Ptolemy's Gate

a blur of movement, the sound of multiple blows being struck; it sounded like a brawl in a saucepan factory. The scimitar spun across the floor. The mercenary slumped against the flagstones, gasping for breath. Faquarl straightened, adjusting Mr. Hopkins's tie, and strode back to the center of the room.
    I'd watched with grudging approval. "Nice one. I've been trying to do that for years."
    Faquarl shrugged. "The secret is to avoid magic, Bartimaeus. The fellow's resilience is excessive; it almost seems to feed off our energies. It helps to be encased in a mortal body. And don't think you're going anywhere either. I'll tend to you shortly." He trotted after the body of the short, round man, which was now rolling across the floor, uttering odd barks and cries.
    Maybe it was a vanity thing, but I was a bit tired of remaining as a pool of glop. With a tremendous effort, I drew myself up into a pyramid of slime. Was that any better? No. But I was too far gone to try anything sophisticated. The slime looked about for Mandrake. If things were bad for me, they weren't too sunny for him either.
    To my astonishment I saw him standing at a table with Kitty Jones.[2]

[2] It was the Kitty Jones bit that was astonishing. Not the table. Though it was very nicely polished.

Now that took me by surprise. I couldn't fit her into the equation at all. What was more, Mandrake was busily trying to untie some cords binding her hands. Weird! If anything, this was odder than the Faquarl/Hopkins combo thing. Neither looked in very good nick, but they were talking avidly, peering toward the door. The mercenary's misadventure had not been los t upon them—they made no hasty move.
    Slowly, as slime will, I set off across the floor toward them. But I hadn't gone far when the whole floor shook, flagstones cracked, and statues toppled against the wall. It was as if an earthquake had struck, or a mother roc had landed overhead. In fact, the culprit was the short, round man, who still lay upon the ground. He had managed to roll onto his side, but was now attempting to rise using his legs alone—an effort that made him rotate slowly in a clockwise direction. Whatever was inside him was growing frustrated; a hand slapped petulantly against the stones—with every slap, it shook the room.
    Faquarl had hastened over and was seeking to haul him upright. "Press the feet flat against the ground, Lord Nouda. There! Let me take your weight. That's it. Steady yourself. Now you can rise. Success! We are vertical!"
    Nouda ... The pyramid of slime tilted its apex. Had it heard correctly? Surely not. Surely not even the stupidest magician would have been so vain, so foolhardy, so plain ignorant as to invite a being like Nouda within them. Surely everyone knew his track record.[3]

[3] Oh. Right. Well, it's like this. As I may have mentioned once or twice, there are five basic levels of spirit: imps (reprehensible), foliots (negligible), djinn (a fascinating class, with one or two absolute gems), afrits (overrated), and marids (dreadfully full of themselves). Above these levels exist more powerful entities, shadowy by nature, who are only occasionally summoned or even defined. Nouda was one such, and his rare appearances on Earth left a trail of blood and misery. Only the most unpleasant regimes employed him: the Assyrians (during the battle of Nineveh, when Nouda devoured a thousand Medes),Timur the Cruel (at the sack of Delhi, during which Nouda stacked the heads of prisoners to a height of 50 feet), the Aztecs (a regular engagement for Nouda this; in the end he discovered an ambiguity in Montezuma's summons—as a reward, Nouda ravaged Tenochtitlan and left it defenseless against tne Spanish). He was a formidable customer, in other words, hungry and not sympathetically inclined.

It seemed not. Faquarl was ushering the twitching body forward like an invalid, encouraging it with soothing words. "Just a little farther, Lord Nouda. A chair awaits. Try moving the feet instead of the hands. That's it—you are doing splendidly."
    From the man's sagging mouth came a great voice. "Who speaks?"
    "It is I, Faquarl."
    "Ah, Faquarl!" the great voice cried. "You did not lie. It is exactly as you said! What joy I feel! No pain! No compulsion! I smell the human world and all the juicy bodies waiting. Oh, but my coordination vexes me. This you did not prepare me for."
    "It takes a little time, a little time," Faquarl crooned. "You will soon acclimatize."
    "So many