Ptolemy's Gate

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 remark able 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."
    "Good. How long's it taken?"
    "Twelve minutes, sir. I had to come the long way around. The center of town's still barricaded off. There are demonstrations in the parks. A lot of police activity."
    "Well,- with luck we'll miss the beginning of the performance."
    Kitty Jones spoke for the first time on the journey. As before, he was impressed by her poise. "So what is this play I must endure?"
    Nathaniel sighed. "A Makepeace premiere."
    "Not the one who did Swans of Araby?"
    "I'm afraid so. The Prime Minister is a fan, therefore every magician in the government, from Council down to third secretary, must attend the show on pain of his absolute displeasure. It is of the first importance."
    She scowled. "What, with a war going on, and people rioting in the street?"
    "Even so. I have vital work of my own tonight, but I must put it aside until the curtain falls. I just hope it's got a lot of intervals." He felt the shape of his scrying glass inside his coat— between acts, he would check on the progress of his djinn.
    They entered Shaftesbury Avenue—a cluttered curve of restaurants, bars, and theaters, many recently rebuilt in finest concrete under the government's slum clearance measures. Glowing neon lights, a new invention from Japan, spelled out the names of each establishment in pinks, yellows, mauve, vermilion; throngs of lesser magicians and high-caste commoners milled upon the streets, accompanied by watchful Night Police. Nathaniel looked for evidence of social disorder, but the crowds seemed calm.
    The limousine slowed, pulled into a roped-off area beneath a golden awning. Police and black-coated Security magicians stood behind the barricades; a few photographers knelt below them, cameras set on tripods. The front of the theater was a blaze of light; a smart red carpet ran between the street and its open doors.
    A short, round gentleman stood upon the carpet, hands frantically waving. As the car drew to a halt, Quentin Makepeace bobbed forward and thrust open the nearest side door.
    "Mandrake! At last you're here! We haven't a moment to lose."
    "I'm sorry, Quentin. Trouble on the streets . . ." Since witnessing the playwright's unsavory experiment with the commoner, Nathaniel regarded him with extreme dislike. The man was a pestilence and needed to be removed. All in good time.
    "I know, I know. Come on, out with you! In three minutes I must be on stage! The hall doors are shut, but I have space for you in my personal box. Yes, yes—your girlfriend too. She is far prettier than you or I; we can bask in her radiance! Come on, chop-chop! Two minutes and counting!"
    With a series of prods, tugs, and encouraging gestures, Mr. Makepeace ushered