On the end of the second day, a council was held in the secret room. Despite the authorities’ apparent indifference, the family considered it highly unsafe for Jakob and Kitty to remain in London. Jakob, in particular, with his distinctive appearance, was vulnerable. He could not remain in the factory forever, and sooner or later the magician Mandrake, or one of his associates or demons, would find him. He had to go somewhere safe. Mrs. Hyrnek expressed this opinion forcefully and at volume.
When she had subsided, her husband stood up; between puffs of his rowan-wood pipe, Mr. Hyrnek made a calm suggestion. The family’s prowess at printing, he said, had already enabled them to bring down vengeance upon Tallow, doctoring his books so that his own spells brought about his destruction. It would be a simple matter now to forge certain documents, such as new identity papers, passports, and the like that would make it easy for both children to leave the country. They could go to the Continent, where other offshoots of the Hyrnek family—in Ostend, Brugges, or Basel for instance—would be happy to receive them.
This suggestion was greeted with general acclaim and Jakob accepted it at once: he had no wish to fall afoul of the magicians again. For her part, Kitty seemed distracted. “That’s very kind, very kind of you,” she said.
While the brothers set to forging the documents, and Mrs. Hyrnek and Jakob began preparing supplies for the voyage, Kitty remained in the room, lost in thought. After two days’ solitary pondering she announced her decision: she would not be traveling to Europe.
The white hat with the broad brim came rapidly toward her through the crowd; Jakob was smiling now, lighter of step. “You gave him the case?” she said.
“Yes. And you were right—he didn’t give me a second look.” He glanced across at the gangway, then at his watch. “Look, I’ve got only five minutes. I’d better get on board.”
“Yes. Well … see you, then.”
“See you Look, Kitty—”
“Yes?”
“You know I’m grateful for what you did, rescuing me and all. But frankly … I also think you’re an idiot.”
“Oh, cheers.”
“What are you doing staying here? The Council of Brugges is made up of commoners; magic hardly figures in the city. You can’t imagine the freedoms, my cousin says—there’re libraries, debating chambers, stuff right up your alley. No curfews—imagine that! The Empire keeps its distance, most of the time. It’s a good place for business. And if you wanted to carry on with your”—he peered cautiously from side to side—“with your you know, my cousin reckons there are strong links to underground movements there, too. It would be far safer—”
“I know.” Kitty shoved her hands into her pockets, blew out her cheeks. “You’re quite right. All of you are quite right. But that’s sort of the point. I think I need to be here, where the magic’s happening, where the demons are.”
“But why—”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the new identity.” She patted her jacket pocket, felt the papers crackle. “It’s just, well, some things that demon Bartimaeus said have … set me thinking.”
He shook his head. “This is what I can’t fathom,” he said. “You’re going on the word of a demon—one that kidnapped me, threatened you—”
“I know! It’s just he wasn’t what I expected at all. He talked about the past, about patterns repeating themselves, about the rise and fall of the magicians through history. It happens, Jakob, time and time again. No one manages to break out of the cycle—not commoners, not demons, not magicians. We’re all stuck fast, trapped in a wheel of hate and fear—”
“Not me,” he said firmly. “I’m getting out.”
“You think Brugges is safe? Get real. ‘The Empire keeps its distance, most of the time’—that’s what you said. You’re still part of it, like it or not. That’s why I want to stay here, in London, where the information is. There are great libraries, Jakob, where the magicians store their historical records. Pennyfeather used to tell me about them. If I could get access, get a job there somehow … I could learn something—about demons, in particular.” She shrugged. “I don’t know enough yet, that’s all.”
He snorted. “Of course you don’t. You’re not a cursed magician.”
“But from what Bartimaeus said, the magicians don’t know much either. About demons. They just use them. That’s the point. We—the Resistance—weren’t getting anywhere. We were just as bad as the magicians, using magic without understanding it. I already knew that, really, and Bartimaeus kind of confirmed it. You should have heard him, Jakob—”
“Like I said, you’re an idiot. Listen, that’s my call.” A deep siren sounded from somewhere up on the ferry; seagulls wheeled into the sky He leaned forward, gave her a rapid hug. She kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t get killed,” he said. “Write to me. You’ve got the address.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you in Brugges. Before the month is out.”
She grinned. “We’ll see.”
She watched him trot down to the gangway, thrust his papers under the nose of an attendant, receive a cursory stamp on his passport, and clamber up on board. The canopy was removed, the gangway drawn back. Jakob took up position at the rail. He waved to her as the ship moved away. His face, like those of the other travelers, was aglow. Kitty smiled, rummaged in a pocket, and drew out a dirty handkerchief. She waved it until the ship banked and was lost from view around the curve of the Thames.
Then Kitty replaced the handkerchief in her pocket, turned, and set off up along the quay. Quite soon she was hidden by the crowd.
Don’t miss the thrilling conclusion to
THE
BARTIMAEUS
TRILOGY
BOOK THREE
Ptolemy’s Gate
With dawn, the first people returned to the little town. Hesitant, fearful, groping their way like blind men up the street, they began to inspect the damage wrought to their houses, shops, and gardens. A few Night Police came with them, ostentatiously flourishing Inferno sticks and other weapons, though the threat was long since gone.
I was disinclined to move. I spun a Concealment around the chunk of chimney where I sat and removed myself from the humans’ sight. I watched them passing with a baleful eye.
My few hours’rest had done me little good. How could it? It had been two whole years since I’d been allowed to leave this cursed Earth; two full years since I’d last escaped the brainless thronging mass of sweet humanity. I needed more than a quiet kip on a chimney stack to deal with that, I can tell you. I needed to go home.
And if I didn’t, I was going to die.
It is technically possible for a spirit to remain indefinitely on Earth, and many of us at one time or another have endured prolonged visits, usually courtesy of being forcibly trapped inside canopic jars, sandalwood boxes, or other arbitrary spaces chosen by our cruel masters.1 Dreadful punishment though this is, it at least has the advantage of being safe and quiet. You aren’t called upon to do anything, so your increasingly weakened essence is not immediately at risk. The main threat comes from the remorseless tedium, which can lead to insanity in the spirit in question.2
My current predicament was in stark contrast. Not for me the luxury of being hidden away in a cozy lamp or amulet. No—day in, day out, I was a djinni on the street, ducking, diving, taking risks, exposing myself to danger. And each day it became a little more difficult to survive.
For I was no longer the carefree Bartimaeus of old. My essence was raddled with Earth’s corruption; my mind was bleary with the pain. I was slower, weaker, distracted from my tasks. I found it hard to change form. In battle my attacks were sputtering and weak—my Detonations had the explosive power of lemonade, my Convulsions trembled like jelly in a breeze. All my strength had gone. Where once, in the previous night’s scrap,
I would have sent that public convenience right back at the she-pig, adding a phone box and a bus stop for good measure, now I could do nothing to resist. I was vu
lnerable as a kitten. A few small buildings in the face, I could stand. But already I was practically at the mercy of second-rate fops such as Ascobol, a fool with no great history to speak of.3 And if I met a foe with even a grain of power, my luck would surely end.
A weak djinni is a bad slave—bad twice over, since he is both ineffective and a laughingstock. It does a magician no favors to maintain one in the world. This is the reason why they usually allow us back to the Other Place on a temporary basis, to repair our essence and renew our strength. No master in his right mind would permit a djinni to deteriorate as far as I had done.
No master in his right mind … Well, that of course was the problem.
Endnotes
Prologue
1 The Seven Planes: The seven accessible planes are superimposed upon each other, and each reveals certain aspects of reality. The first includes ordinary material things (trees, buildings, humans, animals, etc.), which are visible to all; the other six contain spirits of various kinds going quietly about their business. Higher beings (such as me) can use inner eyes to observe all seven planes at once, but more lowly creatures have to make do with seeing fewer. Humans are remarkably lowly. Magicians use contact lenses to see planes two to three, but most people only see the first plane, and this makes them ignorant about all kinds of magical activity. For example, there’s probably something invisible with lots of tentacles hovering behind your back right NOW.
2 Doubtless, this was where the British magicians were skulking, at a safe distance from the action. My Czech masters were just the same. In war, magicians always like to reserve the most dangerous jobs for themselves, such as fearlessly guarding large quantities of food and drink a few miles behind the lines.
3 Each sentry was a minor djinni, scarcely better than a common foliot. Times were hard in Prague; the magicians were strapped for slaves and quality control was not what it should have been. The chosen semblances of my sentries proved as much. Instead of fearsome, warlike guises, I was presented with two shifty vampire bats, a weasel, a pop-eyed lizard, and a small and rather mournful frog.
4 Five heads knocking into one another in quick succession. It was like an unusual executive toy.
5 i.e., accurate.
6 They found no one, as their disappointed keening soon attested. The suburbs were deserted. Almost as soon as the British army crossed the Channel, the Czech authorities had begun preparing for the inevitable attack on Prague. As a first precaution, the population of the city was removed to within the walls—which, incidentally, were the strongest in Europe at the time, a marvel of magical engineering. Did I mention I had a hand in their construction?
7 The telescope contained an imp whose gaze allowed humans to see by night. These are useful devices, although capricious imps sometimes distort the view, or add perverse elements of their own: streams of golden dust, strange dreamlike visions, or ghostly figures from the user’s past.
8 Comparing masters is rather like comparing facial spots: some are worse than others, but even the best don’t exactly tickle your fancy. This one was the twelfth Czech magician I’d served. He wasn’t overly cruel, but he was a bit sour, as if lemon juice ran in his veins. He was also thin-lipped and pedantic, obsessed with his duty to the Empire.
9 It was rather catlike in itself, if you get my meaning.
10 The measliest afrit is worth avoiding, and this one was formidable indeed. On the higher planes, his forms were vast and terrifying, so presumably appearing in such a weedy first-plane guise appealed to his twisted sense of humor. I can’t say I was laughing, though.
10
1 Her face was based on a vestal virgin I’d met in Rome, a woman of admirably independent outlook. Julia used to sneak away from the Sacred Flame by night to bet on the chariots at the Circus Maximus. She didn’t really wear spectacles, of course. I added them here to give the face a bit more gravitas. Call it artistic license.
2 He was right, sadly. I’d suffered both in my time. The Inverted Skin is particularly vexing. It makes motion difficult and conversation almost impossible. Plays hell with your soft furnishings, too.
3 Which now hung dead still a few feet off the floor. The surface was opaque, the monster inside having vanished in a huff.
4 Here he smoothed back his hair once more. This act of pompous preening reminded me vaguely of someone, but I couldn’t quite think who.
5 Owing to a complex series of thefts and deceptions, Nathaniel had (more or less) inadvertently brought about his master’s demise two years before. At the time, it had preyed on his conscience. I was intrigued to see whether it did so still.
6 This is called irony. Whitwell was in fact a thoroughly unpleasant specimen. Tall and bone-thin, her limbs were like long dry sticks. I was surprised she didn’t catch fire when she crossed her legs.
7 I meant this wholeheartedly. I’d been robbed of my revenge.
8 He was wrong there: one magician had dispensed with all protective clauses and put his trust in me. That was Ptolemy, of course. But he was unique. Nothing like that would ever happen again.
15
1 Where time, strictly speaking, doesn’t exist. Or, if it does, only in a circuitous, nonlinear sort of way…. Look, it’s a complicated concept and I’d love to discuss it with you, but perhaps now’s not quite the best moment. Remind me about it later.
2 Literally so, I’m afraid. All rather messy and inconvenient.
3 I’ve known magicians with similar powers, especially first thing in the morning.
4 I liked Queezle. She was fresh and youthful (a mere 1,500 years in your world) and had been lucky with her masters. Her first summoning was by a hermit living in the Jordanian desert, who ate honey and dried tubers and treated her with austere courtesy. When he died, she had escaped further service until a female French magician (1400s) uncovered her name. This master, too, was unusually clement and never so much as jabbed her with the Stimulating Compass. By the time she reached Prague, Queezle’s personality was thus less embittered than that of hoary old lags like me. Released from service there by the death of our master, she had since served magicians in China and Ceylon, without great incident.
5 Manifestly untrue. Despite his crimped shirts and flowing mane (or perhaps because of them) I had seen no evidence as yet that Nathaniel even knew what a girl was. If he’d ever met one, chances are they’d both have run screaming in opposite directions. But in common with most djinn, I generally preferred to exaggerate my master’s foibles in conversation.
16
1 If it’s possible to flap your wings gingerly, that’s exactly what I did.
2 The name of the road, Gibbet Street, kind of gave the game away, too. The London authorities had always been good at setting examples for the commoners, although in recent years the bodies of felons were hung up only in the prison district, around the Tower. Elsewhere it was thought to deter tourism.
3 The British Museum was home to a million antiquities, several dozen of which were legitimately come by. For two hundred years prior to the magicians’rule, London’s rulers had made it their habit to filch anything interesting they could from countries where their traders called. It was something of a national addiction, based on curiosity and avarice. Lords and ladies taking the Grand Tour of Europe kept their eyes open for small treasures that could be stuffed unnoticed into handbags; soldiers on campaign filled their chests with looted gems and reliquaries; every merchant returning to the capital carried an extra crate of valuables in his hold. Most of these items made their eventual way to the ever-expanding collections of the British Museum, where they were set out on display with clear labels in many languages so that foreign tourists could come and see their lost valuables with minimum inconvenience. In due course, the magicians looted the museum of its magical items, but it remained an imposing cultural charnel house.
4 Revenge was another motive for me now. I no longer held out much prospect of seeing Queezle alive again.
5 Guaranteed to strike fear into a
human enemy, there’s nothing better than a bull-headed minotaur if you want a bit of the old shock and awe. And after centuries of careful honing, my particular minotaur guise was a doozy. The horns had just the right amount of curl and the teeth were nicely sharpened, as if filed. The skin was blue-black ebony. I’d kept the human torso, but had gone for a satyr’s goat legs and cloven hooves, which are that bit scarier than pimply knees and sandals.
6 Marids radiate so much power that it is possible to track their recent movements by following residual magical trails: they leave them hanging in the atmosphere much as a snail deposits slime. It isn’t wise to use this analogy to a marid’s face, of course.
7 These were stone representations only; in the glory days of Assyria, the djinn would have been real, asking riddles of strangers in a manner similar to the Sphinx, and devouring them if the answer was incorrect, ungrammatical, or simply spoken in a rustic accent. They were punctilious beasts.
8 This last one, old Anubis, always unnerves me if I spot it out of the corner of my eye. But gradually I’m learning to relax. Jabor is long gone.
9 Ramses wouldn’t have been surprised that his statue was proving so troublesome; he had the biggest ego of any human it’s been my misfortune to serve. This despite being small, bandy-legged, and with a face as pockmarked as a rhino’s bottom. His magicians, however, were strong and inflexible—for forty years I labored on grandiose building projects on his behalf, along with a thousand other benighted spirits.
10 The cartouche on its chest proclaimed it to be Ahmose of the 18th Dynasty, “he who unites in glory.” Since he was currently lacking his own head, legs, and arms, this boast rang a little hollow.
11 My adversary should have borne the principles of leverage in mind when trying to shift Ramses. As I once told Archimedes, “give me a lever long enough and I will move the world.” In this case, the world was a tad ambitious, but a six-ton headless torso suited me just fine.