Ptolemy's Gate

he is. Also, discover what they're up to. If you succeed, I'll—oh, blast it." The telephone on his desk had rung. He picked up the receiver. "Yes? Oh—hello, Makepeace." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, yes, I'd love to drop by, love to, but I can't right now. I'm off to Council shortly—in fact I'm late already.. . .What's it about? Hmm, hmm, very mysterious. Maybe later this—All right, I'll try. See you then." He thumped the phone down. "Got to go, Piper. I'll finish the Boston siege story over lunch. Send it to you by imp later, all right? We can get it printed for the evening fairs." He was standing up now, stuffing papers into a briefcase. "Anything else you need to know, Bartimaeus? I don't mean excuses or whinges; haven't time for them."
    My version of Kitty gritted her teeth. "What about back-up? If I get to this Hopkins, there'll be more than an imp guarding him."
    "He's just a scholar, Bartimaeus. But even if he's got defenses, we don't want you to wade in. I can send Cormocodran and the others to deal with him presently, and Ms. Farrar's got a lot of police on standby. Just report in to me when you've got the information. I'll give you an open-door injunction: you can return to me whenever you're ready."
    "Where will you be?"
    "Westminster Hall this afternoon; Devereaux's mansion at Richmond through the evening. Tonight, my house." His briefcase clipped shut; he was eager to depart.
    "Where is Jenkins to be found now?"
    "Internal Affairs building, sixteen Whitehall. Office at the back. He's a diminutive, ginger-haired little twerp. Anything else on your mind?"
    "You wouldn't want to hear it."
    "No doubt. One last point, Bartimaeus," he said. "I've given you my word, but you might encourage me to keep it if you drop that particular guise." He looked at me then, head-on— almost for the first time. "Think about it." He made a complex sign: the bonds that kept me imprisoned in the circle wrapped themselves about me, spun in opposite directions, and sent me spiraling out into the world.

7

    Bartimaeus: By-name of the demon Sakhr al-Jinni, mentioned in Procopius and Michelot. A middle-ranking djinni of ancient standing, great ingenuity, and no little power. First recorded in Uruk; later in Jerusalem. Fought at the battle of al-Arish against the Assyrians. Known masters have included: Gilgamesh, Solomon, Zarbustibal, Heraclius, Hauser.

Bartimaeus's other names of power include: N'gorso, Necho, Rekhyt.

Linnaean ranking: 6, dangerous. Still extant.

Kitty lowered the book into her lap and stared out of the bus window. From her place on the upper deck she could see the sinews and tendons of the magicians' rule running up and down the London streets. Night Police strolled among pedestrians, vigilance spheres drifted on every corner, small swift points of light passed far above in the afternoon sky. Ordinary people went about their business, keeping their eyes carefully averted from the watchers all around. Kitty sighed. Even with its armies in action far away, the government's power was too complete, too obvious to allow dissent. Commoners alone could do nothing, that much was clear. They needed assistance of a different kind.
    She glanced back down at Trismegistus's Manual, screwed up her eyes at the small crabbed typeface and reread the passage for the umpteenth time. The names Necho and Rekhyt were new to her, but the rest was drearily familiar. The meager list of masters, for instance. Though nothing much was known about the faces of Gilgamesh or Solomon, they were certainly adult kings. Heraclius was a magician-emperor—a warrior, not a child. As for Zarbustibal, she'd located a description of him months ago in an old inventory of Arabian masters: he was renowned about the Red Sea for his hook nose and protruding warts. Hauser had been youthful, right enough, but he was north European, fair and freckled—an engraving in one of Mr. Button's books had told her so. Not one of them could have been the dark-haired, dark-skinned boy whose guise Bartimaeus was fond of using.
    Kitty shook her head, shut the book, and dropped it into her bag. She was probably just wasting time. She should forget her hunch and make the summons anyway.
    Lunchtime had come and gone, and the bus was crowded with men and women returning to work. Some spoke together in hushed tones; others, worn-out already, dozed and nodded. A man sitting across the aisle from Kitty was reading the latest installment of Real War Stories,