Ptolemy's Gate

disliked. "Well, I don't know—"
    "I want to show you something, John. A little magical experiment. I want to get your opinion. See if you can see— well, come on. No time like the present. Could you take along that iron imp-spike beside you? Thanks. Yes, you can bring your tea."
    With short, swift steps, Mr. Makepeace led the way toward an inner arch. In some perplexity, Mandrake trailed after. A magical experiment? He had never observed Makepeace do more than the most basic spells; he had always assumed him to be a fairly minor conjuror. . .This was everyone's opinion. What then was he—?
    He turned the corner and halted. With difficulty, he prevented his tea glass tumbling from his fingers. His eyes widened in the half light. His mouth hung open.
    "What do you think? What do you think, my boy?" Mr. Makepeace was grinning at his shoulder.

    For a long moment Mandrake could not speak, but simply cast his eyes around the chamber. Previously it had been home to the playwright's homage to himself: a collection of trophies, awards, newspaper cuttings, photographs, and curios. Now this shrine had gone. A single electric bulb cast dim radiance. The room contained two pentacles, carefully drawn on the concrete floor. The first, the magician's, was of standard size, but the other was much larger. And it was occupied.
    A metal chair sat in the center of the summoning pentacle, fixed to the floor with four great bolts. T he chair was made of iron, its limbs thick and heavily soldered; it gleamed faintly in the half light. Sitting upon it, with canvas straps constraining wrists and ankles, was a man.
    "Quite a picture, is it not?" Mr. Makepeace could scarcely contain his excitement. He practically skipped and danced at Mandrake's side.
    The prisoner was conscious; panicked eyes gazed at them. A rough gag covered his mouth and part of a mustache and beard; his blond hair was disordered, a faint bruise glistened on one cheek. He wore commoner's clothes, ripped about the collar.
    "Who—who is he?" Mandrake could scarcely speak.
    "This beauty?" Mr. Makepeace chuckled. He pranced to the small pentacle and began lighting the candles. "Of course you know there's been trouble with the Battersea steelworkers? They've 'gone on strike,' apparently, spend their time having parties in the street outside the factory. Well, late last night my agents found this fine fellow holding forth to the protestors from the back of a truck. In good voice, he was. A real orator. Harangued the crowd for twenty minutes about how they've got to revolt, how the time was fast approaching when the magicians would pack their bags. Got a nice round of applause at the end. Well, despite his pretty words he wouldn't stay out all night with the workers in the cold, and presently he set off home. So my boys followed him and knocked him on the head when no one was looking. Brought him down here. I'm going to need that imp-spike, if you don't mind. No, on second thoughts, you have it. I'll have my hands full with the summoning."
    Mandrake's head spun. "What summoning? What—?" Astonishment gave way to agitation. "Quentin—do you mind telling me exactly what you're doing?"
    "I'll do better than that. I'll show you." Mr. Makepeace finished lighting the candles, scanned the runes and incense bowls, and hopped across to the captive's chair. With delicate fingers, he manipulated the gag. "Don't like to use this, but I had to keep him quiet. The chap became quite hysterical. Now, you" —the smile vanished from his face—"answer my questions precisely, or you know what'll happen." The gag was whisked away; color returned to constricted lips. "What's your name?"
    A cough, a gasp. "Nic—Nicholas Drew, sir."
    "Occupation?"
    " Sh-shop worker."
    "So you're a commoner?"
    "Yes."
    "And you're a political activist in your spare time."
    "Y-yes, sir."
    "Very well. What is the Shriveling Fire and when is it applied?"
    The question came arrow-quick; the prisoner flinched, incomprehension filled his face. "I—I—don't know. . ."
    "Come on, come on. Answer me! Or my friend here will goad you with his stick!"
    Mandrake frowned in anger. "Makepeace! Stop this non—"
    "A moment, my boy." The magician loomed close to his captive. "So, even with the threat of pain, you persist with your lie?"
    "It is not a lie! I swear it! I have never heard of that fire! Please—"
    A broad grin. "Good. That'll do." With swift motions, the gag was replaced. Makepeace hopped back to the other