Ptolemy's Gate

ancient than the Parliament buildings above. Here and there were wooden doors, dark openings. Electric bulbs lit the central corridor. Mandrake looked hard, but saw no clue to the hidden trap. The clerk looked only straight ahead; as he walked, he hummed quietly to himself.
    At length they arrived at a great steel door. The clerk pointed. "The Room of Treasures."
    "May we go in?"
    "That would not be advisable, sir. There is a viewing grille, if you desire."
    Mandrake stepped forward, flipped back a tiny hatch in the center of the door. He squinted through. Beyond was a brightly lit room of considerable size. Far off, in its center, stood a plinth of pink-white marble. On the plinth, in open view, were the most precious treasures of the government—a little pile of ornaments, glinting with a dozen colors. Mandrake's eyes instantly picked out the long wooden Staff, rough and unadorned, with a plainly carved knobble at its head. Beside it he glimpsed a short gold necklace, with a small gold oval suspended from it; in the center of that oval came the deep, dark flash of jade.
    Gladstone's Staff and the Amulet of Samarkand. . . Mandrake felt the sharp internal pain of dispossession. He scanned the first three planes: there was no evidence of hexes, wires, webs, or other guards. Even so, the tiles around the plinth were an odd green color; they had an unhealthy look.
    He stepped from the grille. "What guards the room, if I am permitted to be told?"
    "A Pestilence, sir. A particularly voracious one. Would strip you to the bone in seconds, sir, should you decide to enter unadvisedly."
    Mandrake looked at the clerk. "Quite. Very well. Let's go."
    A gust of laughter drifted from the house. Mandrake stared down at the blue cocktail in his glass. If his visit to the vaults had proved one thing, it was that Devereaux fully intended to cling to power. The Staff was out of reach. Not that he actually intended to. . . well, he didn't know what he intended. A sour mood was on him; the party and all its fripperies left him cold. He lifted the glass and gulped the liquid down. He tried to remember when he had last been happy.
    "John, you old lizard! I see you skulking on that wall!" Across the lawns came a short, round gentleman, splendidly attired in turquoise evening dress. His mask depicted a ferociously laughing imp. On his arm was a tall, slender youth wearing a mask like a dying swan. The youth giggled uncontrollably.
    "John, John," the imp said. "Are you or are you not having the devil of a time?" He slapped Mandrake playfully on the shoulder. The youth guffawed.
    "Hello, Quentin," Mandrake murmured. "Having fun?"
    "Almost as much as dear Rupert." The imp pointed toward the house, where a capering figure with a bull's head was illuminated against the windows. "It does take his mind off things, you know. Poor dear."
    Mandrake adjusted his lizard mask. "And who is this young gentleman?"
    "This," the imp said, hugging the swan's head to him, "is young Bobby Watts, star of my next extravaganza! A boy of meteoric talent! Do not forget, do not forget"—the imp seemed a little unsteady on his feet—"that the premiere of From Wapping to Westminster is almost upon us. I am reminding everyone. Two days, Mandrake, two days! It is guaranteed to change the lives of all who see it! Eh, Bobby?" He pushed the youth away from him roughly. "Now, go and get us another drink! I have something to say to my scaly friend here."
    The swan's head departed, stumbling across the grass. Mandrake watched him silently.
    "Now, John." The imp drew close. "I've been sending you messages for days. I believe you've been ignoring me. I want you to come visit me. Tomorrow. You won't forget, will you? It's important."
    Beneath his mask Mandrake wrinkled his nose at the smell of drink wafting from the other man. "I'm sorry, Quentin, Council dragged on and on. I couldn't get away. Tomorrow it shall be."
    "Good, good. You always were the brightest one, Mandrake. Keep it that way. Good evening, Sholto! I believe I recognize you in there!" A hulking figure with the incongruous mask of a baby lamb was passing; the imp detached itself from Mandrake, playfully jabbed the newcomer in the belly with a finger, and waltzed away.
    The lizard and the lamb regarded each other.
    "That Quentin Makepeace," the lamb said in deep, heartfelt tones. "I do not like him. He is impudent, and I believe mentally unsound."
    "He has high spirits, certainly." Privately Mandrake shared the