Ptolemy's Gate

  The real stupidity of it was that this trouble might have been prevented if he’d just done what Farrar said. Almost certainly Bartimaeus would have had information on the Jenkins plot that would have helped placate Devereaux. He should have squeezed it out of his slave without a second thought. But instead … he had let him go. It was absurd! The djinni was nothing but a thorn in his flesh—abusive, argumentative, feeble … and, because of his birth name, potentially a fatal threat. He should have destroyed him while he was unable to fight back. How simple it should have been!

  Blank-eyed, he stared at the papers on his desk. Sentimental and weak … Perhaps Farrar was right. John Mandrake, minister of the government, had acted against his own interests. Now he was vulnerable to his enemies. Even so, no matter how much cold fury he tried to muster—against Bartimaeus, against Farrar, and most of all against himself—he knew he could not have done otherwise. The sight of the djinni’s small, broken body had shocked him too much: it had prompted an impulsive decision.

  And this was the shattering event, far more significant than the threats and spite of his colleagues. For years his life had been a fabric of calculations. It was by remorseless dedication to work that Mandrake derived his identity; spontaneity had become alien to him. But now, in the shadow of his single unconsidered action, the prospect of work suddenly did not appeal. Elsewhere this morning, armies were clashing, the ministries were humming: there was much to be done. John Mandrake felt listless, floating, suddenly detached from the demands of his name and office.

  A train of thought from the previous night recurred in his mind. An image: sitting with his tutor, Ms. Lutyens, long ago, happily sketching in the garden on a summer’s day … she sat beside him, laughing, hair gleaming in the light. The vision flickered like a mirage. It vanished. The room was bare and cold.

  In due course the magician left his study. In its circle of blackened wood, the door guard flinched from him as he passed.

  The day did not go well for Mandrake. At the Information Ministry a tartly worded memo from Ms. Farrar’s office awaited him. She had decided to raise an official complaint regarding his refusal to interrogate his demon, an act which was likely to prove detrimental to the police investigation. No sooner had Mandrake finished reading this than a somber deputation from the Home Office arrived, bearing an envelope with a black ribbon. Mr. Collins wished to question him about a serious disturbance in St. James’s Park the previous evening. The details were ominous for Mandrake: a fleeing frog, a savage demon set free from its prism, a number of fatalities in the crowd. A minor riot had ensued, with commoners destroying a portion of the fair. Tension on the streets was still high. Mandrake was asked to prepare a defense in time for the Council meeting in two days’ time. He agreed without discussion; he knew the thread supporting his career was fraying fast.

  During meetings, the eyes of his deputies were amused and scathing. One or two went so far as to suggest he summon his djinni immediately to limit the political damage. Mandrake, stony-faced and stubborn, refused. All day he was irritable and distracted; even Ms. Piper gave him a wide berth.

  By late afternoon, when Mr. Makepeace rang to remind him of their appointment, Mandrake had had enough. He departed his office for the day.

  For some years, ever since the affair of Gladstone’s Staff, Mandrake had been a close associate of the playwright Mr. Quentin Makepeace. There was good reason to be so—above all things, the Prime Minister loved theater, and Mr. Makepeace consequently exerted great influence upon him. By pretending to share his leader’s joy, Mandrake had managed to maintain a bond with Devereaux that other, more intolerant, members of the Council could only envy. But it came at a price: more than once Mandrake had found himself cajoled into appearing in dreadful amateur productions at Richmond, prancing about the stage in chiffon leggings or bulbous pantaloons, and—on one terrible never-to-be-forgotten occasion—swinging from a harness wearing wings of sparkly gauze. Mandrake had borne his colleagues’ merriment stoically: Devereaux’s goodwill mattered more.

  In return for his support, Quentin Makepeace had frequently offered Mandrake counsel, and Mandrake had found him surprisingly astute, quick to pick up on interesting rumors, accurate in his predictions of the Prime Minister’s fluctuating moods. Many times he had gained advantage by following the playwright’s advice.

  But in recent months, as his work commitments escalated, Mandrake had become weary of his companion and resentful of the time wasted nurturing Devereaux’s enthusiasms. He had no time for trivialities. For weeks he had avoided accepting Makepeace’s invitation to call. Now, dead-eyed and rudderless, he resisted no longer.

  A servant let him into the quiet house. Mandrake crossed the hall, passing beneath pink-tinged chandeliers and a monumental oil of the playwright leaning in his satin dressing gown against a pile of self-penned works. Keeping his eyes averted (he always considered the gown a little short), Mandrake descended the central staircase. His shoes padded soundlessly on the thick pile carpet. The walls were hung with framed posters from theaters across the world. FIRST NIGHT! WORLD PREMIERE! MR. MAKEPEACE’S PLEASURE TO PRESENT! Silently a dozen adverts screamed their message down.

  At the foot of the stairs a studded iron door led to the playwright’s workroom.

  Even as he knocked, the door was flung open. A broad and beaming face looked out. “John, my boy! Excellent! I am so pleased. Lock the door behind you. We shall have tea, with a twist of peppermint. You look as though you need reviving.”

  Mr. Makepeace was a whirl of little movements, precise, defined, balletic. His diminutive frame spun and bobbed, pouring the tea, sprinkling the peppermint, restless as a little bird. His face sparkled with vigor, his red hair shone; his smile twitched repeatedly as if reflecting on a secretive delight.

  As usual, his clothes expressed his buoyant personality: tan shoes, a pair of pea-green trousers with maroon check, a bright yellow waistcoat, a pink cravat, a loose-fitting linen shirt with pleats upon the sleeves. Today, however, the sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and cravat and waistcoat were concealed behind a stained white apron. Evidently Mr. Makepeace was hard at work.

  With a tiny spoon he stirred the tea, tapped it twice upon the glass, and handed the result to Mandrake. “There!” he cried. “Get that down you. Now, John”—his smile was tender, solicitous—“little birds tell me all is not well.”

  Briefly, without elaboration, Mandrake mentioned the events of the past few hours.The smaller man tutted and cooed with sympathy. “Disgraceful!” he cried at last. “And you were only doing your duty! But fools like Farrar are all too ready to tear you to pieces, first chance they get. You know what their problem is, John?” He gave a significant pause. “Envy. We are surrounded by envious minnows, who resent our talents. I get this reaction all the time in the theater, critics carping at my efforts.”

  Mandrake grunted. “Well, you’ll put them in their place again tomorrow,” he said. “With the premiere.”

  “Indeed I shall, John, indeed I shall. But you know, sometimes government is so, so friendless. I expect you feel that, don’t you? You feel as if you’re on your own. But I am your friend, John. I respect you, even if no one else does.”

  “Thanks, Quentin. I’m not sure it’s quite as bad as—”

  “You see, you’ve got something they haven’t. Know what it is? Vision. I’ve always seen that in you.You’re clear-sighted. And ambitious too. I read that in you, yes I do.”

  Mandrake looked down at his tea, which he 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 ha
d 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. The 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-shopworker.”

  “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 pentacle. “You heard all that, John?”

  Mandrake’s face was white with shock and rising disgust. “Makepeace—what is the purpose of this exhibition? We cannot pluck men off the streets and subject them to torture—”

  The playwright snorted. “Torture? He’s all right. He’s barely been touched. Besides, you heard him—he’s an agitator, a threat to the nation. But I intend him no malice. He’s just helping me with a little experiment. Observe.…” He adopted a dramatic pose; his fingers twitched, as if about to conduct an orchestra.

  Mandrake started forward. “I insist that—”

  “Careful, John. You know better than to fool about when a summoning’s in progress.” With this, the playwright began a rapid incantation. The light dimmed; from nowhere a gentle breeze stirred the candle flames. Two rooms away the iron door jolted in its sockets. Mandrake stepped back, instinctively raising the spike he carried. Subconsciously he listened to the words: Latin … a fairly typical summons, the usual clauses … the demon’s name—Borello … but wait, what was that bit—? “In corpus viri” … “into the vessel that you find there …” “obedient to the vessel’s will” …This was odd and unfamiliar….

  The incantation finished. Mandrake’s gaze swiveled to the chair, where a dark shadow flickered. Now it was gone. The man’s body jerked, as if all its muscles had tensed, then relaxed. Mandrake waited. The breeze subsided, the lightbulb flared once more. The young man sat inert and passive. His eyes were closed.

  Mr. Makepeace lowered his hands. He winked at Mandrake. “Now then …”

  He took a step forward. Mandrake gasped, cried out a warning. “Wait, you fool! The demon’s there! It’s suicide to—”

  Calm and slow as a noonday cat, Makepeace stepped out of his circle and into the other. Nothing happened. Grinning, he once more removed the gag and patted the captive gently on one cheek. “Mr. Drew! Wake up! This is no time for sleeping!”

  Languorously the young man stirred. Hands and feet stretched against their bonds. His eyes opened and stared about them dreamily. He seemed to have difficulty recollecting his situation. Fascinated despite himself, Mandrake moved a little closer.

  “Hold that stick ready,” Makepeace said. “Things may go wrong.” He bent near, spoke sweetly. “What is your name, friend?”

  “Nicholas Drew.”

  “Is that your only name? Think deeply. Do you have another?”

  A pause. The man’s face furrowed. “Yes … I do.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Borello …”

  “Ah, good. Tell me, Nicholas, what is your occupation?”

  “Shopworker.”

  “And what is the Shriveling Fire? When is it applied?”

  A brief frown of puzzlement gave way to bland assurance. “It is the penalty for disobedience, should we purposefully fail in our charge. Our master puts our essence to the torch. Ah, we fear it!”

  “Very good. Thank you.” Mr. Makepeace turned away, leaped carefully over the nearest chalk marks, and approached John Mandrake, whose face had been robbed of expression. “What do you think, my boy? Is it not a fascinating situation?”

  “I don’t know.… It is a clever trick—”

  “It is more than a trick! The demon has lodged itself within the man. It is trapped inside as if he were the pentacle! Did you not hear? And the demon’s knowledge is at the man’s command. Suddenly he knew the meaning of the Shriveling Fire. He had knowledge, where before had just been blankness! Now, consider the implications…”

  Mandrake frowned. “The feat is morally dubious. This fellow is an unwilling victim. Besides, he is a commoner. He cannot properly use the demon’s information.”

  “Aha! Perceptive as ever! Forget the moral dimension for a moment. Imagine if—”

  “What is he doing?” Mandrake was studying the captive, who seemed to have newly recognized his surroundings. Agitation had retur
ned to the face; he struggled with his bonds. Once or twice he turned his head violently from side to side, like a dog worrying at a flea.

  Makepeace shrugged. “Perhaps he senses the demon inside. Perhaps it talks within him. Hard to tell. I have not tried it with a commoner before.”

  “You have used others?”

  “A single one only. A volunteer. That union has worked extremely well.”

  Mandrake rubbed his chin. The sight of the writhing captive unsettled him, disrupting his intellectual interest. He could not think what to say.

  Mr. Makepeace had no such problems. “The implications, as I say, are immense. Notice how I entered the pentacle unharmed? The demon was powerless to stop me, since it was within an altogether different prison! Now, I wanted you to see this, John, with the utmost urgency, because I trust you, just as you, I hope, trust me. And if—”

  “Please!"A plaintive cry from the figure in the chair. “I can’t bear it! Oh, it whispers! It drives me mad!”

  Mandrake flinched. “He is suffering. The demon must be dismissed.”

  “Shortly, shortly. Probably he lacks the mental ability to constrain its voice—”

  The captive wriggled anew. “I’ll tell you all I know! About the commoners, about our plans! I can give you information….”

  Makepeace made a face. “Tush, you can give us nothing that our spies don’t already know. Cease your hollering. I have a headache.”

  “No! I can tell you of the Commoners’ Alliance! Of their ringleaders!”

  “We know them all—their names, their wives, their families. They are ants to be stepped on when we choose. Now—I have vital matters to discuss here—”

  “But—but you do not know this: a fighter from the old Resistance lives! She hides in London! I have seen her, hours ago! I can take you to the place—”