Ptolemy's Gate (12 page)

It was the third one, it
had
to be…. The entry was shortness itself, but Kitty felt a surge of excitement in her veins. A new master, a new possibility. Ptolemaeus … the name was quite familiar. She was sure she'd heard Mr. Button mention it; sure even that he owned books with it in the title …
Ptolemaeus.
She racked her brains—well, it would be easy enough to track down the reference, when she got back.

With fevered haste, Kitty noted down her findings in her jotter, snapped the elastic band around it, and shoved it into her tattered satchel. She gathered the books into an untidy pile, hoisted them into her arms, and returned them to the shelves. As she did so, the distant buzzer sounded in the foyer. The library was closing! And she'd
still
not got her master's books!

Time to move. But it was with a definite sense of triumph that Kitty sprinted down the corridor. Better look out, Bartimaeus, she thought as she ran. Better look out … I'm closing in on you.

8

T
he afternoon's Council meeting was even less satisfactory than John Mandrake had feared. It took place in the Hall of Statues at Westminster, a rectangular room built of pink-gray stone, with soaring medieval vaulting high above, and thickly layered Persian rugs covering the flagstones. In a dozen niches along the walls stood life-size statues of the great magicians of the past. There at the end, austere and forbidding, was Gladstone; opposite him, flamboyant in a frock coat, his deadly rival Disraeli. All the succeeding Prime Minister's were featured, together with other notables. Not every alcove yet contained a statue, but Mr. Devereaux, the current premier, had ordered the empty ones to be filled with sumptuous floral displays. It was guessed the vacant spaces reminded him of his own mortality.

Globes of imp-light drifted against the ceiling, illuminating—in the center of the room—a circular table of English oak, broad in diameter and polished to perfection by laboring imps. Around this sat the Council, the great ones of the Empire, toying with their pens and bottles of mineral water.

Mr. Devereaux had chosen a round table for reasons of diplomacy. Technically no one person took precedence over another—an admirable policy which had been undermined by his insistence on using a gigantic golden chair, ornately carved with swollen cherubs. Mr. Mortensen, the War Minister, had followed suit with an ostentatious seat of burnished redwood. Not to be outdone, Mr. Collins of the Home Office had responded with a monumental throne of emerald brocade, complete with perfumed tassels. So it went. Only John Mandrake and his erstwhile master Ms. Jessica Whitwell had resisted the temptation to somehow modify their seating.

The placing of each magician's chair was likewise subtly fought over, until the situation had stabilized to reflect the factions that were opening up in Council. Mr. Devereaux's two favorites sat beside him: John Mandrake, the Information Minister, and Jane Farrar of the police. Beyond Farrar sat Ms. Whitwell and Mr. Collins, who were known to be skeptical about the direction of the war. Beyond Mandrake were Mr. Mortensen and Ms. Malbindi of the Foreign Office: it was their policies that the government was currently following.

The meeting began inauspiciously with an advertisement. From a side room a giant crystal orb came rumbling on a wheeled platform. It was pulled by a slave-gang of implets, led by a foliot overseer wielding a horsehair whip. As they drew near the table, the foliot uttered a cry, the implets sprang to attention, and with the cracking of the whip vanished one after the other in clouds of colored steam. The crystal orb glowed pink, then orange; in its center appeared a broad and beaming face, which winked and spoke.

“Esteemed ladies and gentlemen of the Council! Let me remind you that we are only two days from the theatrical event of the decade, the society event of the year! Reserve your tickets now for the premiere of my latest work, based on the life of our beloved friend and leader, Mr. Rupert Devereaux! Get ready to laugh, cry, tap your feet, and sing along to the choruses of
From Wapping to Westminster: A Political Odyssey.
Bring your partners, bring your friends, and don't forget your handkerchiefs. I, Quentin Makepeace, promise you all a sensational night!”

The face faded; the orb went dark. The assembled ministers coughed and shuffled in their seats. “Dear God,” someone whispered. “It's a
musical.
”

Mr. Devereaux beamed around at them. “Quentin's sweet gesture is a
mite
unnecessary,” he said. “I'm sure you all already have your tickets.”

So they had. There was little option.

The day's business commenced. Mr. Mortensen gave a report of the latest news from America, brought by djinn across the ocean. It was sour fare: deadlock in the wilderness, minor skirmishes, nothing decisive gained. It had been so for weeks.

John Mandrake barely listened. The account was predictable and depressing; it only increased the frustration that boiled within him.
Everything
was out of control—the war, the commoners, the situation across the Empire. Something decisive needed to be done, and soon, if the nation was to be saved. And he knew what that something was. The Staff of Gladstone—a weapon of incredible power—lay useless in the vaults below that very chamber, begging to be brought out by anyone with the talent to use it. If wielded effectively, it would destroy the rebels, cow Britain's enemies, send the commoners scampering back to work. But it needed a magician of the strongest level to command it, and Devereaux was not that man. Hence—out of fear for his own position—he kept it safely locked away.

Would Mandrake have been able to use the Staff, given the opportunity? In all honesty, he didn't know. Perhaps. He was the strongest magician in the room, with the possible exception of Whitwell. Then again, three years before, when he had acquired the Staff on the government's behalf, he had tried to get it working, and had failed.

That knowledge, that frustrated ambition mixed with self-doubt, contributed to the listlessness which had lately come over him. Day to day, his job was futile—he was surrounded by squabbling fools, unable to improve the situation. The only glimmer of hope came from the hunt for the traitor Hopkins. Perhaps
there
he could make a breakthrough, achieve something tangible for once. Well, he would have to see what Bartimaeus found.

Mortensen droned on. Overcome by boredom, Mandrake made desultory notes on his pad. He sipped his water. He appraised his fellow Council members, one by one.

First: the Prime Minister, his hair streaked with gray, his face puffy and blotched with the strain of war. A heaviness hung about him; he seemed tentative and quavering in speech. Only when discussing theater would a trace of his old animation return, the infectious charisma that had so inspired Mandrake as a boy. At other times he was dangerously vindictive. Not long before, Mr. Collins's predecessor in the Home Office, a woman named Harknett, had spoken out against his policies. Six horlas had come for her that evening. Such events troubled Mandrake—it did not suggest the clear thinking worthy of a leader. Besides, it was morally unsound.

Beyond Devereaux sat Jane Farrar. Sensing his appraisal, she looked up and smiled; her eyes were conspiratorial. As he watched, she scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it across to him. It read:
HOPKINS. ANY NEWS
? He shook his head, mouthed, “Too soon,” made a rueful face, and turned his eyes to her neighbor.

The Security Minister, Jessica Whitwell, had endured several years out of favor; now she was steadily clawing it back. The reason was simple—she was too powerful to be ignored. She lived frugally, did not attempt to accumulate great wealth, and devoted her energies to enhancing the Security services. A number of recent raids had been annihilated thanks to her efforts. She was still bone-thin, her hair ghost-white and spiky. She and Mandrake regarded each other with respectful loathing.

To her left: Mr. Collins, the newest member of the Council. He was a fiery little man, swarthy, round-faced, eyes habitually bright with indignation. He had repeatedly emphasized the damage the wars were doing to the economy; prudently, however, he had stopped short of overtly demanding an end to hostilities.

On Mandrake's right was the war faction: first, Helen Malbindi, Foreign Minster. She was by nature meek and malleable, but the pressure of her current post had made her prone to outbursts of shrieking rage among her staff. Her nose was a good indicator of her mood: at times of stress it went white and bloodless. Mandrake held her in low esteem.

Carl Mortensen, the War Minister, stood beyond Malbindi, rounding up his report. For years his star had been in the ascendant; it had been he who most strongly advocated war upon America, he whose strategies had been most closely followed. His lank blond hair remained long (he had not deigned to crop it into military style) and he still spoke confidently of success. Nevertheless, his nails were bitten to the quick, and the other Council members watched him with the steady eyes of vultures.

“I remind you all that we must remain committed,” he said. “It is a crucial time.The rebels are running ragged. By contrast, we have barely tested our resources. We could maintain our presence there for at least another year.”

In his golden chair Mr. Devereaux ran a finger across a cherub's rump; he spoke softly. “A further year would not see you in this room, Carl.” He smiled up under hooded lids. “Unless you were incorporated into some kind of ornament.”

Mr. Collins tittered; Ms. Farrar smiled icily. Mandrake inspected his pen top.

Mr. Mortensen had blanched, but held the Prime Minister's gaze. “We will not need a year, of course. I used the term for illustration only.”

“A year, six months, six weeks—it is all one.” Ms. Whitwell was speaking angrily. “In the meantime our enemies across the world are taking advantage of us. There is talk of rebellion everywhere! The Empire is in ferment.”

Mortensen made a face. “You overstate this.”

Devereaux sighed. “What is
your
report, Jessica?”

She bowed stiffly. “Thank you, Rupert. Only last night three separate attacks occurred on our own soil! My men destroyed a Dutch raiding party off the Norfolk coast, while Collins's djinn had to repel an air attack over Southampton: we assume they were Spanish demons, do we not, Bruce?”

Mr. Collins nodded. “They wore yellow and orange tabards, decorated with the arms of Aragon. They sent Infernos raining down upon the city center.”

“Meanwhile
another
band of demons savaged a section of Kent,” Ms. Whitwell continued. “I believe Mr. Mandrake dealt with that.” She sniffed.

“I did,” John Mandrake said blandly. “The enemy force was destroyed, but we have no evidence where they came from.”

“A pity. “Whitwell's thin white fingers tapped a rhythm on the table. “Even so, the problem is clear: this is a European-wide phenomenon, and our main forces are not on hand to crush it.”

Mr. Devereaux nodded wearily. “Indeed, indeed. Does anyone else fancy a sweetmeat at this moment?” He looked around. “No? Then I shall venture one alone.” He coughed. A tall, gray shadow stepped from nowhere around his chair, and with spectral fingers laid a golden tray before him; it was piled high with yellow pies and pastries. The shadow withdrew. Devereaux selected a glazed doughnut. “Ah, excellent. Jane—pray give us the police's perspective on the domestic situation.”

Ms. Farrar adopted a languid pose that nevertheless displayed her figure to fine advantage. “Frankly, it is troubling. Not only do we have these raids, which are hard to deal with, but there is the matter of commoner disruption. More and more people are seemingly resistant to magical attacks. They see through illusions, observe our spies… Inspired by their example, strikes and demonstrations have been held. I regard this as potentially more important even than the war.”

The Prime Minister wiped fragments of sugar from his mouth. “Jane, Jane, we must not get distracted. Commoners can be dealt with in due time. They are restless
because
of the war.” He looked meaningfully at Mr. Mortensen.

Ms. Farrar inclined her head; a strand of hair fell attractively across her face. “It is your decision, of course, sir.”

Mr. Devereaux slapped a hand against his thigh. “It certainly is! And I decide that we shall now have a little break. Coffee and sweetmeats all round!”

The shadow returned; with varying degrees of reluctance, the ministers accepted their refreshments. Mandrake slouched over his cup, looking at Jane Farrar again. It was true that they were allies in Council: distrusted by the others, favored by Devereaux, they had long been thrown together. But that meant little. Such allegiances could change at the drop of a hat. As always, he found it hard to resolve her strong personal allure with the cool flintiness of her personality. He frowned; it was a curious fact that, despite his self-control, despite his belief in the virtues of magicians' rule, viewing someone like Farrar close up made him feel, deep down, uncertain, hesitant, clouded by unease. Still, she was very beautiful.