Ptolemy's Gate

peculiar muscles—I cannot make out their use! Joints that swivel so far and no more, tendons running every which way! The dull sloshing of the blood—how strange for it to be my own! I wish to tear the flesh apart and drink it down."
    "I would curb that impulse, sir," Faquarl said crisply. "You might find it inexpedient. There will be plenty of other flesh to enjoy, fear not. Now, here: sit on this throne. Rest awhile." He stood back; the short, round body of Makepeace sank upon the golden chair. Its head lolled sideways, its limbs twitched. On the other side of the table Kitty and Mandrake shrank away.
    "Where are my troops, dear Faquarl?" the great voice said. "Where is my army that you promised?"
    Faquarl cleared his throat. "Right in this room, sir. They, like you, are just. . . coming to terms with their new status." He looked over his shoulder. Of the five magicians, three were still lying on the floor, one was sitting up and grinning inanely, while the fifth had actually ris en and was stumbling randomly about the hall, with arms rotating like a windmill and feet tripping on the rugs.
    "Looking good," I said. "One day they may even manage to conquer this room."
    Faquarl turned purposefully. "Ah, yes. I'd forgotten about you."
    Eyes rotated blindly in the limp round head. "To whom do you speak, Faquarl?"
    "A djinni. Pay no attention. He will not be with us long."
    "What djinni is this? Is he a supporter of our plan?"
    "It is Bartimaeus, a skeptic."
    One arm rose, made a spasmodic movement that was probably meant to beckon. The great voice boomed. "Come here, djinni."
    The pyramid of slime hesitated, but there was no help for it. I did not have the power to resist or flee. With all the verve of a wounded slug I squelched my way toward the golden chair, leaving an unpleasant trail behind. I bowed as best I could.
    "It is an honor to meet a spirit of such strength and renown," I said. "I am but a wisp upon the wind; nevertheless, my power is yours."[4]

[4] Note the absence of any jokes, sneers, or satirical content in these sentences. Despite Nouda's current indisposition, I didn't doubt that he could atomize me with a single glance. Best to be polite, I felt.

The limp head gave a jerk; with a wild swivel, the eyes discerned me. "Greater or less, we are all children of the Other Place. May your essence prosper."
    Faquarl stepped forward. "Well, I wouldn't go too far," he said. "Bartimaeus is as fickle as a moonbeam and as flighty as a colt. And sarky with it. I was about to—"
    The great spirit waved a plump little hand in what was probably intended to be a mild gesture; it swung out wildly and cracked the tabletop in two. "Be gentle, Faquarl. After centuries of slavery all our personalities distort a little."
    "I don't know," Faquarl said doubtfully. "He's pretty distorted."
    "Even so. We do not fight among ourselves."
    The pyramid of slime nodded eagerly. "That's right. Hear that, Faquarl? Listen and learn."
    "Especially," the great voice continued, "when the djinni is as pitiable as this. Look at him! A baby's burp could disperse his essence. You have been poorly treated, Bartimaeus. Together we shall locate your oppressor and devour his flesh."
    I glanced surreptitiously at my master, who was steadily backing away toward the door, shepherding Kitty with him.[5] "That's a generous offer, Lord Nouda."

[5] His treatment of her seemed. . . well, let's put it this way: it was hard to tell exactly how it was self-serving. No doubt there were ulterior motives aplenty, if you only knew where to look for them.

Faquarl looked a little peeved. "The problem," he said, "is that Bartimaeus does not approve of our scheme. He has already referred to my occupation of this vessel"—he pointed to Hopkins's chest and paused dramatically—-"as 'icky.'"
    "Well, look at you," I snapped. "Trapped inside a horrid—" I controlled myself, conscious again of Nouda's fearsome aura. "To be honest, Lord Nouda, I am not sure exactly what your scheme is. Faquarl has not explained fully."
    "That is easily remedied, little djinni." Nouda seemed aware that his jaw muscles were somehow associated with speaking. As he spoke, the mouth opened and closed at random, sometimes wide, sometimes not; in any event, it was entirely out of sync with his words. "For centuries we have suffered pain at human hands. Now it is our turn to impose that pain on them. Thanks to Faquarl, and to the foolish magician whose body I now wear, our chance has