Ptolemy's Gate (16 page)

11

K
itty's master looked up from his sofa—a lonely island amid a sea of scattered paper, all scrawled upon with his tight, close script. He was chewing the end of a ballpoint pen, which had left little blue ink stains on his lips. He blinked in mild surprise.

“Didn't think to see you back this evening, Lizzie. Thought you had to get off to your work.”

“I do, sir. Very shortly. Now, sir—”

“Tell me, did you get hold of that original copy of Peck's
Desiderata Curiosa
? And what about
The Anatomy of Melancholy
? I wanted volume four, mind.”

Kitty's lie was smoothly practiced. “Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't, either of them. The library closed early today. There was a disturbance outside—a commoners' protest—and they shut the gates for safety. I was asked to leave before I found your books.”

Mr. Button gave a petulant exclamation and bit harder at his pen. “Such inconvenience! Commoners protesting, you say? What next? Horses throwing off the bridle? Cows refusing to be milked? Those wretched people need to
know their place.
” He emphasized this statement with neat little stabbing motions of his pen, then looked up guiltily. “No offense meant, Lizzie.”

“None taken, sir. Sir, who was Ptolemaeus?”

The old man stretched his arms wearily behind his head. “Ptolemaeus is Ptolemy. A most remarkable magician.” He flashed her a plaintive look. “Do you have time to put the kettle on, Lizzie, before you go?”

Kitty persisted: “Was he Egyptian?”

“Indeed he was, though the name is Greek, of course. He came of Macedonian stock originally. Well done, Lizzie. Not many protesting commoners would know
that
!”

“I was hoping to read something by him, sir.”

“You'd find that tricky, since he wrote in Greek. I have his main work in my collection:
The Eye of Ptolemy.
It is required reading for all magicians, since it is very perceptive on the mechanics of drawing demons from the Other Place. Mind you, the style is tepid. His other writings are known as the
Apocrypha.
I seem to remember you brought me them from Hyrnek's, on your first visit here…. They are an odd collection, full of whimsical notions. About that tea …”

“I'll put the kettle on,” Kitty said. “Is there something I could read about Ptolemy, sir, while I do that?”

“Goodness, you
do
have your little fancies. Yes,
The Book of Names
will have an entry. Doubtless you know which stack it's in.”

Kitty read the passage swiftly with the kettle popping and bubbling behind her.

 

Ptolemaeus of Alexandria (fl. c.
120
B.C.
)

Child-magician, born into the ruling Ptolemaic Dynasty, nephew of Ptolemy VIII and cousin of the crown prince (later Ptolemy IX). He spent most of his short life in Alexandria, working at the Library, but details remain obscure. A notable prodigy, he acquired a considerable reputation for magic while very young; his cousin is said to have felt threatened by his popularity among the common people, and attempted his assassination.

The circumstances of his death are unknown, but it is certain he did not live to a great age. He may have died by violence, or succumbed to bodily frailty. Mention is made in an Alexandrine manuscript of a sudden deterioration in his health following a “difficult journey,” though this is at odds with other records that state he never left the precincts of the city. He is definitely recorded as dead by the time of his uncle's funeral and his cousin's accession to the throne (116
B.C.
), so is unlikely to have reached his twenties.

His papers remained at the Library for over three hundred years, during which time they were studied by Tertullian and other Roman magicians. Part of his writing was published, in Rome, as the famous
Eye of Ptolemy.
The original archive was destroyed in the great earthquake and fire of the third century; surviving fragments have been collected as his
Apocrypha.
Ptolemy is a figure of historical interest, since he is credited with the invention of several techniques, including the Stoic Incision and the Mouler Shield (both used during summonings until the days of Loew) as well as unusual speculative fantasies, such as the “Gate of Ptolemy.” All this despite his extreme youth; if he had survived to maturity, he would surely have ranked among the great. His demons, with whom he is said to have had an unusual bond, included: Affa,† Rekhyt or Necho,‡ Methys,† Penrenutet.†

 

† demise recorded

‡ fate unknown

 

Mr. Button smiled absently when Kitty brought in the tea. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“I don't really know, sir, but I do have a question. Is it common for demons to take on the appearance of their masters?”

The magician put down his pen. “You mean to taunt, or befuddle them? Certainly! It is an ancient trick, one of the oldest in the book, and one guaranteed to unman the inexperienced. Nothing is more unsettling than facing a phantom of oneself, particularly when the creature uses it to perform provocative contortions. Rosenbauer of Munich was so distressed, I believe, by an accurate depiction of his many affectations that he threw down his pomade and rushed sobbing from his circle, with melancholy results. I myself have been forced to witness my own body decaying slowly to a rotting corpse, complete with hideous sound effects, while I tried to question it on the principles of Cretan architecture. It is to my credit that my notes made any sense at all. Is that what you mean?”

“Well, actually … no, sir.” Kitty took a deep breath. “I wanted to know whether a djinni ever took on its master's appearance out of… respect, or even affection. Because they were comfortable with it.” She made a face; on hearing it, the idea sounded quite ridiculous.

The old man wrinkled his nose. “I hardly think so.”

“I mean, after the magician was dead.”

“My dear Lizzie! Perhaps, if the magician in question was unusually hideous or deformed, the demon might employ his shape to startle others. I believe Zarbustibal of Yemen did reappear for a time following his demise. But out of respect? Goodness! The notion presupposes a relationship between master and slave that would be quite unprecedented. Only a comm—forgive me—only someone as inexperienced as you would come up with such a quaint conceit! Dear me, dear me …” He tittered to himself as he stretched a hand toward the tea tray.

Kitty had set off for the door. “Thank you, sir; you've been very helpful. By the way,” she added, “what was the Gate of Ptolemy?”

From the middle of his sofa, among his mess of papers, the old magician groaned. “What is it? A ridiculous notion! A myth, a figment, a barrel of moonshine! Save your questions for subjects of value. Now I must work. I have no need for the witterings of foolish assistants. Be off with you! The Gate of Ptolemy, indeed …” He winced, waved her pettishly away.

“But—”

“Don't you have a job to go to, Lizzie?”

Forty minutes later Kitty alighted from a bus upon the Embankment road. She wore a thick black duffel coat and chewed intently at a sandwich. In her pocket were the documents confirming her second false identity—Clara Bell.

The sky was blackening, though a few low clouds still glimmered a dirty yellow with the city's reflected glow. Below the tide wall the Thames lay distant, shrunk and withered. Kitty passed above a great gray mud-bank, where herons stalked amid the stones and flotsam. The air was cold; a strong breeze blew toward the sea.

At a bend in the river the pavement took a sudden ninety-degree turn away from the Thames, its route blocked by an extensive building with steep roofs and sharply pointed dormers. Heavy black beams laced its walls; lit windows gleamed at random heights, casting a rich light upon the street and the dark waters of the river. The upper story projected out above the lower on all sides, here vigorously, here sagging as if about to fall. A faded green sign swung from a pole above the path, so weather-beaten that its words could not be read. This was of small account, since The Frog was a notable local landmark. It was famous for its beer, its beef and for its weekly domino tournaments. It was also Kitty's workplace in the evenings.

She ducked under a low arch and walked down the pitch-black side alley into the pub's yard. As she entered it, she glanced up. A faint red light hovered by the gables. If you looked directly at it, its shape was blurred and indistinct; if you looked away, you saw its outline clearly—a small, neat vigilance sphere, watching.

Kitty ignored the spy. She crossed the yard to the main door, which was sheltered from the weather by an ancient blackened porch, and entered the Frog Inn.

The bright lights of the taproom made her blink. The curtains had been drawn against the night and a fire lit in the grate. Its colors flickered in rows of glasses assembled on the bar; George Fox, the manager, was industriously polishing them one by one. He nodded at Kitty as she passed to hang her satchel on the coat-rail.

“In your own time, Clara. In your own time.”

She glanced at her watch. “Still twenty minutes before they get here, George.”

“Not long enough for what I've got planned for you.”

Kitty flipped her hat onto a peg. “No problem.” She motioned with her head back toward the door. “How long's it been there?”

“Couple of hours. Usual sort. Just trying to spook us. Can't hear. Won't interfere.”

“Okay. Chuck me a cloth.”

In fifteen brisk and efficient minutes the taproom was clean and ready, the glasses polished, the tabletops spic and span. Kitty had placed ten pitchers on the counter above the tap, and Sam, The Frog's barman, began filling them with light-brown frothing drafts of beer. Kitty distributed the last of the domino boxes, wiped her hands on her trousers, plucked an apron from a hook, and took up position behind the bar. George Fox opened the main door and allowed the customers in.

As usual, The Frog's reputation ensured an ever-changing clientele, and tonight Kitty noticed several people she hadn't seen before: a tall military gentleman, an old lady smiling and shuffling to a seat, a young blond man with beard and mustache. The familiar click of the dominoes began; conviviality filled the air. Smoothing down her apron, Kitty hastened between tables and took orders for the evening meal.

An hour passed; the remains of thick-slabbed hot beef sandwiches lay on plates at the players' elbows. With the food finished, interest in dominoes quickly paled. The pieces were kept in position on every table, in case the police should raid, but the players now sat up in their seats, suddenly alert and sober. Kitty filled a last few empty glasses, then returned to stand behind the counter as a man sitting near the fireplace slowly got to his feet.

He was old and frail, bent with years. The whole room quietened to a hush.

“Friends,” he began, “little of note has happened since last week, so I shall shortly open our meeting to the floor. As always, I would like to thank our patron, Mr. Fox, for his hospitality. Perhaps we could hear from Mary first, for news of the American situation?”

He sat. At an adjacent table a woman stood, thin-faced and weary. Kitty judged her to be not yet forty, though her hair was flecked with gray. “A merchant ship came in late last night,” she began. “Its last berth was Boston, in the war zone. The crew breakfasted at our cafe this morning. They told us that the most recent British offensive has failed—Boston is still in American hands. Our army withdrew to the fields, searching for supplies, and has since been attacked. Losses are high.”

A low muttering filled the room. The old gentleman half stood. “Thank you, Mary. Who cares to speak next?”

“If I may?” The young bearded man spoke up; he was stocky, self-confident; he carried an assertive air. “I represent a new organization, the Commoners' Alliance. Perhaps you've heard of it.”

There was a general shuffling, a sense of unease. From behind the bar Kitty frowned. Something about the speaker's voice … it bothered her.

“We're trying to gather support,” the man went on, “for a new round of strikes and public demonstrations. We've got to show the magicians what's what. The only way to make them sit up is concerted action by us all. I'm talking mass protests here.”

“May I speak?” The elderly lady, immaculately presented in a dark blue dress and crimson shawl, sought to rise; a chorus of amiable protest ensued, and she remained seated. “I am fearful of what is happening in London,” she said. “These strikes, this unrest … Surely it is not the answer. What will they achieve? Only sting our leaders to harsh reprisals. The Tower will echo with the laments of honest men.”

The young man thumped the table with a thick pink fist. “What is the alternative, madam? Sit quiet? The magicians won't thank us if we do! They'll grind us further into the dirt. We must act now! Remember—they can't imprison everyone!”

There was a round of ragged clapping. The old lady stubbornly shook her head. “You're quite wrong,” she said. “Your argument only works if the magicians can be destroyed. They cannot!”

Another man spoke out. “Steady on, Grandma. That's defeatist talk.”

She jutted her chin. “Well? Can they? How?”

“They're obviously losing control, or they'd have beaten the rebels easily.”

“We can get help from the Europeans too,” the young blond man added. “Don't forget that. The Czechs will fund us. And the French.”

George Fox nodded. “French spies have given me a couple of magical items,” he said. “Just in case of trouble. Never had to use them, mind.”

“Excuse me,” the old lady said, “but you've not explained how a few strikes will actually bring the magicians down.” She raised her bony chin and looked defiantly around at the company. “Well?” Several of the men made noises of disapproval, but were too busy sipping drinks to voice an exact reply.