Ptolemy's Gate (26 page)

“I don't need your advice,” she said harshly. “I don't need anything from you.”

The boy looked up. “Well, I'm sorry if I've deflated you a bit,” he said, “but those things needed saying. I suggest—”

Kitty closed her eyes and spoke the command. It was tentative at first, then very quick—she felt a sudden violence in her: she wanted to get rid of him, be done with it.

Air moved around her face, candle smoke filled her nostrils, the demon's voice receded into nothing. She did not need to look to know that he had vanished, and with him three whole years of her hopes and dreams.

16

H
alfway home from the house of Quentin Makepeace John Mandrake gave an abrupt command. His chauffeur listened, saluted, and did a U-turn in heavy traffic. They drove to Chiswick at top speed.

Night had fallen. The windows of the Frog Inn were dark and shuttered, the door was barred. A rough, handwritten sign had been posted in the porch.

SAM WEBBER'S FUNERAL TAKES PLACE TODAY
WE ARE CLOSED
REOPENING TOMORROW

Mandrake knocked repeatedly, but drew no response. The wind gusted along the drab, gray Thames; on the shingle seagulls fought over scraps deposited by the tide. A red vigilance sphere in the courtyard pulsed as he departed. Mandrake scowled at it, and returned to central London.

The matter of Kitty Jones could wait. That of Bartimaeus, however, could not.

All
demons lied: this was an incontrovertible fact. So, in truth, Mandrake should not have been
particularly
startled that his slave conformed to type. But when he learned that Bartimaeus had concealed the survival of Kitty Jones, the shock affected him profoundly.

Why? In part because of the image he had built up of the long-dead Kitty. For years her face had drifted in his memory, spotlit by a guilty fascination. She had been his mortal enemy, yet she had sacrificed herself for him; it was a gesture that Mandrake could scarcely comprehend, but its strangeness, together with her youth, her vigor, and the fierce defiance in her eyes, had taken on a bittersweet allure that never failed to pierce him. The dangerous Resistance fighter he had hunted down so long before had, in the quiet, secret places of his mind, become something pure and personal, a beautiful rebuke, a symbol, a regret.… Many things, in fact—all far removed from the original living, breathing girl.

But if she lived … ? Mandrake felt a surge of pain. It was the sensation caused by the destruction of this peaceful inner shrine, by a sudden rush of confusion and renewed memories of the actual, messy past; by waves of anger and disbelief. Kitty Jones was no longer a private image in his head—the world had reclaimed her. He felt almost bereaved.

And Bartimaeus had lied to him.
Why
had he done so? To spite him, certainly—but this did not seem quite enough. Well then—to protect Kitty. But that presupposed a closeness between girl and djinni, some kind of bond. Could this be so? Mandrake felt a jealous knowledge in the pit of his stomach that it
was
so; the notion coiled and slithered deep inside him.

If the motive for the djinni's lie was hard to fathom, the timing of the revelation could not have been more bitter, coming so soon after Mandrake had jeopardized his career to save his servant's life. His eyes burned as he recalled the act; his folly rose up to choke him.

In the midnight solitude of his study he made the summons. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had dismissed the frog; whether Bartimaeus's essence would have healed by now he did not know. He no longer cared. He stood ramrod-stiff, hands drumming incessantly on the desk before him. And waited.

The pentacle remained cold and quiet. The incantation echoed in his head.

Mandrake moistened his lips. He tried again.

He did not make a third attempt, but sat down heavily in his leather chair, seeking to suppress the panic that rose within him. There could be no doubt: the demon was already in the world. Someone
else
had summoned him.

Mandrake's eyes burned hot into the darkness. He should have predicted this. One of the other magicians had disregarded the risk to the djinni's essence and had sought to find out what he knew about the Jenkins plot. It hardly mattered who it was. Whether Farrar, Mortensen, Collins, or another, the outlook for Mandrake was grim indeed. If Bartimaeus survived, he would doubtless tell them Mandrake's birth name. Of course he would! He had already betrayed his master once. Then his enemies would send their demons, and he would die, alone.

He had no allies. He had no friends. He had lost the support of the Prime Minister. In two days, if he survived, he would be on trial before the Council. He was on his own. True, Quentin Makepeace had offered his support, but Makepeace was quite probably deranged. That
experiment
of his, that writhing captive … the memory of it repelled John Mandrake. If he managed to salvage his career, he would take steps to stop such grotesque activities. But that was hardly the priority now.

The night progressed. Mandrake sat at his desk, thinking. He did not sleep.

With time and weariness, the troubles that beset him began to lose their clarity. Bartimaeus, Farrar, Devereaux, and Kitty Jones, the Council, the trial, the war, his endless resposibilities—everything merged and flickered before his eyes. A great yearning rose in him to cast it all off, remove it like a wet and fetid set of clothes, and step away, if only for a moment.

A thought occurred to him, wild, impulsive. He brought out his scrying glass, and ordered the imp to locate a certain person. It did so swiftly.

Mandrake rose from his chair, conscious of the strangest feeling. Something dredged from the past—almost a sorrow. It discomforted him, but was pleasant too. He welcomed it, though it made him uneasy. Above all, it was not of his current life—it had nothing to do with efficiency or effectiveness, with reputation or with power. He could not rid himself of the desire to see her face again.

First light: the skies were leaden gray and the pavements dark and sloughed with leaves. The wind skittered through the branches of the trees and around the stark spire of the war memorial in the center of the park. The woman's coat was turned up against her face. As she approached, striding swiftly along beside the road, head down, hand up against her scarf, Mandrake failed to recognize her at first. She was smaller than he recalled, her hair longer and a little flecked with gray. But then from nowhere, a familiar detail: the bag she carried her pens in—old, battered, recognizably the same. The same bag! He shook his head in wonder. He could buy her a new one—a dozen of them—should she wish it.

He waited in the car until she drew almost level, uncertain until the last moment whether he would actually step out. Her boots scattered the leaves, tripped carefully around the deeper puddles, walking speedily thanks to the cold and the moisture in the air. Soon she would be past him….

He despised himself for his hesitation. He opened the roadside door, got out, and stepped across to intercept her.

“Ms. Lutyens.”

He saw her give a sudden start and her eyes dart around to appraise him and the sleek, black car parked behind. She walked another two hesitant steps, came to an uncertain halt. She stood looking at him, one arm hanging limply at her side, the other clutching at her throat. Her voice, when it came, was small—and, he noted, rather scared. “Yes?”

“Might I have a word?” He had chosen to wear a more official suit than was his wont. He hadn't
needed
to do this exactly, but he'd found he wanted to make the best impression. Last time she'd seen him, he'd been nothing but a humiliated boy.

“What do you want?”

He smiled. She was
very
defensive. Goodness knows what she thought he was. Some official, come to inquire about her taxes … “Just a chat,” he said. “I recognized you … and I wondered if… if you recognized me.”

Her face was pale, still etched with worry; frowning, her eyes scanned his. “I'm sorry,” she began, “I don't—Oh. Yes, I do. Nathaniel …” She hesitated. “But I don't suppose I can use that name.”

He made an elegant gesture. “It is best forgotten, yes.”

“Yes …” She stood looking at him—at his suit, his shoes, his silver ring, but mostly at his face. Her scrutiny was deeper than he had expected, serious and intense. Rather to his surprise, she did not smile, or display any immediate elation. But of course his appearance
had
been sudden.

He cleared his throat. “I was passing. I saw you and—well, it's been a long time.”

She nodded slowly “Yes.”

“I thought it would … So how
are
you, Ms. Lutyens? How are you keeping?”

“I'm well,” she said, and then, almost sharply: “Do you have a name I
am
allowed to use?”

He adjusted a cuff, smiled vaguely. “John Mandrake is my name now. You may perhaps have heard of me.”

She nodded again, expressionless. “Yes. Of course. So, you're doing … well.”

“Yes. I'm Information Minister now. Have been for the last two years. It was quite a surprise, as I was rather young. But Mr. Devereaux decided to take a gamble on me and”—he gave a little shrug—“here I am.”

He had expected this to elicit more than yet another brief nod, but Ms. Lutyens remained uneffusive. With slight annoyance in his voice, he said, “I thought you'd be pleased to see how well it's all turned out, after—after the last time we saw each other. That was all very … unfortunate.”

He was using the wrong words, that much he could tell—slipping into the studied understatement of his ministerial life rather than saying exactly what was in his mind. Perhaps that was why she seemed so stiff and unresponsive. He tried again: “I was grateful to you, that's what I wanted to tell you. Grateful then. And I still am now.”

She shook her head, frowning. “Grateful for what? I didn't do anything.”

“You know—when Lovelace attacked me. That time he beat me, and you tried to stop him … I never got a chance to—”

“As you say, it was unfortunate. But it was also a long time ago.” She flicked a wisp of hair from her face. “So, you're the Information Minister? You're the one responsible for those pamphlet things they're giving out at the stations?”

He smiled modestly. “Yes. That's me.”

“The ones that tell us what a fine war we're waging and how only the best young men are signing up for it, that it's a man's job to sail off to America and fight for freedom and security? The ones that say that death is a fit price to pay for the survival of the Empire?”

“A trifle too succinct, but that's the thrust of it, I suppose.”

“Well, well. You've come a long way, Mr. Mandrake.” She was looking at him almost sadly.

The air was cold; the magician stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and glanced up and down the road, searching for something to say. “I don't suppose you
usually
see your pupils again,” he said. “When they've grown up, I mean. See how they've got on …”

“No,” she agreed. “My job is with the children. Not with the adults they become.”

“Indeed.” He looked at her battered old bag, remembering its dull satin interior, with the little cases of pencils, chalks, ink pens, and Chinese brushes. “Are you happy in your job, Ms. Lutyens?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, happy with your money, and your status and all that? I ask you because I could, you know, find you other employment if you chose. I have influence, and could find you something better than this. There are strategists in the War Ministry, for example, who need people with your expertise to design mass-produced pentacles for the American campaign. Or even in my ministry—we've created an advertising department to better put across our message to the people. Technicians like you would be welcomed. It's good work, dealing with confidential information.You'd get a rise in status.”

“By ‘the people,'I take it you mean ‘commoners'?” she asked.

“That's what we're calling them now in public,” he agreed. “They seem to prefer it. Doesn't
mean
anything, of course.”

“I see,” she said crisply. “Well, no—thank you, but I am quite all right as I am. I'm sure none of the departments would want an old commoner like me thrust into their midst, and anyway, I still rather enjoy my job. But it is very kind of you, all the same.” She pushed up her coat sleeve and glanced at her watch.

The magician clapped his hands together. “You have to get on!” he said. “Listen, why don't I give you a lift? My chauffeur can take you anywhere. Save you being crammed in like a sardine on a bus or train—”

“No, thank you.You are very kind.” Her face was stony.

“Very well, if that's the way you feel about it.” Despite the chilly air, he felt hot and irritable. Fervently he wished he had remained within the car. “Well, it has been a pleasure seeing you again. Of course, I must ask you to treat what you know in the strictest confidence Not that I need to mention that, I'm sure,” he added, somewhat foolishly.