Ptolemy's Gate

to one and held in the other.
    What's the matter with you?
    Never. . . never flown before.
    This is nothing. You should try looping the loop on a carpet. That would really make you green. [4] Okay, enemy's coming in sight. Staff at the ready . . .

[4] It was an odd historical fact that the British magicians had no interest in magical flying, being inclined (wisely, it must be said) to trust to mechanical means instead. But other cultures had no qualms about fusing djinn with inanimate objects: the Persians went in for carpets; certain down-at-heel Europeans went by mortar and pestle. Venturesome Chinese magicians even tried their hand at riding clouds.

We soared up over the palm trees. Electric lights shone down upon us. All around stretched the great glass dome; beyond it was the greater dome of night. And there ahead—the open space, with huddled prisoners and spirit guards much as before. Perhaps there were slightly fewer prisoners this time; it was hard to tell. But surprisingly little had changed. The reason for this stood writhing on the roof of the carousel.
    Poor Nouda was having a terrible time with his host. Makepeace's body just wasn't up to scratch. From almost every surface, protuberances of one sort or another were zealously poking, carving the clothes to ribbons. There were horns, spines, wedges, flanges, wings, tentacles, and polyps of a dozen hues. Other bulges remained beneath the skin, deforming it into rippling crests and valleys, so that the human contours were almost entirely blurred. The old legs had been joined by three others, of varying stages of development. One arm seemed to have gained a second elbow joint—it swung to and fro in complex agitation. The face was contorted like a puffer fish's. Small barbs extended from the cheeks.[5] The eyes had disappeared in gouts of flame.

[5] N.B. I'm still talking about the face here.

The mouth, which now swept round from ear to ear, let out a piteous roaring. "The pain of it! All around me is the pinch of iron! Bring Faquarl here! Bring him here before me. His advice has been most—ah!— most unsatisfactory. I wish to reprimand him."
    The spirit in the body of Rupert Devereaux spoke cringingly from below. "We do not know where Faquarl is, Lord Nouda. He appears to have departed."
    "But I gave the strictest instructions—he is—ah!—to attend me while I feed! Oh—there is such an ache inside my belly— a void that must be quenched. Bolib, Caspar—bring me another brace of humans, that I might distract myself."
    It was at this moment that Nathaniel and I, flying down from on high, with the air buffeting against us and our coat billowing in our wake, shot three spirits with a triple blast. We did it so fast, so precisely, that the humans trembling nearby scarcely noticed they had gone.
    The other spirits looked up. The ceiling lights dazzled them: their retorts went wide, arcing out harmlessly beneath the glass. We swooped low. The Staff flared, once, twice—another two hybrids vanished. A turn—so sharp that Nathaniel was, for an instant, horizontal in the air; a sudden gut-churning drop as a Disembowelment flittered overhead. Another shot—this one missed the target. Caspar, the spirit with the unenviable fate of occupying Rufus Lime, had himself taken to the air. He climbed toward us, firing Detonations. We banked, flew behind a knot of trees; as we emerged above them, their canopy burst into livid flames. Below us, the humans were suddenly possessed by panic; they split in myriad directions. Out of the corner of our eye we saw Kitty and the magicians breaking from the trees.
    Up on the roof of the carousel Nouda was swaying from side to side in some annoyance. "What is this intrusion? Who besets us?"
    We flew past at a cheeky distance. "Bartimaeus here!" I called. "Remember me?"
    A sudden twist high toward the dome; Rupert Devereaux's body had risen to meet us—blue fire gusted from his hands. Nathaniel's thought protruded. THAT was your goading? "Remember me?" I could do better than that.
    I can't goad properly when I'm. . . concentrating on something else. We had risen almost to the ceiling glass; we saw stars glinting peacefully, far away. Then I dropped us vertically, like a stone. Devereaux's Spasm shattered the pane above; it arced out into the night. Nathaniel fired the Staff: it caught Devereaux a glancing blow upon the legs, setting them aflame. Tumbling and flailing, he spiraled down in a trail of smoke, plunged into