Ptolemy's Gate

definitive list of all surviving djinn— existing records are so haphazard and contradictory. . . but as you have seen, I am not even dextrous enough to research my own collection, thanks to this impediment. . ." He shook a fist at his nonexistent leg.
    "Erm, how did it happen, sir?" Kitty ventured. "If you don't mind my asking."
    "My leg? " The old gentleman lowered his brows, glanced left and right, and looked up at Kitty. He spoke in a sinister whisper. "Marid."
    "A marid? But aren't they the most—?"
    "The most powerful type of commonly summoned demon. Correct." Mr. Button's smile was slightly smug. "I'm no slouch, my dear. Not that any of my colleagues" —he spoke the word with vehement distaste—"would admit as such, blast them. I'd like to see Rupert Devereaux or Carl Mortensen do as well." He sniffed, settled back into his sofa. "The irony of it was that I just wanted to ask it a few questions. Wasn't going to enslave it at all. Anyway, I'd forgotten to add a Tertiary Fettering; the thing broke out and had my leg off before the automatic Dismissal set in." He shook his head. "That's the penalty of curiosity, my dear. Well, I get by somehow. I'll find another assistant, if the Americans don't kill our entire population of young males."
    He took a tetchy bite of his spice cake. Even before he had swallowed, Kitty had made up her mind. "I'll help you out, sir."
    The old magician blinked at her. "You?"
    "Yes, sir. I'll be your assistant."
    "I'm sorry, my dear, but I thought you worked for Hyrnek's."
    "Oh, I do, sir, but only temporarily. I'm looking for other work. I'm very interested in books and magic, sir. Really I am. I've always wanted to learn about it."
    "Indeed. Do you speak Hebrew?"
    "No, sir."
    "Or Czech? Or French? Or Arabic?"
    "No, none of those, sir."
    "Indeed . . ." For a moment Mr. Button's face became less amiable, less courteous. He looked at her sidelong, out of half-shut eyes. "And the fact of the matter is, of course, that you are nothing but a commoners girl. . ."
    Kitty nodded brightly. "Yes, sir. But I've always believed that misfortunes of birth shouldn't stand in the way of talent. I'm energetic and quick, and nimble too." She gestured around the maze of dusty piles. "I'll be able to get hold of any book you like, fast as thinking. From the bottom of the farthest stack." She grinned, and took a sip of tea.
    The old man was rubbing his chin with small, plump fingers, muttering to himself. "A commoner's child. . . unvetted. . . it is highly unorthodox. . . in fact, the authorities expressly forbid it. But well, after all—why not?" He tittered to himself. "Why shouldn't I? They've seen fit to neglect me all these years. It would be an interesting experiment. . . and they'd never know, blast them." He looked at Kitty again, eyes narrowed. "You know I couldn't pay you anything."
    "That's all right, sir. I'm, erm, interested in knowledge for its own sake. I'll get other work. I could help you out whenever you needed it, part-time."
    "Very well, then, very well." Mr. Button extended a small pink hand. "We shall see how it works out. Neither of us has any contractual obligation to the other, you understand, and we are free to terminate the relationship at any time. Mind—if you are lazy or dishonest I shall raise a horla to shrivel you. But goodness, where are my manners? I've not yet asked your name."
    Kitty selected an identity. "Lizzie Temple, sir." "Well, Lizzie, very glad to have met you. I hope we shall get along well."
    And so they had. From the beginning Kitty made herself indispensable to Mr. Button. To start with, her chores were entirely concerned with navigating her way about his dark and cluttered house, accessing obscure books in distant stacks, and bringing them out to him unscathed. This was easier said than done. She frequently emerged into the lamplight of the magician's study wheezing and covered in dust, or bruised by a nasty book-fall, only to be told she had the wrong volume, or an incorrect edition, and be sent back to begin again. But Kitty stuck with it. Gradually she became adept at locating the volumes Mr. Button required; she began to recognize the names, the covers, the methods of binding employed by different printers in different cities a cross the centuries. For his part, the magician was highly satisfied: his helper spared him much inconvenience. So the months passed.
    Kitty took to asking brief questions about some of the works she helped locate. Sometimes