Ptolemy's Gate

sentiments. "Well, well. I have not seen you for some time, Sholto."
    "No indeed. I have been in Asia." The big man sighed, leaned heavily upon his stick. "I am reduced to scouting for my own goods now. Times are hard."
    Mandrake nodded. The fortunes of Sholto Finn had never fully recovered after the destruction of his flagship store during the golem's reign of terror. Although he had laboriously rebuilt his shop, his finances became parlous. This coincided with the war and the disruption of trade; fewer artifacts were finding their way to London, and fewer magicians were willing to buy them. Like many in the last few years, Finn had aged noticeably. His massive frame seemed slightly shrunken; his white suit hung listlessly about his shoulders. Mandrake felt a certain pity for him.
    "What news from Asia?" he asked. "How goes the Empire?" "These foolish costumes—I swear they have given me the most ridiculous one of all." Finn lifted the lamb' s mask and dabbed a handkerchief at his sweating face. "The Empire, Mandrake, is floundering. There is talk of rebellion in India. Hill-magicians from the north are busily summoning demons for the attack, or so word has it. Our garrisons in Delhi have asked our Japanese allies for assistance defending the town. Imagine that! I fear for us, I really do." The old man sighed, replaced his mask. "How do I look, Mandrake? Like a sprightly lamb?"
    Inside his mask Mandrake grinned. "I have seen nimbler." "I guessed as much. Well, if I'm to make an idiot of myself, I'll do it on a full belly. You, girl!" He raised his stick in an ironic salute and departed in the direction of a serving maid. Mandrake watched him go, his momentary good humor evaporating rapidly on the chill night air. He looked up at the blank night sky.

    Sitting in a garden long ago, a pencil in his hand. He tossed his glass behind the column and set off in the direction of the house.
    In the hallway of the mansion, a little apart from the nearest knot of revelers, Mandrake saw Jane Farrar. Her mask—a bird-of-paradise with slender apricot plumes—dangled from her wrist. She was stepping into her traveling coat, held out for her by an impassive servant. At Mandrake's approach he drifted away.
    "Going so soon?"
    "Yes. I'm tired. And if Quentin Makepeace buttonholes me about that wretched play of his once more, I shall strike him." She pouted prettily.
    Mandrake came close. "I'll escort you back, if you like. I'm just about finished here too." With a careless motion, he removed his mask.
    She smiled. "I have three djinn and five foliots to escort me, should I require them. What can you offer me that they cannot?"
    The melancholy detachment that had been growing in Mandrake all evening now ignited into sudden recklessness. He cared nothing for implications or consequences; Jane Farrar's proximity emboldened him. He lightly touched her hand. "Let us take my car back to London. I will address your question as we go."
    She laughed. "It is a long journey, Mr. Mandrake."
    "Perhaps I have many answers."
    Jane Farrar slipped her arm through his; together they progressed along the hall. Several pairs of eyes watched them as they went.
    The mansion's vestibule was unoccupied, save for two menservants standing ready at the door. A log fire crackled beneath a wall of stags' heads and faded coats of arms, stolen long ago from foreign hearths. A great stained-glass window on the opposite wall depicted in flat perspective the buildings of central London: the abbey, the palace of Westminster, the main government offices standing beside the Thames. The streets were filled with adoring crowds; at the center of the palace courtyard sat the radiant figure of the Prime Minister, hands raised in a gesture of benediction. The glass glinted dully in the hall lights; behind rose the dark slab of night.
    Below the window sat a low green couch, laden with silken cushions.
    Mandrake stopped. "It is warm here. Wait while I find my chauffeur."
    Jane Farrar did not disengage her arm, but looked toward the couch. "Or we could both stay here a while . . ."
    "True."
    He turned to face her, his body tingling. She gave a little shudder.
    "Did you feel that too?" she asked.
    "Yes," he said softly, "but don't talk."
    She pushed him away. "It was our sensor webs, you fool. Something's triggered them."
    "Oh. Yes." They stood listening to the wood snapping in the fire, to the noise of muted revelry from the garden beyond the passage. Distantly above it all