Ptolemy's Gate

with steep roofs and sharply pointed dormers. Heavy black beams laced its walls; lit windows gleamed at random heights, casting a rich light upon the street and the dark waters of the river. The upper story projected out above the lower on all sides, here vigorously, here sagging as if about to fall. A faded green sign swung from a pole above the path, so weather-beaten that its words could not be read. This was of small account, since The Frog was a notable local landmark. It was famous for its beer, its beef and for its weekly domino tournaments. It was also Kitty's workplace in the evenings.
    She ducked under a low arch and walked down the pitch-black side alley into the pub's yard. As she entered it, she glanced up. A faint red light hovered by the gables. If you looked directly at it, its shape was blurred and indistinct; if you looked away, you saw its outline clearly—a small, neat vigilance sphere, watching.
    Kitty ignored the spy. She crossed the yard to the main door, which was sheltered from the weather by an ancient blackened porch, and entered the Frog Inn.
    The bright lights of the taproom made her blink. The curtains had been drawn against the night and a fire lit in the grate. Its colors flickered in rows of glasses assembled on the bar; George Fox, the manager, was industriously polishing them one by one. He nodded at Kitty as she passed to hang her satchel on the coat-rail.
    "In your own time, Clara. In your own time."
    She glanced at her watch. "Still twenty minutes before they get here, George."
    "Not long enough for what I've got planned for you."
    Kitty flipped her hat onto a peg. "No problem." She motioned with her head back toward the door. "How long's it been there?"
    "Couple of hours. Usual sort. Just trying to spook us. Can't hear. Won't interfere."
    "Okay. Chuck me a cloth."
    In fifteen brisk and efficient minutes the taproom was clean and ready, the glasses polished, the tabletops spic and span. Kitty had placed ten pitchers on the counter above the tap, and Sam, The Frog's barman, began filling them with light-brown frothing drafts of beer. Kitty distributed the last of the domino boxes, wiped her hands on her trousers, plucked an apron from a hook, and took up position behind the bar. George Fox opened the main door and allowed the customers in.
    As usual, The Frog's reputation ensured an ever-changing clientele, and tonight Kitty noticed several people she hadn't seen before: a tall military gentleman, an old lady smiling and shuffling to a seat, a young blond man with beard and mustache. The familiar click of the dominoes began; conviviality filled the air. Smoothing down her apron, Kitty hastened between tables and took orders for the evening meal.
    An hour passed; the remains of thick-slabbed hot beef sandwiches lay on plates at the players' elbows. With the food finished, interest in dominoes quickly paled. The pieces were kept in position on every table, in case the police should raid, but the players now sat up in their seats, suddenly alert and sober. Kitty filled a last few empty glasses, then returned to stand behind the counter as a man sitting near the fireplace slowly got to his feet.
    He was old and frail, bent with years. The whole room quietened to a hush.
    "Friends," he began, "little of note has happened since last week, so I shall shortly open our meeting to the floor. As always, I would like to thank our patron, Mr. Fox, for his hospitality. Perhaps we could hear from Mary first, for news of the American situation?"
    He sat. At an adjacent table a woman stood, thin-faced and weary. Kitty judged her to be not yet forty, though her hair was flecked with gray. "A merchant ship came in late last night," she began."Its last berth was Boston, in the war zone. The crew breakfasted at our cafe this morning. They told us that the most recent British offensive has failed—Boston is still in American hands. Our army withdrew to the fields, searching for supplies, and has since been attacked. Losses are high."
    A low muttering filled the room. The old gentleman half stood. "Thank you, Mary. Who cares to speak next?"
    "If I may?" The young bearded man spoke up; he was stocky, self-confident; he carried an assertive air. "I represent a new organization, the Commoners' Alliance. Perhaps you've heard of it."
    There was a general shuffling, a sense of unease. From behind the bar Kitty frowned. Something about the speaker's voice. . . it bothered her.
    "We're trying to gather