Ptolemy's Gate

which lingo we're using. When working together in this world, we tend to speak languages familiar to us all and not necessarily the one used by the civilization du jour.(There you go, you see.)

"Erm. . . Aramaic, why?"
    "Because he can speak it too."
    "So what? He's a scholar, ain't he?" In times of stress Ascobol could pulverize Semitic tongues.
    "Yes, but it seems a little odd . . ."
    Mr. Hopkins inspected his watch ostentatiously. "Look, I'm sorry to butt in," he called, "but I'm a busy man. I have some important business this evening, which concerns us all. If you lot clear off now, I'll spare you. Even Bartimaeus."
    Cormocodran had been resting his poorly essence against an eight-hob oven, but at these words he erupted into life. "You'll spare us?" he roared. "For that piece of impudence I shall gore you, and not gently!" He pawed the ground with a hoof and started forward. The other djinn followed his example; there was a general rattling of horns, spines, scales, and other armored bits. Mr. Hopkins chucked the cleaver casually to his right hand and spun it around his fingers.
    "Wait, you idiots!" the crow-man shouted."Didn't you hear? He knows me! He knows my name! This is—"
    "It's not like you to hold back on the edge of a battle, Bartimaeus," Mr. Hopkins called cheerily, dropping down toward the advancing djinn. "You're normally much farther away, cowering in a disused catacomb or something."
    "That catacomb incident has been grossly misrepresented!" I roared. "As I've explained countless times, I was guarding it against Rome's enemies, who might well have chosen—" I stopped right there. That was the proof. No human knew where I'd loitered during the barbarian invasion, and precious few spirits either.[2] In fact, I could only think of one djinni that still brought it up with metronomic regularity, whenever our paths crossed over the centuries. And sure enough, that one was—

[2] The foliots Frisp and Pollux had been present when I was discovered; they'd amused themselves afterward recounting the tale to imps of their acquaintance. Sadly, both foliots and imps were all soon killed in a variety of ways during the course of a single night: a bizarre coincidence, which quite wore me out.

"Stop!" I cried, hopping from side to side in agitation. "It's not Hopkins at all! I don't know how, but it's Faquarl, and he—"
    It was too late, of course. My companions were making far too many roars and rumbles for them to hear. Mind, I doubt they'd have stopped even if they had heard. Certainly Ascobol and Hodge, who had no respect for their elders or betters, would have carried on regardless. Maybe Mwarnba might have hesitated.
    But they didn't hear, and they all piled in.
    Well, it was four against one. Faquarl, armed only with a kitchen knife, versus four of the most ferocious djinn then at large in London. It was a hideous mismatch.
    I'd have helped my companions out if I'd thought it would make any difference.
    Instead, I stole carefully toward the door. Thing was, I knew Faquarl. He had a certain breezy confidence that came from being very good at what he did.[3]

[3] He wasn't like old Jabor had been, i.e. moronically strong to the point of indestructible. He wasn't like grim Tchue, who rarely needed to lift a finger to his enemies, so frightful and inventive were his words. No, Faquarl was an all-rounder—he had a practical take on survival that respected power and cunning equally. As of this moment, this was my view also: it was by cunningly respecting Faquarl's power that I intended to avoid being killed.

Very good, and very quick. Crow-head had just negotiated a rack of omelette pans and was slipping past the pastry cases when a shower of plates fell around his ears. Armor plates, that is, lately of the pangolin.
    They were followed a second or so later by one or two other things—some of which, I'm sorry to say, were recognizable.
    It was only when I reached the kitchen door that I risked a quick look back. At the far end of the room was a whirl of movement, flashes of light, sounds, and screams. Occasionally hands reached out from the vortex, grasped tables or small fridges and plunged with them back out of sight. Fragments of metal, wood, and essence hurtled outward periodically.
    Time to depart. Some djinn of my acquaintance let loose a billowing Fog to cover their tracks; others prefer to leave a noxious inky vapor or a few Illusions in their wake. Me, I hit the lights. Kitchen and dining