Ptolemy's Gate

voice gave a little chuckle. "What was that pathetic birdy getup you were wearing just now? Native American totem? So messy and antiquated. Well, I've gone beyond that sort of thing."
    "You're in his actual body?" I said. "Yeucch! That's icky. Who's done this to you, Faquarl? Who's your master?" I didn't understand this at all.
    "My master?" The hovering man shook with mirth. "Why, Mr. Hopkins, of course, and very grateful I am to him. So grateful that I think he and I will be working together for some little time to come." He burst into another rich and hearty laugh.[5] "Much has happened since last we met, Bartimaeus," he went on. "Do you remember how we parted?"

[5] Coming from a fairly senior djinni like Faquarl, this laughter was curiously unnerving. We higher spir its have our humor, of course, which we employ as a corrective to our endless years of servitude on Earth. Normally it falls into a certain category—dry, sardonic, and observational, perpetually amazed by the foibles of the magicians. We don't tend to fall about in hysterics—that's just not done. (I'm not talking about imps, of course, who seldom rise above recreational slapstick.) This being so, there was something oddly unrestrained about Faquarl's mirth here, something a little too involved.

"No." I did.
    "You set light to me, old friend. Struck a match and left me burning in a copse."
    The crow shifted uneasily beneath the cleaver. "That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland. . ."
    "Mmm. Well, you've been a slave to more humans than me, Bartimaeus. You'd know their ways if anyone would. Even so, it was a little painful. . ." He drifted closer.
    "You weren't too badly off," I protested. "I caught sight of you again a couple of days later, playing cook again in the Heddleham kitchen. Didn't seem too singed. What is it with you and kitchens, anyway? You're always hanging about in them." [6]

[6] This was true. Ever since the royal kitchens at Nineveh, circa 700 B.C., I'd been sent there by Babylonian magicians on a diplomatic mission, e.g. to slip arsenic into Sennacherib's food during a banquet. Unfortunately, Faquarl was employed by the Assyrian king to seek assassins: he took exception to my tasty calves'-fat trifle and chased me about the hall. After the mother of all food fights I felled him with a well-aimed ham bone and made good my escape. Our relationship had generally deteriorated from here.

Hopkins—or Faquarl—gave a nod. "Lots of nice sharp weapons in kitchens." He flicked the cleaver with a fingertip; blade and the crow quivered and pulsed. "Which is why I came down here just now. Also it's more roomy than that corridor upstairs. I needed space to swing my arms a little. . . Space is at a premium in this hotel. Mind you, my room does have a Jacuzzi."
    My head spun. "Wait a second," I said. "I know you as Faquarl of Sparta, scourge of the Aegean. I've seen you as a slate-black giant crushing hoplite armies beneath your heels. Now what are you? A pigeon-chested human who likes his bath. What's going on? How long have you been trapped like this?"
    "Just a couple of months. But I'm hardly trapped. The Ambassador is a very plush and exclusive establishment.
    Hopkins liked the good things in life, you see. Also it's out of reach of government spies, so I can come and go as I please. I saw no reason to change the arrangements."
    The crow rolled its eyes. "Not the hotel. I was talking about the body."
    A chuckle. "The answer's the same, Bartimaeus. It's only a few weeks since the good Mr. Hopkins—how shall I put it?— invited me in. It took a while to acclimatize, but I am now extremely comfortable. And despite appearances, my power is in no way reduced. As your friends have just found out." He grinned. "Haven't fed so heavily for a long time."
    "Yes, well." I coughed uncomfortably. "I hope you weren't thinking of doing the same with me. We go back a long way, you and I. A wonderful association; lots of shared experiences."
    Mr. Hopkins s eyes gleamed with merriment. "That's better, Bartimaeus. Your sense of humor is perking up. But in truth, I do not intend to devour you."
    The crow had been hanging from the cleaver in rather a woebegone manner. Now, with this unexpected news, it rallied. "You don't? Faquarl, you are a generous friend! I apologize for that incident in the copse, and for our fights over the Amulet, and for that Convulsion from