Ptolemy's Gate (20 page)

The affectation of humility (for it
was
affectation—Ptolemy's hunger for knowledge was just as ravenous as the king's son's lust for power, and far more virile) seemed to enrage the prince into a passion. His face grew dark as uncooked meat; little snakes of spittle swayed at the corner of his mouth. “Knowledge, eh?” he cried. “Yes, but of what kind? And to what end? Scrolls and styluses are nothing to a proper man, but in the hands of white-skinned necromancers they can be deadlier than the strongest iron. In old Egypt, they say, eunuchs mustered armies with the stamp of a foot and swept the rightful pharaohs into the sea! I don't intend that to happen to me. What are
you
smirking about, slave?”

I hadn't meant to smile. It's just I enjoyed his account, having been in the vanguard of the army that did the sweeping, a thousand years before. It's good when you make an impression. I bowed and scraped. “Nothing, master. Nothing.”

“You smirked, I saw you! You
dare
laugh at me—the king-in-waiting!”

His voice quivered; the soldiers knew the signs. Their pikes made small adjustments. Ptolemy uttered placatory noises: “He did not intend offense, my lord. My scribe was born with an unfortunate facial tic, a grimace that in harsh light can seem a baleful smirk. It is a sad affliction—”

“I will have his head stuck above the Crocodile Gate! Guards—”

The soldiers lowered their pikes, each keener than the rest to drench the stones with my blood. I waited meekly for the inevitable.
³

Ptolemy stepped forward. “Please, cousin. This is ridiculous. I beg you—”

“No! I will hear no argument. The slave will die.”

“Then I must
tell
you.” My master was suddenly very close to his brutish cousin; he seemed somehow taller, his equivalent in height. His dark eyes gazed directly into the other's watery ones, which squirmed in their sockets like a fish upon a spear. The king's son quailed and shrank from him; his soldiers and attendants shifted uneasily. The sun's warmth dimmed; the courtyard grew cloudy. One or two of the soldiers had goose pimples on their legs. “You will leave him alone,” Ptolemy said, his voice slow and clear. “He is
my
slave, and
I
say he deserves no punishment. Leave with your lackeys and return to your wine vats. Your presence here disturbs the scholars and brings no credit on our family. Your insinuations likewise.
Do you understand?”

The king's son had bent so far back to avoid the piercing stare that half his cape dragged on the ground. He made a noise like a marsh toad mating. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes.”

Ptolemy stepped away. Instantly he seemed to dwindle; the darkness that had gathered around the little group like a winter cloud lifted and was gone. The onlookers relaxed. Priests rubbed the backs of their necks; nobles exhaled noisily. A midget peeped out from behind a wrestler.

“Come, Rekhyt.” Ptolemy repositioned the scrolls under his arm and glanced at the king's son with studious disinterest. “Good-bye, cousin. I am late for lunch.”

He made to step past. The king's son, white-faced and tottering, uttered an incoherent word. He lurched forward; from beneath his cloak a knife was drawn. With a snarl, he lunged at Ptolemy's side. I raised a hand and gestured: there was a muffled impact, as of a masonry block landing on a bag of suet pudding. The king's son doubled over, clutching his solar plexus, mouth bubbling, eyes popping. He sank to his knees. The knife dropped impotently on the stones.

Ptolemy kept walking. Four of the soldiers sprang to uncertain life; their pikes went low, they made aggressive sounds. I swept my hands in a semicircle; away they flew, one after the other—head first, toes last, out across the courtyard cobbles. One hit a Roman, another a Greek; a third skidded a yard upon his nose. The fourth crashed into a trader's stand and was half buried by an avalanche of sweetmeats. They lay outstretched like points upon a sundial.

The others in the group were chicken. They cowered together and made no move. I kept close watch upon the old bald priest, though—I could see he was tempted to do something. But he met my eyes and decided it was best to live.

Ptolemy kept walking. I followed after. We went in search of anchovy bread. When we returned, our quest fulfilled, the library precinct was quiet and still.

My master knew the incident was inauspicious, but his studies were his consuming interest, and he chose to ignore the implications. But I did not, and nor did the people of Alexandria. Rumors of the matter circulated swiftly, some more creative than accurate.
⁴
The king's son was unpopular; his humiliation was regarded with general hilarity and Ptolemy's celebrity grew.

By night I floated on the winds above the palace, conversing with the djinn.

“What news?”

“News, Bartimaeus, of the king's son. His brow is heavy with wrath and fear. He mutters daily that Ptolemy might send a demon to destroy him and seize the throne. The danger pulses in his temple like a beating drum.”

“But my master lives only for his writing. He has no interest in the crown.”

“Even so. The king's son chews on the problem late at night and over wine. He sends emissaries out in search of men that might aid him quash this threat.”

“Affa, I thank you. Fly well.”

“Fly well, Bartimaeus.”

Ptolemy's cousin was a fool and a sot, but I understood his fears. He himself was not a magician. The magicians of Alexandria were ineffectual shadows of the great ones of the past, under whom I'd toiled.
⁵
The army was weaker than for generations, and mostly far away. In comparison, Ptolemy was powerful indeed. No question, the king's son would be vulnerable should my master decide to overthrow him.

Time passed. I watched and waited.

The king's son found his men. Money was paid. One moonlit night four assassins stole into the palace gardens and paid a call upon my master. As I may have mentioned, their visit was of short duration.

The king's son had taken the precaution of being away from Alexandria that night; he was out in the desert hunting. When he returned, he was greeted first by a flock of carrion birds wheeling in the skies about the Crocodile Gate, then by the hanging corpses of three assassins. Their feet brushed against the plumes of his chariot as he passed into the city. Face mottled white and crimson, the prince retired to his chambers and was not seen for days.

“Master,” I said. “Your life remains at risk. You must leave Alexandria.”

“Quite impossible, Rekhyt, as you know. The Library is here.”

“Your cousin is your implacable foe. He will try again.”

“And you will be here to foil him, Rekhyt. I have every confidence in you.”

“The assassins were but men. The next who come will not be human.”

“I am sure you will cope. Do you have to squat so? It distresses me.”

“I'm an imp today. Imps squat. Listen,” I said, “your confidence in me is gratifying, but frankly I can do without it. Just as I can do without being in the firing line when a marid comes knocking on your door.”

He chuckled into his goblet. “A marid! I think you overestimate the ability of our court magicians. A one-legged mouler I can believe.”

“Your cousin casts his net wider. He drinks long with ambassadors from Rome—and Rome, from what I hear, is where the action is right now Every hedge-magician from here to the Tigris is hastening there in search of glory”

Ptolemy shrugged. “So my cousin puts himself in Rome's pocket. Why should they attack me?”

“So that he will be forever in their debt. And meanwhile
I'll
be dead.” I let off a gust of sulphur in annoyance—my master's blithe absorption in his studies could be rather galling. “It's all right for
you
,” I cried. “You can summon up any number of us to protect your skin. What
we
suffer doesn't matter a fig.” I folded my wings over my snout in the manner of a huffy bat and hung from the bedroom rafter.

“Rekhyt—you have saved my life twice over. You
know
how grateful I am to you.”

“Words, words, words. Don't mean nowt.”
⁶

“That's hardly fair. You know the direction of my work. I wish to understand the mechanisms that divide us, human and djinni; I seek to redress the balance, build trust between us …”

“Yeah, yeah. And while you do, I'm guarding your back and emptying out your privy pot.”

“Now
you're making it up. Anhotep does that. I've never—”

“I'm speaking figuratively. My point is—whenever I'm in your world, I'm trapped. You call the shots. Trust doesn't enter into it.” The imp glared out through the membrane of its wing and let out another sulphurous eruption.

“Will you stop doing that? I've got to sleep in this room tonight. So you doubt my sincerity, do you?”

“If you want my opinion, master, all your talk of reconciliation between our peoples is nothing but hot air.”

“Is that so?” My master's tone of voice hardened. “Very well, Rekhyt, I take that as a challenge. I believe my studies are coming to the point when I can perhaps
act
as well as talk. As you know, I have studied accounts of the northern tribes. The practice there is for magicians and spirits to meet halfway. From what you and the others have told me, I think I can go one better than that.” He threw his goblet aside, got up, and began pacing around the chamber.

The imp lowered its wings uneasily. “What do you mean? I don't follow you.”

“Oh, you won't have to follow
me,
” the boy said. “Quite the reverse. When I'm ready, I'll be following
you.
”

13

T
he untoward incidents that took place during the Prime Minister's party at Richmond were swift and confusing, and it took some time to discover what had happened. Witnesses among the party guests were few, since when the carnage had erupted in the skies above, most had taken shelter headfirst in the rose beds and ornamental ponds. However, after Mr. Devereaux had gathered the magicians responsible for estate security, and they in their turn had summoned the demons guarding the perimeter, a picture of sorts emerged.

It appeared that the alarm had been set off when a djinni in the form of a limping frog broke through the estate nexus. It was closely pursued by a large pack of demons, which harried their prey remorselessly as it fled across the lawns. The estate demons had quickly joined the melee, valiantly attacking anything that moved, so that one or two of the invaders were soon destroyed, together with three guests, an under-butler, and much of the antique statuary on the south lawns, behind which the frog took shelter for a time. In the chaos, the frog escaped by breaking into the house itself, at which the other invaders turned about and fled the scene. Their identity, and that of their masters, remained obscure.

By contrast, the identity of the
frog's
master was soon established. Too many people had observed the events in the mansion's vestibule for John Mandrake to escape detection. Shortly after midnight he was hauled up before Mr. Devereaux, Mr. Mortensen, and Mr. Collins (the three most senior ministers remaining at the house), and admitted having given the djinni in question the freedom to return to him at any time. Under harsh questioning, Mr. Mandrake was then forced to give some details of the operation in which his demon had been engaged. The name of Mr. Clive Jenkins was mentioned, and five horlas were promptly dispatched to his London flat. In due course they returned. Mr. Jenkins was not at home. His whereabouts was unknown.

Since Mandrake knew nothing about what his djinni had discovered, and since summoning the injured Bartimaeus immediately might well destroy its essence—without any answer being forthcoming—the matter was abandoned for the present. Mandrake was ordered to appear before the Council three days later, to summon his slave for interrogation.

In the meantime the young magician bore the weight of general displeasure. The Prime Minister was beside himself with fury at the loss of his Grecian statuary, while Mr. Collins—who at the outset of the alarm had been the first to leap into the duck pond, only to be half drowned beneath one of the heavier lady guests—regarded him balefully from beneath his wad of toweling. The third minister, Mr. Mortensen, had suffered no particular injury, but had disliked Mandrake for years. Together they condemned him for his irresponsible and secretive conduct, and hinted at a broad range of punishments, though the details were left until the forthcoming Council meeting.

Mr. Mandrake made no response to the accusations. Palefaced, he departed the mansion and was driven back to London.

The following day Mr. Mandrake breakfasted alone. Ms. Piper, reporting as usual for the early morning briefing, found the door barred by a manservant. The minister was indisposed; he would see her in the office later. Disconcerted, she took her leave.