Ptolemy's Gate

  “Ah.” My whiskers drooped a tad. “Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re mistaken.” I rallied as best I could. “She’s as dead as they come. I’ve never seen deader. That golem swallowed her down whole. Gulp! Smack of the lips! Gone. Sad, but still, nothing to be worrying yourself about all these years later.…” I petered out here. I didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  Mandrake nodded slowly. Red swathes of anger competed with white blotches for possession of his face. It was a tie, a fifty/fifty split. “Swallowed whole, was it?” he said. “Funny, I seem to remember you said the golem burned her to a crisp.”

  “Oh, did I? Yes, well, he did that too. First. Before the swallowing bit—ouch!”

  Without warning, the magician had raised the spear and jabbed. I was too slow, too weak to react—the spear caught me firmly in my midriff. I gasped in shock, looked down … and relaxed again.

  “Wrong end,” I said. “That’s the blunt bit.”

  Mandrake had noticed this too. With a curse of frustration, he hurled the spear away from him, out of the circle. He stood staring at me, breathing hard, attempting to master his emotions. A minute or so passed. His heart rate slowed.

  “Do you know where she is?” I asked.

  He said nothing.

  I spoke quietly. “Leave her alone. She’s doing you no harm. And she saved your life, remember—I didn’t lie about that.”

  He seemed about to speak, then gave his head a little shake, as if forcibly flinging the subject from his mind. “Bartimaeus,” he said, “I stated to you the other day that I would dismiss you if you completed your mission, and—despite the endless provocation—I stand by my word. Tell me what happened when you followed Jenkins, and I will let you go.”

  The lioness’s brawny arms were folded. She looked down on him from a great height. “Permanently?”

  His eyes flicked to the side. “I never said that.”

  “But I am. Unless I’m much mistaken, my information’s the only thing that might prevent you from going to the Tower. Correct?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I believe that Hopkins is engaged in some conspiracy. If I can foil it, my position will probably be safe, yes.”

  “So then, how about it? It’s good info I’ve got here. You won’t be disappointed.”

  His voice was practically inaudible. “All right … If it’s good enough.”

  “It is. Good, that’s more like it. A sensible agreement, just like the old days. You know, Mandrake,” the lioness said musingly. “Things were better when you were little. You had more sense then.”

  He glowered at his feet. “So I’m told. Well, get on with it.”

  “All right.” The lioness linked her paws together, cracked her knuckles and began. “I followed Jenkins all across London. He’s got a network of magicians involved in his schemes; seven in total, all a bit like him: low-level, embittered, weak in strength—nothing to be afraid of, on the face of it, for someone tough like you.”

  “Any names?” The magician was listening intently, absorbing it all.

  “Withers and Burke. Nope, didn’t mean anything to me either. But you’ll know this one: Lime.”

  Mandrake’s eyes opened wide. “Rufus Lime? Lovelace’s friend? That’s more like it. Is he still—?”

  “Yep. As fish-faced as ever. Just got in from Paris, apparently.”

  “And their plans—what details did you get?”

  “Nothing concrete, to be frank. They’re all busy choosing demons for it, whatever it is. But they’re magicians—that’s what you’d expect them to do. There was much talk about ropes and chains. Oh, and vans.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Vans?”

  “Go figure. They mentioned something about an experiment too. They wanted proof it had been successful. No idea what though.” I scratched an ear. “What else …? Oh, Jenkins said there were seven of them because it was ‘one for each chair.’”

  Mandrake grunted. “The Council. There are seven of us. They plan rebellion.”

  “As usual.”

  “Well, it’s interesting, but rather short on specifics.” Mandrake looked quizzically at me. “For this you expect dismissal?”

  “There’s more. Jenkins didn’t just visit some downbeat friends; he met someone else. I’ll give you three guesses.”

  “Who?”

  “Go on, guess. Oh, you’re no fun. I’ll give you a clue. Beard. Oh, well done.”

  “I didn’t give an answer.”

  “No, but I can tell you’ve got it right from the color you’ve gone.5 Yep, the mercenary’s back in town, and his brows are even more beetling than you remember. With utmost bravery and cunning, I attached myself to his seven-league boots and followed him to the park, where he met a man I can only assume to be the elusive Hopkins. No, I didn’t hear a word they said. That’s when their djinn spotted me. You know the rest. I left half my essence between there and Richmond.”

  “All very well,” Mandrake snapped, “but what good is this to me? I can’t act on any of it! I need something if I’m to survive the trial tomorrow … Hopkins: he’s the key. Can you describe him?”

  The lioness scratched her nose. “Funny. It’s hard He’s sort of undistinguished looking. A bit stoop-shouldered, maybe; plain face, unshaven … mousy hair, I think … um …Why are you holding your head in your hands?”

  He cast his face to the ceiling. “Ahh! It’s hopeless! I might have known not to give this task to you. Ascobol could have done a better job.”

  That needled me. “Oh, really? So he’d have found out where Hopkins lived, would he?”

  “What?”

  “He’d have got the exact address, would he? I can see it now, a big fat cyclops in a raincoat and trilby, sidling up to Jenkins and the mercenary in the cafe, ordering a coffee, trying to listen in…. Oh yes, very inconspicuous.”

  “Never mind all that. You know where Hopkins is? Tell me!”

  “He’s staying at the Ambassador Hotel,” I said. “There. Just a little something I picked up, when I wasn’t being chased to within a spoonful6 of my life. Now, I—Wait, what are you doing?”

  The magician had sprung into sudden action. Turning to face the other pentacles laid out on the floor, he cleared his throat and rubbed at his tired, red eyes. “I’ve got one chance, Bartimaeus,” he said. “One chance and I’m going to take it. Tomorrow, my enemies will strike me down, unless I’ve something tangible to show them. And there will be few things more tangible than Mr. Hopkins, trussed and tied.”

  He flexed his fingers, began an incantation. A cold wind whipped around my ankles. A melancholy howling filled the air. Honestly, effects like this were frowned upon in Uruk for being hackneyed and out of date.7 You wouldn’t see any modern magician leave the pentacle on account of that racket, unless they’d collapsed laughing. I shook my head grimly. No prizes for guessing who was coming.

  Sure enough, with a noise like a cracked dinner gong, the blond-haired giant materialized in the next pentacle along. Instantly he set up a feeble torrent of pleading and complaint, which his master sensibly ignored. He hadn’t seen me. I waited till he was on his knees, wringing his hands and begging for dismissal, then kind of coughed suavely. “Need a handkerchief, Ascobol? My feet are getting wet.”

  The cyclops stood hurriedly, his face a flaming mask of shame and disapproval. “What’s he doing here, sir?” he bleated. “I really don’t think I can work with him.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m just watching you get your orders. After that I’m out of here. Aren’t I, ‘sir’?”

  Mandrake ignored us both. He had continued with his incantations, directing his energy at the remaining pentacles in the room. Further cheap effects ensued—pops and bursting, squeaks and sounds of running feet, smells of egg, gunpowder, and methane. It was like a kids’ birthday party. All we lacked were the silly hats.

  Within seconds the usual suspects had joined us, the rest of Mandrake’s crowd. It
was a mixed bag. First, and least, we had Ascobol, glowering at me between his braids; next up Cormocodran, a humorless cove, third level, who’d done time in Ireland during the Celtic twilight—he favored the guise of a man-boar, with tusks and trotters daubed with bright blue woad. Beyond him was Mwamba, a djinni who’d worked with the Abaluyia tribes of eastern Africa. I had a bit of time for her; she didn’t indulge in the tedious comments of the others. Today, for reasons best known to herself, she appeared as a giant spiny lizard wearing leather thigh boots. At the far end, barely squeezing himself into his pentacle, was Hodge, all prickles, odors, and bad personality. The five of us had worked together frequently over the preceding months, but sadly none of the others shared my upbeat temperament.8 We’d had friction, harsh words. Our relationship now could best be described as strained.

  Mandrake wiped sweat from his forehead. “I have summoned you,” he said, “for what I hope will be the final time.” This stirred a bit of interest; there was shuffling, coughing, rasping of spines. “If you complete today’s mission,” he continued, “I will not call on any of you again. I hope this vow will be sufficient for you to carry out this charge to the letter.”

  Cormocodran spoke; his voice rumbled between his tusks. “What is the charge?”

  “Staying at the Ambassador Hotel is a human named Hopkins. I wish you to arrest him and bring him here to this room. If I am absent, wait within the pentacles until I return. Hopkins is probably a magician—certainly he has allies who can raise low-level djinn, although from what we have seen they are unlikely to be powerful enough to trouble you. More dangerous than Hopkins is a tall, black-bearded man—not a magician, though he possesses the ability to withstand magical attack. This individual may or may not be present at the hotel. If he is, and you can capture or kill him, all well and good. But it is Hopkins that I need.”

  “We shall want a description,” Mwamba hissed. “And a good one. All you humans look alike to me.”

  Ascobol nodded. “Don’t they just? They’re all the same basic shape, got the same number of limbs and heads … Mind you, there’s a few bits that vary. If you look at—”

  Mandrake held up his hands hurriedly. “Indeed. Fortunately, Bartimaeus has encountered Hopkins and will be able to guide you.”

  I gave a start. “Wait a minute! That’s not on. You said I was to go free when I told you what happened.”

  “Agreed. But your description of Hopkins was rudimentary, incomplete. I cannot act on it. Go with the others, point out Hopkins. That’s all. I don’t expect you to tackle him in your condition. When you get back, you will be dismissed.”

  He turned to the others and began giving additional instructions, but the lioness heard nothing. My tufted ears were buzzing with rage; I was so furious I could barely stand. The arrogance of it! He was happy to renege on a vow so recent its echoes were still resounding through the room! Very well, I’d go. I had little choice. But if he ever got within my power, Mandrake would rue the times he’d cheated me.

  The magician finished. “Any further questions?”

  “Are you not coming with us?” Hodge inquired. He was shifting and adjusting his great stickleback-skin coat.

  “No.” Mandrake scowled. “Regrettably, I must attend the theater. What remains of my career depends upon it. Also”—he glanced at me; I couldn’t read the meaning in his eyes—“perhaps I have another appointment too.”

  The lioness regarded him implacably. “You’ll be making a big mistake.” I looked away. “Come on then” I said to the others. “Follow me.”

  18

  Throughout the day Kitty had been out of humor. She was surly, withdrawn, and prickly, even short-tempered, when challenged by her master. She completed her tasks dutifully but without enthusiasm, slamming doors, stomping about the villa’s rooms, and once, thanks to a hasty maneuver in a tight space, knocking over two high columns of carefully ordered books. Her master grew quite irritable in his turn.

  “Have a care, Lizzie,” he cried. “My patience is wearing thin!”

  Kitty halted opposite the sofa. Her forehead was creased with the blackest frown. “Am I not giving satisfaction, Mr. Button?”

  “Indeed not! All day you have been out of sorts, galumphing like a rogue elephant around my house, face as ugly as an afrit! When I address you, you answer rudely, without respect. I am shocked by your insolent vulgarity! And that tea you brewed me was as insipid as gnat’s piss. This cannot go on. What is the matter with you, girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sullen again! I warn you, if it continues, you shall be out on your ear.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kitty sighed. It was, after all, not Mr. Button’s fault that Bartimaeus had failed her. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve had … a spot of trouble.”

  “Trouble?” The lines of vexation on the old man’s face softened. “My dear, you should have said. Tell me. Perhaps I can help.”

  A flicker of anxiety crossed his brow. “It is nothing financial?”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that.” Kitty hesitated. She could hardly tell him the truth, that her whole purpose in assisting him had, in the early hours of the morning, been rendered futile. After almost three years Mr. Button relied upon her; despite his brisk manner, she knew he valued her highly. But he was still a magician. “It’s my evening job, sir,” she said. “You know I work at an inn. We had a demon raid two days ago. One of my colleagues was killed.”

  “A raid?” Mr. Button frowned. “What for?”

  “The usual stuff, sir—trying to uncover dissent, people prepared to act against our leaders.” She took a spice cake from the plate in front of him and bit into it listlessly.

  “Well, Lizzie, you must understand that it is the right of any government to protect itself. I am not sure you should be frequenting that inn, if it is such a hotbed of subversion.”

  “But it isn’t really, sir. That’s the point. All the commoners ever do is talk—about the war, the police, restrictions on their freedom. Just talk. They’re powerless to do anything about it, as you must know.”

  “Mmm.” Mr. Button gazed out of the grimy window at the blank October sky. “I can hardly blame the commoners for their unhappiness. The war has gone on far too long. I fear Mr. Devereaux is not acting as he should. But what can we do? Even I, a magician myself, am helpless! Power is concentrated with the Council, Lizzie. The rest of us must watch and hope for better times. Well, well, I can understand your distemper if a friend of yours was killed. I am sorry for your loss. Have another cake.”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you, sir.” Kitty sat on the sofa arm and did.

  “Perhaps you should take the afternoon off, Lizzie,” Mr. Button said. “I shall be working on my demonic index and that will keep me busy. So many demons! You’d think the Other Place could scarcely cram them in!”

  Kitty’s mouth was full of cake crumbs. She swallowed them. “Pardon me, sir, but what exactly is the Other Place? I mean, what’s it like?”

  The old man grunted. “A region of chaos, a whirl of endless abominations. Dulac, if I remember rightly, called it ‘a sump of madness.’ We cannot begin to imagine the horror of such a realm.” He shuddered. “It’s enough to make a man want a third spiced bun.”

  “So magicians have visited it?” Kitty asked. “I mean, they’d have to have done, to know what it was like.”

  “Ah. Well.” Mr. Button shrugged. “Not exactly. In general, the authorities used reports from reliable slaves. To venture there in person is another matter. It risks both body and soul.”

  “So it hasn’t been done?”

  “Oh, it’s been tried. Dulac’s master Ficino, for example. He hoped to gain demonic power. Instead he lost his mind—literally so: it did not come back. As for his body … No. The details are too revolting.”

  “Oh, go on, sir.”

  “Certainly not. There has been a smattering of others, but all were left insane or worse. The only magician who claimed to have succeeded in the journey was Ptolemaeu
s. He left details in his Apocrypha, but they are of dubious value. In effect, he implies that the procedure can only be achieved with the help of a benign demon, whose name is invoked to create the Gate.” He snorted. “Palpably, the notion is ridiculous—who would seriously trust a demon with their life? And it is likely that Ptolemaeus himself suffered as a result of his experiment. By most accounts he didn’t live long afterward.”

  Trust. Bartimaeus had emphasized exactly that. Ptolemy had been willing to put his trust in him. As a result, there was no limit to their bond. Kitty gazed up at the ceiling, remembering the djinni’s challenge to step out of the circle. She hadn’t done it, for the obvious reason that he’d have probably torn her limb from limb. No trust there. On either side.

  A great anger flared inside her once again: anger for wasting so many years in pursuit of a hopeless dream. She slipped off the sofa arm. “Do you mind if I do take the afternoon off, sir?” she said. “I think I need a little air.”

  As she retrieved her coat from the hallway, she passed a pile of books that she had lately sorted, ready for stacking on some newly purchased shelves. Among them were works from the ancient Near East, within which … She halted, checked. Yes. There it was, three from the top: a slim volume. Ptolemaeus’s Apocrypha.

  Kitty curled her lip. What was the point? Bartimaeus had said it was written in Greek, claimed it would be useless to her. She moved away, only to stop again halfway down the hall. She looked back. Well, why not? It couldn’t do any harm.

  Old investigative habits died hard. She departed the house with the book in her pocket.

  That evening, with time on her hands, Kitty walked to the Frog Inn. She had hoped the exercise would burn off a little of the frustration swelling uncontrollably inside her, but if anything it only made it worse. The faces of the people she passed were pinched and sullen, their shoulders hunched; they gazed at their boots as they trudged along the road. Vigilance spheres whirled above the streets; Night Police loitered arrogantly at major intersections. One or two roads were barricaded off. There had been disorder in central London; now the authorities were cracking down. White police vans passed her more than once. Faintly she heard sirens in the distance.