Ptolemy's Gate

  That’s my problem now, that separation. Not being me.

  Why don’t you try making yourself a guise? Something to focus on. You might feel better.

  I’ve already made some! The only one that worked was a ball, and that seemed to get the—to get them angry.

  We’re not angry. Do I seem angry to you?

  Kitty considered the distant, flickering image. It was a stately woman, dark-skinned, long-necked, wearing a tall headdress and a long white gown; she sat on a marbled throne. Her face was beautiful and serene.

  No, she thought, not at all. But you’re different.

  I don’t mean her. That isn’t me—it’s a memory. I’m all around you. We’re all around you. It’s not the same as on your side of the Gate. There’s no difference between the spirits here. We’re all one. And that includes you now.

  Coils of multiple shades and textures swirled all around, as if in confirmation. The image of the woman vanished; others reappeared. Kitty could see each one a dozen times, as if refracted in an insect’s eye, but she knew it was not the images that were multiplied, but herself.

  I don’t like this much, she thought.

  The pictures are memories; some of them might even be yours. It is a bit hard to get your head around, I know. Ptolemy found it tricky too, but he perked up when he made himself a shape. Quite artistic it was, a good approximation of himself. Why don’t you have another go?

  I can do a ball.

  I’m not conversing with a ball. Have a bit of confidence.

  Kitty steeled herself and applied her will to the surging substances; as before, she managed to create something that approximated a human form. It featured a big wobbly head, a long thin body ending in a triangular mass that might have been a skirt, two stick arms, and a pair of rather trunklike legs. It had an ungainly look.

  Several tendrils of matter inspected it tentatively.

  What’s that bit?

  That’s an arm.

  Oh, right. That’s a relief. Hmm … Is this how you see yourself Kitty? There’s serious self-esteem issues going on here. Here’s a tip: your real legs aren’t quite that thick. Not around the ankles, anyway.

  Tough, Kitty thought. It’s the best I can do.

  Give yourself a face, at least, and for heaven’s sake make it a nice one.

  Kitty strove hard and succeeded in forming a couple of piggy eyes, a long witchlike nose, and a mouth crooked in a wonky smile.

  Well, you’re no Leonardo.

  A brief image flickered on and off close by—a bearded man staring at a wall.

  It would help, Kitty thought savagely, if I had something to look at other than all this mess. With an extreme effort, she made her surrogate body jerk an arm out at the swirling matter all around.

  Some of the curling tendrils recoiled in mock horror.

  You humans are so inconsistent. You claim to love stability and order, but what’s Earth if not one big mess? Chaos, violence, dissent, and strife whichever way you look. It’s far more peaceful here. But maybe I can help you out. Make things a little easier. Keep control of that lovely body of yours, now. I wouldn’t want those arm things to fall off-—that would ruin its perfection.

  As Kitty watched, nearby regions of the flowing matter underwent a transformation. Flickering wisps of light elongated, broadened, solidified into planes; coils and spirals grew straight and tall, branching out at right angles, joining others and redividing. In moments the semblance of a room had formed around her body: a glassy floor; squared pillars on all sides; beyond them, steps leading down to a lip, then nothingness. Above was a simple flat roof, also translucent. Beyond the roof, between the pillars, below the floor, the relentless movement of the Other Place continued unabated.

  The illusion of a physical space made Kitty suddenly fearful of the void around; her mannequin cowered in the center of the room, as far from the verges as possible.

  How’s that?

  It’s … okay. But what about you?

  I am here. You do not need to see me.

  But I would prefer it.

  Oh, very well. I suppose I am the host.

  From between the pillars at the end of the little hall a figure stepped—the boy with the ageless face. Where he had been attractive on Earth, here he was resplendently beautiful; his face radiated joy and calm, his skin shone with light and color. He stepped silently across the floor and came to a halt facing Kitty’s wobble-headed, stick-chested, trunk-thighed form.

  Thanks, Kitty thought bitterly. That’s made me feel a lot better.

  It’s not actually me, any more than that’s you. In fact, you’re as much part of this form as I am. There aren’t any divisions in the Other Place.

  It didn’t feel that way before you came. They told me I wasn’t wanted, said I was a wound.

  Only because you keep trying to impose order on us—and order means limitations. There should be no limitations here: nothing definite, nothing defined. Whether it’s a clumsy stick figure or a floating ball—or a “house” like this—the boy waved a careless arm—it’s alien, and cannot last long. It pains us to be restricted in any fashion.

  The boy stepped away from her and looked out between two pillars and the rushing lights. Kitty’s surrogate tottered after him.

  Bartimaeus—

  Names, names, names! Now they’re the ultimate restriction. They’re the worst curse of all. Each one is a sentence of slavery. Here we are one—we have no names. But what do the magicians do? They reach in with their summons; their words draw us out, piece by screaming piece. As each piece passes through, it is defined: it gains a name and powers of its own, but is separated from the rest. What happens then? Like performing monkeys, we do tricks to please our masters, lest they hurt our fragile essence. Even when we return here we are never safe. Once a name has been bestowed we can be called again, and yet again, until our essence is worn away.

  He turned and patted Kitty’s semblance on the back of its bulbous head.

  You’re so disturbed by the connectedness of things here that you prefer to cling to something as unappetizing as this monstrosity—no offense I’m sure—rather than float freely with us at will. For us, on Earth, it is the reverse. Suddenly we are cut off from this fluidity, left alone and vulnerable in a world of vicious definition. By changing shape we get a little solace, but it never keeps the pain away for long. No wonder some of us become resentful.

  Kitty had ignored the monologue. She so disliked the crudeness of her creature that she had been stealthily adjusting the size of the head, channeling some of the matter down to plump up her spindly torso. She’d reduced the nose a little too, and made the mouth smaller and less lopsided. Yes … it was markedly better.

  The boy rolled his eyes.

  This is exactly what I mean! You can’t get your mind away from the notion that this thing is in some way you. It’s nothing but a puppet. Leave it alone.

  Kitty gave up her attempt to draw out some hair from the back of the creature’s head. She turned her full attention on the radiant boy, whose face was suddenly grave.

  Why have you come here, Kitty?

  Because that’s what Ptolemy did. I wanted to prove myself, show that I trusted you. You said that after he managed it, you’d have been happy to be his slave. Well, I don’t want slaves, but I do need your help. Which is why I’ve come.

  The boy’s eyes were black crystals full of stars.

  In what way do you wish my help?

  You know why. Those de—those spirits that have broken free. They plan to fall on London, kill its people.

  Haven’t they yet? the boy remarked casually. They are being slow about it.

  Don’t be cruel! In her agitation, Kitty’s creature swung its stick arms above its head and lurched forward across the hall. The boy stepped back in surprise. Most of the people in London are innocent! They don’t want the magicians any more than you do. I’m asking you on their account, Bartimaeus. It’s they who are going to suffer when Nouda’s army
gets loose.

  The boy nodded sadly.

  Faquarl and Nouda are sick. It’s what happens to some of us when we’re summoned many times. Slavery corrupts us. Our personalities become brutalized, dull, vindictive; we dwell far more on trivial indignities suffered in your world than on the wonders and pleasures of this place. Hard to believe, but true.

  Kitty looked out at the flashes of light and the infinity of moving essence.

  What do you actually do here? she asked.

  It’s not about doing. It’s about being. Don’t expect to understand it: you’re a human—you can only see surfaces, and then you want to impose yourself upon them. And Faquarl and Nouda and the rest have been twisted in your image. They define themselves now by their hatred—it’s so strong, they actually want to be apart from this, providing they can take revenge. In a way it’s a final capitulation to the values of your world. Hey—you’re getting better at manipulating that thing….

  Shielded from the full energies of the Other Place, Kitty was finding it easier to make her mannequin move about. It strutted to and fro about the little hall, swinging its arms and moving its balloon head jerkily from side to side as if acknowledging an audience. The boy nodded with approval.

  You know; it’s almost an improvement on your real self.

  Kitty ignored this. The mannequin stopped at the boy’s side.

  I’ve done what Ptolemy did, she thought. I’ve proved myself to you. And you answered my call—you’ve acknowledged it. Now I need your help to stop what the de—what Faquarl and Nouda are doing.

  The boy smiled.

  Your sacrifice is indeed great, and in Ptolemy’s memory I would be pleased to return the gesture. But there are two problems that prevent it. First you’d have to summon me back to Earth, and that may be beyond you now.

  Why? Kitty asked. The boy was looking at her with a gentle, almost kindly expression. It unnerved her. Why? she asked again.

  The second problem, the boy went on, is my unfortunate weakness. I haven’t been here long enough to rebuild my energies fully, and Faquarl—let alone Nouda—has more power in one of his big toes than I do right at this moment. I’m disinclined to enter into slavery that is guaranteed to be fatal. I’m sorry, but there it is.

  It won’t be slavery. I told you that before. The mannequin stretched out an arm toward the boy in a hesitant gesture.

  But it would be fatal.

  Kitty’s mannequin lowered its arm. Okay. What if we had the Staff?

  Gladstone’s? How? Who’d use it? You couldn’t.

  Nathaniel’s trying to get hold of it right now.

  All very well, but could he use—Wait a minute!The radiant features of the boy contorted, slipped out of true, as if the controlling intelligence had drawn back in shock; an instant later they were as perfect as before. Let’s get this straight. He told you his name?

  Yes. Now—

  I like that … I like that! He’s been giving me gyp for years, simply because I could have spilled the beans, and now he’s telling any old broad he meets, free of charge! Who else knows? Faquarl? Nouda? Did he deck his name out in neon lights and parade it round the town? I ask you! And I never told anyone!

  You let it slip last time I summoned you.

  Well, apart from that.

  But you could have told his enemies, couldn’t you, Bartimaeus? You’d have found a way to harm him if you’d really wished it. And Nathaniel knows that too, I think. I had a talk with him.

  The boy looked thoughtful. Hmm. I know all about those talks of yours.

  Anyway, he’s gone for the Staff; I went to find you. Together—

  The long and the short of it is that none of us are up to a fight. Not anymore. You won’t be, for starters. As for Mandrake, last time he tried to use the Staff he knocked himself out. What makes you think he’ll have the strength to do it now? He was exhausted last time I saw him…. Meanwhile, my essence is so shot I couldn’t maintain a simple form on Earth, let alone be useful. I probably couldn’t even withstand the pain of materializing in the first place. Faquarl’s got one thing right. He doesn’t have to worry about the pain. No, let’s face facts, Kitty—A pause. What? What’s the matter?

  The mannequin had tilted its bulbous head and was regarding the boy with an air of quiet intentness. The boy became uneasy.

  What? What are you—? Oh. No. Absolutely no way.

  But, Bartimaeus, it would protect your essence. You wouldn’t feel any pain.

  Uh-uh. No.

  And if you combined your power with his, maybe the Staff—

  No.

  What would Ptolemy have done?

  The boy turned away. He crossed to the nearest pillar and sat down on the steps, looking out over the swirling void.

  Ptolemy showed me the way it might have been, he remarked at last. He thought he would be the first of many—but in two thousand years you, Kitty, are the only one who’s followed him. The only one. He and I conversed as equals for two years. I helped him out from time to time; in return he let me explore your world a little. I wandered as far as the Fezzan oasis and the pillared halls of Axum. I floated over the white crests of the Zagros Mountains and the dry stone gulches of the Hejaz deserts. I flew with the hawks and the cirrus clouds, high, high over earth and sea, and took with me memories of those places when I returned home.

  As he spoke, little flickering images danced beyond the pillars of the hall. Kitty could not make them out, but she had little doubt they showed fragments of the wonders he had seen. She sent her mannequin to sit beside him on the step; their legs dangled out over nothingness.

  The experience, the boy continued, was exhilarating. My freedom echoed that of my home, while my interest was roused by what I saw. The pain I felt was never too pressing, since I was able to return here when I wished. How I danced between the worlds! It was a great gift that Ptolemy gave me, and I have never forgotten it. I knew him for two years. And then he died.

  How? Kitty asked. How did he die?

  At first no answer came. Then:

  Ptolemy had a cousin, the heir to the throne of Egypt. He feared my master’s power. Several times he attempted to get rid of him, but we—the other djinn and I—stood in his way. Out among the swirling matter Kitty glimpsed recurring images of more than usual clarity: figures crouching on a window ledge, holding long curved swords; demons flitting over nighttime roofs; soldiers at a door. I would have taken him from Alexandria, particularly after his journey here had rendered him more vulnerable. But he was stubborn; he refused to go, even when Roman magicians arrived in the city and were housed by his cousin in the palace citadel. Brief flashes in the void: sharp triangular sails, ships below a lighthouse tower; six pale men in coarse brown cloaks standing on a quay.

  It pleased my master, the boy went on, to be carried about the city most mornings, to let the scents of the markets drift over him—the spices, flowers, resins, hides, and skins. All the world was present in Alexandria, and he knew it. Besides, the people loved him. My fellow djinn and I carried him in his palanquin. Here Kitty caught the suggestion of a curtained chair, suspended on poles. Dark slaves supported it. Behind were stalls and people, bright things, blue sky.

  The images winked out; the boy sat silent on the step.

  One day, he continued, we took him to the spice market—his favorite place, where the scents were most intoxicating. We were foolish to do so; the streets were narrow, clogged with people. Progress was slow. Kitty saw a long, low stall studded with racks of wooden boxes, each filled with colored spice. A barrel maker sat cross-legged before an open door, fixing struts into a metal ring. Other images came and went: houses, painted white; goats milling among crowds; children fixed midrun; the chair again, its curtains shut.

  In the center of the market I spotted something moving on a roof up ahead. I gave my pole to Penrenutet, became a bird, rose up to check. Above the roofs I saw—

  He broke off. The fabric of the Other Place was black as syrup; it swirled angrily,
slowly, lit by lightning flashes. An image lingered—rooftops stretching away, bleached bone-white by a dazzling sun. Across the sky dark figures hung in silhouette—great wings spread, long tails outstretched; here and there light glinted on armored scales. Now Kitty saw horrors: a snake’s head, a wolf’s snout, a skinless face with bared teeth grinning. The picture vanished.

  The Roman magicians had summoned many djinn. Afrits too. They came at us from all sides. We were four djinn. What could we do? We stood and fought. There in the street, among the people, we stood and fought for him. A final confusion of images, rapidly changing and out of focus—smoke, explosions, blue-green energies crackling up and down a narrow lane; humans screaming; the demon with the skinless face falling from the sky, clawing at a hole in the center of its torso. Other djinn too—one had a hippo’s head, one an ibis’s bill—standing close beside the curtained chair.

  Affa died first, the boy continued. Then Penrenutet and Teti. I threw up a Shield, snatched Ptolemy away. I broke through the wall, killed those who pursued me, fled across the sky. They came after us, like a swarm of bees.

  What happened? Kitty asked. The boy had fallen silent once again. No images appeared in the void.

  I was caught by a Detonation. Wounded. Couldn’t fly. Broke into a little temple; barricaded us in. Ptolemy was in bad shape—worse, I mean, than he had been before. I think it was the smoke, or something. The enemy surrounded the temple. There was no way out.

  And then?

  I cannot speak of it. He gave me a final gift. That is the essence of the matter.

  The boy shrugged then. He looked across at Kittys mannequin for the first time.

  Poor Ptolemy! He thought his example might help to reconcile our kinds. He was convinced the account of his journey would be read and followed down the centuries, and lead to a union of worlds. He told me so, right here! Well, for all his light and clarity, he was completely wrong. He died, and his ideas have been forgotten.

  Kitty’s creature frowned. How can you say that, when I’m here too? And Nathaniel’s read his book, and Mr. Button, and—