Ptolemy's Gate

ordinaire. I'd seen this dismal view a thousand times—all that ever changed was the view out of the window.
    No, what was preoccupying me was the summoner herself, the so-called magician.
    Kitty Jones.
    There she was. Large as life and twice as confident, standing hands on hips with a grin as wide as the Nile estuary. Exactly as I'd portrayed her all those times while annoying Mandrake.[1] Her long dark hair had been chopped back level with her ears; perhaps her face was a little thinner than I remembered. But she looked in far better shape than when I'd last seen her, hobbling down the street after her triumph with the golem. How long had it been since then? Three years—no more. But time seemed to have passed differently for her, somehow: her eyes held the calmness of earned knowledge.[2]

    [1] Or almost so. I sometimes exaggerated the curves.

[2] Her outfit wasn't the issue for me right then, but for the completists among you this was her attire: she wore a black tunic and trouser combo, very fetching, if you were that way inclined. Her tunic was open at the throat; she wore no jewelry. Her feet were encased in big white trainers. How old was she now? Around eighteen, at a guess. I never thought to ask her, and now it's too late.

All very well. But still, she couldn't have summoned me. I knew this.
    The pocket demon shook its head. "It's a trick," I said slowly. I glanced about, my gaze probing the corners of the room with rapier-keen precision. "The real magician's here somewhere. . . hiding. . ."
    She grinned. "What, you think I'm concealing him up my sleeve?" She shook her arm somewhat unnecessarily. "Nope. Not there. Perhaps in your great age you're growing forgetful, Bartimaeus. You're the one who does the magic."
    I rewarded her with a suitably demonic scowl. "Say what you like, there's another pentacle close by. . . must be. . . I've seen this kind of stunt pulled before . . .Yes, behind that door, for instance." I pointed at the only exit.
    "There isn't."
    I folded my arms. All four of them. "That's where he is."
    She shook her head, almost laughing."I assure you he's not!"
    "Prove it! Go open it and show me."
    She laughed aloud. "Step out of my pentacle? So you can tear me limb from limb? Get real, Bartimaeus!"
    I masked my disappointment with a huffy face. "Tsk. That's a poor excuse. He's behind there for sure. Can't fool me."
    Her expressions had always been mercurial. Now they switched to one of boredom. "We're wasting time. Maybe this will convince you." She uttered a quick five-syllable word. A lilac-colored flame rose from the center of my pentacle and administered a swift jab in a private area. My ceiling-high leap distracted her from my whoop of pain—at least, that was my intention. By the time I landed again, the flame had vanished.
    She raised an eyebrow. "Now don't you think you should have worn a pair of trousers?"
    I looked at her long and deeply. "You're lucky," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, "that I decided not to reverse that Punitive Jab against you. I know your name, Ms. Jones. That gives me protection, or have your studies not taken you that far?"
    She shrugged. "I've heard something about that. I'm not interested in the details."
    "Again I say it: you're not a magician. Magicians are obsessed with details. That's what keeps them alive. I really don't know how you've survived all your other summonings."
    "What others? This is my first one solo."
    Despite its singed bottom, from which the odor of burned toast was gently wafting, the demon had been doing its best to appear in belated command of the situation. But this new information felled it once again.[3] Yet another plaintive question formed on my lips, but I let it drift away unspoken. There was little point. Whichever way I looked at it, nothing here made sense. So I tried a new and unfamiliar strategy, and stayed silent.

    [3] We fourth-level djinn are not the easiest of spirits to summon correctly, since we are fastidious and proper and keep a sharp ear out for any small errors in the incantations. For this reason, and because of our formidable intellect and overpowering presence (generally not involving the smell of burned toast), magicians avoid us until they have had a good deal of practice.

The girl seemed taken aback by this cunning approach. After a few seconds of waiting she realized that continuing our conversation was up to her. She drew a deep breath to settle her nerves and began to speak.