Ptolemy's Gate

  “I hardly think so!” Ms. Piper seemed suddenly thoughtful. “Mind you, some of those delegates … The idea is tempting …” She shook her head. “What am I saying? So then, Ms. Jones, I see you have an atlas out. Does this indicate your plans?”

  “I don’t know,” Kitty said slowly. “I think, maybe, when things calm down a little on the Continent, I’ll go abroad for a while. I’ve got a friend to visit in Bruges, and after that I’d like to travel a bit, see the world. I hope it will help me regain my health.” She pursed her lips; looked toward the window. “Perhaps I’ll go to Egypt. I’ve heard a lot about it. I don’t know. It all depends.”

  “You wouldn’t care to continue your magical studies here? Mr. Button speaks highly of your aptitude, and we have a conspicuous lack of talent in the government. We could recommend some tutors.”

  Kitty shut the atlas cover; spirals of dust rose up and drifted in the light. “You are very kind, but that door’s closed to me now. My studies were always directed toward summoning one particular …” She paused. “I had one particular objective in mind. And two nights ago Nathaniel accomplished it for me. In all honesty, I wouldn’t know how to follow on from that.”

  There was silence in the room. All at once Ms. Piper looked at her watch and gave a little cry. “Recess is almost over! I must go. Heaven knows whether we can make any headway this afternoon.” She sighed heavily as she stood. “Ms. Jones, after a single morning I am already close to throttling the commoners’ entire delegation. A single morning! And we are barely started. The outlook could hardly be worse. I really don’t believe we shall be able to cooperate at all.”

  Kitty smiled and sat back in her chair. “Keep trying,” she said. “It’s possible. Not easy, but it’s possible.You’ll be surprised what you manage to achieve.”

  38

  Dying was the simple part. Our main problem was catching Nouda’s attention.

  We stood, the two of us, in our single body, directly beneath the middlemost dome. This was the place to lure him to, the epicenter, the place of maximum iron. But Nouda was too big, too noisy, too confused and desolate to be easily lured. Back and forth he lurched on his mess of limbs, trampling stalls and kiddies’ rides and stuffing trees at random into his gaping mouth. He undertook this serious work with admirable conviction, and none of his eyes were turned our way.

  Flying was out for us now. Even bounding would be a stretch. It took most of my remaining energies to keep the boy upright. Left to his own devices, he’d have crumpled to the floor.

  So we stopped where we were, and shouted instead. Or at least I did, with the kind of cry that triggers Tibetan avalanches.1 “Nouda! It is I, Bartimaeus, Sakhr al-Jinni, N’gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I have fought a thousand battles and won them all! I have destroyed far greater entities than you! Ramuthra fled before my majesty. Tchue cowered in a crack in the earth. Hoepo the Thunder Snake ingested his own tail and so swallowed himself rather than taste my fury! So then, I challenge you now. Come face me!”

  No answer. Nouda was busily munching on some of the exhibits in the Grotto of Taxidermy. The boy ventured a tentative thought. Does that count as a goad? It was essentially straightforward boasting, wasn’t it?

  Listen, a goad’s anything that provokes or incites an enemy and—Oh, look, it didn’t work, did it? We’re running out of time. Another few steps and he’ll break outside.

  Let me have ago. The boy cleared his throat. “Cursed demon! You have met your end! The Shivering Fire awaits you! I shall spread your vile essence across this hall like … um, like margarine, a very thick layer of it….” He hesitated.

  Ye-es … I’m not sure he’ll pick up on that analogy. Never mind, keep going.

  “Cursed demon—attend to me!” The pity of it was that the boy’s voice was desperately faint and growing fainter. I could barely hear it, let alone Nouda. But he finished up with a very effective extra, namely a bolt of force from the Staff that jabbed Nouda sharply in the rear. The great spirit responded with a roar; he rose up, limbs twitching, bulb eyes questing. All at once he saw us and sent multiple bolts crashing all around. His aim was lousy. One or two landed a few meters distant, but we stood firm. We did not budge.

  The great voice: “Bartimaeus! I see you.…”

  The boy whispered something in reply, too weak to hear. But I read his mind, spoke the words for him. “No! I am Nathaniel! I am your master! I am your death!”

  Another burst of white energy pricked Nouda’s essence. He hurled a stuffed bear aside and turned in ponderous wrath. He came crawling toward us—a colossal shadow, alien to this world, sundered from the other, blocking out the light.

  Now that’s what you call a proper goad, Nathaniel thought.

  Yeah, it wasn’t bad. Right, wait till he’s on top of us, then we break the Staff.

  The longer it takes, the better. Kitty—

  She’ll get out, don’t worry.

  The boy’s strength was failing, but his resolution was undaunted. I felt him summon his remaining powers. Steadily, calmly, muttering under his breath, he loosed the bonds restraining Gladstone’s Staff until, all at once, the hopes of the entities trapped inside were raised: they pushed, strained, pressed against the remaining loops of magic, desperate to be free. Without my assistance, Nathaniel could not have controlled them—they would have instantly broken through. But Nouda was not yet where we wanted him. I held the Staff in place. There was nothing now to do but wait.

  According to some,2 heroic deaths are admirable things. I’ve never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you’re also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking. I’ve made a long and successful career out of running away at the decisive moment, and it was with some considerable regret, as Nouda bore down upon us, in that soaring tomb of iron and glass, that I realized I didn’t actually have this fallback option. I was bound to the boy, essence to flesh. We were going out together.

  The nearest I’d ever come to this dubious last-stand business before was with Ptolemy—in fact, he’d only prevented it with his final intervention. I suppose, if my old master could have seen me now, he’d probably have approved. It was right up his street, this: you know—human and djinni united, working together as one, etc, etc. Trouble was, we’d taken it all a bit too literally.

  Bartimaeus … The thought was very faint.

  Yes?

  You’ve been a good servant….

  What do you say to something like this? I mean, with death bearing down and a 5,000-year career of incomparable accomplishment about to hit the fan? The appropriate response, frankly, is some sort of rude gesture, followed up by the loudest of raspberries, but again I was stymied—being in his body made the logistics too cumbersome to bother with.3 So, wearily, wishing we had some kind of maudlin sound track, I played along. Well, um, you’ve been just dandy too.

  I didn’t say you were perfect …

  What?

  Far from it. Let’s face it, you’ve generally managed to cock things up.

  WHAT? The bloody cheek! Insults, at a time like this! With death bearing down, etc. I ask you. I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves. Well, since we’re doing some straight talking, let me tell you, buddy—

  Which is why I’m dismissing you right now.

  Eh? But I hadn’t misheard. I knew I hadn’t. I could read his mind.

  Don’t take it the wrong way … His thought was fragmented, fleeting, but his mouth was already mumbling the spell. It’s just that … we’ve got to break the Staff at the right moment here.You’re holding it in check. But I can’t rely on you for something as important as this. You’re bound to mess it up somehow. Best thing is … best thing is to dismiss you. That’ll trigger the Staff automatically. Then I know it’ll be done properly He drifted. He was having trouble keeping awake now—the energy was draining unhindered from his side—but with a final effort of wi
ll, he kept speaking the necessary words.

  Nathaniel—

  Say hello to Kitty for me.

  Then Nouda was upon us. Mouths opened, tentacles slashed down. Nathaniel finished the Dismissal. I went. The Staff broke.

  A typical master. Right to the end, he didn’t give me a chance to get a word in edgeways. Which is a pity, because at that last moment I’d have liked to tell him what I thought of him. Mind you, since in that split second we were, to all intents and purposes, one and the same, I rather think he knew anyway.

  Keep reading for a preview of The Screaming Staircase, the first book in Jonathan Stroud’s new series Lockwood & Co!

  Of the first few hauntings I investigated with Lockwood & Co. I intend to say little, in part to protect the identity of the victims, in part because of the gruesome nature of the incidents, but mainly because, in a variety of ingenious ways, we succeeded in messing them all up. There, I’ve admitted it! Not a single one of those early cases ended as neatly as we’d have wished. Yes, the Mortlake Horror was driven out, but only as far as Richmond Park, where even now it stalks by night among the silent trees. Yes, both the Gray Specter of Aldgate and the entity known as the Clattering Bones were destroyed, but not before several further (and I now think unnecessary) deaths. And as for the creeping shadow that haunted young Mrs. Andrews, to the imperilment of her sanity and her hemline, wherever she may continue to wander in this world, poor thing, there it follows too. So it was not exactly an unblemished record that we took with us, Lockwood and I, when we walked up the path to 62 Sheen Road on that misty autumn afternoon and briskly rang the bell.

  We stood on the doorstep with our backs to the muffled traffic, and Lockwood’s gloved right hand clasped upon the bell pull. Deep in the house, the echoes faded. I gazed at the door, at the small sun blisters on the varnish and the scuffs on the letter box, at the four diamond panes of frosted glass that showed nothing beyond except for darkness. The porch had a forlorn and unused air, its corners choked with the same sodden beech leaves that littered the path and lawn.

  “Okay,” I said. “Remember our new rules. Don’t blab about everything you see. Don’t speculate openly about who killed who, how, or when. And, above all, don’t impersonate the client. Please. It never goes down well.”

  “That’s an awful lot of don’ts, Lucy,” Lockwood said.

  “I’ve plenty more.”

  “You know I’ve got an excellent ear for accents. I copy people without thinking.”

  “Fine, copy them quietly after the event. Not loudly, not in front of them, and particularly not when they’re a six-foot-six Irish dockworker with a speech impediment, and we’re a good half-mile from the public road.”

  “Yes, he was really quite nimble for his size,” Lockwood said. “Still, the chase kept us fit. Sense anything?”

  “Not yet. But I’m hardly likely to, out here. You?”

  He let go of the bell pull and made some minor adjustment to the collar of his coat. “Oddly enough, I have. There was a death in the yard sometime in the last few hours. Under that laurel halfway up the path.”

  “I assume you’re going to tell me it’s only a smallish glow.” My head was tilted to one side, my eyes half closed; I was listening to the silence of the house.

  “Yes, about mouse-sized,” Lockwood admitted. “Suppose it might have been a vole. I expect a cat got it, or something.”

  “So…possibly not part of our case, then, if it was a mouse?”

  “Probably not.”

  Beyond the frosted panes, in the interior of the house, I spied a movement: something shifting in the hall’s black depths. “Here we go,” I said. “She’s coming. Remember what I said.”

  Lockwood bent his knees and picked up the duffel bag beside his feet. We both moved back a little, preparing pleasant, respectful smiles.

  We waited. Nothing happened. The door stayed shut.

  There was no one there.

  As Lockwood opened his mouth to speak, we heard footsteps behind us on the path.

  “I’m so sorry!” The woman emerging from the mists had been walking slowly, but as we turned, she accelerated into a token little trot. “So sorry!” she repeated. “I was delayed. I didn’t think you’d be so prompt.”

  She climbed the steps, a short, well-padded individual with a round face expanding into middle age. Her straight, ash-blond hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense manner by clips above her ears. She wore a long black skirt, a crisp white shirt, and an enormous wool cardigan with sagging pockets at the sides. She carried a thin folder in one hand.

  “Mrs. Hope?” I said. “Good evening, madam. My name is Lucy Carlyle, and this is Anthony Lockwood, of Lockwood and Company. We’ve come about your call.”

  The woman halted on the topmost step but one, and regarded us with wide, gray eyes in which all the usual emotions figured. Distrust, resentment, uncertainty, and dread: they were all there. They come standard in our profession, so we didn’t take it personally.

  Her gaze darted back and forth between us, taking in our neat clothes and carefully brushed hair, the polished rapiers glittering at our belts, the heavy bags we carried. It lingered long on our faces. She made no move to go past us to the door of the house. Her free hand was thrust deep into the pocket of her cardigan, forcing the fabric down.

  “Just the two of you?” she said at last.

  “Just us,” I said.

  “You’re very young.”

  Lockwood ignited his smile; its warmth lit up the evening. “That’s the idea, Mrs. Hope. That’s the way it has to be.”

  “Actually, I’m not Mrs. Hope.” Her own wan smile, summoned in involuntary response to Lockwood’s, flickered across her face and vanished, leaving anxiety behind. “I’m her daughter, Suzie Martin. I’m afraid Mother isn’t coming.”

  “But we arranged to meet her,” I said. “She was going to show us around the house.”

  “I know.” The woman looked down at her smart black shoes. “I’m afraid she’s no longer willing to set foot here. The circumstances of Father’s death were horrible enough, but recently the nightly…disturbances have been getting too persistent. Last night was especially bad, and Mother decided she’d had enough. She’s staying with me now. We’ll have to sell, but obviously we can’t do that until the house is made safe.…” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Which is why you’re here.… Excuse me, but shouldn’t you have a supervisor? I thought an adult always had to be present in an investigation. Exactly how old are you?”

  “Old enough and young enough,” Lockwood said, smiling. “The perfect age.”

  “Strictly speaking, madam,” I added, “the law states that an adult is only required if the operatives are undergoing training. It’s true that some of the bigger agencies always use supervisors, but that’s their private policy. We’re fully qualified and independent, and we don’t find it necessary.”

  “In our experience,” Lockwood said sweetly, “adults just get in the way. But of course we do have our licenses here, if you’d like to see them.”

  The woman ran a hand across the smooth surface of her neat blond hair. “No, no…that won’t be necessary. Since Mother clearly wanted you, I’m sure it will be fine.…” Her voice was neutral and uncertain. There was a brief silence.

  “Thank you, madam.” I glanced back toward the quiet, waiting door. “There’s just one other thing. Is there someone else at home? When we rang the bell, I thought—”

  Her eyes rose rapidly, met mine. “No. That’s quite impossible. I have the only key.”

  “I see. I must’ve been mistaken.”

  “Well, I won’t delay you,” Mrs. Martin said. “Mother’s filled out the form you sent her.” She held out the manila folder. “She hopes it will be useful.”

  “I’m sure it will.” Lockwood tucked it somewhere inside his coat. “Thank you very much. Well, we’d better get started. Tell your mother we’ll be in touch in the morning.”

  The woman handed him a ring of key
s. Somewhere on the road a car horn blared, to be answered by another. There was plenty of time until curfew, but night was falling and people were growing antsy. They wanted to get home. Soon there’d be nothing moving in the London streets but trails of mist and twisting moonbeams. Or nothing, at least, that any adult could clearly see.

  Suzie Martin was conscious of this too. She raised her shoulders, pulled her cardigan tight. “Well, I’d better be going. I suppose I should wish you luck.…” She looked away. “So very young! How terrible that the world has come to this.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Martin,” Lockwood said.

  Without reply, she pattered down the steps. In a few seconds she had vanished among the mists and laurels in the direction of the road.

  “She’s not happy,” I said. “I think we’ll be off the case tomorrow morning.”

  “Better get it solved tonight, then,” Lockwood said. “Ready?”

  I patted the hilt of my rapier. “Ready.”

  He grinned at me, stepped up to the door and, with a magician’s flourish, turned the key in the lock.

  When entering a house occupied by a Visitor, it’s always best to get in quick. That’s one of the first rules you learn. Never hesitate, never linger on the threshold. Why? Because, for those few seconds, it’s not too late. You stand there in the doorway with the fresh air on your back and the darkness up ahead, and you’d be an idiot if you didn’t want to turn and run. And as soon as you acknowledge that, your willpower starts draining away through your boots, and the terror starts building in your chest, and bang, that’s it—you’re compromised before you begin. Lockwood and I both knew this, so we didn’t hang around. We slipped straight through, put down our bags, and shut the door softly behind us. Then we stood quite still with our backs against it, watching and listening, side by side.

  The hall of the house lately occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Hope was long and relatively narrow, though the high ceiling made it seem quite large. The floor was tiled in black and white marble squares, set diagonally, and the walls were palely papered. Halfway along, a steep staircase rose into shadows. The hall kinked around this to the left and continued into a void of black. Doorways opened on either side: gaping and choked in darkness.