Ptolemy's Gate

me, since it was within an altogether different prison! Now, I wanted you to see this, John, with the utmost urgency, because I trust you, just as you, I hope, trust me. And if—"
    "Please!"A plaintive cry from the figure in the chair."! can't bear it! Oh, it whispers! It drives me mad!"
    Mandrake flinched. "He is suffering. The demon must be dismissed."
    "Shortly, shortly. Probably he lacks the mental ability to constrain its voice—"
    The captive wriggled anew. "I'll tell you all I know! About the commoners, about our plans! I can give you information. . ."
    Makepeace made a face. "Tush, you can give us nothing that our spies don't already know. Cease your hollering. I have a headache."
    "No! I can tell you of the Commoners' Alliance! Of their ringleaders!"
    "We know them all—their names, their wives, their families. They are ants to be stepped on when we choose. Now—I have vital matters to discuss here—"
    "But—but you do not know this: a fighter from the old Resistance lives! She hides in London! I have seen her, hours ago! I can take you to the place—"
    "That is all ancient history." Mr. Makepeace took the iron spike from Mandrake's fingers and weighed it casually in his palm. "I am a patient man, Mr. Drew, but you begin to irk me. If you do not cease—"
    "Wait a moment." John Mandrake's voice had altered; its tone halted the playwright in his tracks. "What Resistance fighter is this? A woman?"
    "Yes! Yes, a girl! Her name is Kitty Jones, although she goes now by another name—Ah, will you stop your whispering!" He groaned and thrashed beneath his bonds.
    A faint rushing sounded in Mandrake's head. For a moment, he felt dizzy, as if he were about to fall. His mouth was dry. "Kitty Jones? You lie."
    "No! I swear it! Release me and I will take you to her."
    "Is this line of questioning really necessary?" Mr. Makepeace wore a petulant frown. "The Resistance is long defunct. Please concentrate on what I say, John. It is extremely important, especially in your current situation. John? John?"
    Mandrake did not hear him. He saw Bartimaeus, wearing the apparel of a dark-skinned boy. He saw him standing in a cobbled courtyard years before. He heard the boy speak. "The golem seized her. . . incinerated her in seconds'' Kitty Jones was dead. The djinni had told him so. Mandrake had believed him. And now, out of the past, the boy's sober expression suddenly shifted horribly into a leer of contempt.
    Mandrake leaned over the captive. "Where did you see her? Tell me, and you shall go free."
    "The Frog Inn, Chiswick! She works there! She has the name of Clara Bell. Now please—"
    "Quentin, be so good as to dismiss the demon and release this man immediately. I must depart."
    The playwright had become quiet, suddenly withdrawn. "Certainly, John. . . if you wish it. But will you not wait? I strongly advise you to listen to what I have to say. Forget the girl. There are more important things. I want to discuss this experiment—"
    "Later, Quentin, later." Mandrake was white-faced; he was already at the arch.
    "But where are you going? Not back to work?"
    Mandrake spoke through gritted teeth. "Hardly. I have a summoning of my own that I have to perform."

14

    Time , as I may have mentioned once or twice, does not really exist in the Other Place. Even so, you know full well when you're being shortchanged. And I had scarcely been reabsorbed by the nourishing energies of the maelstrom when I felt the cruel tug of a summons once again, sucking me out like yolk drawn from an egg, plunging me back upon the hard and bitter earth.
    Already. And my essence had hardly begun to heal.
    My last activities upon the material world had been so painful, so perilous to my essence, that I could barely remember them. But one thing was clear enough: my numbing, cursed weakness! How I—whose power scattered the magicians of Nimrud, who set the Barbary Coast aflame, who sent cruel Ammet, Koh, and Jabor spinning to their doom—how I, that same Bartimaeus, had been reduced to fleeing as a miserable, no-good frog, unable to trade the smallest Detonation with a gang of hireling herons.
    During the whole debacle I'd been too near death to truly feel the righteous anger that was my due. But I felt it now. My very being frothed with it.
    I could dimly recall my master dismissing me. Probably he disliked the mess I was making on his floor. Perhaps my decrepitude had embarrassed him at last. Well, whatever the reason, it hadn't taken him long to