Ptolemy's Gate

image scowled and vanished.
    The man with dark skin turned to walk away up his hill.
    Why do you molest us? he asked again, over his shoulder. You wound us with your presence. A flicker of lights; he too was gone.
    Jakob Hyrnek gave a rueful smile.
    Give up, magician. Forget yourself. You cannot get home in any case.
    I am not a magician.
    True. You are nothing now. A dozen coils enveloped him; he crackled and fizzed into a multitude of whirling shards that floated far away.
    Nothing. . . Kitty regarded her ball, which during her recent inattention had melted away like snow. Little flakes were fluttering off what remained of its surface; as if blown by a wind, they skipped and danced across to join the endless whirl about her. Well, it was true, of course—she was nothing: a being without substance, without anchorage. There wasn't any point in pretending otherwise.
    And they were right about another thing too: she didn't know how to get home.
    Her will faded. She allowed the sphere to dwindle; it spun like a top, streaming into nothing. She began to drift. . .
    Another image flickered into view at an indeterminate distance.
    Hello, Kitty.
    Get lost.
    And there I was thinking you were asking after me.

29

    For almost thirty seconds Nathaniel and the mercenary regarded each other silently across the chamber floor. Neither of them moved. The knife in the mercenary's hand was still; his empty hand hovered close beside his belt. Nathaniel watched intently, but without hope. He had seen how fast those hands could move. And he was quite defenseless. At their other meetings he had had Bartimaeus on his side.
    The mercenary spoke first. "I have come to take you back," he said. "The demon wishes to have you alive."
    Nathaniel said nothing. He didn't move. He was trying to think of a strategy, but his brain was stiff with fear; every thought moved with the creaking sluggishness of ice.
    "I believe several of the prospective hosts have been killed," the mercenary went on. "Nouda is keen to save as many young bodies as he can. Well? Or would you prefer a more honorable death? I can oblige."
    "We don't"—Nathaniel's voice was thick; his tongue felt too large for his mouth—"we don't have to fight at all."
    A rumbling laugh. "Fight? That implies some parity between us."
    "I have one slave left at my command," Nathaniel lied. "Think quickly, before he strikes. We can still work together against the enemy. It is in your interests too, you must see that; I will pay you well from the nation's treasury. I shall give you gold uncounted! I can make you a lord, give you lands, territories, whatever your black heart desires. Only you must fight alongside me. Here—in these vaults—are weapons we can use—"
    For answer the mercenary spat upon the chamber floor. "I want no lands or titles! My sect forbids such fripperies. Gold—yes! But that the demons will give me, if I serve them. And—Do not speak! I know your argument! So what if Nouda destroys all London—or all Europe, for that matter? He can burn the world for all I care! I have no faith in empires, ministers, or kings. Let chaos come! I shall flourish. So, what is your answer? Will you die here?"
    Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "My answer comes behind you on tiptoed feet. Kill him, Belazael! Strike him down!"
    As he shouted, he pointed back up the stairs. The mercenary ducked, whirled around in readiness, saw the stairs empty. Breathing a curse, he spun again, a silver disc now cupped in his hand, only to glimpse Nathaniel also turning, heading up the passage, into the vaults. His arm moved; the disc was gone—
    Nathaniel had twisted and tried to run in a single desperate movement. He lost his balance, tripped on a flagstones edge and fell—
    The silver disc flashed through the air, struck the wall above Nathaniel's falling head, ricocheted against the opposite side of the passage, and clattered to the floor.
    Nathaniel landed on hands and knees; he scrambled to his feet and, scooping up the silver disc, ran on. He snatched a glance behind him.
    In the distance the mercenary strode across the chamber floor toward the passage, his face heavy with irritation. He went unhurriedly; about his boots hung pulsing lights and smudges. His first step was three times an ordinary man's; with his second he was right at Nathaniel's back. He raised his knife. Nathaniel cried out, lurched to one side—
    From the stonework of the passage a gray shadow emerged, silent as smoke. A coiling limb