Alexandria: 126 B.C. 3 страница

Demons plural... That was frustrating. But she'd pinned the epoch down, for sure. Bartimaeus had been employed in Egypt; for some of that time, at least, he had been known as Rekhyt....

In her mind's eye Kitty saw the djinni as she remembered him: dark, slight, wearing a simple wraparound kilt. From what she knew of the appearance of the Egyptians, Kitty felt she might be onto something.

For another hour she sat there, flipping contentedly through the dusty pages. Some books were useless, written in foreign tongues, or in phrases so abstruse that the sentences seemed to coil up on themselves before her eyes. The rest were dense and forbidding. They gave her lists of pharaohs, of civil servants, of the warrior-priests of Ra; they provided tables of known summonings, of surviving records, of obscure demons sent on mundane tasks. It was a daunting search, and more than once, Kitty's head nodded. She was startled back into life by police sirens in the distance, by shouts and chanting from a nearby street, once by an elderly magician blowing his nose loudly as he shuffled down the passage.

The autumn sun was lowering level with the library window; its rays warmed the seat with a golden light. She glanced at her watch. Four-fifteen! Not long before the library closed, and she hadn't even found Mr. Button's books. In three hours she must be at work too. It was an important night and George Fox of the Frog Inn was a stickler for punctuality. Wearily she pulled another volume across the window seat and flipped it open. Just another five minutes, then—

Kitty blinked. There it was. A list, eight pages long, of selected demons, tabulated alphabetically.

Now then... Kitty scanned down it with practiced speed. Paimose, Pairi, Penrenutet, Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

Ramose... Aha—Rekhyt. Three of them.

Rekhyt (I): Afrit. Slave of Sneferu (4th Dynasty) and others; of legendarily vicious temperament.

Killed at Khartoum.

Rekhyt (II): Djinni. By-name of Quishog. Guardian of the Necropolis of Thebes (18th Dynasty).

Morbid tendencies.

Rekhyt (III): Djinni. Also named Nectanebo or Necho.Energetic, but unreliable. Slave of Ptolemaeus of Alexandria (fl. 120s B.C.).

It was the third one, it had to be.... The entry was shortness itself, but Kitty felt a surge of excitement in her veins. A new master, a new possibility. Ptolemaeus... the name was quite familiar. She was sure she'd heard Mr. Button mention it; sure even that he owned books with it in the title... Ptolemaeus. She racked her brains—well, it would be easy enough to track down the reference, when she got back.

With fevered haste, Kitty noted down her findings in her jotter, snapped the elastic band around it, and shoved it into her tattered satchel. She gathered the books into an untidy pile, hoisted them into her arms, and returned them to the shelves. As she did so, the distant buzzer sounded in the foyer. The library was closing! And she'd still not got her master's books!

Time to move. But it was with a definite sense of triumph that Kitty sprinted down the corridor.

Better look out, Bartimaeus, she thought as she ran. Better look out... I'm closing in on you.

The afternoon's Council meeting was even less satisfactory than John Mandrake had feared. It took place in the Hall of Statues at Westminster, a rectangular room built of pink-gray stone, with soaring medieval vaulting high above, and thickly layered Persian rugs covering the flagstones. In a dozen niches along the walls stood life-size statues of the great magicians of the past. There at the end, austere and forbidding, was Gladstone; opposite him, flamboyant in a frock coat, his deadly rival Disraeli. All the succeeding Prime Ministers were featured, together with other notables. Not every alcove yet contained a statue, but Mr. Devereaux, the current premier, had ordered the empty ones to be filled with sumptuous floral displays. It was guessed the vacant spaces reminded him of his own mortality.

Globes of imp-light drifted against the ceiling, illuminating— in the center of the room—a circular table of English oak, broad in diameter and polished to perfection by laboring imps. Around this sat the Council, the great ones of the Empire, toying with their pens and bottles of mineral water.

Mr. Devereaux had chosen a round table for reasons of diplomacy. Technically no one person took precedence over another—an admirable policy which had been undermined by his insistence on using a gigantic golden chair, ornately carved with swollen cherubs. Mr.

Mortensen, the War Minister, had followed suit with an ostentatious seat of burnished redwood.

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Not to be outdone, Mr. Collins of the Home Office had responded with a monumental throne of emerald brocade, complete with perfumed tassels. So it went. Only John Mandrake and his erstwhile master Ms. Jessica Whitwell had resisted the temptation to somehow modify their seating.

The placing of each magician's chair was likewise subtly fought over, until the situation had stabilized to reflect the factions that were opening up in Council. Mr. Devereaux's two favorites sat beside him: John Mandrake, the Information Minister, and Jane Farrar of the police. Beyond Farrar sat Ms. Whitwell and Mr. Collins, who were known to be skeptical about the direction of the war. Beyond Mandrake were Mr. Mortensen and Ms. Malbindi of the Foreign Office: it was their policies that the government was currently following.

The meeting began inauspiciously with an advertisement. From a side room a giant crystal orb came rumbling on a wheeled platform. It was pulled by a slave-gang of implets, led by a foliot overseer wielding a horsehair whip. As they drew near the table, the foliot uttered a cry, the implets sprang to attention, and with the cracking of the whip vanished one after the other in clouds of colored steam. The crystal orb glowed pink, then orange; in its center appeared a broad and beaming face, which winked and spoke.

"Esteemed ladies and gentlemen of the Council! Let me remind you that we are only two days from the theatrical event of the decade, the society event of the year! Reserve your tickets now for the premiere of my latest work, based on the life of our beloved friend and leader, Mr.

Rupert Devereaux! Get ready to laugh, cry, tap your feet, and sing along to the choruses of From Wapping to Westminster: A Political Odyssey. Bring your partners, bring your friends, and don't forget your handkerchiefs. I, Quentin Makepeace, promise you all a sensational night!"

The face faded; the orb went dark. The assembled ministers coughed and shuffled in their seats.

"Dear God," someone whispered. "It's a musical."

Mr. Devereaux beamed around at them. "Quentin's sweet gesture is a mite unnecessary," he said. "I'm sure you all already have your tickets."

So they had. There was little option.

The day's business commenced. Mr. Mortensen gave a report of the latest news from America, brought by djinn across the ocean. It was sour fare: deadlock in the wilderness, minor skirmishes, nothing decisive gained. It had been so for weeks.

John Mandrake barely listened. The account was predictable and depressing; it only increased the frustration that boiled within him. Everything was out of control—the war, the commoners, the situation across the Empire. Something decisive needed to be done, and soon, if the nation was to be saved. And he knew •what that something was. The Staff of Gladstone—a weapon of incredible power—-lay useless in the vaults below that very chamber, begging to be brought out by anyone with the talent to use it. If wielded effectively, it would destroy the rebels, cow Britain's enemies, send the commoners scampering back to work. But it needed a magician of the strongest level to command it, and Devereaux was not that man. Hence—out of fear for his own position—he kept it safely locked away.

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Would Mandrake have been able to use the Staff, given the opportunity? In all honesty, he didn't know. Perhaps. He was the strongest magician in the room, with the possible exception of Whitwell. Then again, three years before, when he had acquired the Staff on the government's behalf, he had tried to get it working, and had failed.

That knowledge, that frustrated ambition mixed with self-doubt, contributed to the listlessness which had lately come over him. Day to day, his job was futile—he was surrounded by squabbling fools, unable to improve the situation. The only glimmer of hope came from the hunt for the traitor Hopkins. Perhaps there he could make a breakthrough, achieve something tangible for once. Well, he would have to see what Bartimaeus found.

Mortensen droned on. Overcome by boredom, Mandrake made desultory notes on his pad. He sipped his water. He appraised his fellow Council members, one by one.

First: the Prime Minister, his hair streaked with gray, his face puffy and blotched with the strain of war. A heaviness hung about him; he seemed tentative and quavering in speech. Only when discussing theater would a trace of his old animation return, the infectious charisma that had so inspired Mandrake as a boy. At other times he was dangerously vindictive. Not long before, Mr.

Collins's predecessor in the Home Office, a woman named Harknett, had spoken out against his policies. Six horlas had come for her that evening. Such events troubled Mandrake—it did not suggest the clear thinking worthy of a leader. Besides, it was morally unsound.

Beyond Devereaux sat Jane Farrar. Sensing his appraisal, she looked up and smiled; her eyes were conspiratorial. As he watched, she scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it across to him. It read: HOPKINS. ANY NEWS? He shook his head, mouthed, "Too soon," made a rueful face, and turned his eyes to her neighbor.

The Security Minister, Jessica Whitwell, had endured several years out of favor; now she was steadily clawing it back. The reason was simple—she was too powerful to be ignored. She lived frugally, did not attempt to accumulate great wealth, and devoted her energies to enhancing the Security services. A number of recent raids had been annihilated thanks to her efforts. She was still bone-thin, her hair ghost-white and spiky. She and Mandrake regarded each other with respectful loathing.

To her left: Mr. Collins, the newest member of the Council. He was a fiery little man, swarthy, round-faced, eyes habitually bright with indignation. He had repeatedly emphasized the damage the wars were doing to the economy; prudently, however, he had stopped short of overtly demanding an end to hostilities.

On Mandrake's right was the war faction: first, Helen Malbindi, Foreign Minster. She was by nature meek and malleable, but the pressure of her current post had made her prone to outbursts of shrieking rage among her staff. Her nose was a good indicator of her mood: at times of stress it went white and bloodless. Mandrake held her in low esteem.

Carl Mortensen, the War Minister, stood beyond Malbindi, rounding up his report. For years his star had been in the ascendant; it had been he who most strongly advocated war upon America, he whose strategies had been most closely followed. His lank blond hair remained long (he had not deigned to crop it into military style) and he still spoke confidently of success. Nevertheless, Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

his nails were bitten to the quick, and the other Council members watched him with the steady eyes of vultures.

"I remind you all that we must remain committed," he said. "It is a crucial time.The rebels are running ragged. By contrast, we have barely tested our resources. We could maintain our presence there for at least another year."

In his golden chair Mr. Devereaux ran a finger across a cherub's rump; he spoke softly. "A further year would not see you in this room, Carl." He smiled up under hooded lids. "Unless you were incorporated into some kind of ornament."

Mr. Collins tittered; Ms. Farrar smiled icily. Mandrake inspected his pen top.

Mr. Mortensen had blanched, but held the Prime Minister's gaze. "We will not need a year, of course. I used the term for illustration only."

"A year, six months, six weeks—it is all one." Ms.Whitwell was speaking angrily. "In the meantime our enemies across the world are taking advantage of us. There is talk of rebellion everywhere! The Empire is in ferment."

Mortensen made a face. "You overstate this."

Devereaux sighed. "What is your report, Jessica?"

She bowed stiffly. "Thank you, Rupert. Only last night three separate attacks occurred on our own soil! My men destroyed a Dutch raiding party off the Norfolk coast, while Collins's djinn had to repel an air attack over Southampton: we assume they were Spanish demons, do we not, Bruce?"

Mr. Collins nodded. "They wore yellow and orange tabards, decorated with the arms of Aragon.

They sent Infernos raining down upon the city center."

"Meanwhile another band of demons savaged a section of Kent," Ms.Whitwell continued. "I believe Mr. Mandrake dealt with that." She sniffed.

"I did," John Mandrake said blandly. "The enemy force was destroyed, but we have no evidence where they came from."

"A pity." Whitwell's thin white fingers tapped a rhythm on the table. "Even so, the problem is clear: this is a European-wide phenomenon, and our main forces are not on hand to crush it."

Mr. Devereaux nodded wearily. "Indeed, indeed. Does anyone else fancy a sweetmeat at this moment?" He looked around. "No? Then I shall venture one alone." He coughed. A tall, gray shadow stepped from nowhere around his chair, and with spectral fingers laid a golden tray before him; it was piled high with yellow pies and pastries. The shadow withdrew. Devereaux selected a glazed doughnut. "Ah, excellent. Jane— pray give us the police's perspective on the Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

domestic situation."

Ms. Farrar adopted a languid pose that nevertheless displayed her figure to fine advantage.

"Frankly, it is troubling. Not only do we have these raids, which are hard to deal with, but there is the matter of commoner disruption. More and more people are seemingly resistant to magical attacks. They see through illusions, observe our spies.... Inspired by their example, strikes and demonstrations have been held. I regard this as potentially more important even than the war."

The Prime Minister wiped fragments of sugar from his mouth. "Jane, Jane, we must not get distracted. Commoners can be dealt with in due time. They are restless because of the war." He looked meaningfully at Mr. Mortensen.

Ms. Farrar inclined her head; a strand of hair fell attractively across her face. "It is your decision, of course, sir."

Mr. Devereaux slapped a hand against his thigh. "It certainly is! And I decide that we shall now have a little break. Coffee and sweetmeats all round!"

The shadow returned; with varying degrees of reluctance, the ministers accepted their refreshments. Mandrake slouched over his cup, looking at Jane Farrar again. It was true that they were allies in Council: distrusted by the others, favored by Devereaux, they had long been thrown together. But that meant little. Such allegiances could change at the drop of a hat. As always, he found it hard to resolve her strong personal allure with the cool flintiness of her personality. He frowned; it was a curious fact that, despite his self-control, despite his belief in the virtues of magicians' rule, viewing someone like Farrar close up made him feel, deep down, uncertain, hesitant, clouded by unease. Still, she was very beautiful.

When it came down to it, of course, all the Council made him feel uneasy. It had taken all his inner steel to maintain his status in their company. They each radiated ambition, strength, cleverness, and guile; none of them ever acted against their own interests. To survive, he had done the same.

Well, perhaps this was the natural way. Had he ever met anyone who had acted otherwise?

Unbidden, the face of Kitty Jones came into his mind. Ridiculous! A traitor, violent, tempestuous, untamed.... He made a doodle in his pad: a face with long dark hair.... Ridiculous! Anyway, the girl was dead. He crossed it out hurriedly.

And further back—long, long ago now—there had been his art tutor too. Ms. Lutyens. Funny, he could no longer clearly recall her face—

"Didn't you hear me, John?" That was Devereaux, speaking almost in his ear. He felt little flakes of sugar doughnut being blown against his cheek. "We are discussing our position in Europe. I was requesting your opinion."

Mandrake sat up. "Sorry, sir. Um, my agents tell me there is discontent as far afield as Italy.

There have been riots in Rome, I understand. But it is not my area."

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Gaunt, severe, stick-thin, the Security Minister, Jessica Whitwell spoke. "But it is mine. Italy, France, Spain, the Low Countries. Everywhere it is the same. Our troops are at an all-time low.

What is the result? Dissent, riot, rebellion. All Europe is erupting. Every last malcontent under the sun is preparing to strike at us; we will be fighting in a dozen countries before the month is out."

"This is no time for exaggeration, Jessica." Mr. Mortensen's eyes were steely.

"Exaggeration?" A bony hand slammed against the table; Ms. Whitwell stood. "This will be the worst uprising since 1914! And where are our forces? Thousands of miles away! I am telling you, we will lose Europe if we are not careful!"

Now Mortensen was raising his voice too. He half rose from his chair. "Oh, and perhaps you have a solution, do you?"

"Certainly I do. We pull out from America and bring our forces home!"

"What?" Mortensen turned to the Prime Minister, face dark with fury. "Do you hear that, Rupert?

That is nothing but rank appeasement! It borders on treachery!"

A blue-gray glow erupted around Jessica Whitwell's clenched fist; the air hummed with a surge of unearthly force. Her voice was suddenly quiet. "Would you be so good as to repeat that, Carl?"

The War Minster remained rigid, fingers locked around the armrests of his redwood chair, eyes flicking to and fro. At last he sank back into a position of furious repose. The glow upon Ms.

Whitwell's fist flickered and went out. She waited a few seconds more, then sat with victorious care.

According to their allegiance, the other ministers smirked or scowled. Mr. Devereaux studied his cuticles; he looked a little bored. John Mandrake stood up. Affiliated to neither Mortensen norWhitwell, he felt a sudden urge to wrest back the initiative, to take a gamble, throw off his inertia. "I'm sure neither of our excellent ministers intended to give offense, nor was so childish as to receive it," he said. "Clearly both are in the right: Jessica's anxiety is prudent, since the situation in Europe is becoming unfortunate; Carl's refusal to admit defeat is also laudable. We cannot leave America in the hands of criminals. I would like to suggest a solution to the problem."

"Which is?" Ms.Whitwell was unimpressed.

"Withdrawing troops is not the answer," Mandrake went on coldly. "That sends out quite the wrong message to our enemies worldwide. But we must bring this conflict to an end. Our demons are not enough and nor—saving Mr. Mortensen's pardon—are the common soldiers. We need a decisive weapon that the Americans do not have. Something with which they cannot contend. Simple. We use Gladstone's Staff."

He had expected the barrage of noise that greeted his proposal; he did not attempt to speak Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

further, but with a thin smile, sat himself down. Jane Farrar met his gaze and raised a quizzical eyebrow; the faces of the others were variously indignant.

"Impossible!"

"A foolish fancy!"

"Quite out of the question!"

The noise subsided. Mandrake stirred. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I don't quite understand your objections."

Carl Mortensen made a dismissive gesture. "The Staff is untried, untested."

"It is hard to control," Helen Malbindi said.

"A highly dangerous artefact," Jessica Whitwell added.

"But that's the point" Mandrake said. "With the Staff, Gladstone conquered Europe. It will do the same to Boston easily enough. Our friends in Paris and Rome will hear about it and duck down behind their parapets again. Problem solved. Once it has crossed the ocean, the whole thing would take no more than a week. Why keep the Staff under lock and key when it's the solution to our difficulties?"

"Because," a cold voice said,"I do not choose to use it.And my word goes."

Mandrake turned to face the Prime Minister, who had swiveled in his chair and drawn himself upright. Devereaux's face had become hard and lined, the flabbiness less obvious.The eyes were dull, opaque. "You may perhaps have received a memo this morning, Mandrake," he said. "The Staff, and other items, have been removed to the Room of Treasures in this very building. They are surrounded by a range of high-level magical safeguards.They will not be used. Do you understand?"

Mandrake hesitated; he thought of standing his ground. Then he remembered the fate of Ms.

Harknett." Of course, sir," he began. "But I must ask why—"

"Must? You must do nothing!" The face was suddenly twisted, contorted, the eyes wild and staring. "You will know your place and not seek to destabilize this Council with your inane theories. Now be silent and think before you speak again! And be careful lest I suspect you of having an agenda of your own." The Prime Minister turned away. "Mortensen—bring out the maps. Give us a firmer update on our position. I understand we have pinned the rebels in an area of marshland...."

"That was a little rash," Jane Farrar whispered, as she walked with Mandrake in the corridor an hour later. "Whoever has the Staff holds true power. Devereaux s frightened of what that person'll do to him."

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Mandrake nodded sullenly. The depression he had briefly shaken off had speedily returned. "I know. But someone's got to make the case openly and clearly. The country's falling into chaos. I wouldn't be surprised if half the Council aren't planning something."

"Concentrate on the plot we do know about. Anything yet on Jenkins?"

"Not yet. But it won't be long. My best djinni's on the case."

Since the days of old Egypt, when I took the form of a silver hawk and shadowed Kushite raiders far out across the sand hills, I've always been a dab hand at trailing unobserved. Take those raiders, now: they left djinn in the form of jackals and scorpions to guard the desert in their wake. But the hawk flew high against the sun and easily evaded them. I found the raiders' base hidden among the blue-green gum trees of the Kharga oasis and drew the pharaoh's army down upon them. So they perished to a man.

I was employing similar discreet but deadly skills now, although it has to be said that the circumstances were a mite less glamorous. Instead of a ferocious horde of puma-pelted raiders you had a scrawny, ginger secretary; in place of the aching vistas of the Sahara you had a smelly Whitehall back-street. Apart from that, the parallel was exact. Oh, and I wasn't a hawk this time—a woebegone sparrow was more the job in London.

I was sitting on a sill watching a grubby window opposite. Whoever owned the sill wasn't very keen on birds: he'd laced it with bird lime, metal spikes, and scraps of poisoned bread. A typical English welcome. I kicked the bread into the street, used a small Inferno to incinerate the lime, bent a couple of spikes out of true, and wedged my frail little carcass between them. I was so weak by now that this Herculean effort pretty much finished me off. Head spinning, I settled in to watch my quarry.

It wasn't exactly unmissable viewing. Through the accumulated grime on the windowpane I could see Clive Jenkins sitting at a desk. He was thin, stooped, and rather puny; if it had been a straight fight between him and the sparrow, I'd have put my money on the bird. An expensive suit hung uneasily on his frame, as if reluctant to get too close; his shirt was a disturbing mauve. He was pale-faced and a bit freckly, with small eyes peering myopically from behind thick glasses and reddish hair plastered back in a kind of oily pelt, reminiscent of a fox who'd been caught out in the rain. Small bony hands tapped unenthusiastically at a typewriter.

Mandrake had not been wrong in his assessment of Jenkins's powers. As soon as I took up my perch, I checked the seven planes for sensor webs, watch prisms, gimlet eyes, shadow-stalkers, orbs, matrices, heat traps, trigger-plumes, sprites, weirds, and other means the magician might have employed for magical protection. Not a sausage. He had a cup of tea on his desk and that was about it. I watched closely for any sign of supernatural communication with Hopkins or another, but the secretary spoke no words and made no untoward signs. Pitter-patter, pitter-Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

patter went his fingers on the keys; occasionally they rubbed his nose, adjusted his glasses or scratched an itchy spot on the end of his chin. So the afternoon passed. It was simply riveting.

Although I did my best to keep focused on the job in hand, I did find my mind wandering at intervals, (a) because it was so damn dull, and (b) because the ache in my essence made me clothy-headed and distracted. It was like suffering chronic lack of sleep: I kept drifting off and thinking of unrelated topics— the girl, Kitty Jones; my old enemy Faquarl sharpening his cleaver; far off in the distance, Ptolemy—before he changed. Each time I had to force myself back into the present with a start; but Jenkins was always as before, so no harm done.

Five-thirty came, and with it an almost imperceptible change in Jenkins. A new and stealthy life seemed to flicker in his veins; his lethargy receded. With quick movements, he drew a cover over the typewriter, tidied his desk, gathered up a few bundles of paper, and slung a coat over his arm. He departed his office out of view.

The sparrow stretched a painful wing, shook its head to relieve the numbing ache behind its eyes, and took off. I drifted down the side road and out above the bustle of Whitehall, where buses nudged slowly through the heavy traffic and armored vans disgorged Night Police at intervals among the crowds. The war had brought disturbance to the streets, and the authorities were taking no chances in the center of the capital. Imps and foliots watched from recesses in the eaves of nearby buildings.

I alighted in a walnut tree in the little courtyard that separated the Internal Affairs building from the road, and waited. A policeman stood below me at the gate. Presently the door opened and Jenkins emerged; he wore a long leather coat and carried a crumpled hat in one hand. At the gate he nodded to the guard, showed a pass, and exited. He turned north into Whitehall, set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and with suddenly eager steps plunged into the crowd.

It's not easy following an individual amid a milling throng, but when you're an expert tracker like me, you take it in your stride. The secret is not to get distracted. I kept my eyes fixed upon the crown of Jenkins's hat and fluttered high above, keeping a little behind him, just in case he looked around. There wasn't much chance that he would guess he was being followed, but you know me, I do things properly. You have to get up pretty early to catch me out in the art of trailing.1

1. Once, when I was employed by the Algonquin shamans, an enemy afrit came to our tribe by night and abducted a chief's child. When the discovery was made, the afrit was far away; it had disguised itself as a buffalo cow, and spun a Glamour on the child, so it seemed a lowing calf. But afrits have fiery hooves: I followed the singed grass stalks for a hundred miles across the rolling prairie and slew the abductor with a silver spear. The child was returned alive, if a little green from eating so much grass.

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