Ptolemy's Gate (3 page)

I summoned my last reserves of dignity. “All masters are temporary,” I replied. “All humiliations likewise. I bide my time.”

“Of course, of course.” Ascobol swung his apelike arms and did a little pirouette. “Well spoken, Bartimaeus! You do not let your decline depress you. No matter that your great days are over, that you are now as redundant as a will-o'-the-wisp!
⁵
No matter that your task tomorrow is as likely to be damp-dusting our master's bedroom as roaming free upon the air. You are an example to us all.”

I smiled, showing my white teeth. “Ascobol,” I said, “it is not I who have declined, but my adversaries. I have fought with Faquarl of Sparta, with Tlaloc of Tollan, with clever Tchue of the Kalahari—our conflicts split the earth, gouged rivers. I survived. Who is my enemy now? A knock-kneed cyclops in a skirt. When I get out from here, I don't see
this
new conflict lasting long.”

The cyclops started back, as if stung. “Such cruel threats! You should be ashamed. We are on the same side, are we not? Doubtless you have good reasons for skulking out the fight under this restroom. Being polite, I will not trouble to inquire, though I may say that you lack your normal courtesy.”

“Two years' continual service has worn it all away,” I said. “I am left irritable and jaded, with a perpetual itch in my essence that I cannot scratch. And that makes me dangerous, as you will shortly learn. Now, for the last time, Ascobol, get this off.”

Well, there were a few more tuts and pouts, but my posturing had its effect. With a single shrug of his hairy shoulders, the cyclops levered the lavatory up and off me, sending it clattering away onto the opposite pavement. A somewhat corrugated girl got unsteadily to her feet.

“At last,” I said. “You took your own sweet time about it.”

The cyclops plucked a bit of debris from his smock. “Sorry,” he said, “but I was too busy winning the battle to help you out before. Still, all's well. Our master will be pleased—by
my
efforts, anyhow.” He glanced at me sidelong.

Now that I was vertical I had no intention of squabbling further. I considered the damage to the houses all around. Not too bad. A few broken roofs, smashed windows … The skirmish had been successfully contained. “A French lot?” I asked.

The cyclops shrugged, which was some feat given that he lacked a neck. “Maybe. Possibly the Czechs or Spanish. Who can tell? They're all nibbling at us nowadays. Well, time presses, and I must check on the pursuit. I leave you to nurse your aches and pains, Bartimaeus. Why not try peppermint tea or a camomile footbath, like other geriatrics? Adieu!”

The cyclops hitched up his skirts and, with a ponderous spring, launched himself into the air. Wings appeared on his back; with great plowing strokes he drew away. He had all the grace of a filing cabinet, but at least he'd got the energy to fly. I hadn't. Not until I'd had a breather, anyhow.

The dark-haired girl crept across to a broken square of chimney in a nearby garden. Slowly, with the gasps and gingerly movements of an invalid, she slumped down into a sitting position and cupped her head in her hands. She closed her eyes.

Just a brief rest. Five minutes would do.

Time passed, dawn came. The cold stars faded in the sky.

2

A
s had become his custom in recent months, the great magician John Mandrake took his breakfast in his parlor, seated in the wicker chair beside the window. The heavy curtains had been carelessly drawn back; the sky beyond was gray and leaden and a sinewy mist threaded its way between the trees of the square.

The small circular table before him was carved from Lebanese cedar. When warmed by sunlight, it gave off a pleasant fragrance, but on this particular morning the wood was dark and cold. Mandrake poured coffee into his glass, removed the silver cover from his plate, and set upon his curried eggs and bacon. In a rack behind the toast and the gooseberry conserve sat a crisply folded newspaper and an envelope with a blood-red seal. Mandrake took a swig of coffee with his left hand; with his right he flicked the newspaper open on the table. He glanced at the front page, grunted dismissively, and reached for the envelope. An ivory paperknife hung from a peg upon the rack; flinging down his fork, Mandrake slit the envelope with one easy motion and drew out a folded parchment. He read this with care, brows puckering into a frown. Then he refolded it, stuffed it back into the envelope, and with a sigh returned to his meal.

A knock at the door; with mouth half full of bacon, Mandrake gave a muffled command. The door opened silently and a young, slim woman stepped diffidently through, a briefcase in her hand.

She halted. “I'm sorry, sir,” she began. “Am I too early?”

“Not at all, Piper, not at all.” He waved her over, indicated a chair on the other side of his breakfast table. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, sir.” She sat. She wore a dark blue skirt and jacket with a crisp white shirt. Her straight brown hair was scraped away from her forehead and clipped at the back of her head. She settled the briefcase on her lap.

Mandrake speared a forkful of curried egg. “Forgive me if I keep eating,” he said. “I was up until three, responding to the latest disturbance. Kent, this time.”

Ms. Piper nodded. “I heard, sir. There was a memo at the ministry. Was it contained?”

“Yes; as far as my globe could tell, at any rate. I sent a few demons down. Well, we shall see presently What have you got for me today?”

She unclipped the briefcase and drew out some papers. “A number of proposals from the junior ministers, sir, regarding the propaganda campaigns in the outlying regions. For your approval. Some new poster ideas …”

“Let's see.” He took a gulp of coffee, held out a hand. “Anything else?”

“The minutes of the last Council meeting—”

“I'll read that later. Posters first.” He scanned the topmost page. “‘Sign up to serve your country and see the world'…What's
that
supposed to mean? More like a holiday brochure than recruitment. Far too soft … Keep talking, Piper—I'm still listening.”

“We've got the latest frontline reports from America, sir. I've ordered them a little. We should be able to make another story out of the Boston siege.”

“Stressing the heroic attempt, not the abject failure, I trust.…” Balancing the papers on his knee, he smeared some gooseberry conserve upon a piece of toast. “Well, I'll try writing something later.… Now then, this one's okay—'Defend the mother country and make your name'… Good. They're suggesting a farm-boy type looking manly, which is fine, but how about putting his family group—say, parents and little sister—in the background, looking vulnerable and admiring? Play the domestic card.”

Ms. Piper nodded eagerly. “Could show his wife too, sir.”

“No. We're after the single ones. It's the wives who are most troublesome when they don't come back.” He crunched on his toast. “Any other messages?”

“One from Mr. Makepeace, sir. Came by imp. Wonders if you'll drop by and see him this morning.”

“Can't. Too busy. There'll be time later.”

“His imp also dropped off this flyer….” With a rueful face, Ms. Piper held up a lilac-colored paper. “It's advertising the premiere of his play later this week.
From Wapping to Westminster,
it's called. The story of our Prime Minister's rise to glory. An evening we will never forget, apparently.”

Mandrake gave a groan. “If only we could. Put it in the bin. We've got better things to do than discuss theater. What else?”

“Mr. Devereaux has sent a memo around too. Owing to the ‘troublesome times,' sir, he's placed the nation's most important treasures under special guard in the vaults of Whitehall. They will remain there until he says otherwise.”

Mandrake looked up then, frowning. “Treasures? Such as what?”

“He doesn't say. I wonder if it'll be—”

“It'll be the Staff and the Amulet and the other grade-one items.” He hissed briefly through his teeth. “That's not what he should be doing, Piper. We need them
used.
”

“Yes, sir. There's also this from Mr. Devereaux.” She brought out a slender packet.

The magician eyed it grimly. “Not another toga?”

“A mask, sir. For the party this evening.”

With a cry, he indicated the envelope in the rack. “I've already got the invitation. It beggars belief: the war's going badly, the Empire's teetering on the brink, and all our Prime Minister can think about is plays and parties. All right. Keep it with the documents. I'll take it along. The posters seem okay.” He handed back the papers. “Maybe not snappy enough….” He thought for a moment, nodded. “Got a pen? Try ‘Fight for Freedom and the British Way.' Doesn't mean anything, but it sounds good.”

Ms. Piper considered it. “I think it's rather profound, sir.”

“Excellent. Then the commoners'll snap it up.” He stood, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and tossed it down upon the tray. “Well, we'd better see how the demons have been getting on. No, no, Piper, please—after you.”

If Ms. Piper regarded her employer with more than a little wide-eyed admiration, she was by no means alone among the women of the elite. John Mandrake was an attractive young man, and the scent of power hung about him, sweet and intoxicating, like honeysuckle in the evening air. He was of medium height, slender of body, and swift and confident in action. His pale, slim face presented an intriguing paradox, combining extreme youth—he was still only seventeen years old—with experience and authority. His eyes were dark and quick and serious, his forehead prematurely lined.

His intellectual self-assurance, which had once perilously outstripped his other skills, had now been bolstered by a certain social poise. To peers and inferiors alike he was courteous and charming at all times, although also somewhat remote, as if distracted by an inner melancholy. Alongside the crude appetites and eccentricities of his fellow ministers, this subdued detachment attained an elegance that only added to his mystique.

Mandrake wore his dark hair close in a military crop—a conscious innovation to honor the men and women still at war. It had been a successful gesture: spies noted that, among commoners, he was the most popular magician. His haircut had thus been mimicked by many others, while his dark suits had likewise inspired a brief vogue. He no longer bothered with a tie: the collar of his shirt was casually unbuttoned.

Mr. Mandrake was considered by his rivals to be formidably, indeed dangerously, talented, and—following his promotion to Information Minister—they responded accordingly. But each attempted assassination had been cursorily rebuffed: djinn failed to return, booby traps rebounded on the sender, hexes snapped and withered. At last, tiring of this, Mandrake made a point of publicly challenging any hidden enemy to come forward and tackle him in magical combat. No one answered his call, and his standing rose higher than ever.

He lived in an elegant Georgian town house surrounded by other elegant Georgian town houses on a broad and pleasant square. It was half a mile from Whitehall, and sufficiently far from the river to escape its smell in summer. The square was a generous expanse of beech trees and shady walkways, with an open green in the center. It was quiet and unfrequented, though never unobserved. Gray-uniformed police patrolled the perimeter by day; after dark, demons in the form of owls and nightjars flitted quietly from tree to tree.

This security was due to the inhabitants of the square. It was home to several of London's greatest magicians. On the south side Mr. Collins, the recently appointed Home Secretary, dwelt in a cream-colored house decorated with fake pillars and buxom caryatids. To the northwest sprawled the grandiose pile of the War Minister, Mr. Mortensen, with a golden dome glinting upon the roof.

John Mandrake's residence was less ostentatious. A slender four-story building, painted buttercup-yellow, it was reached by a row of white marble steps; white shutters bordered the tall windows. The rooms were soberly furnished, with delicately patterned wallpapers and Persian rugs upon the floors. The minister did not flaunt his status; he displayed few treasures in the reception rooms, and employed just two human servants to keep house. He slept on the third floor, in a plain, whitewashed room adjoining his library. These were his private chambers, which no one visited.

On the floor below, separated from the other rooms of the house by an empty, echoing corridor lined with panels of stained wood, was Mr. Mandrake's study. Here he conducted much of his daily work.

Mandrake walked along the corridor, chewing a vestige of toast. Ms. Piper tripped along behind. At the end of the corridor was a solid brass door, decorated in its center by a molded brass face of surpassing ugliness. Its bulbous brows appeared to be melting down across the eyes; the chin and nose jutted out like nutcracker handles. The magician halted and gazed at the face with deep disapproval.