Ptolemy's Gate

term: a measurement of essence.

The magician had sprung into sudden action. Turning to face the other pentacles laid out on the floor, he cleared his throat and rubbed at his tired, red eyes. "I've got one chance, Bartimaeus," he said. "One chance and I'm going to take it. Tomorrow, my enemies will strike me down, unless I've something tangible to show them. And there will be few things more tangible than Mr. Hopkins, trussed and tied."
    He flexed his fingers, began an incantation. A cold wind whipped around my ankles. A melancholy howling filled the air. Honestly, effects like this were frowned upon in Uruk for being hackneyed and out of date.[7] You wouldn't see any modern magician leave the pentacle on account of that racket, unless they'd collapsed laughing. I shook my head grimly. No prizes for guessing who was coming.

[7] The last time I used that strong wind/disembodied howling gag was to distract the giant Humbaba up in the pine forests so that my master Gilgamesh could creep up from behind and slay him. We're talking 2600 B.C. here. And it only worked then because Humbaba was a few pinecones short of a fir tree.

Sure enough, with a noise like a cracked dinner gong, the blond-haired giant materialized in the next pentacle along. Instantly he set up a feeble torrent of pleading and complaint, which his master sensibly ignored. He hadn't seen me. I waited till he was on his knees, wringing his hands and begging for dismissal, then kind of coughed suavely. "Need a handkerchief, Ascobol? My feet are getting wet."
    The cyclops stood hurriedly, his face a flaming mask of shame and disapproval. "What's he doing here, sir?" he bleated. "I really don't think I can work with him."
    "Don't worry," I said. "I'm just watching you get your orders. After that I'm out of here. Aren't I,'sir'?"
    Mandrake ignored us both. He had continued with his incantations, directing his energy at the remaining pentacles in the room. Further cheap effects ensued—pops and bursting, squeaks and sounds of running feet, smells of egg, gunpowder, and methane. It was like a kids' birthday party. All we lacked were the silly hats.
    Within seconds the usual suspects had joined us, the rest of Mandrake's crowd. It was a mixed bag. First, and least, we had Ascobol, glowering at me between his braids; next up Gormocodran, a humorless cove, third level, who'd done time in Ireland during the Celtic twilight—he favored the guise of a man-boar, with tusks and trotters daubed with bright blue woad. Beyond him was Mwamba, a djinni who'd worked with the Abaluyia tribes of eastern Africa. I had a bit of time for her; she didn't indulge in the tedious comments of the others. Today, for reasons best known to herself, she appeared as a giant spiny lizard wearing leather thigh boots. At the far end, barely squeezing himself into his pentacle, was Hodge, all prickles, odors, and bad personality. The five of us had worked together frequently over the preceding months, but sadly none of the others shared my upbeat temperament.[8] We'd had friction, harsh words. Our relationship now could best be described as strained.

[8] Mwamba was as flighty as a butterfly, Cormocodran taciturn and brutish, while Ascobol and Hodge were just insufferable, being regrettably prone to sarcasm.

Mandrake wiped sweat from his forehead. "I have summoned you," he said, "for what I hope will be the final time." This stirred a bit of interest; there was shuffling, coughing, rasping of spines. "If you complete today's mission," he continued, "I will not call on any of you again. I hope this vow will be sufficient for you to carry out this charge to the letter."
    Cormocodran spoke; his voice rumbled between his tusks. "What is the charge?"
    "Staying at the Ambassador Hotel is a human named Hopkins. I wish you to arrest him and bring him here to this room. If I am absent, wait within the pentacles until I return. Hopkins is probably a magician—certainly he has allies who can raise low-level djinn, although from what we have seen they are unlikely to be powerful enough to trouble you. More dangerous than Hopkins is a tall, black-bearded man—not a magician, though he possesses the ability to withstand magical attack. This individual may or may not be present at the hotel. If he is, and you can capture or kill him, all well and good. But it is Hopkins that I need."
    "We shall want a description," Mwamba hissed. "And a good one. All you humans look alike to me."
    Ascobol nodded.