Ptolemy's Gate

locked the door. She stood there for five minutes while the frightened customers recovered, then she let them out, one by one.
    Last to leave was Nicholas Drew, who had emerged from behind his barrel. Their eyes met; he paused at the door.
    "Hello, Kitty," he said. "Still as energetic as ever, I see."
    Kitty's expression did not change. "Nick."
    The young man smoothed back his hair and began buttoning his coat. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll forget I've seen you. New life, and all that." He looked around the debris of the room. "Unless you want to join up with the Commoners' Alliance, of course. We could do with someone like you."
    She shook her head. "No, thanks. I'm happy as I am."
    He nodded. "Right. Well, then. Good-bye. And. . . good luck."
    "Good-bye, Nick." She closed the door behind him.
    George Fox was hunched over Sam's body; white, terrified faces peeped in from the kitchen. Kitty leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Just one demon—one spy—had done this. In London there were hundreds of them. At the same time, next week the people would return to The Frog to talk, debate, and do nothing. Meanwhile, every day, across London, voices of protest were briefly heard—and swiftly, ruthlessly, cut off. Demonstrations were useless. Talk was useless. There had to be another way.
    Perhaps there was. It was time to carry out her plan.

12

    Night had fallen upon the Prime Minister's mansion at Richmond. Upon the western lawns a number of tall columns had been built; from their tops burned colored imp-fires, illuminating the scene with weird radiance. Servants in the vibrant garb of firebirds and salamanders drifted here and there, offering refreshment. From the black wall of trees beyond the lake, invisible musicians played a sweet pavane; the sounds carried gently above the voices of the guests.
    The great ones of the Empire meandered about the garden, talking quietly, listlessly, looking at their watches. They wore formal gowns and dress suits; their features were concealed behind ornate masks depicting animals, bird s, and demons. Such parties were among Mr. Devereaux's many extravagances, and had become quite common during the period of the war.
    John Mandrake leaned against a pillar, watching the guests drift by. His mask was made of flakes of moonstone, sewn cleverly together to resemble an albino lizard's head. Doubtless it was skillful, an object of wonder, but it still didn't fit. He found it difficult to see and had twice stepped into the flower beds. He sighed. No word yet from Bartimaeus . . . He would have expected something by now.
    A small group passed him, a peacock surrounded by two attentive she-lynxes and a fawning dryad. In the peacock's paunch and self-important strut he recognized Mr. Collins; the women were probably lower magicians from his department, eager for advancement. Mandrake scowled. Collins and the rest had not been slow to criticize him when he'd brought up the Staff in Council. He'd spent the rest of the meeting enduring a dozen sly insinuations, as well as Devereaux's frosty glances. No question about it, his proposal had been ill advised, a foolish blunder for a politician.
    To hell with politics! Its conventions smothered him—he felt like a fly caught up in a choking web. His whole life was spent appeasing Devereaux, fighting off his rivals. An utter waste of time. Someone was needed to steady the Empire before it was too late. Someone had to defy the others, and use the Staff.
    Before he'd left Whitehall, Mandrake had descended to the vaults below the Hall of Statues. He had not been there for years; now, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, he was surprised to see a line of red tiles embedded in the floor at the far end of the chamber. A portly clerk, who had leaped up from a desk, approached.
    Mandrake nodded to him. "I wish to inspect the treasure vaults, if possible."
    "Certainly, Mr. Mandrake. Would you follow me?"
    They crossed the chamber. Beside the red tiles the clerk halted. "At this juncture, sir, I must ask you to remove any magical objects about your person, and to dismiss any invisible presence. The line marks a boundary. Beyond the tiles nothing magical is permitted, not even a Charm. The merest trace will invoke a terrible sanction."
    Mandrake scanned the dim, bare corridor ahead. "Really? Of what kind?"
    "I am not permitted to say, sir. You have nothing eerie to declare? Then we can proceed."
    They entered a maze of blank stone passages, more