Ptolemy's Gate

her. She looked around the taproom. The company, most of which had met there in secret for many years, was generally middle-aged or older. Resilience was not something they knew much of, firsthand. Except Nick Drew, who possessed as least as much resilience as Kitty. But he sat quiet, saying nothing.

    The mood in the room had been soured by the argument. After a few minutes' glum reflection the old gentleman got slowly to his feet again. "Friends," he began, "let us not be downcast! Perhaps the magicians are too dangerous to fight, but we can at least resist their propaganda. A new issue of Real War Stones is out today. Spurn it! Tell your friends about its lies!"
    At this George Fox spoke up. "I think you're being a bit harsh there." He raised his voice against the general murmur of disbelief. "Yes. I've made it my business to collect as many editions of Real War Stories as I can."
    "Oh, shame on you, Mr. Fox," said the elderly lady, in a quivery voice.
    "No, I'm proud to admit it," he went on. "And if any of you choose to pay a visit to the restrooms later on, you shall find ample proof of those pamphlets' worth. They are most absorbent."There was a general laugh. Keeping her back to the young blond man, Kitty stepped forward with a pitcher to refill a few glasses.
    "Well, time is moving on," the old gentleman said, "and we must part. But first, as is traditional, we will take our usual oath." He sat down.
    George Fox reached under the bar and drew out a large cup, aged and battered, with a pair of crossed dominoes rampant on the lid. It was made of solid silver. He took a dark bottle from a shelf and, removing the lid, poured a generous measure of port into the cup. Kitty took the cup in both hands and carried it to the old gentleman.
    "We shall all drink in turn," he said. "May we live to see the day when a Commoners' Parliament is established once again. May it uphold the ancient rights of every man and woman— to discuss, debate, and dissent from the policies of our leaders, and hold them accountable for their actions." With due reverence, he lifted the cup and took a sip, before passing it clockwise to his neighbor.
    This ritual was a high point of such meetings at The Frog: after the debates, which never reached any conclusion, it offered the solace of something fixed and familiar. The silver cup was slowly passed from person to person, from table to table. Everyone awaited its arrival, old hands and newcomers alike, except for the elderly lady, who was readying herself for departure. George moved around to the front of the bar and— together with Sam, the bartender—began clearing glasses from tables near the door. Kitty accompanied the cup, moving it between tables when required. She kept her face turned from Nick Drew as best she could.
    "Do we need more port, Clara?" George called. "Mary there had a great big gulp, I saw her."
    Kitty took the cup, inspected it. "No. We've plenty left."
    "Good enough. My dear lady, surely you're not leaving us?"
    The old woman smiled. "I must go, dear. With all these disturbances on the street, I'll not stay out too late."
    "Yes, of course. Clara, bring this lady the cup so she ca n drink before she goes."
    "Right you are, George."
    "Oh, it's not necessary, dear. I'll take a double drink next time." This roused laughter and a few cheers; one or two men got up to allow the old woman to squeeze by.
    Kitty followed her. "Here you are, madam, there's plenty left."
    "No, no, I really must be going, thank you. It's so late."
    "Madam, you've dropped your shawl."
    "No, no. I can't wait. Excuse me, please. . ."
    "Steady on, love! Watch where you're pushing—"
    "Excuse me, excuse me . . ."
    Stony-faced, her eyes dark and blank like the cutout holes on an empty mask, the old woman moved rapidly across the room, turning her head repeatedly to look back at Kitty, who was advancing fast behind her. Kitty held the silver cup outstretched—first reverently, as if offering up a gift; then suddenly jerking it back and forth like a feinting blade. The proximity of the silver seemed to give the lady discomfort—she flinched away. George placed his stack of glasses carefully on a side table and put a hand into a pocket. Sam opened a cupboard on the wall, reached in. The rest of the company remained seated, expressions caught between amusement and uncertainty.
    "The door, Sam," George Fox said.
    The old woman darted forward. Sam turned to face her, blocking the door; he held a short,