Ptolemy's Gate

that pile of invective?"
    She pursed her lips. "If so, it was a very small one. Now— you're a magician. But you've not got any slaves to hand? Not even any imps?"
    "No. All my slaves are dead. Except Bartimaeus. And he left us."
    "He saved our lives."
    Mandrake sighed. "Yes." He looked at Kitty intently. "And I don't think he did it for me. Why—?" His eyes widened suddenly. "Hold on, I do have this." He fished in his jacket and produced a metal disc. "You might recall it."
    Kitty's heart, having leaped with hope, descended leadenly. "Oh. Your scrying glass."
    "Yes. The imp within can observe and speak to third parties, but it cannot act. It cannot free us, or the other magicians—" He broke off, thinking hard.
    "Observation might be useful . . ." Kitty couldn't hide her doubt. "Providing you can trust what it says. It's a slave. Why should it speak truthfully after all its ill treatment?"
    "Compared to most, I am a kind and sensitive master. I never—" He made an impatient noise. "Oh, this is ridiculous. Bickering will get us nowhere. Let's see what the demons are doing."
    He raised the disc and waved a hand across its surface. Kitty moved closer, fascinated despite herself. The polished bronze surface seemed to ripple; a round shape formed, hazy and remote, as if deep down underwater. It swelled, drew close, became a sweet little baby's face, contorted into an expression of the purest woe.
    "Not again, master!" the baby whimpered. "I beg you! Do not punish me again with the cruel Stipples or the Infernal Coals! I will do my best, I swear! Ah, but I must accept your harsh justice, your stern discipline. What choice have I, alas. . . ?" It finished with a pathetic, lingering sniffle.
    Mandrake glanced furtively at Kitty. "So . . ." she said grimly. " 'A kind and sensitive master . . .'"
    "Ah! No! He exaggerates! He excels in melodrama!"
    "That poor, innocent little babe—"
    "Do not be misled. He is a hellish, vile—oh, what's the use? Imp! In a hall close to here you will find several potent entities, masquerading in the bodies of men and women. What are they doing? Observe and do not linger, or they will seize you and place you on a griddle. Next, and still within this building, locate the government magicians. Are they alive or dead? What condition are they in? Could we communicate with them? Finally observe the situation on the Whitehall streets. Are government forces anywhere to be seen? That is enough. Be off with you."
    A plaintive cry; the disc went blank. Kitty shook her head sourly. "How can you claim any moral authority, when you keep such a thing imprisoned? It's pure hypocrisy."
    Mandrake scowled. "Never mind that now. You wanted me to act. I'm acting." There was a new urgency about him; he paced the room. "The demons are formidable, particularly Nouda. . . it is a marid, or stronger. Once it learns to control the body, its power will be terrible. How can we oppose it? If the government were freed, we might summon enough djinn to destroy it But the government is captive. So what remains?" He glanced at the scrying glass; all was still within it. "There is one possibility," he went on, "but the odds against it are excessive."
    "What?"
    "Gladstone's Staff is in this building. It would be a match for Nouda. But it is magically guarded. I'd have to find a way to get to it."
    "And evade Nouda first," Kitty said.
    "And then there's the little question of whether I'd have the strength to use it."
    "Yes. You didn't last time."
    "All right. I know. I am stronger than then. But I'm also tired." He took up the disc again. "Where is that imp?"
    "Probably dead in a ditch from ill treatment. Mandrake," Kitty said, "do you know of the magician Ptolemaeus?"
    He frowned. "Of course. But how have you—?"
    "And his Apocrypha? You have heard of that?"
    "Yes, yes. It is on my shelf. So—"
    "What is Ptolemy's Gate?"
    He regarded her blankly. "Ptolemy's Gate? Kitty, that is a question for scholars and magicians, hardly for commoners. Why do you ask?"
    "Simple," she said. "Because I can't read ancient Greek." She put her hand in her tattered coat and drew out Mr. Button's book. "If I could, I'd have found out for myself. You, I assume, with all-your privileges, can and have. What is this Gate? How does one get to the Other Place? And stop asking me questions; we haven't time."
    Mandrake reached out and took the small, slim volume, slightly scorched where the Inferno had struck. Handing her the blank bronze disc, he