Ptolemy's Gate

self-doubt, contributed to the listlessness which had lately come over him. Day to day, his job was futile—he was surrounded by squabbling fools, unable to improve the situation. The only glimmer of hope came from the hunt for the traitor Hopkins. Perhaps there he could make a breakthrough, achieve something tangible for once. Well, he would have to see what Bartimaeus found.
    Mortensen droned on. Overcome by boredom, Mandrake made desultory notes on his pad. He sipped his water. He appraised his fellow Council members, one by one.
    First: the Prime Minister, his hair streaked with gray, his face puffy and blotched with the strain of war. A heaviness hung about him; he seemed tentative and quavering in speech. Only when discussing theater would a trace of his old animation return, the infectious charisma that had so inspired Mandrake as a boy. At other times he was dangerously vindictive. Not long before, Mr. Collins's predecessor in the Home Office, a woman named Harknett, had spoken out against his policies. Six horlas had come for her that evening. Such events troubled Mandrake—it did not suggest the clear thinking worthy of a leader. Besides, it was morally unsound.
    Beyond Devereaux sat Jane Farrar. Sensing his appraisal, she looked up and smiled; her eyes were conspiratorial. As he watched, she scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it across to him. It read: HOPKINS. ANY NEWS? He shook his head, mouthed, "Too soon," made a rueful face, and turned his eyes to her neighbor.
    The Security Minister, Jessica Whitwell, had endured several years out of favor; now she was steadily clawing it back. The reason was simple—she was too powerful to be ignored. She lived frugally, did not attempt to accumulate great wealth, and devoted her energies to enhancing the Security services. A number of recent raids had been annihilated thanks to her efforts. She was still bone-thin, her hair ghost-white and spiky. She and Mandrake regarded each other with respectful loathing.
    To her left: Mr. Collins, the newest member of the Council. He was a fiery little man, swarthy, round-faced, eyes habitually bright with indignation. He had repeatedly emphasized the damage the wars were doing to the economy; prudently, however, he had stopped short of overtly demanding an end to hostilities.
    On Mandrake's right was the war faction: first, Helen Malbindi, Foreign Minster. She was by nature meek and malleable, but the pressure of her current post had made her prone to outbursts of shrieking rage among her staff. Her nose was a good indicator of her mood: at times of stress it went white and bloodless. Mandrake held her in low esteem.
    Carl Mortensen, the War Minister, stood beyond Malbindi, rounding up his report. For years his star had been in the ascendant; it had been he who most strongly advocated war upon America, he whose strategies had been most closely followed. His lank blond hair remained long (he had not deigned to crop it into military style) and he still spoke confidently of success. Nevertheless, his nails were bitten to the quick, and the other Council members watched him with the steady eyes of vultures.
    "I remind you all that we must remain committed," he said. "It is a crucial time. The rebels are running ragged. By contrast, we have barely tested our resources. We could maintain our presence there for at least another year."
    In his golden chair Mr. Devereaux ran a finger across a cherub's rump; he spoke softly. "A further year would not see you in this room, Carl." He smiled up under hooded lids. "Unless you were incorporated into some kind of ornament."
    Mr. Collins tittered; Ms. Farrar smiled icily. Mandrake inspected his pen top.
    Mr. Mortensen had blanched, but held the Prime Minister's gaze. "We will not need a year, of course. I used the term for illustration only."
    "A year, six months, six weeks—it is all one." Ms. Whitwell was speaking angrily. "In the meantime our enemies across the world are taking advantage of us. There is talk of rebellion everywhere! The Empire is in ferment."
    Mortensen made a face. "You overstate this."
    Devereaux sighed. "What is your report, Jessica?"
    She bowed stiffly. "Thank you, Rupert. Only last night three separate attacks occurred on our own soil! My men destroyed a Dutch raiding party off the Norfolk coast, while Collins's djinn had to repel an air attack over Southampton: we assume they were Spanish demons, do we not, Bruce?"
    Mr. Collins nodded. "They wore