Ptolemy's Gate (33 page)

Hopkins—or Faquarl—gave a nod. “Lots of nice sharp weapons in kitchens.” He flicked the cleaver with a fingertip; blade and the crow quivered and pulsed. “Which is why I came down here just now. Also it's more roomy than that corridor upstairs. I needed space to swing my arms a little…. Space is at a premium in this hotel. Mind you, my room
does
have a Jacuzzi.”

My head spun. “Wait a second,” I said. “
I
know you as Faquarl of Sparta, scourge of the Aegean. I've seen you as a slate-black giant crushing hoplite armies beneath your heels. Now what are you? A pigeon-chested human who likes his bath. What's going on? How long have you been trapped like this?”

“Just a couple of months. But I'm hardly
trapped.
The Ambassador is a very plush and exclusive establishment. Hopkins liked the good things in life, you see. Also it's out of reach of government spies, so I can come and go as I please. I saw no reason to change the arrangements.”

The crow rolled its eyes.
“Not
the hotel. I was talking about the body.”

A chuckle. “The answer's the same, Bartimaeus. It's only a few weeks since the good Mr. Hopkins—how shall I put it?—invited me in. It took a while to acclimatize, but I am now
extremely
comfortable. And despite appearances, my power is in no way reduced. As your friends have just found out.” He grinned. “Haven't fed so heavily for a long time.”

“Yes, well.” I coughed uncomfortably. “I hope you weren't thinking of doing the same with me. We go back a long way, you and I.A wonderful association; lots of shared experiences.”

Mr. Hopkins's eyes gleamed with merriment. “That's better, Bartimaeus. Your sense of humor is perking up. But in truth, I do
not
intend to devour you.”

The crow had been hanging from the cleaver in rather a woebegone manner. Now, with this unexpected news, it rallied. “You don't? Faquarl, you are a generous friend! I apologize for that incident in the copse, and for our fights over the Amulet, and for that Convulsion from behind I got you with, back in Heidelberg in 'thirty-two”—I hesitated—“which I see you didn't know was me. Um, and all the rest. So—many thanks, and if you could just remove this cleaver, I'll be on my way.”

The bland-faced man did not remove the cleaver. Instead he bent close to the crow. “I didn't say I was
sparing
you, Bartimaeus. Just that I'm not going to
eat
you. The idea of it! Simply looking at your essence gives me indigestion. But nor am I going to let you go. This very night you shall die horribly—”

“Oh. Great.”

“In as painful and long-drawn-out a fashion as I can contrive.”

“Look, you needn't put yourself out over this—”

“But first I want to tell you something.” Hopkins's grinning face came close. “I want to tell you that you were wrong.”

I pride myself on my swift wit and keen intelligence, but this one had me stumped. “Eh?”

“Countless times,” Faquarl continued, “I have held out to you the hope that djinn would one day be free. Djinn like you and me. Why do we fight? Because we are set against each other by our cursed human masters. Why do we obey them? Because we have no choice. Countless times I have speculated that these rules might be challenged; countless times you have told me I was mistaken.”

“I didn't put it
quite
like that. I said you were a complete—”

“You said that we had no chance of ever breaking free of the twin problems, Bartimaeus. The problems of free will and pain. And I see that certainty in your squinty little eyes again! But you are mistaken. Look at me now—what do you see?”

I considered. “A murderous maniac in human form? A hideous amalgam of the worst of man and djinn? Erm—I'm going out on a limb here—a former foe looking at me with unexpected pity and good fellowship?”

“No, Bartimaeus. No. I'll tell you. You see a djinni without pain. You see a djinni with free will. I'm not surprised you don't understand: in five thousand years there has never been a marvel like it!” He held out a very human hand and gently ruffled my head feathers. “Can you imagine it, you poor wounded creature? No pain! No
pain
, Bartimaeus! Ah,” he sighed, “you can't
think
how clearheaded that makes me.”

No pain … In the back of my tired, befuddled mind, I saw a sudden image: Gladstone's skeleton, leaping, prancing … “I met an afrit once,” I said. “He said something like that too. But his essence was trapped in human bones and he went mad. In the end he embraced extinction rather than live on.”

Faquarl shaped Hopkins's face into the approximation of a smile. “Ah, you speak of Honorius? Yes, I have heard of him. The poor fellow has been
most
influential! My essence is protected, just as his was, and like him I have free will. But mark
this,
Bartimaeus—
I
shall not go mad.”

“But to be in this world, you must have been summoned,” I persisted. “So you must be doing someone's bidding.…”

“
Hopkins
summoned me, and I have
done
his bidding. Now I am free.” For the first time I thought I saw something of the djinni hidden within the man: deep inside the eyes a little flash of triumph, almost like a flame. “You may recall, Bartimaeus, that in our last conversation I spoke with optimism about the recklessness of certain London magicians, men who might one day give us our chance.”

“I remember,” I said. “You were talking about Lovelace.”

“True, but not only he. Well, it so happens that I was right. Our chance has come. First, Lovelace overreached himself. His coup failed, he died, and I was—”

“Freed!” I cried. “Yes! Thanks to
me,
that was. You owe me one there, surely.”

“—submerged in an offshore safe, thanks to a stringent after-death clause in my summoning. I spent my time cursing whoever killed Lovelace.”

“Ah, that would be my master. I
told
him it was a hasty act, but
did
he listen—?”

“Luckily I was released soon afterward by one of Lovelace's friends, who knew of me and my talents. I have since been working with him.”

“This would be Hopkins,” I said.

“Well, as a matter of fact, no. Which reminds me”—Faquarl looked at his watch—“I cannot stand gossiping with you all evening. Tonight the revolution begins, and I must be there to witness it. You and your idiot friends have delayed me far too long.”

The crow looked hopeful. “Does this mean you won't have time for that painful long-drawn-out death you promised me?”

“
I
won't, Bartimaeus, but
you'll
have all the time in the world.” His hands reached out, grasped me around the neck and plucked the cleaver from my wing. Hopkins's form rose into the air and turned to face the darkened dining room. “Let's see,” Faquarl murmured. “Yes … that looks promising.” We drifted out above the tables, toward the opposite wall. A trolley stood there, just as the waiters had left it. On the center of the trolley was a large tureen with a domed lid. It was made of silver.

The crow wriggled and fidgeted desperately in its captor's grip. “Come
on,
Faquarl,” I implored. “Don't do anything you might regret.”

“I most certainly won't.” He descended beside the trolley, held me above the tureen; the cold radiation of the fatal metal tickled against my ragged essence. “A healthy djinni might linger for weeks in a silver tomb like this,” Faquarl said. “The state you're in, I don't think you'll survive longer than a couple of hours. Now then, I wonder what we've got in here….” With a hasty flick of the fingers he flipped open the lid. “Hmm. Fish soup. Delightful. Well, good-bye, Bartimaeus. While you die, take consolation from the knowledge that the enslavement of the djinn is almost over. As of tonight, we take revenge.” The fingers parted; with a delicate plop, the crow fell into the soup. Faquarl waved good-bye and closed the lid. I floated in darkness. Silver all around me: my essence shrank and blistered.

I had one chance—one chance only: wait a little for Faquarl to depart, then summon up my last gasps of energy and try to burst open the lid. It would be tough, but feasible—provided he didn't wedge it shut with a block or anything.

Faquarl didn't bother with a block. He went for the whole wall. There was a great roar and crash, a fearsome impact; the tureen collapsed around me, smashed into a crumpled mess by the weight of masonry above. Silver pressed on all sides; the crow writhed, wriggled, but had no space to move. My head swam, my essence began to boil; almost gratefully I fell into unconsciousness.

Burned and squashed to death in a silver vat of soup. There must be worse ways to go. But not many.

21

N
athaniel looked out of the window of the limousine at the night, the lights, the houses, and the people. They went by in a kind of blur, a mass of color and movement that changed endlessly, beguilingly, and yet meant nothing. For a while he let his tired gaze drift among the shifting forms, then—as the car slowed to approach a junction—he focused on the glass itself and on the reflection in it. He saw himself again.

It was not a wholly reassuring sight. His face was etched with weariness, his hair damp, his collar limply sagging. But in his eyes a spark still burned.

Earlier that day it had not been so. Successive crises—his humiliation at Richmond, the threats to his career, and the discovery of his earlier betrayal by Bartimaeus—had hit him hard. His carefully constructed persona of John Mandrake, Information Minister and blithely assured member of the Council, had begun to crack around him. But it had been his rejection by Ms. Lutyens that morning that had dealt the decisive blow. In a few moments of sustained contempt she had shattered the armor of his status and laid bare the boy beneath. The shock had been almost too much for Nathaniel; with the loss of self-esteem came chaos—he had spent the rest of the day locked in his rooms, alternately raging and subsiding into silence.

But two things had combined to draw him back, to prevent him drowning in self-pity. First, on a practical level, Bartimaeus's delayed report had given him a lifeline. News of Hopkins's whereabouts offered Nathaniel a final chance to act before the next day's trial. By capturing the traitor he might yet outmaneuver Farrar, Mortensen, and the rest of his enemies: Devereaux would forget his displeasure and restore Nathaniel to a position of prestige.

Such success was not guaranteed, but he was confident in the power of the djinn that he had sent to the hotel. And already he felt revived by the mere act of sending them. A warm feeling ran across his back, making him shudder a little in the confines of the car. At
last
he was being decisive once again, playing for the highest stakes, shrugging off the inertia of the last few years. He felt almost as he had done as a child, thrilling in the audacity of his actions. That was how it had often been, before politics and the stultifying role of John Mandrake had closed in on him.

And he no longer wished to play that part. True, if fate were kind, he would first ensure his political survival. But he had long been tired of the other ministers, and sickened by their moral corruption, by their self-preserving greed. It had taken until today, with the disdain in the eyes of Ms. Lutyens and of Kitty Jones, to recognize that sickness in himself. Well, he would not sink back into the routines of the Council! Decisive action was needed to save the country from their mismanagement. He peered through the window at the smudged outlines of people on the streets. The commoners needed to be led; they needed a new leader. Someone who could impose a little peace and security. He thought of the Staff of Gladstone lying redundant in the vaults of Whitehall.

Not that he should use
force,
of course—at least, not on the commoners. Kitty Jones had been right about that. He glanced across to where—agreeably close to him—the girl sat, gazing with remarkable serenity out into the night.

She had been the second reason that his energies had revived, his spark rekindled, and he was very glad that he had found her. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but her tongue was as sharp as ever. In their argument outside the inn she had cut through his pretensions like a knife, shaming him repeatedly with her passionate assurance. Yet—and this was the strange part—he found he eagerly wanted to continue their talk.

Not least—his brow darkened—because of that suggestion that she knew more about Bartimaeus's earlier career than he would have thought possible. It was very odd … but that could be explored at leisure, after the play, and after—with luck—his djinn had returned triumphant. Bartimaeus might throw some light on it himself. What he would do with her then he honestly didn't know.

The chauffeur's voice roused Nathaniel from his reverie. “Almost at the theater, sir.”