Ptolemy's Gate

long, which is to your advantage. Ptolemy stayed far longer, asking questions, always asking questions. He was here twice the time that you have been. But . . .
    But? Come on.
    The mannequin leaped forward, arms outstretched, head thrust out aggressively. The boy stepped back to the final step, teetering on the edge of the void.
    Don't you see how good you're becoming at maneuvering that thing? You were hopeless at first. Already you're forgetting your earthly ties. When Ptolemy got back, he'd forgotten almost everything. He couldn't walk, could barely use his limbs. . . Took him all his strength even to summon me a gain.And that's not all. While you're here, back on Earth your body's busy dying. Can't really blame it, can you? It's been abandoned. Better get back fast, Kitty. Better get back fast.
    — But how? She whispered. I don't know how.
    Fear flooded her; her mannequin, her bubble-headed creature, stood disconsolate on the step. The boy smiled, stepped forward and kissed it on the forehead.
    That's easy, Bartimaeus said. The Gate's still open. I can dismiss you. Relax. Work's over. You've done your bit.
    He stepped away. The mannequin, the boy, and the pillared hall exploded into wisps and trails. Kitty burst across the maelstrom of the Other Place, among the lights and whirling colors. She drifted, drifted. All around her was the weightlessness of death.

PART FIVE

    Alexandria: 124 B.C.

    A hop, a limp—we fell up the steps between the columns. Ahead of us, a door of bronze, green with age. I shoved it open, pitched forward into the sanctuary of the god. Cool, dank air, no windows. I pushed the door shut and slammed fast an ancient bolt. Even as I did so, something collided against the other side.
    I put a Seal upon the door for neatness' sake, then sent a Wisp-light flaring against the ceiling, where it hummed and flickered with a pinkish glow. At the end of the room a metal statue of a bearded cove looked at us with grave disapproval. Beyond the door, and all around the sanctuary, came the thwack of leather wings.
    I laid my master beneath the Wisp-light and bent my muzzle close. His breathing came erratically. Blood seeped against his clothes. His ravaged face, all weals and wrinkles like an ancient fruit, was bleached of color.
    His eyes opened; he raised himself on one arm. "Steady," I said. "Save your strength."
    "I don't need to, Bartimaeus," he said, using my true name. "Not anymore."
    The lion gave a growl. "None of that talk," I said. "This is called tactics. We're having a rest. I 'll break us out of here in a minute."
    He coughed. Blood came up. "To be honest, I don't think I could take another of your flights."
    "Oh, go on. It'll be even more interesting with just one wing. Think you could flap an arm?"
    "No. What happened?"
    "It was this stupid mane! I didn't see that djinni coming from the side. He ambushed us; got me with a Detonation! That's the last time I wear one as bushy as this."
    There was a small grating up near the top of the old smooth wall. Several shadows wheeled across its strips of light. Something heavy landed on the roof above.
    Ptolemy cursed softly under his breath. The lion frowned. "What?"
    "Back at the market. I dropped the parchment. My notes on the Other Place."
    I sighed. I could sense the movement all around, the click-clack of claw on stone, the small skitterings of scales across the roof tiles; I could hear the whisperings in Latin. I visualized them, clinging to every surface of the building like giant flies. "That's unfortunate," I said, "but it's not our main concern."
    "I've not finished my account," he whispered. "Nothing's left in my rooms but fragments."
    "Ptolemy, it doesn't matter."
    "But it does! This was going to make things different. It was going to change the way magicians worked. It was going to end your slavery."
    The lion looked down at him. "Let's be frank," I said. "My slavery—and my life—are going to end in. . . oh, approximately two minutes."
    He frowned. "Not so, Bartimaeus."
    The walls echoed to the muffled sound of blows. "Yes so."
    "I can't get out, but you can."
    "With this wing? You must be—Ah. . . I see." The lion shook its head. "Not a chance."
    "I'm technically your master, don't forget. I say you can go. I say you will go."
    By way of reply, I rose, stood in the center of the little temple, and let out a roar of defiance. The building shook; for a couple of seconds afterward all activity outside was stilled. Then it