Ptolemy's Gate (9 page)

Mandrake's mind had drifted. He coughed and drew himself up.
That
was the basic point, of course. The djinni knew his birth name. A risky thing for a man in his position! If another magician summoned him and learned what the demon knew….

He sighed; his mind trundled from one well-worn track to another.
A dark-haired girl. Pretty.
No prizes for guessing the djinni's guise. Ever since Kitty Jones had died, Bartimaeus had used her shape to mock him. Not without success, either. Even three years on, visualizing her face gave Mandrake a sharp pang in his side. He shook his head in weary self-reproach. Forget her! She was a traitor, dead and gone.

Well, the wretched demon was of no importance. The pressing issue was the growing disruption caused by the war. That—and the dangerous new abilities appearing among the commoners. Fritang's tale of the egg-throwing urchins was just the latest in a long line of troublesome accounts.

Since Gladstone, magicians had observed a basic rule. The less commoners knew about magic and its tools, the better. Thus, every slave, from the scrawniest imp to the most arrogant afrit, was ordered to avoid unnecessary exposure when out on his master's business. Some utilized the power of invisibility; most went in disguise. So it was that the myriad demons thronging the streets of the capital or rushing above its rooftops went, as a rule, unnoticed.

But now this was no longer the case.

Each week brought new accounts of demonic exposure. A flock of messenger imps was spotted above Whitehall by a squealing group of schoolchildren; magicians reported that the imps had been correctly disguised as pigeons—they should not have aroused suspicion. Days later a jeweler's apprentice, newly arrived in London, ran wild-eyed down Horseferry Road and leaped over the river wall into the Thames. Witnesses claimed he had screamed warnings of ghosts among the crowds. Close inquiry revealed that spy demons
were
at work in Horseferry Road that day.

If commoners were being born with the power to see demons, the disruption that had lately plagued London could only get worse…. Mandrake shook his head irritably. He needed to visit a library, look for historical precedent. Such an outbreak might have happened before.… But he had no time—the present was difficult enough. The past would have to wait.

A knock at the door; his servant entered unobtrusively, keeping well away from the pentacles on the floor.

“The Deputy Police Chief is here to see you, sir.”

Mandrake's forehead runkled in surprise. “Oh. Really? Very well. Show her up.”

It took three minutes for the servant to descend to the reception room two floors below and return with the visitor, giving Mr. Mandrake ample time to draw out a small pocket mirror and inspect himself carefully. He smoothed down his shorn hair where it stuck up in a tuft; he brushed a few motes of dust from off his shoulders. Satisfied at last, he immersed himself in the papers on his desk—a model of zealous, well-kempt industry.

He recognized that such preening was laughable, but he did it anyway. He was always self-conscious when the Deputy Police Chief came to see him.

A brusque knock; with light feet and deft, decisive movements, Jane Farrar entered and crossed the room, carrying an orb-case in one hand. Mr. Mandrake half stood courteously, but she waved him back down.

“You don't need to tell me what an honor this is, John. I'll take it as read. I've got something important to show you.”

“Please …” He indicated a leather chair beside the desk. She sat, laying the orb-case heavily on the table, and grinned at him. Mandrake grinned back. They grinned like two cats facing each other over an injured mouse, sleek and strong and confident in their mutual distrust.

The golem affair three years earlier had ended with the death and disgrace of the Police Chief, Henry Duvall, and since then the Prime Minister had not seen fit to appoint a successor. In fact, in a mark of his increasing distrust of the magicians around him, he had awarded
himself
the title, and relied upon the Deputy Police Chief to do most of the work. For two years Jane Farrar had fulfilled this role. Her aptitude was well known: it had allowed her to survive a close association with Mr. Duvall and work her way back into Mr. Devereaux's favor. She and Mandrake were now two of his closest allies. For that reason, between themselves they were achingly cordial; nevertheless, their old rivalry bristled beneath the surface.

Mandrake found her disconcerting for another reason. She was still very beautiful: her hair long and darkly gleaming, her eyes wry and green beneath long lashes. Her looks distracted him; it took all the confidence of his maturity to keep pace with her in conversation.

He slouched casually in his seat. “I've got something to tell you too,” he said. “Who's first?”

“Oh, go on. After you. But hurry up.”

“Okay. We
must
get the PM interested in these new abilities some commoners are getting. Another of my demons was spotted yesterday. It was kids again. I don't need to tell you the trouble this brings.”

Ms. Farrar's elegant brows furrowed. “No,” she said, “you don't. This morning we've got new reports of strikes by dock workers and machinists. Walkouts. Demonstrations. Not just in London, but the provinces too. It's being organized by men and women with these unusual powers. We're going to have to round them up.”

“Mmm, but the
cause,
Jane. What is it?”

“We can find out when they're safely in the Tower. We've spies working through the pubs now, getting information. We'll come down hard. Anything more?”

“We need to discuss the latest attack in Kent too, but that can wait till Council.”

Ms. Farrar reached out two slender fingers and unzipped her case, pulling back the cloth to expose a small crystal orb, blue-white and perfect, with a flattened base. She pushed it toward the center of the desk. “My turn,” she said.

The magician sat up a little. “One of your spies?”

“Yes. Now pay attention, John—this is important.You know that Mr. Devereaux has asked me to keep close watch on our magicians, in case anyone tries to follow in the footsteps of Duvall and Lovelace?”

Mr. Mandrake nodded. More than the American rebels, more than their enemies in Europe, more than the angry commoners demonstrating on the streets, the Prime Minister feared his ministers, the men and women who sat at his table and drank his wine. It was a justified anxiety—his colleagues had ambitions; nevertheless it distracted him from other pressing business. “What have you found?” he asked.

“Something.” She passed a hand across the orb, leaning forward so that her long black hair fell down around her face. Clearing his throat, Mandrake leaned forward too, enjoying (as always) her scent, her shape, their shared proximity. Dangerous and feline as she was, Ms. Farrar's company had its charms.

She spoke a few words: grains of blue ran away across the surface of the orb to collect in a pool near the bottom. The upper surface was left clear. Here an image formed—a face of shadows. It flickered, moved, but did not draw near.

Ms. Farrar looked up. “This isYole,” she said. “Yole has been keeping watch on a certain junior magician who has aroused my interest. Name of Palmer, second level, works in the Home Office. He has been passed over for promotion several times and is a frustrated man. Yesterday Palmer reported in sick; he did not go to work. Instead he left his apartment on foot and made his way to an inn near Whitechapel. He wore common workman's clothes. Yole here followed him and can relay what occurred. I think it will interest you.”

Mandrake made a noncommittal gesture. “Please proceed.”

Jane Farrar snapped her fingers and spoke into the orb. “Show me the inn, with sound.”

The shadowy face retreated, vanished. An image formed inside the orb—rafters, whitewashed walls, a trestle table beneath a hanging brass light. Smoke drifted against grimy pebble-glass windows. The viewpoint was low down; it was as if they were lying on the floor. Dowdy women passed above, and men in rough-cut suits. Faintly, as if from far away, came laughter, coughing, and the chink of glasses.

A man sat at the trestle table, a burly gentleman in middle age, somewhat pink about the face, with gray flecks in his hair. He wore a shabby overcoat and a soft cap. His eyes ranged ceaselessly back and forth, evidently scanning the people in the inn.

Mandrake leaned closer, taking in a gentle breath: Farrar's perfume was especially strong that day. There was something pomegranaty about it. “That's Palmer, is it?” he asked. “This is an odd angle we've got. Too low.”

She nodded. “Yole was a mouse by the skirting board. He wished to be unobtrusive, but it was a costly error, wasn't it, Yole?” She stroked the surface of the orb.

A voice from within, whimpering and meek. “Yes, mistress.”

“Mmm.Yes, that's Palmer. Ordinarily a very dapper fellow. Now—this is important. It's hard to see from down here, but he has a pint of beer in his hand.”

“Remarkable,” Mandrake murmured. “This being a pub and all.”
Definitely
pomegranates … and possibly a hint of lemon …

“Just wait. He's watching for someone.”

Mandrake considered the figure in the orb. As was to be expected in a magician among commoners, Mr. Palmer seemed ill at ease. His eyes moved constantly; sweat glistened on his neck and shiny forehead. Twice he lifted his glass as if to drink his ale; twice he halted with it at his lips and replaced it slowly on the table out of sight.

“Nervous,” Mandrake said.

“Yes. Poor, poor Palmer.”

She spoke softly, but something in her tone carried the sharpness of a knife. Mandrake breathed in again. That hint of tartness was just right. Set off the sweeter scent quite nicely.

Ms. Farrar coughed. “Something wrong with your chair, Mandrake?” she inquired. “Any farther forward and you'll be in my lap.”

He looked up hurriedly from the orb, narrowly avoiding crashing his forehead into hers. “Sorry, Farrar, sorry.” He cleared his throat, spoke in a deep voice. “It's just the tension—can't pull myself away. I wonder what this Palmer's game is. A most suspicious character.” He pulled absently at a cuff.

Ms. Farrar regarded him for a moment, then gestured at the orb. “Well, observe.”

Into view from the side of the orb came a newcomer, carrying a pint of beer. He went bareheaded, his ginger hair slicked back, dirty worker's boots and trousers shuffling beneath a long black raincoat. With casual but deliberate steps, he drew near to Mr. Palmer, who had shuffled over on his bench to make room for him.

The newcomer sat. He placed his beer upon the table and pushed his glasses higher on his little nose.

Mr. Mandrake was transfixed. “Wait!” he hissed. “I
know
him!”

“Yole,” Farrar ordered. “Halt the scene.”

The two men in the orb were half turning their heads to greet one another. At her command, the image froze.

“That's good,” Farrar said. “You recognize him?”

“Yes. That's
Jenkins.
Clive Jenkins. Worked in Internal Affairs with me. Still may do for all I know. Secretary level. Going nowhere. Well, now. This
is
interesting.”

“You wait.” Her fingers snapped; Mandrake noted their pale pink nail polish, the soft color of her cuticles. The image in the orb restarted: the heads of the two men turned, nodded at each other, looked away. The newcomer, Clive Jenkins, took a sip of beer. His lips moved; half a second later, his voice, tinny and distorted, was audible in the orb.

“Now then, Palmer. Things are moving fast and it's decision time. We need to know if you're in, or if you're out.”

Mr. Palmer took a long drink from his glass. His face gleamed with perspiration, his eyes were never still. He mumbled rather than spoke. “I need more information.”

Jenkins laughed, adjusted his spectacles. “Relax, relax. I'm not going to bite you, Palmer. Information you'll get. But first we need proof of your good intentions.”

The other man made an odd champing motion with his lips and teeth. “When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

“You haven't. But you haven't given us much reason to
believe
in you either. We need proof.”

“How? You mean a test?”

“Of sorts. Mr. Hopkins needs to see your commitment for himself. You could be police for all we know. Working for Devereaux, or that bitch Farrar.” He took another sip of beer. “Can't be too careful.”

Outside the orb, in another time and another place, John Mandrake looked up at Jane Farrar and raised an eyebrow. She smiled lazily, showing a pointed canine.

“Hopkins
…” he began. “You think that's the same one—”

“The scholar who showed Duvall how to work the golems,” Farrar said. “The missing link of the last conspiracy. Yes, I do. But listen.”

Mr. Palmer was in the middle of a red-faced expostulation, working himself up into an agony of wounded reproach. Clive Jenkins said nothing. Finally Palmer's tirade finished; he subsided like a limp balloon. “Well, what do you want me to do?” he said. “I'm warning you, Jenkins, you'd better not be setting me up—”

He raised his glass to refresh himself. As he did so, Jenkins seemed to flinch; his patched elbow knocked the other's arm. The pint glass jerked, beer dashed against the table. Palmer gave a little mew of anger. “You clumsy fool—”

Jenkins offered no apology. “If you do what's required,” he said, “you'll reap the rewards along with me and the rest.You're to meet him …
here.
”

“When?”

“Then.
That's all. I'm going now.”

Without another word, the slight, ginger-haired man slipped out from behind the trestle table and disappeared from view. For a few minutes Mr. Palmer remained sitting, his red face blank and desperate. Then he too departed.