Ptolemy's Gate

  Mandrake rose from his chair, conscious of the strangest feeling. Something dredged from the past—almost a sorrow. It discomforted him, but was pleasant too. He welcomed it, though it made him uneasy. Above all, it was not of his current life—it had nothing to do with efficiency or effectiveness, with reputation or with power. He could not rid himself of the desire to see her face again.

  First light: the skies were leaden gray and the pavements dark and sloughed with leaves. The wind skittered through the branches of the trees and around the stark spire of the war memorial in the center of the park. The woman’s coat was turned up against her face. As she approached, striding swiftly along beside the road, head down, hand up against her scarf, Mandrake failed to recognize her at first. She was smaller than he recalled, her hair longer and a little flecked with gray. But then from nowhere, a familiar detail: the bag she carried her pens in—old, battered, recognizably the same. The same bag! He shook his head in wonder. He could buy her a new one—a dozen of them—should she wish it.

  He waited in the car until she drew almost level, uncertain until the last moment whether he would actually step out. Her boots scattered the leaves, tripped carefully around the deeper puddles, walking speedily thanks to the cold and the moisture in the air. Soon she would be past him….

  He despised himself for his hesitation. He opened the roadside door, got out, and stepped across to intercept her.

  “Ms. Lutyens.”

  He saw her give a sudden start and her eyes dart around to appraise him and the sleek, black car parked behind. She walked another two hesitant steps, came to an uncertain halt. She stood looking at him, one arm hanging limply at her side, the other clutching at her throat. Her voice, when it came, was small—and, he noted, rather scared. “Yes?”

  “Might I have a word?” He had chosen to wear a more official suit than was his wont. He hadn’t needed to do this exactly, but he’d found he wanted to make the best impression. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been nothing but a humiliated boy.

  “What do you want?”

  He smiled. She was very defensive. Goodness knows what she thought he was. Some official, come to inquire about her taxes … “Just a chat,” he said. “I recognized you … and I wondered if… if you recognized me.”

  Her face was pale, still etched with worry; frowning, her eyes scanned his. “I’m sorry,” she began, “I don’t—Oh. Yes, I do. Nathaniel …” She hesitated. “But I don’t suppose I can use that name.”

  He made an elegant gesture. “It is best forgotten, yes.”

  “Yes …” She stood looking at him—at his suit, his shoes, his silver ring, but mostly at his face. Her scrutiny was deeper than he had expected, serious and intense. Rather to his surprise, she did not smile, or display any immediate elation. But of course his appearance had been sudden.

  He cleared his throat. “I was passing. I saw you and—well, it’s been a long time.”

  She nodded slowly “Yes.”

  “I thought it would … So how are you, Ms. Lutyens? How are you keeping?”

  “I’m well,” she said, and then, almost sharply: “Do you have a name I am allowed to use?”

  He adjusted a cuff, smiled vaguely. “John Mandrake is my name now. You may perhaps have heard of me.”

  She nodded again, expressionless. “Yes. Of course. So, you’re doing … well.”

  “Yes. I’m Information Minister now. Have been for the last two years. It was quite a surprise, as I was rather young. But Mr. Devereaux decided to take a gamble on me and”—he gave a little shrug—“here I am.”

  He had expected this to elicit more than yet another brief nod, but Ms. Lutyens remained uneffusive. With slight annoyance in his voice, he said, “I thought you’d be pleased to see how well it’s all turned out, after—after the last time we saw each other. That was all very … unfortunate.”

  He was using the wrong words, that much he could tell—slipping into the studied understatement of his ministerial life rather than saying exactly what was in his mind. Perhaps that was why she seemed so stiff and unresponsive. He tried again: “I was grateful to you, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Grateful then. And I still am now.”

  She shook her head, frowning. “Grateful for what? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You know—when Lovelace attacked me. That time he beat me, and you tried to stop him … I never got a chance to—”

  “As you say, it was unfortunate. But it was also a long time ago.” She flicked a wisp of hair from her face. “So, you’re the Information Minister? You’re the one responsible for those pamphlet things they’re giving out at the stations?”

  He smiled modestly. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “The ones that tell us what a fine war we’re waging and how only the best young men are signing up for it, that it’s a man’s job to sail off to America and fight for freedom and security? The ones that say that death is a fit price to pay for the survival of the Empire?”

  “A trifle too succinct, but that’s the thrust of it, I suppose.”

  “Well, well. You’ve come a long way, Mr. Mandrake.” She was looking at him almost sadly.

  The air was cold; the magician stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and glanced up and down the road, searching for something to say. “I don’t suppose you usually see your pupils again,” he said. “When they’ve grown up, I mean. See how they’ve got on …”

  “No,” she agreed. “My job is with the children. Not with the adults they become.”

  “Indeed.” He looked at her battered old bag, remembering its dull satin interior, with the little cases of pencils, chalks, ink pens, and Chinese brushes. “Are you happy in your job, Ms. Lutyens?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, happy with your money, and your status and all that? I ask you because I could, you know, find you other employment if you chose. I have influence, and could find you something better than this. There are strategists in the War Ministry, for example, who need people with your expertise to design mass-produced pentacles for the American campaign. Or even in my ministry—we’ve created an advertising department to better put across our message to the people. Technicians like you would be welcomed. It’s good work, dealing with confidential information.You’d get a rise in status.”

  “By ‘the people,’I take it you mean ‘commoners’?” she asked.

  “That’s what we’re calling them now in public,” he agreed. “They seem to prefer it. Doesn’t mean anything, of course.”

  “I see,” she said crisply. “Well, no—thank you, but I am quite all right as I am. I’m sure none of the departments would want an old commoner like me thrust into their midst, and anyway, I still rather enjoy my job. But it is very kind of you, all the same.” She pushed up her coat sleeve and glanced at her watch.

  The magician clapped his hands together. “You have to get on!” he said. “Listen, why don’t I give you a lift? My chauffeur can take you anywhere. Save you being crammed in like a sardine on a bus or train—”

  “No, thank you.You are very kind.” Her face was stony.

  “Very well, if that’s the way you feel about it.” Despite the chilly air, he felt hot and irritable. Fervently he wished he had remained within the car. “Well, it has been a pleasure seeing you again. Of course, I must ask you to treat what you know in the strictest confidence Not that I need to mention that, I’m sure,” he added, somewhat foolishly.

  At this, Ms. Lutyens looked at him in such a way that he was suddenly transported back half his lifetime, to the days when her rare displeasure cast his schoolroom into desperate shadow. He found himself looking at his shoes. “Do you really think,” she said tartly, “that I’ll want to tell the world that I once saw you, the great John Mandrake, our beloved Information Minister, hanging upside down with your bottom in the air? That I heard your yelps and wails of pain as cruel men beat you? You think I’d tell this? That’s really what you think?”

  “No! Not that. I meant about my name—”

&nbsp
; “Oh, that.” She gave a short, dry laugh. “It may surprise you to know,” she went on, “that I’ve got better things to do with my time. Yes, even I, with my silly little unimportant job, don’t have a great desire to betray the children I once worked with, no matter what they’ve become. Your birth name, Mr. Mandrake, is safe with me. Now I must go. I’m late for my work.”

  She turned, began to stride off along the pavement. He bit his lip, his anger mixed with distress. “You’re misinterpreting what I’m saying,” he cried. “I didn’t come here to crow over you. I just didn’t get a chance, back then, to thank you….”

  Ms. Lutyens paused, and looked back over her shoulder. Her face had lost its anger. “No, I think I do understand,” she said. “And I am pleased to know it. But you mistake yourself. It was the boy who was grateful to me, and you are no longer that boy. You do not speak for him. We have nothing in common, you and I.”

  “I wanted to say that I know you were trying to save me, and—”

  “Yes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I didn’t. Good-bye, Mr. Mandrake.” Then she was off, walking swiftly away from him among the damp leaves.

  17

  Another few hours, another summons—hey, that’s the way I like it. A day without enslavement is a day that’s wasted, as far as I’m concerned.

  Let me see … I’d had Mandrake. I’d had the girl. Who would it be this time? After Kitty’s surprise appearance in the pentacle I half expected this one to be the postman.

  No such luck. It was my dear old master again, face like thunder. With a silver-tipped spear held ready in his hand.

  His evident intent stimulated a swift response. I forced my poor old essence into an imposing shape: a lion-headed warrior, of the kind that fought in Egypt’s wars.1 Leather breastplate, looped bronze skirt, eyes that shone like crystal, fanged teeth glaring from black gums. Nice. I held out a warning paw.

  “Don’t even think about it, squirt.”

  “I want answers, Bartimaeus! Answers! And if not—see this spear? I’ll make you eat it before I’m done.” The words came tumbling from his twisted mouth. His eyes were wide and staring like a fish. He seemed a little upset.

  “You? You’d only recognize the sharp end if you sat on it.” My voice was velvet-smooth. “Be careful, though. I’m not exactly defenseless myself.” From my paddy-paw a talon popped, curved like a sickle moon. I turned it idly, so it caught the light.

  He grinned nastily. “Ah, but that’s all show, isn’t it? Two days ago you weren’t even able to talk, let alone resist attack. I’m betting if I prod you with this silver here, you’ll know about it. And you won’t be able to reverse it on me either.”2

  “You reckon?” The lioness drew herself up to her full height. Her tufty ears scraped the ceiling. “Them’s mighty big words, stranger. Go ahead and prove ’em.”

  He snarled, lunged weakly with the spear. The lioness flinched sideways and sliced down at the spear shaft with her claw. It was a pathetic display all round: we both missed by miles.

  “What sort of thrust d’ you call that?” the lion scoffed, hopping from one foot to another. “You’re like a blind sparrow pecking for a worm.”

  “You were no better.” The magician was shuffling from side to side within his pentacle, ducking down, jerking up, feinting with his spear in every direction known to man. He wheezed, he gasped; he displayed all the skill of someone whose servants normally lift his knife and fork.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m this way. To the front.”

  “Answers, Bartimaeus!” he cried again. “Tell me the truth! No delays, no evasions. Who summoned you?”

  I’d expected this. But I couldn’t tell him that Kitty was still alive, of course. However misguided she was, she’d treated me with honor. The lioness looked sheepish.3 “Who says anyone summoned me?”

  “I do and don’t deny it! I tried last night and you were gone. Who was it? Which magician were you seeing?”

  “Don’t get so worked up. It was a brief encounter. Nothing serious. It’s over.”

  “Nothing serious?” Another jab with the spear, this time pronging the floorboards. “Think I’m going to believe that?”

  “Calm down, Mr. Jealous.You’re making a scene.”

  “Who was it? Man or woman?”

  I tried to be reassuring. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, and I didn’t. Is that good enough for you?”

  “No! You expect me to trust a word you say?”

  So much for reassurance. The lioness reverted to barefaced cheek.4 “All right, then—trust this: Get lost. It’s none of your business. I owe you nothing.”

  The boy was so angry I thought he was going to burst out of his suit. It was the fear in him, of course; the fear of me passing on his name.

  “Listen, sonny,” I said. “I never pass information from one master to another unless it’s firmly in my interests, so don’t expect me to say anything to you about last night. By the same token I’ve not told anyone your pathetic little birth name. Why should I? It means nothing to me. But if you’re so worried about me revealing your childhood secrets, there’s a simple solution. Dismiss me for good! But no—you can’t bring yourself to do that, can you? In fact, I don’t think you actually want to break away from your past. That’s why you keep me around, no matter how weak I get. It’s so you can hang on to the Nathaniel you once were, as well as the big, bad John Mandrake you’ve become.”

  The magician said nothing, but looked at me blankly with his hot and hollow eyes. I couldn’t blame him. I was a bit surprised myself in actual fact. Don’t know where those piercing insights came from. All the same, I wondered if they rather went over his head. He wasn’t looking well.

  We were in his study; it was, I guessed, late afternoon. Papers were strewn about the place; there was an uneaten plate of food upon his desk.The air had a sour, stale smell that suggested prolonged occupation by an unwashed youth. And sure enough, the youth in question was not his usual dapper self. His face was puffy, his eyes red and wild; his shirt (distressingly unbuttoned) hung over his trousers in sloppy fashion. All very out of character: Mandrake was normally defined by his rigid self-control. Something seemed to have stripped all that away.

  Well, the poor lad was emotionally brittle. He needed sympathetic handling.

  “You’re a mess” I sneered. “You’ve lost it big-time. What’s happened? All your guilt and self-loathing suddenly get to you? It can’t just be that someone else called me, surely?”

  The boy looked up into the lioness’s crystal eyes. “No …” he said slowly. “I’ve other cause for complaint too. And you’re at the heart of it all.”

  “Me?” And there was I, lamenting my decline! Looked like there was life in the old djinni yet. I perked up. “How so?”

  “Well”—he set the spear against the ground, narrowly avoiding impaling his toe—“I’ll just run through it for you, shall I? Firstly—in the last twenty-four hours there have been a number of serious riots in London. The commoners have caused much damage. There has been fighting and some casualties. Even now there is disorder on the streets. This morning Devereaux declared a state of emergency. Troops have blockaded Whitehall. The machinery of Empire has been seriously disrupted.”

  “Sounds like a bad day at the office for you,” I said. “But nothing to do with me.”

  He coughed. “A certain frog,” he said, “began it all two nights ago by causing chaos in St. James’s Park. Thanks to his actions, a dangerous djinni was set loose among the crowd. It was this incident that triggered the riots.”

  The lioness uttered a roar of protest. “That was hardly my fault! I was trying to carry out your orders in a thoroughly weakened state. I succeeded in difficult circumstances. Stop—don’t laugh like that. It’s creepy.”

  The youth had thrown his head back and uttered a hollow, barking laugh not dissimilar to a hyena’s. “Succeeded?” he cried. “Is that what you call it? Nearly expiring at my feet, unable to give me one word of the report I??
?d asked for, making me look a fool in public? If that’s success, give me failure any time.”

  “I made a fool of you?"The lioness could barely contain her mirth. “Get real. You don’t need any help on that score, chum. What did I do? Draw attention to your cruelty, perhaps, on account of being nearly dead. What magician keeps a djinni in this world till it’s too weak to survive? I’m surprised you didn’t finish me off.”

  Mandrake’s eyes blazed. “They wanted to!” he cried. “They wanted to wrest the information from you and let you die! Fool that I am, I saved you. I let you go. Which left me with no defense against all the destruction you caused. As a result, my career’s almost certainly finished. Maybe even my life too. My enemies are gathering. I’m due for trial tomorrow, thanks to you.

  His voice quavered, his eyes were moist; you could practically hear the sound of wistful violins. The warrior lioness stuck out her tongue and made a disrespectful noise. “That could all have been avoided,” I said savagely, “if you’d trusted me enough to dismiss me more. I’d have been in better nick then and could have easily avoided Hopkins’s demons.”

  He looked up quickly. “Ah. So you found Hopkins?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I was saying: it’s all your fault.You should have had faith in me. But even after all these years, after what I did for you with Lovelace, with Duvall, with the Anarchist and the Oyster—”

  He winced. “Don’t mention that last one.”

  “—even after all that,” I continued remorselessly, “you reverted to type, became a typical magician, treated me like an enemy. I’m a nasty demon, therefore I can’t be trusted to—” I broke off. “What? Listen, that laugh of yours is really getting to me.”

  “But that’s just it!” he cried. “You can’t be trusted. You do lie to me.”

  “Name one occasion.”

  His eyes glittered. “Kitty Jones.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You told me she was dead. I know she’s alive.”