Ptolemy's Gate

still.
    Mwamba knocked again. There was movement within a circular panel in the center of the door. The wood grains shifted, rippling and contorting to form the faint outline of a face. It blinked sleepily and spoke in a squeaky, nasal voice. "The occupant of this room is out. Please return later."
    I stepped back and considered the base of the door. "It's pretty tight fitting. Think we could slip under there?"
    "Doubtful," Mwamba said. "Keyhole might be okay, if we changed to smoke."
    There was a titter from Ascobol. "Bartimaeus won't need to change. Look at his lower half—it's gaseous already."[5]

[5] Hurtful, coarse, but there was a grain of truth in it. I hadn't quite deteriorated as far as my condition with the frog, but with every passing minute my strength, and essence control, became a little less. I was a little fluid about the trousers.

Cormocodran was frowning down at his hulking torso. "I'm not sure I do smoke."
    The door guard had listened in with some concern. "The occupant of the room is out," it squeaked again. "Please do not attempt entrance. I will be forced to act."
    Ascobol stepped close. "What manner of spirit are you? An imp?"
    "Yes, sir. Indeed I am." The door guard seemed unfeasibly proud.
    "How many planes can you observe? Five? Very well—take a look at us on the fifth. What do you see? Well? Do you not tremble?"
    The face on the door had swallowed audibly. "A little, sir. . . But, if I may ask, what is that nebulous blot hovering on the right?"
    "That is Bartimaeus. Pay no attention to him. We others are ruthless and strong and demand to enter the room. What do you say?"
    A pause, a heavy sigh. "I am bound by a bond, sir. I must prevent you."
    Ascobol cursed. "Then you sign your death warrant. We are powerful djinn.You are a smudge of insignificance. What can you hope to do?"
    "I can sound the alarm, sir. Which is what I have just done."
    A faint popping, as of bubbles bursting in hot mud. The diplomats glanced left and right: along the corridor on either side a number of heads were rising from the carpet. Each head was oval like a rugby ball, smooth and shiny, beetle-black, with two pale eyes set closely near the base. Each popped free and rose into the air, trailing a writhing strip of tentacles.
    "We need to deal with this quickly, quietly, and neatly," Mwarnba said. "Hopkins can't know anything has happened."
    "Right."
    In a somewhat menacing silence the heads drifted in our direction.
    We didn't hang around to see what they planned to do. We acted, each one according to their specialty. Mwamba sprang at the wall, scrambled up it and onto the ceiling, from where she clung like a lizard, discharging Spasms at the nearest head. Hodge swelled from insect size in the blink of an eye, turned, and shook his skin, hurling innumerable poison darts toward the enemy. From Ascobol's shoulders feathered wings protruded; he rose into the air and fired a Detonation. Cormocodran became a man-boar. He lowered his tusks, rotated his massive shoulders, and charged into the fray. As for me, I nipped behind the nearest ornamental pot plant, erected what Shield I could and tried to look inconspicuous.[6]

[6] I'd have loved to take part in the fight. Loved to. Ordinarily I'd have been first in line to fight the squidy head things. But that wasn't my brief just then. I had precious little essence left to spill.

I'd vaguely wondered, as I rearranged the biggest leaves, what sort of threat the floating heads might pose. I soon discovered. As soon as one or two drew close, the heads tipped back, the tentacles drew apart, and tubes within squirted forth black sprays that deluged everything before them. Cormocodran was caught mid-charge; he let forth a bellow of pain—where it hit, the liquid burned his essence; it bubbled, spat, ate into his form. Even so, he was not done. He lunged with his tusks and sent a head crashing down the hall. Ascobol's Detonation caught another, exploded it in midair; black spray splashed against the walls, further coating the writhing Cormocodran and even pattering onto the topmost leaves of my trusty pot plant.
    Up on the ceiling, Mwamba sprang and dodged, avoiding all but the slightest smears of black. Her Spasms found their mark: here and there heads whirled and shook themselves apart. Hodge's poison darts had likewise speared a couple: they swelled, turned yellow, and sank to the carpet, where they became ichorous and faded.
    The heads put on a surprising turn of speed.