Ptolemy's Gate

wings to the vacated desk, where it proceeded to scan the register.
    The hotel manager was a small, amply padded lady of middle age. Her bone-gray hair was swept back and fixed in place by a piece of polished whalebone. She received her visitors with polite reserve. "You are from the Sheban Embassy?"
    I made a courteous bow. "That is correct, madam. Your perspicacity is beyond compare."
    "Well, the girl just told me. But I was not aware that Sheba was an independent state. I thought it was part of the Arabian Confederacy."
    I hesitated. "Erm, all that is about to change, madam. We are shortly to become self-governing. It is to celebrate this that our royal guests are coming."
    "I see. . . Dear me, self-government is a dangerous trend. I hope Sheba does not set an example to our empire. . .Well, I can certainly show you a typical room. This is a very prestigious hotel, as I'm sure you know—private and extremely exclusive. Its security sy stems have been authorized by government magicians. We have state-of-the-art door-guard demons for every room."
    "Is that so? Every single one?"
    "Yes. Excuse me—let me just get the appropriate key. I won't be a minute."
    The manager bustled swiftly away. At this the female diplomat turned to me. "You idiot, Bartimaeus," she hissed. "You swore Sheba still existed."
    "Well, it did last time I was out there."
    "Which was when, exactly?"
    "Five hundred years or so ago. . .Yes, all right. You needn't get all snippy."
    The hulking diplomat spoke in rumbling tones. "Hodge is taking his time."
    "Can he actually read?" I said. "That may have been the flaw in our plan."
    "Of course he can. Hush. She's coming back."
    "I have the key now, sirs, madam. If you would be so good . . ."
    The manager trotted along a dimly lit corridor, all oak panels, gilded mirrors, and unnecessary pots on stands, pointing out assorted arches. "That is the dining room in there. . . decorated in the Rococo style, with an original painting by Boucher; beyond are the kitchens. To our left is the grand lounge, the only room where one is permitted to use demons. Elsewhere we forbid their presence, since they are in general unhygienic, noisy, and a repellent nuisance. Particularly djinn. Did you speak, sir?"
    Cormocodran had uttered a croak of rage. He swallowed it down. "No, no."
    "Tell me," the manager continued, "is Sheba a magical society? I'm afraid I should know, but I have learned so little of other lands. One has so much to do to occupy oneself in one's own country, don't you think? It is hard to have much time for foreigners, particularly when so many of them are savages and anthropophagi. Here is the lift. We ascend to the second floor."
    Manager and diplomats entered the lift and turned to face the front. As the doors eased shut, a whirring sound was heard. Unnoticed by the manager, a noisome insect, all spines and strange emissions, slipped through the closing crack, flitted onto the sleeve of the Sheban woman and crawled up to her ear. It whispered briefly.
    She turned to me, mouthed the message: "Room twenty-three."
    I nodded. We had the information we required. The four Sheban diplomats glanced at each other. As one, they turned their heads slowly to look down at the diminutive manager, who was wittering away complacently about the delights of the hotel sauna, oblivious to the sudden change in atmosphere in the crowded lift.
    "We don't have to," I said in Arabic. "We could tie her up."
    "She might squeak," said the female diplomat. "And where would we put her?"
    "True."
    "Well, then."
    The old lift trundled on. It came to the second floor. The doors opened. Four Sheban diplomats stepped out, accompanied by a whirring insect. The biggest of the four was picking his teeth with a polished whalebone hair grip. He finished presently, stuck the whalebone in the soil of a voluminous pot plant outside the lift, and padded after the others down the silent hall.
    With the door to room twenty-three in sight, we halted once again.
    "What do we do?" Mwamba whispered.
    Ascobol made an impatient noise. "We knock. If he's there, we break down the door and get him. If not . . ." His flood of inspiration had wearied him; he ceased.
    "We get inside and wait." That was Hodge, buzzing around our heads.
    "The woman mentioned a door guard," I cautioned. "We'll have to deal with it."
    "How hard can that be?"
    The group of diplomats approached the door. Mwamba knocked. We waited, looking up and down the corridor. All was