Ptolemy's Gate (7 page)

The old man's eyes sparkled. “Good! Good! That would be my edition of Ptolemy's
Apocrypha
, newly bound in calf hide. Karel Hyrnek is a marvel. My dear, you have improved my day twice over! I
insist
you stay for tea.”

Within half an hour Kitty had learned three things: that the old gentleman was garrulous and affable, that he possessed a fine supply of tea and spice cake, and that his need for an assistant was greatly pressing.

“My last helper left me a fortnight ago,” he said, sighing heavily. “Joined up to fight for Britain. I tried to talk him out of it, of course, but his heart was set on going. He believed what he was told—glory, good prospects, promotion, all that. He'll be dead soon, I expect. Yes, do have that last piece of cake, dear. You need feeding up. It's all very well for
him
, going off to die, but I fear my studies have been severely restricted.”

“What studies are those, sir?” Kitty asked.

“Researches, dear. History of magic and other things. A fascinating area, sadly neglected. It's a crying shame that so many libraries are being closed—once again the government is acting out of fear. Well, I've saved a good many important books on the subject, and I wish to catalog and index them. It is my ambition to prepare a definitive list of all surviving djinn—existing records are
so
haphazard and contradictory … but as you have seen, I am not even dextrous enough to research my own collection, thanks to this impediment….” He shook a fist at his nonexistent leg.

“Erm, how did it happen, sir?” Kitty ventured. “If you don't mind my asking.”

“My leg?” The old gentleman lowered his brows, glanced left and right, and looked up at Kitty. He spoke in a sinister whisper. “Marid.”

“A marid? But aren't they the most—?”

“The most powerful type of commonly summoned demon. Correct.” Mr. Button's smile was slightly smug. “I'm no slouch, my dear. Not that any of my
colleagues
”—he spoke the word with vehement distaste—“would admit as such, blast them. I'd like to see Rupert Devereaux or Carl Mortensen do as well.” He sniffed, settled back into his sofa. “The irony of it was that I just wanted to ask it a few questions. Wasn't going to enslave it at all. Anyway, I'd forgotten to add a Tertiary Fettering; the thing broke out and had my leg off before the automatic Dismissal set in.” He shook his head. “That's the penalty of curiosity, my dear. Well, I get by somehow. I'll find another assistant, if the Americans don't kill our entire population of young males.”

He took a tetchy bite of his spice cake. Even before he had swallowed, Kitty had made up her mind. “I'll help you out, sir.”

The old magician blinked at her. “You?”

“Yes, sir. I'll be your assistant.”

“I'm sorry, my dear, but I thought you worked for Hyrnek's.”

“Oh, I do, sir, but only temporarily. I'm looking for other work. I'm very interested in books and magic, sir. Really I am. I've always wanted to learn about it.”

“Indeed. Do you speak Hebrew?”

“No, sir.”

“Or Czech? Or French? Or Arabic?”

“No, none of those, sir.”

“Indeed …” For a moment Mr. Button's face became less amiable, less courteous. He looked at her sidelong, out of halfshut eyes. “And the fact of the matter is, of course, that you are nothing but a
commoner's
girl.…”

Kitty nodded brightly. “Yes, sir. But I've always believed that misfortunes of birth shouldn't stand in the way of talent. I'm energetic and quick, and nimble too.” She gestured around the maze of dusty piles. “I'll be able to get hold of any book you like, fast as thinking. From the bottom of the farthest stack.” She grinned, and took a sip of tea.

The old man was rubbing his chin with small, plump fingers, muttering to himself. “A commoner's child … unvetted … it is highly unorthodox … in fact, the authorities expressly forbid it. But well, after all—why not?” He tittered to himself. “Why shouldn't I? They've seen fit to neglect
me
all these years. It would be an interesting experiment … and they'd never know, blast them.” He looked at Kitty again, eyes narrowed. “You know I couldn't pay you anything.”

“That's all right, sir. I'm, erm, interested in knowledge for its own sake. I'll get other work. I could help you out whenever you needed it, part-time.”

“Very well, then, very well.” Mr. Button extended a small pink hand. “We shall see how it works out. Neither of us has any contractual obligation to the other, you understand, and we are free to terminate the relationship at any time. Mind—if you are lazy or dishonest I shall raise a horla to shrivel you. But goodness, where are my manners? I've not yet asked your name.”

Kitty selected an identity. “Lizzie Temple, sir.”

“Well, Lizzie, very glad to have met you. I hope we shall get along well.”

And so they had. From the beginning Kitty made herself indispensable to Mr. Button. To start with, her chores were entirely concerned with navigating her way about his dark and cluttered house, accessing obscure books in distant stacks, and bringing them out to him unscathed. This was easier said than done. She frequently emerged into the lamplight of the magician's study wheezing and covered in dust, or bruised by a nasty book-fall, only to be told she had the wrong volume, or an incorrect edition, and be sent back to begin again. But Kitty stuck with it. Gradually she became adept at locating the volumes Mr. Button required; she began to recognize the names, the covers, the methods of binding employed by different printers in different cities across the centuries. For his part, the magician was highly satisfied: his helper spared him much inconvenience. So the months passed.

Kitty took to asking brief questions about some of the works she helped locate. Sometimes Mr. Button gave succinct and breezy answers; more often he suggested she look up the solution herself. When the book was written in English, this Kitty was able to do. She borrowed some of the easier, more general volumes and took them home to her bedsit. Her nocturnal readings prompted further questions to Mr. Button, who directed her to other texts. In this way, directed by caprice and whimsical inclination, Kitty began to learn.

After a year of such progress Kitty began going on errands for the magician. She procured official passes and visited libraries across the capital; she made occasional forays to herbalists and to suppliers of magical goods. Mr. Button had no imps at his service, and did not practice much actual magic. His interest lay in the cultures of the past, and the history of contact with demons. Occasionally he summoned a minor entity to question it on a particular historical point.

“But it's a difficult business with one leg,” he told Kitty. “Summoning's bad enough with two of 'em, but when you're trying to draw the circle straight and your stick's slipping and you keep dropping the chalk, it's hellish tricky. I don't risk it often anymore.”

“I could give you a hand, sir,” Kitty suggested. “You'd have to teach me the basics, of course.”

“Oh, that would be impossible. Far too dangerous for us both.”

Kitty found Mr. Button quite adamant on this, and it took her several months of pestering to win him over. Finally, to gain a moment's peace, he allowed her to fill the bowls with incense, hold the pin in position while he inscribed the circles' arcs, and light the pig's-fat candles. She stood behind his chair when the demon appeared and was questioned. Afterward she helped douse the scorch marks left behind. Her calm demeanor impressed the magician; soon she was actively assisting in all his summonings. As in all things, Kitty learned swiftly. She began to memorize some of the common Latin formulae, although she remained ignorant of the language. Mr. Button, who found active work taxing on his health, and who was also inclined to laziness, began to entrust his assistant with more and more procedures. In his cursory way, he helped fill in some of the gaps in her knowledge, although he refused to instruct her formally.

“The actual craft,” he would say, “is simplicity itself, but it has infinite variations. We shall always keep to basics: summon the creature, keep it constrained, send it off again. I have neither the time nor the inclination to teach you all the subtleties.”

“That's fine, sir,” Kitty said. She had neither the time nor the inclination to learn them. A basic practical knowledge of summoning was all that she required.

The years passed. The war dragged on. Mr. Button's books were neatly sorted, cataloged, and stacked by author. His assistant was invaluable to him. Now he could direct her to summon foliots and even minor djinn while he sat in comfort watching. It was a highly satisfactory arrangement.

And—barring the odd fright—Kitty found it satisfactory too.

With the kettle boiled at last, Kitty made the tea and returned to the magician, who was sitting as before in the sofa's depths, studying his book. Mr. Button gave a grunt of thanks as she set the teapot down.

“Trismegistus notes,” he said, “that succubi tend to recklessness when summoned, and are often impelled to self-destruction. They can be placated by placing citrus fruits among the incense, or by the soft playing of panpipes. Hum, they are sensual beasts evidently.” He scratched his stump absently through his trousers. “Oh, I found something else too, Lizzie. What was that demon you were asking about the other day?”

“Bartimaeus, sir.”

“Yes, that's it. Trismegistus has a reference to him, in one of his tables of Antique Djinn. Somewhere in the appendices, you'll find.”

“Oh, really, sir? That's great. Thank you.”

“Gives a little of his summoning history. Brief. You won't find it terribly interesting.”

“No, sir. I very much doubt it.” She held out a hand. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

O
n a hot morning in midsummer, a sacred bull broke free of its compound beside the river; it rampaged up among the fields, biting at flies and swinging its horns at anything that moved. Three men who tried to secure it were badly injured; the bull plunged on among the reeds and broke out onto a path where children played. As they screamed and scattered, it paused as if in doubt. But the sun upon the water and the whiteness of the children's clothes enraged it. Head down, it charged upon the nearest girl, and would have gored or trampled her to death had not Ptolemy and I been strolling down that way.

The prince raised a hand. I acted. The bull stopped, midcharge, as if it had collided with a wall. Head reeling, eyes crossed, it capsized into the dust, where it remained until attendants secured it with ropes and led it back into its field.

Ptolemy waited while his aides calmed the children, then resumed his constitutional. He did not refer to the incident again. Even so, by the time we returned to the palace a flock of rumors had taken flight and was swooping and swirling about his head. By nightfall everyone in the city, from the lowest beggar to the snootiest priest of Ra, had heard or misheard something of it.