Ptolemy's Gate (42 page)

A plaintive cry; the disc went blank. Kitty shook her head sourly. “How can you claim
any
moral authority, when you keep such a thing imprisoned? It's pure hypocrisy.”

Mandrake scowled. “Never mind that now. You wanted me to act. I'm acting.” There was a new urgency about him; he paced the room. “The demons are formidable, particularly Nouda … it is a marid, or stronger. Once it learns to control the body, its power will be terrible. How can we oppose it? If the government were freed, we might summon enough djinn to destroy it But the government is captive. So what remains?” He glanced at the scrying glass; all was still within it. “There
is
one possibility,” he went on, “but the odds against it are excessive.”

“What?”

“Gladstone's Staff is in this building. It would be a match for Nouda. But it is magically guarded. I'd have to find a way to get to it.”

“And evade Nouda first,” Kitty said.

“And then there's the little question of whether I'd have the strength to use it.”

“Yes. You didn't last time.”

“All
right.
I know. I
am
stronger than then. But I'm also tired.” He took up the disc again. “Where
is
that imp?”

“Probably dead in a ditch from ill treatment. Mandrake,” Kitty said, “do you know of the magician Ptolemaeus?”

He frowned. “Of course. But how have you—?”

“And his
Apocrypha?
You have heard of that?”

“Yes, yes. It is on my shelf. So—”

“What is Ptolemy's Gate?”

He regarded her blankly. “Ptolemy's Gate? Kitty, that is a question for scholars and magicians, hardly for commoners. Why do you ask?”

“Simple,” she said. “Because I can't read ancient Greek.” She put her hand in her tattered coat and drew out Mr. Button's book. “If I could, I'd have found out for myself. You, I assume, with all your privileges, can and have. What is this Gate? How does one get to the Other Place? And stop asking
me
questions; we haven't time.”

Mandrake reached out and took the small, slim volume, slightly scorched where the Inferno had struck. Handing her the blank broze disc, he opened the book with gentle fingers and flipped the pages slowly at random, eyes scanning the columns. He shrugged. “A work of fiction; charmingly idealistic in some of its conceits, if not wrongheaded. Some of its statements … well, Ptolemy's Gate is a supposed method of reversing the normal summoning process, whereby the magician, or some element, spirit or sentience thereof, withdraws for a time to the particular remoteness where demons reside; the author—by reputation this was the Alexandrine, Ptolemaeus—claims to have done it himself, though
why
he should risk such a terrifying ordeal is far from clear. Good enough for you? Oh, sorry—that's a question.”

“No. It's not good enough. What's the exact formula? Does he give it?”

Mandrake clapped his head in irritation. “Kitty! Have you gone quite mad? We have more important things to—”

“Just
tell
me!” She started toward him, fists clenched.

Mandrake veered back; as he did so, the scrying glass throbbed and hummed in Kitty's hands. The baby's face returned, looking frightened and out of breath. For a few seconds it did not speak, but only wheezed and puffed immoderately. Kitty shook her head in pity. “Your slave's back. He's practically dead, poor little mite.”

The baby belched loudly, then spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Who's this trollop?”

With pointed gallantry, Mandrake took the disc from her hands. “Just tell us what you saw.”

“It wasn't a pretty sight, boss.” The baby picked its nose with an agitated finger. “Am I right in thinking this will be the last job you give me? On account of the fact that you're locked in a cell and surrounded by rampant demons preparing to take the vengeance that they've craved for thousands of years? Just wondering.”

Kitty ground her teeth with impatience. Mandrake glanced at her. “What do you think? The Infernal Coals?”

“Anything.”

The baby gave an anxious croak and spoke at speed: “I followed your orders to the letter; you can have no complaint. First, the great spirits. Ah—they are powerful; the planes warp with their passing. There are seven; all wear actual human bodies, concealing their true forms. At their center sits Nouda; he issues rapid commands. The others scutter to do his bidding. In neighboring chambers the corpses of Whitehall bureaucrats lie like skittles. From a side room—”

Mandrake interrupted the desperate flow. “Wait. How do the demons move? Are they comfortable in their hosts?”

“For the most part, no. They move as if with broken limbs. But yet they sing with the joy of freedom. Would that I could join them,” the baby said wistfully. “I would set your bones upon a metal platter and make percussive music. You want more?”

“Descriptions, yes. Empty threats, no.”

“From a side room comes a steady herd of bedraggled humans. Their arms are bound, their mouths stopped with wax and linen. The great spirits herd them like goats toward a precipice. One by one, in the center of the hall, their mouths are freed and they stand before Lord Nouda's chair. He gives them an ultimatum.”

“These humans,” Mandrake said. “Describe them.”

The baby sniffed. “Tricky … Could you individuate a tribe of rabbits?” It considered. “Several lacked chins, while others boasted several.”

Kitty and Mandrake exchanged a glance. “It is the government.”

“Nouda gives each a choice. Following a certain formula, they must summon a spirit into themselves. The djinni Faquarl stands by Nouda's chair, holding a weighty tome: he gives them the name to call. If they agree, the procedure is carried out. If not, they are to be destroyed.”

Mandrake bit his lip. “What is the general consensus?”

“So far, each politician has agreed to surrender his or her mind. They prefer to accept the vilest humiliation rather than a more honorable way out.”

Kitty kicked out at the wall. “Nouda isn't wasting time. He's creating his army.”

“And by doing so, removing the only people capable of resisting him,” Mandrake said. “Imp, what is the situation elsewhere?”

The baby shrugged. “It depends on your point of view. From my perspective the outlook is rosy. Few humans remain alive within this building. Beyond, in central London, great gatherings of commoners assemble, emboldened by the lack of response from the government. In Whitehall, two battalions of werewolves maintain ragged defense of the Parliament zone. A few magicians try frantically to communicate with their leaders, but to no avail.”

“Ha! Some magicians are still in action!” Mandrake nodded eagerly. “The lower orders did not attend the play. Perhaps they can aid us…. What demons do they use?”

“A hotchpotch of foliots that cower behind the dustbins as the commoners march by.”

Mandrake groaned. “Hopeless. Imp, your news is poor, but you have done well.” He made a magnanimous gesture. “If I survive, you shall have your freedom.”

“That's me here for all eternity then.” The disc went blank.

“So, there will be no outside help,” the magician said slowly. “It will have to be the Staff, if I can reach it.
If I
can get it to work …”

Kitty touched his arm. “You were telling me about Ptolemy's Gate. What's the exact method? Can it be easily done?”

He tore himself away, eyes angry and bewildered. “
Why
do you persist in this?”

“Ptolemy used the Gate to reach out to the djinn—it was a gesture of reconciliation, of good faith. We need to do this, and fast, if we're to get some help.”

“Get some—? Oh dear.” Mandrake spoke as if to a simple child. “Kitty, the demons are our
enemies.
They have been for millennia. True, their powers are useful, but they are wicked things, and will hurt us if they can. As proved this very night! Given half a chance, they are invading!”

“Some
are invading,” Kitty said. “But not all. Bartimaeus did not agree to stay.”

“So what? Bartimaeus is nothing! Nothing but a middling djinni, frayed to a thread, whom I kept here too long.”

“Even so, he has loyalty to us. Certainly to me. Maybe even you.”

The magician shook his head. “Rubbish. His loyalty changes with every summoning. Just days ago he served another master, doubtless one of my rivals. But this is beside the point. To get the Staff—”

“
I
summoned him.”

“—I will need to get away. You must cause a distract—hold on. What?”

“I summoned him.”

Mandrake's eyes seemed to glaze; he swayed where he stood. His mouth made odd popping noises like a stranded fish. “But … but you're a—”

“Yes,” Kitty cried. “I'm a commoner. Well done. But that doesn't mean much anymore, does it? Look around you. Everything's turning upside down: magicians have destroyed the government; demons are willingly being summoned by their own kind; commoners are taking control of the streets. The old certainties are falling apart, Mandrake, and only those who adapt are going to prevail,
I
intend to. What about you?” She indicated the door. “Any moment now Faquarl's going to walk back in and lead you before Nouda. Do you want to keep quibbling until then? Yes, I learned a little of your art. I summoned Bartimaeus. I wanted an alliance with him, but he rejected it because I couldn't trust him. He's skeptical about us, you see. Only one person in his past has treated him with absolute trust, and that was Ptolemaeus.”

Mandrake's eyes bulged. “What? Not the same Ptolemy that—”

“The very same. He used the Gate, he made the gesture. Why do you think Bartimaeus still wears his form? Oh, you hadn't realized? All those years of training and you can't see what's right in front of your eyes.” She shook her head sadly. “When I summoned him,” she went on, “Bartimaeus told me that he would have done anything for Ptolemy because of the gesture he made. ‘
There was no limit to our bond.
' That's how he put it. And you heard what he said just now, when he left?”

A dozen emotions had washed across the magician's face, leaving it smooth, blank, chastened. He shook his head. “I didn't hear.”

“He said he had a bond with
us
too, but that there were ‘limits'to it. That's what he told Nouda. And he was looking at me as he went. Don't you see? If I can follow him …” She was gazing beyond Mandrake now, eyes sparkling. “I know that I need to call Bartimaeus's name as part of the incantation, but beyond that I haven't a clue. Until you tell me what's in the book.” She smiled at him.

The magician took a slow, deep breath. Then he opened the book and skimmed to a certain page. For a moment he read in silence. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “The procedure is simplicity itself. The magician reclines in a pentacle—he must sit, or lie, since his body will collapse at the moment of transfer. No candles or specific runes are required; indeed such barriers are kept to a minimum to speed the return of the magician to his body. Ptolemy suggests breaking the circle symbolically to help this process.… He also recommends holding something iron—such as an ankh—to keep out evil influences; that, or one of the normal herbs—rosemary or suchlike. Okay, well, the magician closes his eyes and shuts his mind to all outside stimuli; then he inverts the basic summoning. His own true name is substituted for the demon's one, and all directions are reversed: ‘to go' instead of ‘to come' and so forth. Finally the name of a ‘benevolent' demon—Ptolemy calls it the ‘sponsor'—is called three times. The attention of this demon is necessary for an opening to be made. If all goes well, the magician separates from himself, the Gate opens, and he passes through. Ptolemy does not give details of how or where.” He looked up. “Satisfied?”

Kitty sniffed. “I like your assumption that the magician must be male.”

“Look, I've told you the method. Listen, Kitty”—Mandrake cleared his throat—“I'm impressed with your initiative and bravery, really I am, but this is just impossible. Why do you suppose no one has followed in Ptolemy's footsteps? The Other Place is alien and terrible, a region removed from normal physical laws. It would harm you, maybe kill you. And Bartimaeus—even if you survived, even if you found him, even if he agreed to somehow help you—is just a djinni. His power is negligible compared to Nouda's. Your idea is noble, but the chances of success are absolutely minute.” He coughed, and looked away. “Sorry.”

“That's all right.” Kitty considered. “Your plan—the Staff. What are the chances of success there, would you say?”

“Oh, I'd say they were …” He caught her eye, hesitated. “Absolutely minute.”

She grinned. “Exactly. And we probably won't get away from Nouda in the first place. But if we do …”

“We both do what we can.” He smiled at her then, for the first time. “Well, if you
do
try, I wish you luck.”

“Good luck to you too, Mr. Mandrake.”

A rattle of a key, a metal screeching: the bolt beyond the door being drawn.

“You don't need to call me that,” he said.

“It's your name.”

“No. My name is Nathaniel.”

Without ceremony, the door was flung aside. Kitty and the magician stepped back; a figure stepped through, black-coated, implacable. The mercenary gave a flinty smile.

“Your turn,” he said.