Ptolemy's Gate (29 page)

“Perhaps you should take the afternoon off, Lizzie,” Mr. Button said. “I shall be working on my demonic index and that will keep me busy. So many demons! You'd think the Other Place could scarcely cram them in!”

Kitty's mouth was full of cake crumbs. She swallowed them. “Pardon me, sir, but what exactly
is
the Other Place? I mean, what's it like?”

The old man grunted. “A region of chaos, a whirl of endless abominations. Dulac, if I remember rightly, called it ‘a sump of madness.' We cannot begin to imagine the horror of such a realm.” He shuddered. “It's enough to make a man want a third spiced bun.”

“So magicians
have
visited it?” Kitty asked. “I mean, they'd have to have done, to know what it was like.”

“Ah. Well.” Mr. Button shrugged. “Not exactly. In general, the authorities used reports from reliable slaves. To venture there in person is another matter. It risks both body and soul.”

“So it hasn't been done?”

“Oh, it's been
tried.
Dulac's master Ficino, for example. He hoped to gain demonic power. Instead he lost his mind—literally so: it did not come back. As for his body … No. The details are too revolting.”

“Oh, go on, sir.”

“Certainly not. There has been a smattering of others, but all were left insane or worse. The only magician who claimed to have succeeded in the journey was Ptolemaeus. He left details in his
Apocrypha
, but they are of dubious value. In effect, he implies that the procedure can only be achieved with the help of a benign demon, whose name is invoked to create the Gate.” He snorted. “Palpably, the notion is ridiculous—who would seriously trust a demon with their life? And it is likely that Ptolemaeus himself suffered as a result of his experiment. By most accounts he didn't live long afterward.”

Trust.
Bartimaeus had emphasized exactly that. Ptolemy had been willing to put his trust in him. As a result, there was no limit to their bond. Kitty gazed up at the ceiling, remembering the djinni's challenge to step out of the circle. She hadn't done it, for the obvious reason that he'd have probably torn her limb from limb. No trust there. On either side.

A great anger flared inside her once again: anger for wasting so many years in pursuit of a hopeless dream. She slipped off the sofa arm. “Do you mind if I
do
take the afternoon off, sir?” she said. “I think I need a little air.”

As she retrieved her coat from the hallway, she passed a pile of books that she had lately sorted, ready for stacking on some newly purchased shelves. Among them were works from the ancient Near East, within which … She halted, checked. Yes. There it was, three from the top: a slim volume. Ptolemaeus's
Apocrypha.

Kitty curled her lip. What was the point? Bartimaeus had said it was written in Greek, claimed it would be useless to her. She moved away, only to stop again halfway down the hall. She looked back. Well, why not? It couldn't do any harm.

Old investigative habits died hard. She departed the house with the book in her pocket.

That evening, with time on her hands, Kitty walked to the Frog Inn. She had hoped the exercise would burn off a little of the frustration swelling uncontrollably inside her, but if anything it only made it worse. The faces of the people she passed were pinched and sullen, their shoulders hunched; they gazed at their boots as they trudged along the road. Vigilance spheres whirled above the streets; Night Police loitered arrogantly at major intersections. One or two roads were barricaded off. There had been disorder in central London; now the authorities were cracking down. White police vans passed her more than once. Faintly she heard sirens in the distance.

Her pace grew slower, her gaze dulled and unseeing. She felt weighed down by the utter futility of things. Three years she had been shut up in libraries and dusty rooms, playing at being a magician. And all for what? Nothing had changed. Nothing
would
change. A cloak of injustice lay upon London, and she, like everyone else, was smothered by it. The Council did what they pleased, oblivious to the suffering they caused. And she was unable to do anything about it.

At The Frog a similarly somber mood prevailed. The taproom had been tidied, the devastation of two nights previously cleared away. At the end of the counter a shiny new piece of wood filled the hole made by the demon's attack; it did not quite match the rest of the bar, but George Fox had disguised it with a display of postcards and horse brasses. All the broken chairs and tables had been replaced; the circular burn mark near the door was covered with a rug.

Mr. Fox gave Kitty a subdued welcome. “Extra work for us tonight, Clara,” he said. “Haven't found anyone yet to … you know, replace Sam.”

“No, no. Of course not.” Kitty's voice was mild, but impotent fury sloshed inside her. She felt she might scream. Grasping a cloth as if it were the neck of a magician, she went about her business.

Two hours passed; the taproom filled. Men and women huddled at the tables or stood talking quietly by the counter.

An unenthusiastic darts match began. Kitty pulled drinks behind the bar, lost in her thoughts. She hardly looked up when the door opened, bringing with it a gust of autumn chill.

As if a switch had just been pushed, or a battery pulled out, all conversation in The Frog suddenly wound down. Sentences were left unfinished, glasses paused en route to open mouths; eyes swiveled, a few heads turned. A dart embedded itself in the plaster wall beside the board. George Fox, who had been bent beside a table chatting, slowly drew himself erect.

A young man stood there. He shook the rain off his long black coat.

Kitty saw the newcomer between the heads of nearby customers. Her hand jerked, splashing gin upon the surface of the counter. Her mouth made a little noise.

The young man removed his gloves. He ran a slender hand through his hair—short, cropped, and flecked with rain—and looked around at the silent room. “Good evening,” he said. “Who is the proprietor here?”

Silence. Shuffling. Then George Fox cleared his throat. “That would be me.”

“Oh, good. A word, please. “The request was quietly spoken, but it held the assumption of authority. Everything about the young man did: his coat, his smart black jacket, the ruched white shirt, his patent leather shoes. In his own way he was as alien a figure in the taproom of The Frog as the demon without a face.

Animosity and fear rippled out around the room in waves. The young man smiled.
“If
you don't mind.”

George Fox stepped forward. “What can I do for you?”

The young man was shorter than Mr. Fox by half a head, slim as he was burly. “I believe you have a girl working here,” he said. “What is her name?”

One or two of the customers standing at the counter flicked their eyes at Kitty, who had shrunk back against the cabinet behind the bar. The door to the passage was close: she could slip out, through the kitchens and away.

Mr. Fox blinked. “Um, Clara Bell. She's the only girl, since Peggy left….” His voice trailed off, was replaced with guarded hostility. “Why? Why do you ask?”

“Is Clara Bell working here tonight?”

George Fox hesitated—precisely the answer the young man was expecting. “Good,” he said. “Fetch her out.” He looked about him. Kitty was concealed behind the patrons standing at the bar. She inched toward the backroom door.

“Fetch her out,” the young man said again.

Still George Fox did not move; his face was set in stone, his eyes bulging. “Why do you want her?” he repeated stolidly. “Who are you? What do you want with her?”

“I am not accustomed,” the young man said; his voice was tired, “to explaining myself, nor to asking more than once. I am from the government. That should be good enough for any of you here—Oh, sorry! I don't think so—”

A man sitting near the entrance had slipped from his seat and hurried to the door. He opened it, made to depart. The magician spoke a word and gestured. The man was flung backward bodily into the room, landing hard beside the fireplace. The door slammed shut so hard the brasses rattled on the walls.

“Not one of you leaves this room until Clara Bell is found.” The young man looked testily toward the commoner lying on the floor. “Stop that groaning! You're not injured.” He turned back to George Fox. “Well?”

Kitty was by the backroom door. One of the customers at the bar nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “Go on,” he hissed. “Get out.”

The young man tapped a shoe upon the tiles. “It won't surprise you to learn that I have not come to this hovel alone. Unless the girl is brought before me in thirty seconds, I shall issue orders that you will presently regret.” He glanced at his watch.

George Fox looked at the floor. He looked at the ceiling. His hands clenched and unclenched. He tried not to meet the beseeching gazes of the people all around. Lines of weariness and age were etched upon his cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it—

“It's all right, George.” Kitty pushed her way around the end of the bar; she carried her coat across one arm. “You don't have to. Thanks.” She walked slowly between the tables. “Well, Mr. Mandrake? Shall we go?”

For a moment the magician did not answer. He was staring at her, his pale face a little flushed, perhaps affected by the heat of the room. Collecting himself, he gave a slight bow. “Ms. Jones! I am honored. Would you mind coming with me?” He stood aside. Stiff-backed, staring straight ahead, Kitty passed him. He followed her to the door.

The young man looked back at the silent room. “My apologies for disrupting your evening.” He went out; the door closed. For almost a minute no one moved or spoke.

“You'll be needing a new barmaid, George,” someone said.

In the yard the vigilance sphere had gone. A few car lights moved on the road beyond the passageway. A light rain fell. Kitty heard it tapping against the river in the darkness below the parapet. Cool air brushed her face, and specks of dampness; their sudden touch made her feel alive.

Behind her, a voice: “Ms. Jones. My car is close by. I suggest we walk to it.”

At the sound, a fierce exultation suddenly flowered in Kitty. Far from the fear she
should
have felt, she knew only defiance and a kind of joy. Since the first numb shock of Mandrake's appearance she had been quite calm—calm and curiously revived. For three long years she had led a solitary, cautious life. Now, with all its prospects shattered, she knew she could not have endured that life a moment longer. She wanted action, regardless of the consequences. Her old recklessness came flooding back to her upon a tide of frustrated rage.

She turned. Mandrake stood before her—
Mandrake
, one of the Council. It was like the answer to her prayers.

“So what are you going to do?” she snapped. “Kill me?”

The young man blinked. His face was dimly lit by lights from the old inn's windows; it gave him a sickly, yellow cast. He cleared his throat. “No. I—”

“Why not? Isn't that what you do to traitors?” Kitty spat the last word out. “Or to
anyone
who crosses you? One of your demons was here two nights ago. It killed a man. He had a family. He'd never done anything against the government. But it killed him even so.”

The magician made an irritable noise behind his teeth. “That is unfortunate. But it is nothing to do with me.”

“No, except you control the demons.” Kitty's voice was hard and shrill. “They're just the slaves.
You
direct them.”

“I
meant
it wasn't me personally. That's not my department. Now, Ms. Jones—”

“Sorry,” she said, laughing, “that is just the most lamentable excuse I've ever heard.
Not my department.
Ooh, that makes it all right then. And I suppose the war isn't your department either, or the Night Police, or the prisons in the Tower. None of them are anything to do with you.”

“As a matter of fact, they're not.” His voice grew stern. “Now can you manage to be silent on your own, Ms. Jones? Or perhaps you wish my help?” He clicked a finger; a shadow detached itself from the darkest corner of the yard. “That is Fritang,” Mandrake said. “Most savage of my slaves. He will do whatever I comm—”

Kitty gave a cry of derision. “That's right, threaten me! Just like you threatened the people in the inn. Can't manage to do
anything
without force to back you up, can you? I don't know how you sleep at night.”

“That's rich coming from
you
,” Mandrake snapped. “I don't remember the Resistance being afraid to use force when it suited them. Let's see now, what were the casualty figures? Several people killed, others maimed and—”

” That
was different. We were fighting for
ideals—”
“Well, so am I. However …” He took a deep breath. “I admit to being discourteous in the present instance. “The magician waved a hand, spoke a word of dismissal; the menacing shadow faded into nothing. “There. Now you can talk without fear.”

Kitty looked directly at him. “I was not afraid.” Mandrake shrugged. He glanced back over his shoulder at the closed inn door, then out toward the road. In contrast to his imperious efficiency inside The Frog, he seemed suddenly hesitant, unsure what to do.

“Well?” Kitty said. “What normally happens next when you arrest someone? Spot of torture? A beating? What's it to be?”

A sigh. “I've not arrested you. At least, not necessarily.”

“Then I'm free to go?”

“Ms. Jones,” he snarled, “I am here as a private individual,
not
as a member of the government, though if you don't stop your histrionics, that may change. Officially you are dead. Yesterday I received word that you were alive. I wanted confirmation.”

Kitty's eyes narrowed. “Who told you I was here? A demon?”