Ptolemy's Gate

surrounded!"
    The cyclops was standing astride a metal sink top, pointing. To his left, Mwamba blocked the space between two racks of pans, her scaly tail swishing idly to and fro, her long forked tongue flicking at the air. To his right, Hodge had hopped upon a chopping table, and was raising and lowering his poison spines with malevolent intent. All were staring fixedly at the far corner of the kitchen, where the fugitive had taken refuge. Behind .him was solid wall, no doors or windows. He had no chance of escape.
    Cormocodran and I took our places in the line. Ascobol glanced across at us. "The fool's refusing to come quietly," he hissed. "We need to scare him a bit. Hodge has done some pretty manic tittering, but he hasn't budged an inch. Come on, Bartimaeus—can't you manage something a little more fearsome? Pep up your guise."
    You might argue that a man who wasn't scared of a cyclops,
    a boar-headed warrior, a giant lizard, and a vicious-looking pangolin with the titters wouldn't be too fussed at one monster more or less, but I took the point. A Sheban diplomat isn't the most terrifying thing in the world. I rummaged through my inventory of guises and picked out one that used to awe the people of the plains well enough. The diplomat vanished. In his place stood a tall, sinister figure, hung about with a cape of feathers and animal bones; he had a man's body, but his head— sleek and black with eyes of yellow fire—was a savage crow's. The cruel beak opened, loosing a wicked caw upon the world. Assorted cutlery rattled across the kitchen.
    I bent my head toward Ascobol. "How's that?"
    "It'll have to do."
    As one, the five terrible djinn stepped closer to their prey.
    "You may as well put that thing down," Mwamba advised sternly. "We've got you trapped."
    Ah yes. That thing. I'd noticed it too. It was a certain kind of kitchen implement that Mr. Hopkins had picked up in self-defense. But far from holding it fearfully in front of him, as you might expect, he was toying with it in a manner unbefitting a scholar, tossing it up into the air with one hand and catching it nimbly between finger and thumb of the other. If it had been a tin-opener or a potato peeler, even a ladle or soup spoon, it wouldn't have bothered me so much. But it wasn't any of those things. It was a meat cleaver, and a large one too.
    Something about the way he wielded it rang a few faint bells.
    "Well, now," Mr. Hopkins said, smiling. "Here's a conundrum. Have you trapped me, or is it the other way around?"
    He gave a little kick of his legs as he said this, as if he were about to start dancing some horrible Celtic jig; instead of which he rose gently off the floor and hovered over us, grinning from ear to ear.
    This was unexpected. Even Hodge stopped his eager snickering. The others glanced at each other in astonishment. Not me, though. I was silent, frozen where I stood, an uncomfortable finger of ice traveling at leisure down my spine.
    I'd known the voice, you see. It wasn't that of any Mr. Hopkins. It wasn't even human.
    It was Faquarl's.

20

    " Er , chaps," I ventured. "I think we should go carefully here."
    From his position in midair Mr. Hopkins tossed the cleaver high; flashing as it spun, it arced around a ceiling light and landed handle-first back upon his outstretched finger. He caught my eye and winked.
    Ascobol was rattled, but he talked big to cover it. "So he can levitate," he snarled. "And do juggling tricks. So can half the starving fakirs of India, and I never ran from them. Come on. Remember, we've got to take him alive."
    With an unearthly cry, he leaped down from his sink top. The crow-headed man held out a hand of caution. "Wait!" I said. "Something's wrong here. His voice—"
    "You coward, Bartimaeus!" The pangolin loosed a volley of darts that pattered into the floor beside my feet. "You fear for what remains of your essence. Well, hop on the nearest chair and squeal. Four proper djinn can handle this man."
    "But that's just it," I protested. "I'm not sure this is a man. He's—"
    "Of course I am." Up on high, Mr. Hopkins tapped his chest proudly. "Planes one to seven, flesh and blood. Can't you see?" It was true. He was human whichever way you looked at it. But it was Faquarl who spoke.
    The giant lizard swung her tail in agitation; it caught against a cooker and sent it crashing on its side. "Hold on," Mwamba said. "What language are we speaking?"[1]

[1] In the heat of the moment we djinn sometimes lose track of