Ms. Farrar gave a short, wild laugh. “Indeed you do. Your slaves … or perhaps you mean your little friends?”
“Oh, come now—”
“Enough!” She turned from him. “People have been hunting for your weakness for some time now, Mr. Mandrake,” she said over her shoulder, “and I, inadvertently, have found it. Extraordinary! I never would have guessed that you were such a sentimental fool.” Her coat swirled around her; with imperious steps she passed through the membrane of the Bulb; without any further backward glance, she stalked from the hall.
Mandrake watched her go. He took a deep breath. Then, with a single word, he dismissed the Bulb of Silence and was received eagerly by an ocean of noise, kerfuffle, and excited speculation.
That morning, as on every morning, a little group of supplicants gathered outside the apartments of my master Ptolemy. They were there long before dawn, wrapped in their shawls, blue-legged and shivering, waiting patiently for the sun. As light spilled over the river, the magician’s servants opened the doors and let them in, one by one.
That morning, as on every morning, the list of complaints, wrongs, and outright woes was recited and considered. To some, advice was given. To a few (the more obviously covetous or deluded), help was refused. To the rest, action of one sort or another was promised and delivered. Imps and foliots departed through the windows and flitted out across the city on a variety of errands. A certain noble djinni was seen to leave and, in due course, return. For several hours a steady stream of spirits came and went. It was a very busy household.
At half-past eleven the doors were shut and locked for the day. Thereafter, by a back route (to avoid lingering petitioners, who would have delayed him), the magician Ptolemy departed for the Library of Alexandria to resume his studies.
We were walking across the courtyard outside the library building. It was lunchtime and Ptolemy wished to get anchovy bread in the markets on the quay. I strolled beside him as an Egyptian scribe, bald-headed, hairy of leg, busily arguing with him on the philosophy of worlds.1 One or two scholars passed us as we went: disputatious Greeks; lean Romans, hot of eye and scrubbed of skin; dark Nabataeans and courteous diplomats from Meroe and far Parthia, all here to drink knowledge from the deep Egyptian wells. As we were about to leave the library compound, a clash of horns sounded in the street below. Up came a little knot of soldiers, the Ptolemaic colors aflutter on their pikes. They drew apart to reveal Ptolemy’s cousin, the king’s son and heir to the throne of Egypt, slowly swaggering up the steps. In his train came an adoring cluster of favorites—toadies and fawners to a man.2 My master and I stopped; we inclined our heads in the traditional manner of respect.
“Cousin!”The king’s son lolled to a stop; his tunic was tight about his stomach, wet where the brief walk had drawn sweat from his flesh. His face was blurry with wine, his aura sagged with it. His eyes were dull coins under their heavy lids. “Cousin,” he said again. “Thought I’d pay you a little visit.”
Ptolemy bowed again. “My lord. It is an honor, of course.”
“Thought I’d see where you skulk away your days instead of staying at my side”—he took a breath—“like a loyal cousin should.” The toadies tittered. “Philip and Alexander and all my other cousins are accounted for,” he went on, tumbling over the words. “They fight for us in the desert, they work as ambassadors in principalities east and west. They prove their loyalty to our dynasty. But you …” A pause; he picked at the wet cloth of his tunic. “Well. Can we rely on you?”
“In whatever way you wish me to serve.”
“But can we, Ptolemaeus? You cannot hold a sword or draw a bow with those girlish arms of yours; so where’s your strength, eh? Up here”—he tapped his head with an unsteady finger—“that’s what I’ve heard. Up here. What do you do in this dismal place then, out of the sun?”
Ptolemy bowed his head modestly. “I study, my lord. The papyri and books of record that the worthy priests have compiled, time out of mind. Works of history and religion—”
“And magic too, by all accounts. Forbidden works.” That was a tall priest, black-robed, head shaven, and with white clay daubed faintly around his eyes. He spat the words out softly like a cobra shooting venom. He was probably a magician himself.
“Ha! Yes. All manner of wickednesses.” The king’s son lurched a little closer; sour fumes hung about his clothes and issued from his mouth. “The people celebrate you for it, cousin. You use your magic to beguile them, to win them over to you. I hear they come daily to your house to witness your devilry. I hear all kinds of stories.”
Ptolemy pursed his lips. “Do you, my lord? That is beyond my understanding. It is true that I am pestered by some of those who have fallen low in fortune. I offer them advice, nothing more. I am just a boy—weak, as you say, and unworldly. I prefer to remain alone, seeking nothing but a little knowledge.”
The affectation of humility (for it was affectation—Ptolemy’s hunger for knowledge was just as ravenous as the king’s son’s lust for power, and far more virile) seemed to enrage the prince into a passion. His face grew dark as uncooked meat; little snakes of spittle swayed at the corner of his mouth. “Knowledge, eh?” he cried. “Yes, but of what kind? And to what end? Scrolls and styluses are nothing to a proper man, but in the hands of white-skinned necromancers they can be deadlier than the strongest iron. In old Egypt, they say, eunuchs mustered armies with the stamp of a foot and swept the rightful pharaohs into the sea! I don’t intend that to happen to me. What are you smirking about, slave?”
I hadn’t meant to smile. It’s just I enjoyed his account, having been in the vanguard of the army that did the sweeping, a thousand years before. It’s good when you make an impression. I bowed and scraped. “Nothing, master. Nothing.”
“You smirked, I saw you! You dare laugh at me—the king-in-waiting!”
His voice quivered; the soldiers knew the signs. Their pikes made small adjustments. Ptolemy uttered placatory noises: “He did not intend offense, my lord. My scribe was born with an unfortunate facial tic, a grimace that in harsh light can seem a baleful smirk. It is a sad affliction—”
“I will have his head stuck above the Crocodile Gate! Guards—”
The soldiers lowered their pikes, each keener than the rest to drench the stones with my blood. I waited meekly for the inevitable.3
Ptolemy stepped forward. “Please, cousin. This is ridiculous. I beg you—”
“No! I will hear no argument. The slave will die.”
“Then I must tell you.” My master was suddenly very close to his brutish cousin; he seemed somehow taller, his equivalent in height. His dark eyes gazed directly into the other’s watery ones, which squirmed in their sockets like a fish upon a spear. The king’s son quailed and shrank from him; his soldiers and attendants shifted uneasily. The sun’s warmth dimmed; the courtyard grew cloudy. One or two of the soldiers had goose pimples on their legs. “You will leave him alone,” Ptolemy said, his voice slow and clear. “He is my slave, and I say he deserves no punishment. Leave with your lackeys and return to your wine vats. Your presence here disturbs the scholars and brings no credit on our family. Your insinuations likewise. Do you understand?”
The king’s son had bent so far back to avoid the piercing stare that half his cape dragged on the ground. He made a noise like a marsh toad mating. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes.”
Ptolemy stepped away. Instantly he seemed to dwindle; the darkness that had gathered around the little group like a winter cloud lifted and was gone. The onlookers relaxed. Priests rubbed the backs of their necks; nobles exhaled noisily. A midget peeped out from behind a wrestler.
“Come, Rekhyt.” Ptolemy repositioned the scrolls under his arm and glanced at the king’s son with studious disinterest. “Good-bye, cousin. I am late for lunch.”
He made to step past. The king’s son, white-faced and tottering, uttered an incoherent word. He lurched forward; from beneath his cloak a knife was drawn. With a snarl, he lunged a
t Ptolemy’s side. I raised a hand and gestured: there was a muffled impact, as of a masonry block landing on a bag of suet pudding. The king’s son doubled over, clutching his solar plexus, mouth bubbling, eyes popping. He sank to his knees. The knife dropped impotently on the stones.
Ptolemy kept walking. Four of the soldiers sprang to uncertain life; their pikes went low, they made aggressive sounds. I swept my hands in a semicircle; away they flew, one after the other—head first, toes last, out across the courtyard cobbles. One hit a Roman, another a Greek; a third skidded a yard upon his nose. The fourth crashed into a trader’s stand and was half buried by an avalanche of sweetmeats. They lay outstretched like points upon a sundial.
The others in the group were chicken. They cowered together and made no move. I kept close watch upon the old bald priest, though—I could see he was tempted to do something. But he met my eyes and decided it was best to live.
Ptolemy kept walking. I followed after. We went in search of anchovy bread. When we returned, our quest fulfilled, the library precinct was quiet and still.
My master knew the incident was inauspicious, but his studies were his consuming interest, and he chose to ignore the implications. But I did not, and nor did the people of Alexandria. Rumors of the matter circulated swiftly, some more creative than accurate.4 The king’s son was unpopular; his humiliation was regarded with general hilarity and Ptolemy’s celebrity grew.
By night I floated on the winds above the palace, conversing with the djinn.
“What news?”
“News, Bartimaeus, of the king’s son. His brow is heavy with wrath and fear. He mutters daily that Ptolemy might send a demon to destroy him and seize the throne. The danger pulses in his temple like a beating drum.”
“But my master lives only for his writing. He has no interest in the crown.”
“Even so. The king’s son chews on the problem late at night and over wine. He sends emissaries out in search of men that might aid him quash this threat.”
“Affa, I thank you. Fly well.”
“Fly well, Bartimaeus.”
Ptolemy’s cousin was a fool and a sot, but I understood his fears. He himself was not a magician. The magicians of Alexandria were ineffectual shadows of the great ones of the past, under whom I’d toiled.5 The army was weaker than for generations, and mostly far away. In comparison, Ptolemy was powerful indeed. No question, the king’s son would be vulnerable should my master decide to overthrow him.
Time passed. I watched and waited.
The king’s son found his men. Money was paid. One moonlit night four assassins stole into the palace gardens and paid a call upon my master. As I may have mentioned, their visit was of short duration.
The king’s son had taken the precaution of being away from Alexandria that night; he was out in the desert hunting. When he returned, he was greeted first by a flock of carrion birds wheeling in the skies about the Crocodile Gate, then by the hanging corpses of three assassins. Their feet brushed against the plumes of his chariot as he passed into the city. Face mottled white and crimson, the prince retired to his chambers and was not seen for days.
“Master,” I said. “Your life remains at risk. You must leave Alexandria.”
“Quite impossible, Rekhyt, as you know. The Library is here.”
“Your cousin is your implacable foe. He will try again.”
“And you will be here to foil him, Rekhyt. I have every confidence in you.”
“The assassins were but men. The next who come will not be human.”
“I am sure you will cope. Do you have to squat so? It distresses me.”
“I’m an imp today. Imps squat. Listen,” I said, “your confidence in me is gratifying, but frankly I can do without it. Just as I can do without being in the firing line when a marid comes knocking on your door.”
He chuckled into his goblet. “A marid! I think you overestimate the ability of our court magicians. A one-legged mouler I can believe.”
“Your cousin casts his net wider. He drinks long with ambassadors from Rome—and Rome, from what I hear, is where the action is right now Every hedge-magician from here to the Tigris is hastening there in search of glory”
Ptolemy shrugged. “So my cousin puts himself in Rome’s pocket. Why should they attack me?”
“So that he will be forever in their debt. And meanwhile I’ll be dead.” I let off a gust of sulphur in annoyance—my master’s blithe absorption in his studies could be rather galling. “It’s all right for you,” I cried. “You can summon up any number of us to protect your skin. What we suffer doesn’t matter a fig.” I folded my wings over my snout in the manner of a huffy bat and hung from the bedroom rafter.
“Rekhyt—you have saved my life twice over. You know how grateful I am to you.”
“Words, words, words. Don’t mean nowt.”6
“That’s hardly fair. You know the direction of my work. I wish to understand the mechanisms that divide us, human and djinni; I seek to redress the balance, build trust between us …”
“Yeah, yeah. And while you do, I’m guarding your back and emptying out your privy pot.”
“Now you’re making it up. Anhotep does that. I’ve never—”
“I’m speaking figuratively. My point is—whenever I’m in your world, I’m trapped. You call the shots. Trust doesn’t enter into it.” The imp glared out through the membrane of its wing and let out another sulphurous eruption.
“Will you stop doing that? I’ve got to sleep in this room tonight. So you doubt my sincerity, do you?”
“If you want my opinion, master, all your talk of reconciliation between our peoples is nothing but hot air.”
“Is that so?” My master’s tone of voice hardened. “Very well, Rekhyt, I take that as a challenge. I believe my studies are coming to the point when I can perhaps act as well as talk. As you know, I have studied accounts of the northern tribes. The practice there is for magicians and spirits to meet halfway. From what you and the others have told me, I think I can go one better than that.” He threw his goblet aside, got up, and began pacing around the chamber.
The imp lowered its wings uneasily. “What do you mean? I don’t follow you.”
“Oh, you won’t have to follow me,” the boy said. “Quite the reverse. When I’m ready, I’ll be following you.”
13
The untoward incidents that took place during the Prime Minister’s party at Richmond were swift and confusing, and it took some time to discover what had happened. Witnesses among the party guests were few, since when the carnage had erupted in the skies above, most had taken shelter headfirst in the rose beds and ornamental ponds. However, after Mr. Devereaux had gathered the magicians responsible for estate security, and they in their turn had summoned the demons guarding the perimeter, a picture of sorts emerged.
It appeared that the alarm had been set off when a djinni in the form of a limping frog broke through the estate nexus. It was closely pursued by a large pack of demons, which harried their prey remorselessly as it fled across the lawns. The estate demons had quickly joined the melee, valiantly attacking anything that moved, so that one or two of the invaders were soon destroyed, together with three guests, an under-butler, and much of the antique statuary on the south lawns, behind which the frog took shelter for a time. In the chaos, the frog escaped by breaking into the house itself, at which the other invaders turned about and fled the scene. Their identity, and that of their masters, remained obscure.
By contrast, the identity of the frog’s master was soon established. Too many people had observed the events in the mansion’s vestibule for John Mandrake to escape detection. Shortly after midnight he was hauled up before Mr. Devereaux, Mr. Mortensen, and Mr. Collins (the three most senior ministers remaining at the house), and admitted having given the djinni in question the freedom to return to him at any time. Under harsh questioning, Mr. Mandrake was then forced to give some details of the operation in which his demon had been engaged. The name of
Mr. Clive Jenkins was mentioned, and five horlas were promptly dispatched to his London flat. In due course they returned. Mr. Jenkins was not at home. His whereabouts was unknown.
Since Mandrake knew nothing about what his djinni had discovered, and since summoning the injured Bartimaeus immediately might well destroy its essence—without any answer being forthcoming—the matter was abandoned for the present. Mandrake was ordered to appear before the Council three days later, to summon his slave for interrogation.
In the meantime the young magician bore the weight of general displeasure. The Prime Minister was beside himself with fury at the loss of his Grecian statuary, while Mr. Collins—who at the outset of the alarm had been the first to leap into the duck pond, only to be half drowned beneath one of the heavier lady guests—regarded him balefully from beneath his wad of toweling. The third minister, Mr. Mortensen, had suffered no particular injury, but had disliked Mandrake for years. Together they condemned him for his irresponsible and secretive conduct, and hinted at a broad range of punishments, though the details were left until the forthcoming Council meeting.
Mr. Mandrake made no response to the accusations. Palefaced, he departed the mansion and was driven back to London.
The following day Mr. Mandrake breakfasted alone. Ms. Piper, reporting as usual for the early morning briefing, found the door barred by a manservant. The minister was indisposed; he would see her in the office later. Disconcerted, she took her leave.
With leaden steps the magician proceeded to his study. The door guard, attempting a mild jocularity, found itself blasted by a Spasm. Mandrake sat for a long while at his desk, staring at the wall.
Presently he picked up his telephone and dialed a number.
“Hello. Jane Farrar’s office? Could I speak with her, please? Yes, it’s Mandrake … Oh … I see. Very well.” The receiver was slowly returned to its cradle.
Well, he had tried to warn her. That she had refused to speak to him was hardly his fault. The night before, he had done his best to keep her name out of it, but to no avail. Their altercation had been seen. No doubt she would now be reprimanded too. He felt only mild regret at this; all thought of the beautiful Ms. Farrar filled him with a strange repulsion.