We passed Traitors’ Corner, where several captive rebels dangled above the baying crowd in a cage of glass. Alongside, in another prism, a hideous black demon was visible on the first plane. It growled and pranced, shaking its fist at the awestruck throng. Beyond this, a stage had been set up. A banner proclaimed the title of the piece: Colonial Treachery Overcome; actors ran about, telling the official story of the war with the aid of rubber swords and papier-mâché demons. Everywhere you looked smiling ladies thrust free supplements of Real War Stories into outstretched hands. Such was the ceaseless noise and color and confusion that it was impossible for anyone present to think straight, let alone frame a coherent argument against the war.6
I had seen it all before, many times. I concentrated now on clinging to the mercenary, who had left the central path and was striding off across the darkened lawns toward an ornamental lake among the trees.
This lake was scarcely a large affair—during the day waterfowl no doubt sat drably upon it, while children splashed about in little hired boats—but by night it held a certain quiet mystery Its margins were lost in shadows and a maze of reed beds; Oriental-style bridges spanned it, linking silent islands. A Chinese pagoda rose from one such. In front of the pagoda was a wooden veranda, extending above the water.
The mercenary made for this in haste. He set off across an ornamental bridge, boots pattering on the planking. Beyond, on the darkness of the veranda, I glimpsed a figure waiting. About his head, on the higher planes, sinister shapes drifted watchfully.
Time for caution. Attached to the boot, I would soon be spotted by even the most half-witted imp. But I could still get close enough to watch and listen. Below the walkway a reed bed stretched, thick and black. A perfect place for lurking. The lizard disengaged itself, gave a leap, fell in among the reeds. Seconds later, after yet another painful transformation, a small green snake was swimming toward the island between the decaying stalks.
I heard the mercenary’s voice up above, quiet, respectful. “Mr. Hopkins.”
A gap in the reeds. The snake wound itself about a rotten branch protruding from the water and reared up, gazing toward the veranda. There stood the mercenary, and with him another man, slight, stoop-shouldered, who clapped a hand to his arm in a gesture of comradely support. I strained my weary eyes. For a brief instant I caught sight of his face: bland, even-featured, utterly unmemorable. So why was it that something in it aroused a deep sense of recognition and made me shudder?
The men moved away from the veranda, out of view. Cursing fluently, the snake plowed onward, looping through the reeds with elegant undulations. A little farther … if I could just hear Hopkins speak, get the slightest clue—
Ten reed stalks moved; five tall gray shadows isolated themselves from the mass of reeds. Ten stick legs bent and sprang. It all happened without a sound: one moment I was alone upon the lake; the next five herons plunged upon me like gray-white ghosts, sword-beaks snapping, red eyes blazing. Flailing wings cracked upon the water, blocking avenues of escape, claws slashed at the desperate snake, beaks stabbed. I coiled myself up and, fast as thinking, dived below the surface. But the herons were swifter still: one beak snared my tail; another snapped fast upon my body, just below the head. They flapped their wings and rose into the air, taking me between them, dangling like a worm.
I scanned my adversaries on the seven planes: they were foliots, all five of them. In normal circumstances I’d have decorated the city with their feathers, but in my current state to fight a single one was pushing it. I felt my essence beginning to tear.
I struggled, thrashed, and twisted. I spat venom left and right. Anger filled me, supplied a little strength. I changed, downsizing further into a small and slimy eel, which slipped free of their hold and fell toward the welcoming water.
A beak lunged.
Snap! Blackness all around.
Now this was deeply embarrassing. After my recent treatment of the imp, I’d been swallowed too. Alien essence swirled around me. I could feel it beginning to corrode my own.7
I had no choice. I summoned all my energies and used a Detonation.
Well, it was loud and it was messy, but it had the desired effect. Small pieces of foliot rained down through the air, and I rained down with them, in the semblance of a small, black pearl.
The pearl dropped into the water. Instantly the four remaining herons were at the spot, hot eyes glinting, spearing their beaks in and out in feverish pursuit.
I allowed myself to sink swiftly into the murk, deep down out of range, to where the mud and ooze and rotten tangle of dead reeds concealed me on every plane.
My mind flickered; I nearly lost consciousness. No, they would find me if I slept. I must escape, return to my master. I needed to make one final effort and get away.
Giant legs stalked the gloom around me; spear-beaks fizzed, cutting the water like bullets. Muffled echoes of the herons’ swearing boomed among the weeds. A small, injured tadpole wormed its way toward the shore, leaving specks of dying essence drifting in its wake. Reaching the lakeside, it broke all aging records and became an ill-favored frog, with a clubfoot and a downcast mouth. The frog skittered away into the grass as fast as it could go.
I was halfway to the road before the foliots saw me. One of them must have flown high, glimpsed my limping progress; with raucous cries they erupted from the lake, came hurtling over the dark grass.
One dived; the frog gave a frantic leap. The beak plunged into the ground.
Out onto the path, among the crowds. The frog hopped hither, thither, between legs, under awnings, leaping from heads to shoulders, baskets to prams, all the while emitting croaks and gargles, staring with its mad pop-eyes. Men shouted, women screamed, children gasped in wonder. Behind came the herons, feathers flashing, wings buffeting, blind with bloodlust. They crashed through stalls, upturned wine vats, sent dogs howling into the dark. People were tossed aside like ninepins; piles of Real War Stories went flying—some landing in the wine, others in the roasting pits.
Up onto the outdoor stage hopped the fugitive amphibian, under the bright imp-lights, sending one actor leaping into the arms of a second, causing a third to swan dive into the crowd. It sprang down a trapdoor, closely followed by a heron; reappeared an instant later through another, riding the head of a cardboard goblin. It leaped onto the banner above, clung there with two webbed feet. A heron reared up from below, snapped its beak, and tore the banner asunder—the strip of fabric fell, swung like a jungle vine, and catapulted the frog over the path to land beside the crystal prism where the captive demon sat.
By this point I was losing track of where I was and what I was doing. In fact, my essence was fast disintegrating: I could scarcely see; the world was awash with discordant sound. I hopped unthinkingly, changing direction with every hop, seeking to avoid the attack I knew would come.
Sure enough, one of my pursuers lost patience with the chase. It must have tried a Convulsion, I think; I’d leaped aside anyway—I didn’t see it hit the prism, didn’t hear the crystal crack. Not my fault. Nothing to do with me. I didn’t see the big black demon give a grimace of surprise and set its long curved fingernails to the break. I didn’t hear the ominous shattering when the entire globe gave way, nor the screams and wailing of the people as the demon leaped into their midst.
I knew nothing of it. I knew only the endless pounding rhythms of the chase, felt only my essence softening and seeping into liquid with every desperate hop and spring. I was dying now, but I could not rest. A swifter death flew close behind.
11
Kitty’s master looked up from his sofa—a lonely island amid a sea of scattered paper, all scrawled upon with his tight, close script. He was chewing the end of a ballpoint pen, which had left little blue ink stains on his lips. He blinked in mild surprise.
“Didn’t think to see you back this evening, Lizzie. Thought you had to get off to your work.”
“I do, sir. Very shortly. Now, sir—”
“Tell
me, did you get hold of that original copy of Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa? And what about The Anatomy of Melancholy? I wanted volume four, mind.”
Kitty’s lie was smoothly practiced. “Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t, either of them. The library closed early today. There was a disturbance outside—a commoners’ protest—and they shut the gates for safety. I was asked to leave before I found your books.”
Mr. Button gave a petulant exclamation and bit harder at his pen. “Such inconvenience! Commoners protesting, you say? What next? Horses throwing off the bridle? Cows refusing to be milked? Those wretched people need to know their place.” He emphasized this statement with neat little stabbing motions of his pen, then looked up guiltily. “No offense meant, Lizzie.”
“None taken, sir. Sir, who was Ptolemaeus?”
The old man stretched his arms wearily behind his head. “Ptolemaeus is Ptolemy. A most remarkable magician.” He flashed her a plaintive look. “Do you have time to put the kettle on, Lizzie, before you go?”
Kitty persisted: “Was he Egyptian?”
“Indeed he was, though the name is Greek, of course. He came of Macedonian stock originally. Well done, Lizzie. Not many protesting commoners would know that!”
“I was hoping to read something by him, sir.”
“You’d find that tricky, since he wrote in Greek. I have his main work in my collection: The Eye of Ptolemy. It is required reading for all magicians, since it is very perceptive on the mechanics of drawing demons from the Other Place. Mind you, the style is tepid. His other writings are known as the Apocrypha. I seem to remember you brought me them from Hyrnek’s, on your first visit here…. They are an odd collection, full of whimsical notions. About that tea …”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Kitty said. “Is there something I could read about Ptolemy, sir, while I do that?”
“Goodness, you do have your little fancies. Yes, The Book of Names will have an entry. Doubtless you know which stack it’s in.”
Kitty read the passage swiftly with the kettle popping and bubbling behind her.
Ptolemaeus of Alexandria (fl. c. 120 B.C.)
Child-magician, born into the ruling Ptolemaic Dynasty, nephew of Ptolemy VIII and cousin of the crown prince (later Ptolemy IX). He spent most of his short life in Alexandria, working at the Library, but details remain obscure. A notable prodigy, he acquired a considerable reputation for magic while very young; his cousin is said to have felt threatened by his popularity among the common people, and attempted his assassination.
The circumstances of his death are unknown, but it is certain he did not live to a great age. He may have died by violence, or succumbed to bodily frailty. Mention is made in an Alexandrine manuscript of a sudden deterioration in his health following a “difficult journey,” though this is at odds with other records that state he never left the precincts of the city. He is definitely recorded as dead by the time of his uncle’s funeral and his cousin’s accession to the throne (116 B.C.), so is unlikely to have reached his twenties.
His papers remained at the Library for over three hundred years, during which time they were studied by Tertullian and other Roman magicians. Part of his writing was published, in Rome, as the famous Eye of Ptolemy. The original archive was destroyed in the great earthquake and fire of the third century; surviving fragments have been collected as his Apocrypha. Ptolemy is a figure of historical interest, since he is credited with the invention of several techniques, including the Stoic Incision and the Mouler Shield (both used during summonings until the days of Loew) as well as unusual speculative fantasies, such as the “Gate of Ptolemy.” All this despite his extreme youth; if he had survived to maturity, he would surely have ranked among the great. His demons, with whom he is said to have had an unusual bond, included: Affa,† Rekhyt or Necho,‡ Methys,† Penrenutet.†
† demise recorded
‡ fate unknown
Mr. Button smiled absently when Kitty brought in the tea. “Did you find what you wanted?”
“I don’t really know, sir, but I do have a question. Is it common for demons to take on the appearance of their masters?”
The magician put down his pen. “You mean to taunt, or befuddle them? Certainly! It is an ancient trick, one of the oldest in the book, and one guaranteed to unman the inexperienced. Nothing is more unsettling than facing a phantom of oneself, particularly when the creature uses it to perform provocative contortions. Rosenbauer of Munich was so distressed, I believe, by an accurate depiction of his many affectations that he threw down his pomade and rushed sobbing from his circle, with melancholy results. I myself have been forced to witness my own body decaying slowly to a rotting corpse, complete with hideous sound effects, while I tried to question it on the principles of Cretan architecture. It is to my credit that my notes made any sense at all. Is that what you mean?”
“Well, actually … no, sir.” Kitty took a deep breath. “I wanted to know whether a djinni ever took on its master’s appearance out of… respect, or even affection. Because they were comfortable with it.” She made a face; on hearing it, the idea sounded quite ridiculous.
The old man wrinkled his nose. “I hardly think so.”
“I mean, after the magician was dead.”
“My dear Lizzie! Perhaps, if the magician in question was unusually hideous or deformed, the demon might employ his shape to startle others. I believe Zarbustibal of Yemen did reappear for a time following his demise. But out of respect? Goodness! The notion presupposes a relationship between master and slave that would be quite unprecedented. Only a comm—forgive me—only someone as inexperienced as you would come up with such a quaint conceit! Dear me, dear me …” He tittered to himself as he stretched a hand toward the tea tray.
Kitty had set off for the door. “Thank you, sir; you’ve been very helpful. By the way,” she added, “what was the Gate of Ptolemy?”
From the middle of his sofa, among his mess of papers, the old magician groaned. “What is it? A ridiculous notion! A myth, a figment, a barrel of moonshine! Save your questions for subjects of value. Now I must work. I have no need for the witterings of foolish assistants. Be off with you! The Gate of Ptolemy, indeed …” He winced, waved her pettishly away.
“But—”
“Don’t you have a job to go to, Lizzie?”
Forty minutes later Kitty alighted from a bus upon the Embankment road. She wore a thick black duffel coat and chewed intently at a sandwich. In her pocket were the documents confirming her second false identity—Clara Bell.
The sky was blackening, though a few low clouds still glimmered a dirty yellow with the city’s reflected glow. Below the tide wall the Thames lay distant, shrunk and withered. Kitty passed above a great gray mud-bank, where herons stalked amid the stones and flotsam. The air was cold; a strong breeze blew toward the sea.
At a bend in the river the pavement took a sudden ninety-degree turn away from the Thames, its route blocked by an extensive building with steep roofs and sharply pointed dormers. Heavy black beams laced its walls; lit windows gleamed at random heights, casting a rich light upon the street and the dark waters of the river. The upper story projected out above the lower on all sides, here vigorously, here sagging as if about to fall. A faded green sign swung from a pole above the path, so weather-beaten that its words could not be read. This was of small account, since The Frog was a notable local landmark. It was famous for its beer, its beef and for its weekly domino tournaments. It was also Kitty’s workplace in the evenings.
She ducked under a low arch and walked down the pitch-black side alley into the pub’s yard. As she entered it, she glanced up. A faint red light hovered by the gables. If you looked directly at it, its shape was blurred and indistinct; if you looked away, you saw its outline clearly—a small, neat vigilance sphere, watching.
Kitty ignored the spy. She crossed the yard to the main door, which was sheltered from the weather by an ancient blackened porch, and entered the Frog Inn.
The bright l
ights of the taproom made her blink. The curtains had been drawn against the night and a fire lit in the grate. Its colors flickered in rows of glasses assembled on the bar; George Fox, the manager, was industriously polishing them one by one. He nodded at Kitty as she passed to hang her satchel on the coat-rail.
“In your own time, Clara. In your own time.”
She glanced at her watch. “Still twenty minutes before they get here, George.”
“Not long enough for what I’ve got planned for you.”
Kitty flipped her hat onto a peg. “No problem.” She motioned with her head back toward the door. “How long’s it been there?”
“Couple of hours. Usual sort. Just trying to spook us. Can’t hear. Won’t interfere.”
“Okay. Chuck me a cloth.”
In fifteen brisk and efficient minutes the taproom was clean and ready, the glasses polished, the tabletops spic and span. Kitty had placed ten pitchers on the counter above the tap, and Sam, The Frog’s barman, began filling them with light-brown frothing drafts of beer. Kitty distributed the last of the domino boxes, wiped her hands on her trousers, plucked an apron from a hook, and took up position behind the bar. George Fox opened the main door and allowed the customers in.
As usual, The Frog’s reputation ensured an ever-changing clientele, and tonight Kitty noticed several people she hadn’t seen before: a tall military gentleman, an old lady smiling and shuffling to a seat, a young blond man with beard and mustache. The familiar click of the dominoes began; conviviality filled the air. Smoothing down her apron, Kitty hastened between tables and took orders for the evening meal.
An hour passed; the remains of thick-slabbed hot beef sandwiches lay on plates at the players’ elbows. With the food finished, interest in dominoes quickly paled. The pieces were kept in position on every table, in case the police should raid, but the players now sat up in their seats, suddenly alert and sober. Kitty filled a last few empty glasses, then returned to stand behind the counter as a man sitting near the fireplace slowly got to his feet.