Ptolemy's Gate (32 page)

You might argue that a man who wasn't scared of a cyclops, a boar-headed warrior, a giant lizard, and a vicious-looking pangolin with the titters wouldn't be too fussed at one monster more or less, but I took the point. A Sheban diplomat isn't the most terrifying thing in the world. I rummaged through my inventory of guises and picked out one that used to awe the people of the plains well enough. The diplomat vanished. In his place stood a tall, sinister figure, hung about with a cape of feathers and animal bones; he had a man's body, but his head—sleek and black with eyes of yellow fire—was a savage crow's. The cruel beak opened, loosing a wicked caw upon the world. Assorted cutlery rattled across the kitchen.

I bent my head toward Ascobol. “How's that?”

“It'll have to do.”

As one, the five terrible djinn stepped closer to their prey.

“You may as well put that thing down,” Mwamba advised sternly. “We've got you trapped.”

Ah yes. That thing. I'd noticed it too. It was a certain kind of kitchen implement that Mr. Hopkins had picked up in self-defense. But far from holding it fearfully in front of him, as you might expect, he was toying with it in a manner unbefitting a scholar, tossing it up into the air with one hand and catching it nimbly between finger and thumb of the other. If it had been a tin-opener or a potato peeler, even a ladle or soup spoon, it wouldn't have bothered me so much. But it wasn't any of those things. It was a meat cleaver, and a large one too.

Something about the way he wielded it rang a few faint bells.

“Well, now,” Mr. Hopkins said, smiling. “Here's a conundrum. Have you trapped me, or is it the other way around?”

He gave a little kick of his legs as he said this, as if he were about to start dancing some horrible Celtic jig; instead of which he rose gently off the floor and hovered over us, grinning from ear to ear.

This was unexpected. Even Hodge stopped his eager snickering. The others glanced at each other in astonishment. Not me, though. I was silent, frozen where I stood, an uncomfortable finger of ice traveling at leisure down my spine.

I'd known the voice, you see. It wasn't that of any Mr. Hopkins. It wasn't even human.

It was Faquarl's.

20

“E
r, chaps,” I ventured. “I think we should go carefully here.”

From his position in midair Mr. Hopkins tossed the cleaver high; flashing as it spun, it arced around a ceiling light and landed handle-first back upon his outstretched finger. He caught my eye and winked.

Ascobol was rattled, but he talked big to cover it. “So he can levitate,” he snarled. “And do juggling tricks. So can half the starving fakirs of India, and I never ran from them. Come on. Remember, we've got to take him alive.”

With an unearthly cry, he leaped down from his sink top. The crow-headed man held out a hand of caution. “Wait!” I said. “Something's wrong here. His voice—”

“You coward, Bartimaeus!"The pangolin loosed a volley of darts that pattered into the floor beside my feet. “You fear for what remains of your essence. Well, hop on the nearest chair and squeal. Four
proper
djinn can handle this man.”

“But that's just it,” I protested. “I'm not sure this
is
a man. He's—”

“Of
course
I am.” Up on high, Mr. Hopkins tapped his chest proudly. “Planes one to seven, flesh and blood. Can't you see?” It was true. He was human whichever way you looked at it. But it was Faquarl who spoke.

The giant lizard swung her tail in agitation; it caught against a cooker and sent it crashing on its side. “Hold on,” Mwamba said. “What language are we speaking?”
¹

“Erm … Aramaic, why?”

“Because he can speak it too.”

“So what? He's a scholar, ain't he?” In times of stress Ascobol could pulverize Semitic tongues.

“Yes, but it seems a little odd …”

Mr. Hopkins inspected his watch ostentatiously. “Look, I'm sorry to butt in,” he called, “but I'm a busy man. I have some important business this evening, which concerns us all. If you lot clear off now, I'll spare you. Even Bartimaeus.”

Cormocodran had been resting his poorly essence against an eight-hob oven, but at these words he erupted into life. “You'll spare
us
?” he roared. “For that piece of impudence I shall gore you, and not gently!” He pawed the ground with a hoof and started forward. The other djinn followed his example; there was a general rattling of horns, spines, scales, and other armored bits. Mr. Hopkins chucked the cleaver casually to his right hand and spun it around his fingers.

“Wait, you idiots!” the crow-man shouted. “Didn't you
hear
? He knows me! He knows my name! This is—”

“It's not like
you
to hold back on the edge of a battle, Bartimaeus,” Mr. Hopkins called cheerily, dropping down toward the advancing djinn. “You're normally
much
farther away, cowering in a disused catacomb or something.”

“That catacomb incident has been grossly misrepresented!” I roared. “As I've explained
countless
times, I was guarding it against Rome's enemies, who might well have chosen—” I stopped right there. That was the proof. No human knew where I'd loitered during the barbarian invasion, and precious few spirits either.
²
In fact, I could only think of one djinni that still brought it up with metronomic regularity, whenever our paths crossed over the centuries. And sure enough, that one was—

“Stop!” I cried, hopping from side to side in agitation. “Its not Hopkins at all! I don't know
how,
but it's Faquarl, and he—”

It was too late, of course. My companions were making far too many roars and rumbles for them to hear. Mind, I doubt they'd have stopped even if they
had
heard. Certainly Ascobol and Hodge, who had no respect for their elders or betters, would have carried on regardless. Maybe Mwamba might have hesitated.

But they didn't hear, and they all piled in.

Well, it was four against one. Faquarl, armed only with a kitchen knife, versus four of the most ferocious djinn then at large in London. It was a hideous mismatch.

I'd have helped my companions out if I'd thought it would make any difference.

Instead, I stole carefully toward the door. Thing was, I
knew
Faquarl. He had a certain breezy confidence that came from being very good at what he did.
³

Very good, and very quick. Crow-head had just negotiated a rack of omelette pans and was slipping past the pastry cases when a shower of plates fell around his ears.
Armor
plates, that is, lately of the pangolin.

They were followed a second or so later by one or two other things—some of which, I'm sorry to say, were recognizable.

It was only when I reached the kitchen door that I risked a quick look back. At the far end of the room was a whirl of movement, flashes of light, sounds, and screams. Occasionally hands reached out from the vortex, grasped tables or small fridges and plunged with them back out of sight. Fragments of metal, wood, and essence hurtled outward periodically.

Time to depart. Some djinn of my acquaintance let loose a billowing Fog to cover their tracks; others prefer to leave a noxious inky vapor or a few Illusions in their wake. Me, I hit the lights. Kitchen and dining room were plunged into darkness. Weird glints of a dozen colors emitted by the fighting djinn slid and spun across the walls. Ahead, a solitary wedge of light marked the way out to the corridor. I wrapped my cape of feathers close about me and was swallowed by the shadows.
⁴

I hadn't got halfway across the dining room when all sounds of combat behind me ceased.

I halted, hoping against hope to hear my colleagues' cries of triumph.

No luck. The silence beat against my feathered head.

I concentrated and
really
strained for a scrap of sound…. Perhaps I strained too hard. I thought to imagine a soft noise, as of someone floating through the dark.

I hastened on. No point trying to run—stealth was the key. I was in no state to contest with Faquarl, however eccentric his guise. I kept to the margins of the dining room, keeping. well clear of the tables, chairs, and discarded cutlery. My cloak of shadows covered my bowed head; a yellow eye peeped out anxiously below a fringe of feathers. It checked behind.

Through the arch leading to the kitchen came a patch of moving blackness; light glinted on something in its hand. I picked up the pace a little, and in so doing kicked against a teaspoon, which clinked against the wall.

“Dear me, Bartimaeus,” a familiar voice called. “You really
are
addled tonight. A human might be foiled by the dark, but
I
can see you as clear as noonday, skulking over there beneath those rags. Stop a while and talk with me. I've missed our little chats.”

Crow-head made no response, but hurried for the door.

“Aren't you just a little curious?"The voice was nearer now. “I'd have thought you'd be
dying
to know about my choice of form.”

Sure, I was curious, but “dying to know” was exactly what I wasn't. I'm happy to indulge in snappy banter with the best of them, but chats are out when the alternative is escaping with my life. Mid-stride, the crow-headed man leaped forward, hands outstretched, as if diving into a swimming pool; his feathered cape swirled round him, flapped, became dark wings. The man was gone; a desperate crow darted forth, a feathered bolt making for the door—

A sigh, a thud, a cawk of pain. The crow's progress was halted in a manner that brooked no argument, pierced through a wingtip and suspended beneath a shimmering flash that shuddered, vibrated, stilled—and became a meat cleaver embedded in the wall.

With nonchalant leisure, the thing with the body of Mr. Hopkins drifted across the empty room. The crow awaited it, swinging gently, an indignant expression on its beak.

Mr. Hopkins drew close. One shoulder of his suit was a little scorched, and he had a slight cut upon one cheek. Other than that he appeared uninjured. He hovered in the darkness a meter or so away, regarding me with a little smile. I guessed he was checking out my condition on the various planes; my weakness made me feel embarrassed, almost naked. I tapped the feathers of my free wing against the wall.

“So go on then,” I snapped. “Get it over with.”

A frown passed across the inexpressive face. “You want me to kill you already?”

“Not that. The rubbish joke you're thinking up. About it being good of me to
hang around
, or something like that. Go on, you know you want to. Get it out of your system.”

The scholar looked pained. “As if I'd stoop so low, Bartimaeus. You judge me by your own subterranean standards of repartee, which are as regrettable as the condition of your essence. Look at you! As perforated as a sponge. If I were your master, I'd use you to mop the floor.”

I gave a groan. “That's probably on the agenda. I've done everything else.”

“I'm sure you have. Well, it is a sorry state of affairs to see any spirit brought so low, even one as frivolous and irritating as you. It almost moves me to pity.” He scratched his nose. “Almost, but not quite.”

I searched the pale gray eyes. “It
is
you, isn't it?” I said.

“Certainly it is.”

“But your essence … Where—?”

“Right here, hidden away inside the body of our dear Mr. Hopkins. As you must have deduced, this is no mere
guise
” Faquarl's voice gave a little chuckle. “What was that pathetic birdy getup you were wearing just now? Native American totem? So messy and antiquated. Well, I've gone beyond that sort of thing.”

“You're
in
his actual body?” I said. “Yeucch! That's icky. Who's done this to you, Faquarl? Who's your master?” I didn't understand this at all.

“My master?” The hovering man shook with mirth. “Why, Mr. Hopkins, of course, and very grateful I am to him.
So
grateful that I think he and I will be working together for some little time to come.” He burst into another rich and hearty laugh.
⁵
“Much has happened since last we met, Bartimaeus,” he went on. “Do you remember how we parted?”

“No.” I did.

“You set light to me, old friend. Struck a match and left me burning in a copse.”

The crow shifted uneasily beneath the cleaver. “That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland…”

“Mmm. Well, you've been a slave to more humans than me, Bartimaeus. You'd know their ways if anyone would. Even so, it
was
a little painful.…” He drifted closer.

“You weren't too badly off,” I protested. “I caught sight of you again a couple of days later, playing cook again in the Heddleham kitchen. Didn't seem
too
singed. What is it with you and kitchens, anyway? You're always hanging about in them.”
⁶