Ptolemy's Gate

  Cormocodran and I took our places in the line. Ascobol glanced across at us. “The fool’s refusing to come quietly,” he hissed. “We need to scare him a bit. Hodge has done some pretty manic tittering, but he hasn’t budged an inch. Come on, Bartimaeus—can’t you manage something a little more fearsome? Pep up your guise.”

  You might argue that a man who wasn’t scared of a cyclops, a boar-headed warrior, a giant lizard, and a vicious-looking pangolin with the titters wouldn’t be too fussed at one monster more or less, but I took the point. A Sheban diplomat isn’t the most terrifying thing in the world. I rummaged through my inventory of guises and picked out one that used to awe the people of the plains well enough. The diplomat vanished. In his place stood a tall, sinister figure, hung about with a cape of feathers and animal bones; he had a man’s body, but his head—sleek and black with eyes of yellow fire—was a savage crow’s. The cruel beak opened, loosing a wicked caw upon the world. Assorted cutlery rattled across the kitchen.

  I bent my head toward Ascobol. “How’s that?”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  As one, the five terrible djinn stepped closer to their prey.

  “You may as well put that thing down,” Mwamba advised sternly. “We’ve got you trapped.”

  Ah yes. That thing. I’d noticed it too. It was a certain kind of kitchen implement that Mr. Hopkins had picked up in self-defense. But far from holding it fearfully in front of him, as you might expect, he was toying with it in a manner unbefitting a scholar, tossing it up into the air with one hand and catching it nimbly between finger and thumb of the other. If it had been a tin-opener or a potato peeler, even a ladle or soup spoon, it wouldn’t have bothered me so much. But it wasn’t any of those things. It was a meat cleaver, and a large one too.

  Something about the way he wielded it rang a few faint bells.

  “Well, now,” Mr. Hopkins said, smiling. “Here’s a conundrum. Have you trapped me, or is it the other way around?”

  He gave a little kick of his legs as he said this, as if he were about to start dancing some horrible Celtic jig; instead of which he rose gently off the floor and hovered over us, grinning from ear to ear.

  This was unexpected. Even Hodge stopped his eager snickering. The others glanced at each other in astonishment. Not me, though. I was silent, frozen where I stood, an uncomfortable finger of ice traveling at leisure down my spine.

  I’d known the voice, you see. It wasn’t that of any Mr. Hopkins. It wasn’t even human.

  It was Faquarl’s.

  20

  “Er, chaps,” I ventured. “I think we should go carefully here.”

  From his position in midair Mr. Hopkins tossed the cleaver high; flashing as it spun, it arced around a ceiling light and landed handle-first back upon his outstretched finger. He caught my eye and winked.

  Ascobol was rattled, but he talked big to cover it. “So he can levitate,” he snarled. “And do juggling tricks. So can half the starving fakirs of India, and I never ran from them. Come on. Remember, we’ve got to take him alive.”

  With an unearthly cry, he leaped down from his sink top. The crow-headed man held out a hand of caution. “Wait!” I said. “Something’s wrong here. His voice—”

  “You coward, Bartimaeus!"The pangolin loosed a volley of darts that pattered into the floor beside my feet. “You fear for what remains of your essence. Well, hop on the nearest chair and squeal. Four proper djinn can handle this man.”

  “But that’s just it,” I protested. “I’m not sure this is a man. He’s—”

  “Of course I am.” Up on high, Mr. Hopkins tapped his chest proudly. “Planes one to seven, flesh and blood. Can’t you see?” It was true. He was human whichever way you looked at it. But it was Faquarl who spoke.

  The giant lizard swung her tail in agitation; it caught against a cooker and sent it crashing on its side. “Hold on,” Mwamba said. “What language are we speaking?”1

  “Erm … Aramaic, why?”

  “Because he can speak it too.”

  “So what? He’s a scholar, ain’t he?” In times of stress Ascobol could pulverize Semitic tongues.

  “Yes, but it seems a little odd …”

  Mr. Hopkins inspected his watch ostentatiously. “Look, I’m sorry to butt in,” he called, “but I’m a busy man. I have some important business this evening, which concerns us all. If you lot clear off now, I’ll spare you. Even Bartimaeus.”

  Cormocodran had been resting his poorly essence against an eight-hob oven, but at these words he erupted into life. “You’ll spare us?” he roared. “For that piece of impudence I shall gore you, and not gently!” He pawed the ground with a hoof and started forward. The other djinn followed his example; there was a general rattling of horns, spines, scales, and other armored bits. Mr. Hopkins chucked the cleaver casually to his right hand and spun it around his fingers.

  “Wait, you idiots!” the crow-man shouted. “Didn’t you hear? He knows me! He knows my name! This is—”

  “It’s not like you to hold back on the edge of a battle, Bartimaeus,” Mr. Hopkins called cheerily, dropping down toward the advancing djinn. “You’re normally much farther away, cowering in a disused catacomb or something.”

  “That catacomb incident has been grossly misrepresented!” I roared. “As I’ve explained countless times, I was guarding it against Rome’s enemies, who might well have chosen—” I stopped right there. That was the proof. No human knew where I’d loitered during the barbarian invasion, and precious few spirits either.2 In fact, I could only think of one djinni that still brought it up with metronomic regularity, whenever our paths crossed over the centuries. And sure enough, that one was—

  “Stop!” I cried, hopping from side to side in agitation. “Its not Hopkins at all! I don’t know how, but it’s Faquarl, and he—”

  It was too late, of course. My companions were making far too many roars and rumbles for them to hear. Mind, I doubt they’d have stopped even if they had heard. Certainly Ascobol and Hodge, who had no respect for their elders or betters, would have carried on regardless. Maybe Mwamba might have hesitated.

  But they didn’t hear, and they all piled in.

  Well, it was four against one. Faquarl, armed only with a kitchen knife, versus four of the most ferocious djinn then at large in London. It was a hideous mismatch.

  I’d have helped my companions out if I’d thought it would make any difference.

  Instead, I stole carefully toward the door. Thing was, I knew Faquarl. He had a certain breezy confidence that came from being very good at what he did.3

  Very good, and very quick. Crow-head had just negotiated a rack of omelette pans and was slipping past the pastry cases when a shower of plates fell around his ears. Armor plates, that is, lately of the pangolin.

  They were followed a second or so later by one or two other things—some of which, I’m sorry to say, were recognizable.

  It was only when I reached the kitchen door that I risked a quick look back. At the far end of the room was a whirl of movement, flashes of light, sounds, and screams. Occasionally hands reached out from the vortex, grasped tables or small fridges and plunged with them back out of sight. Fragments of metal, wood, and essence hurtled outward periodically.

  Time to depart. Some djinn of my acquaintance let loose a billowing Fog to cover their tracks; others prefer to leave a noxious inky vapor or a few Illusions in their wake. Me, I hit the lights. Kitchen and dining room were plunged into darkness. Weird glints of a dozen colors emitted by the fighting djinn slid and spun across the walls. Ahead, a solitary wedge of light marked the way out to the corridor. I wrapped my cape of feathers close about me and was swallowed by the shadows.4

  I hadn’t got halfway across the dining room when all sounds of combat behind me ceased.

  I halted, hoping against hope to hear my colleagues’ cries of triumph.

  No luck. The silence beat against my feathered head.

  I concentrated and really stra
ined for a scrap of sound…. Perhaps I strained too hard. I thought to imagine a soft noise, as of someone floating through the dark.

  I hastened on. No point trying to run—stealth was the key. I was in no state to contest with Faquarl, however eccentric his guise. I kept to the margins of the dining room, keeping. well clear of the tables, chairs, and discarded cutlery. My cloak of shadows covered my bowed head; a yellow eye peeped out anxiously below a fringe of feathers. It checked behind.

  Through the arch leading to the kitchen came a patch of moving blackness; light glinted on something in its hand. I picked up the pace a little, and in so doing kicked against a teaspoon, which clinked against the wall.

  “Dear me, Bartimaeus,” a familiar voice called. “You really are addled tonight. A human might be foiled by the dark, but I can see you as clear as noonday, skulking over there beneath those rags. Stop a while and talk with me. I’ve missed our little chats.”

  Crow-head made no response, but hurried for the door.

  “Aren’t you just a little curious?"The voice was nearer now. “I’d have thought you’d be dying to know about my choice of form.”

  Sure, I was curious, but “dying to know” was exactly what I wasn’t. I’m happy to indulge in snappy banter with the best of them, but chats are out when the alternative is escaping with my life. Mid-stride, the crow-headed man leaped forward, hands outstretched, as if diving into a swimming pool; his feathered cape swirled round him, flapped, became dark wings. The man was gone; a desperate crow darted forth, a feathered bolt making for the door—

  A sigh, a thud, a cawk of pain. The crow’s progress was halted in a manner that brooked no argument, pierced through a wingtip and suspended beneath a shimmering flash that shuddered, vibrated, stilled—and became a meat cleaver embedded in the wall.

  With nonchalant leisure, the thing with the body of Mr. Hopkins drifted across the empty room. The crow awaited it, swinging gently, an indignant expression on its beak.

  Mr. Hopkins drew close. One shoulder of his suit was a little scorched, and he had a slight cut upon one cheek. Other than that he appeared uninjured. He hovered in the darkness a meter or so away, regarding me with a little smile. I guessed he was checking out my condition on the various planes; my weakness made me feel embarrassed, almost naked. I tapped the feathers of my free wing against the wall.

  “So go on then,” I snapped. “Get it over with.”

  A frown passed across the inexpressive face. “You want me to kill you already?”

  “Not that. The rubbish joke you’re thinking up. About it being good of me to hang around, or something like that. Go on, you know you want to. Get it out of your system.”

  The scholar looked pained. “As if I’d stoop so low, Bartimaeus. You judge me by your own subterranean standards of repartee, which are as regrettable as the condition of your essence. Look at you! As perforated as a sponge. If I were your master, I’d use you to mop the floor.”

  I gave a groan. “That’s probably on the agenda. I’ve done everything else.”

  “I’m sure you have. Well, it is a sorry state of affairs to see any spirit brought so low, even one as frivolous and irritating as you. It almost moves me to pity.” He scratched his nose. “Almost, but not quite.”

  I searched the pale gray eyes. “It is you, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Certainly it is.”

  “But your essence … Where—?”

  “Right here, hidden away inside the body of our dear Mr. Hopkins. As you must have deduced, this is no mere guise” Faquarl’s voice gave a little chuckle. “What was that pathetic birdy getup you were wearing just now? Native American totem? So messy and antiquated. Well, I’ve gone beyond that sort of thing.”

  “You’re in his actual body?” I said. “Yeucch! That’s icky. Who’s done this to you, Faquarl? Who’s your master?” I didn’t understand this at all.

  “My master?” The hovering man shook with mirth. “Why, Mr. Hopkins, of course, and very grateful I am to him. So grateful that I think he and I will be working together for some little time to come.” He burst into another rich and hearty laugh.5 “Much has happened since last we met, Bartimaeus,” he went on. “Do you remember how we parted?”

  “No.” I did.

  “You set light to me, old friend. Struck a match and left me burning in a copse.”

  The crow shifted uneasily beneath the cleaver. “That’s a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland…”

  “Mmm. Well, you’ve been a slave to more humans than me, Bartimaeus. You’d know their ways if anyone would. Even so, it was a little painful.…” He drifted closer.

  “You weren’t too badly off,” I protested. “I caught sight of you again a couple of days later, playing cook again in the Heddleham kitchen. Didn’t seem too singed. What is it with you and kitchens, anyway? You’re always hanging about in them.”6

  Hopkins—or Faquarl—gave a nod. “Lots of nice sharp weapons in kitchens.” He flicked the cleaver with a fingertip; blade and the crow quivered and pulsed. “Which is why I came down here just now. Also it’s more roomy than that corridor upstairs. I needed space to swing my arms a little…. Space is at a premium in this hotel. Mind you, my room does have a Jacuzzi.”

  My head spun. “Wait a second,” I said. “I know you as Faquarl of Sparta, scourge of the Aegean. I’ve seen you as a slate-black giant crushing hoplite armies beneath your heels. Now what are you? A pigeon-chested human who likes his bath. What’s going on? How long have you been trapped like this?”

  “Just a couple of months. But I’m hardly trapped. The Ambassador is a very plush and exclusive establishment. Hopkins liked the good things in life, you see. Also it’s out of reach of government spies, so I can come and go as I please. I saw no reason to change the arrangements.”

  The crow rolled its eyes. “Not the hotel. I was talking about the body.”

  A chuckle. “The answer’s the same, Bartimaeus. It’s only a few weeks since the good Mr. Hopkins—how shall I put it?—invited me in. It took a while to acclimatize, but I am now extremely comfortable. And despite appearances, my power is in no way reduced. As your friends have just found out.” He grinned. “Haven’t fed so heavily for a long time.”

  “Yes, well.” I coughed uncomfortably. “I hope you weren’t thinking of doing the same with me. We go back a long way, you and I.A wonderful association; lots of shared experiences.”

  Mr. Hopkins’s eyes gleamed with merriment. “That’s better, Bartimaeus. Your sense of humor is perking up. But in truth, I do not intend to devour you.”

  The crow had been hanging from the cleaver in rather a woebegone manner. Now, with this unexpected news, it rallied. “You don’t? Faquarl, you are a generous friend! I apologize for that incident in the copse, and for our fights over the Amulet, and for that Convulsion from behind I got you with, back in Heidelberg in ’thirty-two”—I hesitated—“which I see you didn’t know was me. Um, and all the rest. So—many thanks, and if you could just remove this cleaver, I’ll be on my way.”

  The bland-faced man did not remove the cleaver. Instead he bent close to the crow. “I didn’t say I was sparing you, Bartimaeus. Just that I’m not going to eat you. The idea of it! Simply looking at your essence gives me indigestion. But nor am I going to let you go. This very night you shall die horribly—”

  “Oh. Great.”

  “In as painful and long-drawn-out a fashion as I can contrive.”

  “Look, you needn’t put yourself out over this—”

  “But first I want to tell you something.” Hopkins’s grinning face came close. “I want to tell you that you were wrong.”

  I pride myself on my swift wit and keen intelligence, but this one had me stumped. “Eh?”

  “Countless times,” Faquarl continued, “I have held out to you the hope that djinn would one day be free. Djinn like you and me. Why do we fight? Because we are set against each other by
our cursed human masters. Why do we obey them? Because we have no choice. Countless times I have speculated that these rules might be challenged; countless times you have told me I was mistaken.”

  “I didn’t put it quite like that. I said you were a complete—”

  “You said that we had no chance of ever breaking free of the twin problems, Bartimaeus. The problems of free will and pain. And I see that certainty in your squinty little eyes again! But you are mistaken. Look at me now—what do you see?”

  I considered. “A murderous maniac in human form? A hideous amalgam of the worst of man and djinn? Erm—I’m going out on a limb here—a former foe looking at me with unexpected pity and good fellowship?”

  “No, Bartimaeus. No. I’ll tell you. You see a djinni without pain. You see a djinni with free will. I’m not surprised you don’t understand: in five thousand years there has never been a marvel like it!” He held out a very human hand and gently ruffled my head feathers. “Can you imagine it, you poor wounded creature? No pain! No pain, Bartimaeus! Ah,” he sighed, “you can’t think how clearheaded that makes me.”

  No pain … In the back of my tired, befuddled mind, I saw a sudden image: Gladstone’s skeleton, leaping, prancing … “I met an afrit once,” I said. “He said something like that too. But his essence was trapped in human bones and he went mad. In the end he embraced extinction rather than live on.”

  Faquarl shaped Hopkins’s face into the approximation of a smile. “Ah, you speak of Honorius? Yes, I have heard of him. The poor fellow has been most influential! My essence is protected, just as his was, and like him I have free will. But mark this, Bartimaeus—I shall not go mad.”

  “But to be in this world, you must have been summoned,” I persisted. “So you must be doing someone’s bidding.…”

  “Hopkins summoned me, and I have done his bidding. Now I am free.” For the first time I thought I saw something of the djinni hidden within the man: deep inside the eyes a little flash of triumph, almost like a flame. “You may recall, Bartimaeus, that in our last conversation I spoke with optimism about the recklessness of certain London magicians, men who might one day give us our chance.”