Ptolemy's Gate

room were plunged into darkness. Weird glints of a dozen colors emitted by the fighting djinn slid and spun across the walls. Ahead, a solitary wedge of light marked the way out to the corridor. I wrapped my cape of feathers close about me and was swallowed by the shadows.[4]

[4] My crow-headed guise was the totem of the tribe that lived between plain and forest. They valued the bird's stealth and secrecy, his intelligence and guile. The cape included feathers of every bird living in those parts: with their power absorbed into mine, I could walk unnoticed over grass and stone and also converse respectfully with the tribe's shaman, who wore a similar costume, complete with mask.

I hadn't got halfway across the dining room when all sounds of combat behind me ceased.
    I halted, hoping against hope to hear my colleagues' cries of triumph.
    No luck. The silence beat against my feathered head.
    I concentrated and really strained for a scrap of sound. . . Perhaps I strained too hard. I thought to imagine a soft noise, as of someone floating through the dark.
    I hastened on. No point trying to run—stealth was the key. I was in no state to contest with Faquarl, however eccentric his guise. I kept to the margins of the dining room, keeping well clear of the tables, chairs, and discarded cutlery. My cloak of shadows covered my bowed head; a yellow eye peeped out anxiously below a fringe of feathers. It checked behind.
    Through the arch leading to the kitchen came a patch of moving blackness; light glinted on something in its hand. I picked up the pace a little, and in so doing kicked against a teaspoon, which clinked against the wall.
    "Dear me, Bartimaeus," a familiar voice called. "You really are addled tonight. A human might be foiled by the dark, but / can see you as clear as noonday, skulking over there beneath those rags. Stop a while and talk with me. I've missed our little chats."
    Crow-head made no response, but hurried for the door.
    "Aren't you just a little curious?"The voice was nearer now. "I'd have thought you'd be dying to know about my choice of form."
    Sure, I was curious, but "dying to know" was exactly what I wasn't. I'm happy to indulge in snappy banter with the best of them, but chats are out when the alternative is escaping with my life. Mid-stride, the crow-headed man leaped forward, hands outstretched, as if diving into a swimming pool; his feathered cape swirled round him, flapped, became dark wings. The man was gone; a desperate crow darted forth, a feathered bolt making for the door—
    A sigh, a thud, a cawk of pain. The crow's progress was halted in a manner that brooked no argument, pierced through a wingtip and suspended beneath a shimmering flash that shuddered, vibrated, stilled—and became a meat cleaver embedded in the wall.
    With nonchalant leisure, the thing with the body of Mr. Hopkins drifted across the empty room. The crow awaited it, swinging gently, an indignant expression on its beak.
    Mr. Hopkins drew close. One shoulder of his suit was a little scorched, and he had a slight cut upon one cheek. Other than that he appeared uninjured. He hovered in the darkness a meter or so away, regarding me with a little smile. I guessed he was checking out my condition on the various planes; my weakness made me feel embarrassed, almost naked. I tapped the feathers of my free wing against the wall.
    "So go on then," I snapped. "Get it over with."
    A frown passed across the inexpressive face. "You want me to kill you already?"
    "Not that. The rubbish joke you're thinking up. About it being good of me to hang around, or something like that. Go on, you know you want to. Get it out of your system."
    The scholar looked pained. "As if I'd stoop so low, Bartimaeus. You judge me by your own subterranean standards of repartee, which are as regrettable as the condition of your essence. Look at you! As perforated as a sponge. If I were your master, I'd use you to mop the floor."
    I gave a groan. "That's probably on the agenda. I've done everything else."
    "I'm sure you have. Well, it is a sorry state of affairs to see any spirit brought so low, even one as frivolous and irritating as you. It almost moves me to pity." He scratched his nose. "Almost, but not quite."
    I searched the pale gray eyes. "It is you, isn't it?" I said.
    "Certainly it is."
    "But your essence . . .Where—?"
    "Right here, hidden away inside the body of our dear Mr. Hopkins. As you must have deduced, this is no mere guise!' Faquarl's