Ptolemy's Gate (47 page)

Bones in black clothes. Its step became wholesale collapse; it dropped, splintered, crashed down upon itself, scattering a mess of rags and scraps about Nathaniel's feet.

The malignity of the Pestilence diminished; what remained of it was sucked away into the Amulet as Nathaniel hobbled back across the room. He came to the plinth. Viewed through his lenses, the collective aura of the treasures hurt his eyes. Brightest of all was the Staff. He reached out his hand (noting subconsciously the patina of little wounds upon his skin) and picked it up. He recalled at once the smoothness, the lightness of the aged wood.

Nathaniel felt no triumph. He was too weak. The Staff was in his hand, but the mere notion of activating it daunted him. The pain in his shoulder made him nauseous. He caught sight of the culprit—a bloodied silver disc lying on the tiles. Beside it was a second disc—the one he'd dropped. Stiffly he stooped and placed it in his pocket.

The Staff, the Amulet … Anything more? He considered the array of objects on the plinth. Some—the ones he had heard of—were of no immediate use; others were gloweringly mysterious, and best left well alone. Without further delay, he departed the room of treasures.

On his way back through the passages the guardian shadows, attracted by the pulsing auras of the Staff and Amulet, attempted to waylay him. Their freezing blue radiance was absorbed by the Amulet; any individuals that flung themselves upon Nathaniel were, in short order, sucked into the piece of jade. Nathaniel was unmolested. As he went, he retrieved the seven-league boots; a few minutes later he crossed the line of tiles and came out into the entrance room.

His scrying glass lay on the desk.

“Imp, you have three tasks, then you are free.”

“You've got to be kidding. One of them's impossible, right? Making a rope of sand? Building a bridge to the Other Place? Hit me with it. Give me the worst.”

During the imp's absence the magician sat slumped upon the desk, supporting himself with the Staff. His shoulder throbbed; the skin about his face and hands still burned. His breathing came in fitful gasps.

The imp was back. Its face was newly scrubbed and gleaming; it could barely contain its eagerness to be off. “First question. The great spirits are at this very moment leaving the building. Observe.” A picture in the depths: Nathaniel recognized the aged front of Westminster Hall. A hole had been blown in the wall. From this issued a cavorting throng—men and women of the government, bounding with awkward, inhuman movements. Detonations flashed, Infernos sparked, random bolts of magic plumed and faded. At their heart stalked the short, round figure of Quentin Makepeace.

“Off they go,” the imp remarked. “About forty-odd, I'd say. Some of them are still a bit uncertain on their feet, like newborn calves. They'll get used to it, I'm sure.”

Nathaniel sighed. “Very well.”

“Second question, boss. You'll find a cache of weapons up the stairs, third door on the left. Third question—”

“Yes? Where is she?”

“Upstairs, take a right, past the Hall of Statues. Door straight ahead. Here, I can show you if you like.” A picture formed: a Whitehall administrator's study. On the floor, in a pentacle, a girl lay very still.

“Closer in,” Nathaniel ordered. “Can you get closer in to her?”

“Yep. But it's not pretty. It
is
the same girl, mind. Don't think it's not.
There.
See what I mean? I couldn't be sure at first, but I recognized the clothes.…”

“Oh,
Kitty
,” Nathaniel said.

30

Y
ou took your time
Kitty thought.

What do you mean? You've only just arrived.

Rubbish! I've been floating here forever. They've been all around me telling me to go, and that I was nothing and shouldn't bother looking, and I began to believe them, Bartimaeus. I was just giving up completely when you came to me just now.

Giving up? You've not been here more than a few seconds. Earth time, that is. It doesn't work the same way on this side. More looped. I
would
try to explain it, but hey. The important thing is—you're here. I didn't think you'd come.

It wasn't so difficult. I suppose it was because you helped me through.

It's harder than you know. You're the first since Ptolemy to succeed. It requires the ability to separate from yourself which is an impossibility for magicians, being what they are. Those who fail go mad.

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.