "Go home," the mercenary said. "You have