Ptolemy's Gate

support," the man went on, "for a new round of strikes and public demonstrations. We've got to show the magicians what's what. The only way to make them sit up is concerted action by us all. I'm talking mass protests here."
    "May I speak?" The elderly lady, immaculately presented in a dark blue dress and crimson shawl, sought to rise; a chorus of amiable protest ensued, and she remained seated. "I am fearful of what is happening in London," she said. "These strikes, this unrest. . . Surely it is not the answer. What will they achieve? Only sting our leaders to harsh reprisals. The Tower will echo with the laments of honest men."
    The young man thumped the table with a thick pink fist. "What is the alternative, madam? Sit quiet? The magicians won't thank us if we do! They'll grind us further into the dirt. We must act now! Remember—they can't imprison everyone!"
    There was a round of ragged clapping. The old lady stubbornly shook her head. "You're quite wrong," she said. "Your argument only works if the magicians can be destroyed. They cannot!"
    Another man spoke out. "Steady on, Grandma. That's defeatist talk."
    She jutted her chin. "Well? Can they? How?"
    "They're obviously losing control, or they'd have beaten the rebels easily."
    "We can get help from the Europeans too," the young blond man added. "Don't forget that. The Czechs will fund us. And the French."
    George Fox nodded. "French spies have given me a couple of magical items," he said. "Just in case of trouble. Never had to use them, mind."
    "Excuse me," the old lady said, "but you've not explained how a few strikes will actually bring the magicians down." She raised her bony chin and looked defiantly around at the company. "Well?" Several of the men made noises of disapproval, but were too busy sipping drinks to voice an exact reply.
    From behind the bar Kitty spoke. "You are right, madam, that defeating them will be difficult," she said in a quiet-voice, "but it is not impossible. Revolutions have succeeded dozens of times. What happened to Egypt, Rome, or Prague? All were invincible— for a time. All fell when the people stirred themselves."
    "But my dear," the old lady said, "in each case there were enemy armies. . ."
    "In each case," Kitty went on determinedly, "foreign leaders took advantage of the kingdom's internal weaknesses. The people were already rebelling. They didn't have strong magic or vast armies—they were commoners just like us."
    The old lady pursed her lips into a humorless smile. "Perhaps. But how many of us want an invasion by foreigners'? Our rulers may not be perfect, but at least they're British."
    The young bearded man snorted. "Let's get back to now. Tonight the Battersea steelworkers are going on strike—-just down the river from here. Come and join us! So what if the magicians send their demons? They will get no more cannon from us!"
    "And where will your steelworkers be?" the old lady said harshly. "Some in the Tower, some at the bottom of the Thames. And others will take their place."
    "The demons won't get it all their own way," the young man said. "Some people have resilience . You must have heard of it. They can withstand attacks, see through illusions—"
    As he spoke, Kitty's eyes suddenly cleared. She saw beyond his thick mustache, his scruffy blond beard: she knew him, clear as day. Nick Drew, last surviving companion in the Resistance. Nick Drew, who had fled Westminster Abbey in their darkest hour, leaving his friends behind. He was older, stouter, but full of the same old bluster. You still talk a good fight, she thought viciously. You always were good at talking. I bet you'll keep well away when the strike gets nasty. . .A sudden fear took hold of her; she stepped back out of his line of sight. Useless though Nick was, if he recognized her, her cover would be blown.
    The group was busy discussing the phenomenon of resilience. "They can see magic. Clear as day," a middle-aged woman said. "That's what I've heard."
    The old lady shook her head again. "Rumors, cruel rumors," she said sadly. "This is all secondhand tittle-tattle. It would not surprise me if it wasn't started by the magicians themselves, to tempt you into rashness. Tell me," she went on, "has anyone here ever actually seen any of this resilience in action?"
    A silence in The Frog. Kitty shifted impatiently from one foot to another, longing to speak. But Clara Bell was no one special— she'd decided that long ago. Besides, wariness of Nick prevented