Ptolemy's Gate

magician closes his eyes and shuts his mind to all outside stimuli; then he inverts the basic summoning. His own true name is substituted for the demon's one, and all directions are reversed: 'to go' instead of 'to come' and so forth. Finally the name of a 'benevolent' demon—Ptolemy calls it the 'sponsor'—is called three times. The attention of this demon is necessary for an opening to be made. If all goes well, the magician separates from himself, the G ate opens, and he passes through. Ptolemy does not give details of how or where." He looked up. "Satisfied?"
    Kitty sniffed."I like your assumption that the magician must be male."
    "Look, I've told you the method. Listen, Kitty"—Mandrake cleared his throat—"I'm impressed with your initiative and bravery, really I am, but this is just impossible. Why do you suppose no one has followed in Ptolemy's footsteps? The Other Place is alien and terrible, a region removed from normal physical laws. It would harm you, maybe kill you. And Bartimaeus—even if you survived, even if you found him, even if he agreed to somehow help you—is just a djinni. His power is negligible compared to Nouda's. Your idea is noble, but the chances of success are absolutely minute." He coughed, and looked away. "Sorry."
    "That's all right." Kitty considered. "Your plan—the Staff. What are the chances of success there, would you say?"
    "Oh, I'd say they were . . ." He caught her eye, hesitated. "Absolutely minute."
    She grinned. "Exactly. And we probably won't get away from Nouda in the first place. But if we do . . ."
    "We both do what we can." He smiled at her then, for the first time. "Well, if you do try, I wish you luck."
    "Good luck to you too, Mr. Mandrake."
    A rattle of a key, a metal screeching: the bolt beyond the door being drawn.
    "You don't need to call me that," he said.
    "It's your name."
    "No. My name is Nathaniel."
    Without ceremony, the door was flung aside. Kitty and the magician stepped back; a figure stepped through, black-coated, implacable. The mercenary gave a flinty smile.
    "Your turn," he said.

26

    Curiously , Nathaniel's immediate sensation was one of relief. The mercenary, at least, was human. He spoke quickly. "You are alone?"
    The bearded man stood in the doorway and regarded him steadily with his pale blue eyes. He did not reply. Nathaniel took this as a yes. "Good," he said. "Then we have a chance. We must forget our differences and escape together."
    The mercenary remained silent. Nathaniel plowed on. "The demons are still slow and awkward. We will be able to slip out and organize defenses. I am a notable magician; somewhere near here other ministers lie bound—if we can release them we will be able to fight the invaders. Your, er, skills will be invaluable in the battles to come. Past murders and other atrocities will be discounted, I'm sure. There may even be a reward for your service. Come, sir—what do you say?"
    The mercenary gave a little smile. Nathaniel beamed back. "Lord Nouda," the mercenary said, "is waiting for you. We would do well not to be late." He stepped into the room; grasping Nathaniel and Kitty by the arms, he led them to the door.
    "Are you mad?" Kitty cried. "The demons threaten us all, and you willingly serve them?"
    At the doorway the mercenary paused. "Not willingly," he said in his deep, soft voice. "But I must be realistic. The demons' power waxes every moment. Before dawn all London will be in flames and those who oppose them will be dead. I wish to survive."
    Nathaniel squirmed in the iron grip. "The odds are against us, but we can prevail. Reconsider, before it is too late!"
    The bearded face bent close; the teeth were bared. "You have not seen what I have seen. Quentin Makepeace's body sits on the golden chair, hands clasped upon the plumpness of his belly. His face is smiling, smiling. One by one the magicians of your precious government are brought before him. Some he allows to pass—they go to the pentacle to receive a demon. To others he takes a liking. He beckons them. They approach his chair, helpless as rabbits; he leans forward . . ." The mercenary's jaw closed with a snap; Kitty and Nathaniel flinched. "Afterward he wipes his waistcoat and sits back smiling. And the demons around him howl like wolves."
    Nathaniel swallowed. "Not pleasant. Even so, with those boots of yours, surely you could—"
    "I see all seven planes," the mercenary said. "I see the power in that room. It would be suicidal to resist it.