Mr Ruislip was excited.
He was excited because the scryers reported that Dog was prowling the city that night, and Dog was an enemy with fangs, and Mr Ruislip loved it when his enemies had fangs.
He was excited because his contact in the Aldermen had rung to say that the Midnight Mayor had vanished, and Mr Ruislip had said, “Is he dead?” and the contact had replied, “No, because whenever Swift vanishes it’s because he’s about to do something stupid.” And Mr Ruislip knew that today Matthew Swift’s stupid thing had to be him.
He was excited because every witch, warlock and wizard in the office had been ordered to stay late and prepare to fight, and because when they looked at him he could smell their sweat and hear the pounding of their hearts; and they were scared, scared of what was coming but mostly scared of him, and that tasted so good!
He was excited because battle was coming, and battle was something that, at last, he understood.
He knew that his adversaries were coming to steal the spirits back. “They will try to find a way to the hole,” he declared. “They may attack from above, so we shall watch the ceilings. They may try to come in from below, so we shall watch the floors. They may try teleporting, so we ward the offices. They may try invisibility, so we shall guard the stairs.
“The Midnight Mayor likes fire, so we shall answer with ice; the shamans like shadows, so we shall answer with light. The fate of this corporation hangs on defeating these people tonight and on finding Greydawn–at last! I have every confidence that you shall put up a good fight. I shall kill any who run. Thank you for your hard work and bonuses to all!”
This last phrase, this great, potent phrase was, to Mr Ruislip, a magic spell in itself. In the years since he had managed to worm out of the shadows, to slip through the mystical walls that guarded the city from the night, he had learned much about humans. He had discovered that not all of them embraced battle as he did, and some of them were even afraid of things that should have been wondrous.
He had also learned that power stemmed from little numbers on screens, which in turn represented the perceived value of some good somewhere, or maybe just an idea somewhere else, and which little numbers, if they were bought, could make more little numbers, which made bigger numbers, which caused whoops of delight and glee in mortal men. And if he could only convince people that bigger numbers were just a simple deed away…
… or a simple spell…
… or a simple murder…
… he could control all that he surveyed.