Ptolemy's Gate

done well. I shall report to Mr. Hopkins now. Things gather pace."
    "What if I need to contact him? Is he still at the Ambassador?"
    "For the moment, yes. But do so only as a last resort. We must not attract attention."
    Under the nearby table the coil of smoke would have been hugging itself with glee, had its essence not been quite so stiff. The Ambassador was bound to be a hotel or something. Which meant I had Hopkins's address, exactly as Mandrake had required. Freedom was almost mine! Like I said, I might be a little below par, but I don't make mistakes when it comes to stealthy trailing.
    Jenkins was looking a little pensive. "Speaking of that, sir. . . I have only just recalled. . . well, earlier this evening there was a fly hovering near while I spoke to Burke and Withers. It was probably innocent enough, but—"
    The mercenary's voice was like distant thunder. "Is that so? And you did what?"
    Jenkins pushed his little round glasses up his nose—an anxious gesture, which I could well understand. The mercenary was a full foot taller than he, and almost twice as wide. He could have snapped Jenkins's spine with a single blow. "I kept careful watch as I continued," he stammered, "but I saw noth-ing."
    Naturally. Beneath the table the coil of smoke grinned to itself.
    "Also I asked Truklet, my imp, to follow at a distance and report back here."
    Ah. Not so good. I ducked back out of sight and twisted to and fro, staring between the chair legs, looking on all the planes. At first—nothing. Then what should I see but a little spider come creeping, creeping along the floor. It was looking under every table, eyes brightly questing this way and that. I rose up out of view, hung undulating in the shadows. Waiting.
    The little spider came creeping, creeping to my table. It passed below. . . caught sight of me in an instant, and reared up on its back legs to sound an alarm. The coil of smoke swept down, engulfed the spider. There was a moment's struggle, a desperate squeak.
    Presently the coil of smoke moved again. It went slowly at first, in cumbrous rolls, like a python after a heavy feed, but soon began to gather pace.[3]

[3] Poor Truklet's essence was meager fare. Ordinarily I'd have turned my nose up at it. But these were desperate times, and I needed all the energy I could get. Besides, the little swine was going to snitch me up.

I looked back. The conspirators were parting company; the mercenary standing, Jenkins staying put, presumably until his imp turned up.[4] It was decision time.

    [4] It was going to be quite a wait. I should have bought him another coffee.

Mandrake had told me to locate Hopkins and uncover his plot, and I'd gone a fair way toward fulfilling the first request. I could have simply headed back to my master there and then, since by rights I'd done enough to justify my dismissal. But "rights," particularly mine, weren't things Mandrake understood very well. He'd disappointed me before. So it was better to make absolutely certain; to hit him with so much information that all he could do was thank me humbly and show me to a pentacle.
    And right now the mercenary was going to Hopkins.
    The coil of smoke curled up like a spring beneath the table. I watched the floor nearby. Nothing. . . nothing . . .Two boots came in to view; old brown leather, scratched and worn.
    Just as they passed, I uncoiled, sprang—and in so doing, made another change.
    The mercenary crossed to the door with stately steps. His coat rustled, weapons clinked about his person. A small long-clawed lizard clung to the leather of his right boot.
    Outside, night had fallen. A few cars droned on a distant road. Passersby were few and far between. The mercenary let the cafe door bang shut behind him, walked a couple of paces, then stopped. The lizard dug its claws in deeper. I knew what was coming.
    A throb of magic, a vibration that shook my essence to its core. The boot I was on rose, tipped, fell to earth again—it was a single step, but all around me the street, the night and the lights of the cafe had blurred into a liquid stream. Another step, and yet another. The stream of light flickered; dimly I sensed buildings, people, and broken shards of noise, but I was too busy hanging on for dear life as the seven-league boots moved without regard for normal space and time. It was like being back in the Other Place again; I would have quite enjoyed the ride had I not felt little grains of essence breaking loose from my