Alexandria: 126 B.C. 5 страница

My mind flickered; I nearly lost consciousness. No, they would find me if I slept. I must escape, return to my master. I needed to make one final effort and get away.

Giant legs stalked the gloom around me; spear-beaks fizzed, cutting the water like bullets.

Muffled echoes of the herons' swearing boomed among the weeds. A small, injured tadpole wormed its way toward the shore, leaving specks of dying essence drifting in its wake. Reaching the lakeside, it broke all aging records and became an ill-favored frog, with a clubfoot and a downcast mouth. The frog skittered away into the grass as fast as it could go.

I was halfway to the road before the foliots saw me. One of them must have flown high, glimpsed my limping progress; with raucous cries they erupted from the lake, came hurtling over the dark grass.

Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

One dived; the frog gave a frantic leap. The beak plunged into the ground.

Out onto the path, among the crowds. The frog hopped hither, thither, between legs, under awnings, leaping from heads to shoulders, baskets to prams, all the while emitting croaks and gargles, staring with its mad pop-eyes. Men shouted, women screamed, children gasped in wonder. Behind came the herons, feathers flashing, wings buffeting, blind with bloodlust. They crashed through stalls, upturned wine vats, sent dogs howling into the dark. People were tossed aside like ninepins; piles of Real War Stories went flying—some landing in the wine, others in the roasting pits.

Up onto the outdoor stage hopped the fugitive amphibian, under the bright imp-lights, sending one actor leaping into the arms of a second, causing a third to swan dive into the crowd. It sprang down a trapdoor, closely followed by a heron; reappeared an instant later through another, riding the head of a cardboard goblin. It leaped onto the banner above, clung there with two webbed feet. A heron reared up from below, snapped its beak, and tore the banner asunder—the strip of fabric fell, swung like a jungle vine, and catapulted the frog over the path to land beside the crystal prism where the captive demon sat.

By this point I was losing track of where I was and what I was doing. In fact, my essence was fast disintegrating: I could scarcely see; the world was awash with discordant sound. I hopped unthinkingly, changing direction with every hop, seeking to avoid the attack I knew would come.

Sure enough, one of my pursuers lost patience with the chase. It must have tried a Convulsion, I think; I'd leaped aside anyway—I didn't see it hit the prism, didn't hear the crystal crack. Not my fault. Nothing to do with me. I didn't see the big black demon give a grimace of surprise and set its long curved fingernails to the break. I didn't hear the ominous shattering when the entire globe gave way, nor the screams and wailing of the people as the demon leaped into their midst.

I knew nothing of it. I knew only the endless pounding rhythms of the chase, felt only my essence softening and seeping into liquid with every desperate hop and spring. I was dying now, but I could not rest. A swifter death flew close behind.

Ktty's master looked up from his sofa—a lonely island amid a sea of scattered paper, all scrawled upon with his tight, close script. He was chewing the end of a ballpoint pen, which had left little blue ink stains on his lips. He blinked in mild surprise.

"Didn't think to see you back this evening, Lizzie. Thought you had to get off to your work."

"I do, sir.Very shortly. Now, sir—"

"Tell me, did you get hold of that original copy of Peck's Desiderata Curiosa? And what about Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

The Anatomy of Melancholy? I wanted volume four, mind."

Kitty's lie was smoothly practiced. "Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't, either of them. The library closed early today. There was a disturbance outside—a commoners' protest—and they shut the gates for safety. I was asked to leave before I found your books."

Mr. Button gave a petulant exclamation and bit harder at his pen. "Such inconvenience!

Commoners protesting, you say? What next? Horses throwing off the bridle? Cows refusing to be milked? Those wretched people need to know their place." He emphasized this statement with neat little stabbing motions of his pen, then looked up guiltily. "No offense meant, Lizzie."

"None taken, sir. Sir, who was Ptolemaeus?"

The old man stretched his arms wearily behind his head. "Ptolemaeus is Ptolemy. A most remarkable magician." He flashed her a plaintive look. "Do you have time to put the kettle on, Lizzie, before you go?"

Kitty persisted: "Was he Egyptian?"

"Indeed he was, though the name is Greek, of course. He came of Macedonian stock originally.

Well done, Lizzie. Not many protesting commoners would know that!"

"I was hoping to read something by him, sir."

"You'd find that tricky, since he wrote in Greek. I have his main work in my collection: The Eye of Ptolemy. It is required reading for all magicians, since it is very perceptive on the mechanics of drawing demons from the Other Place. Mind you, the style is tepid. His other writings are known as the Apocrypha. I seem to remember you brought me them from Hyrnek's, on your first visit here.... They are an odd collection, full of whimsical notions. About that tea..."

"I'll put the kettle on," Kitty said. "Is there something I could read about Ptolemy, sir, while I do that?"

"Goodness, you do have your little fancies. Yes, The Book of Names will have an entry.

Doubtless you know which stack it's in."

Kitty read the passage swiftly with the kettle popping and bubbling behind her.

Ptolemaeus of Alexandria (fl. c.120 B.C.)

The circumstances of his death are unknown, but it is certain he did not live to a great age. He may have died by violence, or succumbed to bodily frailty. Mention is made in an Alexandrine manuscript of a sudden deterioration in his health following a "difficult journey," though this is at odds with other records that state he never left the precincts of the city. He is definitely recorded as dead by the time of his uncle's funeral and his cousin's accession to the throne (116 B.C.), so is unlikely to have reached his twenties.

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His papers remained at the Library for over three hundred years, during which time they were studied by Tertullian and other Roman magicians. Part of his writing was published, in Rome, as the famous Eye of Ptolemy. The original archive was destroyed in the great earthquake and fire of the third century; surviving fragments have been collected as his Apocrypha. Ptolemy is a figure of historical interest, since he is credited with the invention of several techniques, including the Stoic Incision and the Mouler Shield (both used during summonings until the days of Loew) as well as unusual speculative fantasies, such as the "Gate of Ptolemy." All this despite his extreme youth; if he had survived to maturity, he would surely have ranked among the great. His demons, with whom he is said to have had an unusual bond, included: Afia,† Rekhyt or Necho,‡ Methys,† Penrenutet.†

† demise recorded

‡ fate unknown

Mr. Button smiled absently when Kitty brought in the tea. "Did you find what you wanted?"

"I don't really know, sir, but I do have a question. Is it common for demons to take on the appearance of their masters?"

The magician put down his pen. "You mean to taunt, or befuddle them? Certainly! It is an ancient trick, one of the oldest in the book, and one guaranteed to unman the inexperienced.

Nothing is more unsettling than facing a phantom of oneself, particularly when the creature uses it to perform provocative contortions. Rosenbauer of Munich was so distressed, I believe, by an accurate depiction of his many affectations that he threw down his pomade and rushed sobbing from his circle, with melancholy results. I myself have been forced to witness my own body decaying slowly to a rotting corpse, complete with hideous sound effects, while I tried to question it on the principles of Cretan architecture. It is to my credit that my notes made any sense at all. Is that what you mean?"

"Well, actually... no, sir." Kitty took a deep breath. "I wanted to know whether a djinni ever took on its master's appearance out of... respect, or even affection. Because they were comfortable with it." She made a face; on hearing it, the idea sounded quite ridiculous.

The old man wrinkled his nose. "I hardly think so."

"I mean, after the magician was dead."

"My dear Lizzie! Perhaps, if the magician in question was unusually hideous or deformed, the demon might employ his shape to startle others. I believe Zarbustibal of Yemen did reappear for a time following his demise. But out of respect? Goodness! The notion presupposes a relationship between master and slave that would be quite unprecedented. Only a comm—

forgive me—only someone as inexperienced as you would come up with such a quaint conceit!

Dear me, dear me..." He tittered to himself as he stretched a hand toward the tea tray.

Kitty had set off for the door. "Thank you, sir; you've been very helpful. By the way," she added, "what was the Gate of Ptolemy?"

Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

From the middle of his sofa, among his mess of papers, the old magician groaned. "What is it? A ridiculous notion! A myth, a figment, a barrel of moonshine! Save your questions for subjects of value. Now I must work. I have no need for the witterings of foolish assistants. Be off with you!

The Gate of Ptolemy, indeed..." He winced, waved her pettishly away.

"But—"

"Don't you have a job to go to, Lizzie?"

Forty minutes later Kitty alighted from a bus upon the Embankment road. She wore a thick black duffel coat and chewed intently at a sandwich. In her pocket were the documents confirming her second false identity—Clara Bell.

The sky was blackening, though a few low clouds still glimmered a dirty yellow with the city's reflected glow. Below the tide wall the Thames lay distant, shrunk and withered. Kitty passed above a great gray mud-bank, where herons stalked amid the stones and flotsam. The air was cold; a strong breeze blew toward the sea.

At a bend in the river the pavement took a sudden ninety-degree turn away from the Thames, its route blocked by an extensive building with steep roofs and sharply pointed dormers. Heavy black beams laced its walls; lit windows gleamed at random heights, casting a rich light upon the street and the dark waters of the river. The upper story projected out above the lower on all sides, here vigorously, here sagging as if about to fall. A faded green sign swung from a pole above the path, so weather-beaten that its words could not be read. This was of small account, since The Frog was a notable local landmark. It was famous for its beer, its beef and for its weekly domino tournaments. It was also Kitty's workplace in the evenings.

She ducked under a low arch and walked down the pitch-black side alley into the pub's yard. As she entered it, she glanced up. A faint red light hovered by the gables. If you looked directly at it, its shape was blurred and indistinct; if you looked away, you saw its outline clearly—a small, neat vigilance sphere, watching.

Kitty ignored the spy. She crossed the yard to the main door, which was sheltered from the weather by an ancient blackened porch, and entered the Frog Inn.

The bright lights of the taproom made her blink. The curtains had been drawn against the night and a fire lit in the grate. Its colors flickered in rows of glasses assembled on the bar; George Fox, the manager, was industriously polishing them one by one. He nodded at Kitty as she passed to hang her satchel on the coat-rail.

"In your own time, Clara. In your own time."

She glanced at her watch. "Still twenty minutes before they get here, George."

"Not long enough for what I've got planned for you."

Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

Kitty flipped her hat onto a peg. "No problem." She motioned with her head back toward the door. "How long's it been there?"

"Couple of hours. Usual sort. Just trying to spook us. Can't hear. Won't interfere."

"Okay. Chuck me a cloth."

In fifteen brisk and efficient minutes the taproom was clean and ready, the glasses polished, the tabletops spic and span. Kitty had placed ten pitchers on the counter above the tap, and Sam, The Frog's barman, began filling them with light-brown frothing drafts of beer. Kitty distributed the last of the domino boxes, wiped her hands on her trousers, plucked an apron from a hook, and took up position behind the bar. George Fox opened the main door and allowed the customers in.

As usual, The Frog's reputation ensured an ever-changing clientele, and tonight Kitty noticed several people she hadn't seen before: a tall military gentleman, an old lady smiling and shuffling to a seat, a young blond man with beard and mustache. The familiar click of the dominoes began; conviviality filled the air. Smoothing down her apron, Kitty hastened between tables and took orders for the evening meal.

An hour passed; the remains of thick-slabbed hot beef sandwiches lay on plates at the players'

elbows. With the food finished, interest in dominoes quickly paled. The pieces were kept in position on every table, in case the police should raid, but the players now sat up in their seats, suddenly alert and sober. Kitty filled a last few empty glasses, then returned to stand behind the counter as a man sitting near the fireplace slowly got to his feet.

He was old and frail, bent with years.The whole room quietened to a hush.

"Friends," he began, "little of note has happened since last week, so I shall shortly open our meeting to the floor. As always, I would like to thank our patron, Mr. Fox, for his hospitality.

Perhaps we could hear from Mary first, for news of the American situation?"

He sat. At an adjacent table a woman stood, thin-faced and weary. Kitty judged her to be not yet forty, though her hair was flecked with gray. "A merchant ship came in late last night," she began."Its last berth was Boston, in the war zone.The crew breakfasted at our cafe this morning. They told us that the most recent British offensive has failed—Boston is still in American hands. Our army withdrew to the fields, searching for supplies, and has since been attacked. Losses are high."

A low muttering filled the room. The old gentleman half stood. "Thank you, Mary. Who cares to speak next?"

"If I may?" The young bearded man spoke up; he was stocky, self-confident; he carried an assertive air. "I represent a new organization, the Commoners' Alliance. Perhaps you've heard of it."

There was a general shuffling, a sense of unease. From behind the bar Kitty frowned. Something Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

about the speaker's voice... it bothered her.

"We're trying to gather support," the man went on, "for a new round of strikes and public demonstrations. We've got to show the magicians what's what. The only way to make them sit up is concerted action by us all. I'm talking mass protests here."

"May I speak?" The elderly lady, immaculately presented in a dark blue dress and crimson shawl, sought to rise; a chorus of amiable protest ensued, and she remained seated. "1 am fearful of what is happening in London," she said. "These strikes, this unrest... Surely it is not the answer. What will they achieve? Only sting our leaders to harsh reprisals. The Tower will echo with the laments of honest men."

The young man thumped the table with a thick pink fist. "What is the alternative, madam? Sit quiet? The magicians won't thank us if we do! They'll grind us further into the dirt. We must act now! Remember—they can't imprison everyone!"

There was a round of ragged clapping. The old lady stubbornly shook her head. "You're quite wrong," she said. "Your argument only works if the magicians can be destroyed. They cannot!"

Another man spoke out. "Steady on, Grandma. That's defeatist talk."

She jutted her chin. "Well? Can they? How?"

"They're obviously losing control, or they'd have beaten the rebels easily."

"We can get help from the Europeans too," the young blond man added. "Don't forget that. The Czechs will fund us. And the French."

George Fox nodded. "French spies have given me a couple of magical items," he said. "Just in case of trouble. Never had to use them, mind."

"Excuse me," the old lady said, "but you've not explained how a few strikes will actually bring the magicians down." She raised her bony chin and looked defiantly around at the company.

"Well?" Several of the men made noises of disapproval, but were too busy sipping drinks to voice an exact reply.

From behind the bar Kitty spoke. "You are right, madam, that defeating them will be difficult,"

she said in a quiet-voice, "but it is not impossible. Revolutions have succeeded dozens of times.

What happened to Egypt, Rome, or Prague? All were invincible— for a time. All fell when the people stirred themselves."

"But my dear," the old lady said, "in each case there were enemy armies...."

"In each case," Kitty went on determinedly, "foreign leaders took advantage of the kingdom's internal weaknesses. The people were already rebelling. They didn't have strong magic or vast armies—they were commoners just like us."

Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

The old lady pursed her lips into a humorless smile. "Perhaps. But how many of us want an invasion by foreigners'? Our rulers may not be perfect, but at least they're British."

The young bearded man snorted. "Let's get back to now. Tonight the Battersea steelworkers are going on strike—-just down the river from here. Come and join us! So what if the magicians send their demons? They will get no more cannon from us!"

"And where will your steelworkers be?" the old lady said harshly. "Some in the Tower, some at the bottom of the Thames. And others will take their place."

"The demons won't get it all their own way," the young man said. "Some people have resilience.

You must have heard of it. They can withstand attacks, see through illusions—"

As he spoke, Kitty's eyes suddenly cleared. She saw beyond his thick mustache, his scruffy blond beard: she knew him, clear as day. Nick Drew, last surviving companion in the Resistance.

Nick Drew, who had fled Westminster Abbey in their darkest hour, leaving his friends behind. He was older, stouter, but full of the same old bluster. You still talk a good fight, she thought viciously.You always were good at talking. I bet you'll keep well away when the strike gets nasty.... A sudden fear took hold of her; she stepped back out of his line of sight. Useless though Nick was, if he recognized her, her cover would be blown.

The group was busy discussing the phenomenon of resilience. "They can see magic. Clear as day," a middle-aged woman said. "That's what I've heard."

The old lady shook her head again. "Rumors, cruel rumors," she said sadly. "This is all secondhand tittle-tattle. It would not surprise me if it wasn't started by the magicians themselves, to tempt you into rashness.Tell me," she went on,"has anyone here ever actually seen any of this resilience in action?"

A silence in The Frog. Kitty shifted impatiently from one foot to another, longing to speak. But Clara Bell was no one special— she'd decided that long ago. Besides, wariness of Nick prevented her. She looked around the taproom. The company, most of which had met there in secret for many years, was generally middle-aged or older. Resilience was not something they knew much of, firsthand. Except Nick Drew, who possessed as least as much resilience as Kitty. But he sat quiet, saying nothing.

The mood in the room had been soured by the argument. After a few minutes' glum reflection the old gentleman got slowly to his feet again. "Friends," he began, "let us not be downcast!

Perhaps the magicians are too dangerous to fight, but we can at least resist their propaganda. A new issue of Real War Stones is out today. Spurn it! Tell your friends about its lies!"

At this George Fox spoke up. "I think you're being a bit harsh there." He raised his voice against the general murmur of disbelief. "Yes. I've made it my business to collect as many editions of Real War Stories as I can."

"Oh, shame on you, Mr. Fox," said the elderly lady, in a quivery voice.

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"No, I'm proud to admit it," he went on. "And if any of you choose to pay a visit to the restrooms later on, you shall find ample proof of those pamphlets' worth. They are most absorbent."There was a general laugh. Keeping her back to the young blond man, Kitty stepped forward with a pitcher to refill a few glasses.

"Well, time is moving on," the old gentleman said, "and we must part. But first, as is traditional, we will take our usual oath." He sat down.

George Fox reached under the bar and drew out a large cup, aged and battered, with a pair of crossed dominoes rampant on the lid. It was made of solid silver. He took a dark bottle from a shelf and, removing the lid, poured a generous measure of port into the cup. Kitty took the cup in both hands and carried it to the old gentleman.

"We shall all drink in turn," he said. "May we live to see the day when a Commoners' Parliament is established once again. May it uphold the ancient rights of every man and woman— to discuss, debate, and dissent from the policies of our leaders, and hold them accountable for their actions." With due reverence, he lifted the cup and took a sip, before passing it clockwise to his neighbor.

This ritual was a high point of such meetings at The Frog: after the debates, which never reached any conclusion, it offered the solace of something fixed and familiar. The silver cup was slowly passed from person to person, from table to table. Everyone awaited its arrival, old hands and newcomers alike, except for the elderly lady, who was readying herself for departure.

George moved around to the front of the bar and— together with Sam, the bartender—began clearing glasses from tables near the door. Kitty accompanied the cup, moving it between tables when required. She kept her face turned from Nick Drew as best she could.

"Do we need more port, Clara?" George called. "Mary there had a great big gulp, I saw her."

Kitty took the cup, inspected it. "No. We've plenty left."

"Good enough. My dear lady, surely you're not leaving us?"

The old woman smiled. "I must go, dear. With all these disturbances on the street, I'll not stay out too late."

"Yes, of course. Clara, bring this lady the cup so she can drink before she goes."

"Right you are, George."

"Oh, it's not necessary, dear. I'll take a double drink next time." This roused laughter and a few cheers; one or two men got up to allow the old woman to squeeze by.

Kitty followed her. "Here you are, madam, there's plenty left."

"No, no, I really must be going, thank you. It's so late."

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"Madam, you've dropped your shawl."

"No, no. I can't wait. Excuse me, please..."

"Steady on, love! Watch where you're pushing—"

"Excuse me, excuse me..."

Stony-faced, her eyes dark and blank like the cutout holes on an empty mask, the old woman moved rapidly across the room, turning her head repeatedly to look back at Kitty, who was advancing fast behind her. Kitty held the silver cup outstretched—first reverently, as if offering up a gift; then suddenly jerking it back and forth like a feinting blade. The proximity of the silver seemed to give the lady discomfort—she flinched away. George placed his stack of glasses carefully on a side table and put a hand into a pocket. Sam opened a cupboard on the wall, reached in. The rest of the company remained seated, expressions caught between amusement and uncertainty.

"The door, Sam," George Fox said.

The old woman darted forward. Sam turned to face her, blocking the door; he held a short, dark rod in his hand. "Hold on, lady," he said reasonably. "Rules are rules.You've got to take a drink from the cup before you go. It's a sort of test." He made an embarrassed gesture and looked ruefully at her. "I'm sorry."

The old lady stopped, shrugged. "Don't be." She raised a hand. A blue light stabbed from her palm, engulfing Sam in a crackling network of bright blue force. He leaped, shuddered, danced oddly like a puppet, then fell smoking to the floor. Someone in the taproom screamed.

A whistle sounded, shrill and impertinent. The old woman turned, her cupped hand raised and steaming. "Now then, my dear—"

Kitty threw the silver cup into the old woman's face.

A flash of bright green light, a hiss of scalding. The old lady snarled like a dog, clutched at her face with clawing fingers. Kitty turned her head: "George—!"

From his pocket the landlord drew a small box, delicate and oblong. He threw it to Kitty, hard and fast, over the shouting, rising heads of the nearest men and women. She caught it in one hand, spun in a single movement to toss it at the writhing figure—

The old lady removed her fingers from her face, which had largely disappeared. Between the neat white hair and the necklace of pearls at her throat a misshapen mass was glistening. It had no regular shape, no features. Kitty was taken aback; she hesitated. The faceless woman lifted her hand and another bright stream of sapphired light shot out, striking Kitty head-on, engulfing her in a vortex of shimmering energy. She groaned. Her teeth rattled in her skull; every bone Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate

seemed to be shaking free of its neighbors; dazzling lights blinded her. She sensed her clothes singeing on her body.

The attack ceased; the lines of blue energy vanished; from where she had been suspended, about a meter up, Kitty fell limply to the ground.

The old lady flexed her fingers, grunted in satisfaction, and looked around the taproom. In all directions people were fleeing, knocking over tables, sending chairs flying, colliding with each other, squealing in mortal fear; the young blond-haired

man had hidden behind a barrel. Across the room she spied George Fox edging toward a chest beside the bar. Another blast—but he had launched himself desperately to the side: a section of the counter disintegrated in a heap of glass and matchwood; George Fox rolled away behind a table out of view.

Ignoring the laments and scurryings around her, the old lady turned to leave once more. She adjusted her twinset, brushed a stray coil of gray hair from her ruined face, stepped across Sam's body, and reached for the door.

Another whistle, shrill and impertinent, sounded above the clamor. The old lady froze with her fingers on the handle. She cocked her head and turned.

Then Kitty, whose eyes were slightly crossed, whose clothes were streaked and torn, whose hair frizzed all about her like a mane of cotton wool, but who had struggled to her feet again regardless, tossed over the small box. As it landed at the old lady's feet, Kitty spoke a single word.

A burst of light, searing in its intensity; a column of flame, two meters in diameter, rose from floor to ceiling. It was utterly smooth-sided, more like a pillar than a moving thing. It surrounded the old lady on all sides—she could be seen transfixed within it, like an insect within amber: gray hair, pearl necklace, blue dress, all.The pillar became solid, suddenly opaque, and the old woman was hidden within it.

The light faded, the pillar became faint and nebulous. It vanished, leaving a perfectly circular burn mark on the floor. The old lady with the molten face was gone.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-30