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“It never pays a djinni to get close to people. Never. Take it from one who knows.”
– Bartimeaus, The Golem’s Eye
Alexandria: 125 B.C.
The dark-skinned boy in the loincloth and wrap sat on the floor of the tiled chamber, scribbling away on tablets. A soft autumn breeze blew through the window, ruffling the feathers of the great golden bird that sat on the sill, eagle eyes trained on the gardens outside, missing nothing. The boy shifted on his cushion, easing cramps in his thin legs, while nearby a burly guard transferred his spear from one hand to the other.
I was bored.
Since the nighttime attack a few weeks back, Ptolemy’s assassination attempts on my master had tapered off, as if the steam had gone out of his rage, but I knew better. The prince was just regrouping, and probably frightened. I couldn’t blame him. His last assassins had been the best money could buy, trained as killers from birth, and I had made short work of them.[1] He wouldn’t stop trying though, I was sure of that. It was just a matter of waiting. Waiting is not something I do well. And despite my confidence that I and Ptolemy’s other djinn could handle whatever came, I feared for his safety.[2]
Still, I would wait. I was Bartimeaus of Uruk, Sakhr al-Jinni. My enemies had learned to fear me, and whatever the fool sent against us next, I would be ready. Nothing could have surprised me at that moment.
“Rekhyt,” the boy on the floor said. “Tell me about love in the Other Place.”
“Eh??” My bird feathers fluffed as I started.
“Love.” Ptolemy repeated. “Friendship, trust, anger, grief, sadness. Do such things exist where you come from?”
“How exactly is this relevant?” I asked, shifting my clawed feet. “Affa,” I said crossly, “your feelers are sticking out.”
The burly guard uttered an inhuman hrrumph, and smoothed the bumps that had begun to emerge from its spine.
“It is extremely relevant,” my master continued. “If I am build trust between my species and yours, then I must understand the fundamental natures of both.”
I grunted. “You know my thoughts on that.”
“I do, Rekhyt, and the argument is old and dry. Why don’t we pretend, then, that we’ve had it and skip ahead to your answer?”
I flapped my wings once and considered his question. “Emotions are a human construct,” I said eventually. “We experience them as part of the parameters of entering this world, much as our essences are forced into physical shape. As I’ve mentioned before, spirits are not separate in the Other Place. We’re all one. A great, chaotic, tumbling mass. There is no separation, no personality, no individuality.”
“And how does that feel?” he asked.
“Feel?” This was a bit much. I had accepted by then that Ptolemy was unique among my masters, but in my millennia of servitude, it was an extreme rarity for any master to ask what I thought, let alone for my feelings. It was as if the boy had sprouted a daisy out of his forehead.[3] Still, he looked at me expectantly.
“Um. It feels…great.” I bird-shrugged. “It’s...an incredible freedom,” I said, getting more comfortable. “The confines of your world are nonexistent there. Here, you humans are always doing things. There’s constant conflict, struggle, emnity, even just to survive. There, you just are. No fuss. And there’s no pain. The Other Place restores our essence, much as this place drains it. It feels…peaceful.”
“Fascinating,” Ptolemy said, pressing his stylus to his lips. “Peace coming in the form of unity, and the suspension of the individual self and its desires. That sounds very much like what we strive for on earth in love, Rekhyt – to become a part of something greater than ourselves. Even the physical act of it tends towards the same theme.”
“Now hold on,” I protested, hopping. “You know I am happy to answer your questions, master, but you will have to stipple me before I will discuss anything related to the farcical squelching you people do to procreate. That is not in my job description.”
“I wouldn’t dream of offending your tender sensibilities, Rekhyt,” Ptolemy said, not pausing from his note taking.
“Tender-!” I coughed. “I have seen more debauchery in my day than you have hairs sonny!”[4] I settled, somewhat embarrassed. I almost never spoke to Ptolemy this way; my respect for him was too great. “And how would you even know?” I continued. “Have you ever even talked to a girl who wasn’t family?”
“I’m afraid my interests lie elsewhere, Rekhyt.” I was about to ask what he meant, when he continued. “One of my academic predecessors once fancied that early human beings were actually born as doubles – great globular beings with four arms, four legs, and two faces.”
“Sounds like one or two afrits I know.”
“Quite right,” he continued. “There is general speculation that his notions came from the Greeks’ early experiences with barbarian djinn.”[5] He paused. “The myth is,” he continued, “that the god Zeus commanded the creatures to be split in half, to diminish their power and humble them. From thenceforth all human beings sought the completion of a self that was once whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole was called love.” He eyed me sidelong.
“I think his suppositions were incomplete, however, Rekhyt. Perhaps we do all seek to be whole with another being, and in finding that union we become happy, but if that is true, isn’t the logical conclusion that being whole with everything, everyone, is the ultimate happiness? The ultimate freedom? Perhaps that is what the Other Place represents.” He chewed the end of the stylus.
“I suspect that your world and mine are the mirror of each other Rekhyt, embodying opposite ideas. Order and chaos, form and shapelessness, separation and unity – individuality and individuation.”
I had nothing to say to all this. Philosophy was never my forte.
Ptolemy finally looked up at me.
“If that is true, then our worlds have much to learn from each other, and it is all the more important that I complete my work. We human beings, so desperate in our separateness that we stoop to our baser instincts, may learn much from a world that embodies all it means to be whole. And spirits may, by the same token, learn some of the joys of identity, of structure, of an outside perspective.” He smiled. “You would not have so many achievements to crow about without this world, after all, Rekhyt, nor the desire to expound on them.”
“Rubbish,” I said. “I am the pinnacle of modesty.”
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed in the outer hall, and I heard Penrenutet’s roar of challenge. I shifted into the form of a human guard brandishing a spear and circular shield, while Affa moved to the door.
“Back to baser instincts then?” I inquired.
“Indeed,” he said, gathering up his tablets irritably. “See you at dinner.”
1
Kitty
The sun beat down hot and stifling, heat rising in plumes from the white paving stones. Peeking out from beneath her wide-brimmed hat, Kitty picked her way carefully through marketplace of Alexandria, keeping tight hold of her bag while the mass of shoppers, merchants, tourists, hawkers, and entertainers of every sort thronged around her.
She had never seen so many people cramped into so small a space. The variety and chaos of the crowd amazed her, as well as the way and the way nobody seemed to look out for anyone else. People of all classes flowed past each other, shoving and jostling as if completely unafraid of giving offense. Having never left England until a few months ago, Kitty was accustomed to the gaudy but groomed style of London under the magicians’ rule.
Of course, she reminded herself, that was all changing now, or was in the process thereof. Since Quentin Makepeace’s attempted overthrow of the British government and the disastrous carnage caused by the demon-magician hybrids after the summoned spirits consumed their masters’ minds and enacted their own plans of vengeance for thousands of years of servitude, an interim government had been set in place combining, for the first time, commoners and magicians. Naturally, progress was slow and haphazard, and every detail brooked argument, particularly those concerning the government’s future. But for the most part, the leaders existed in a sort of mutually distasteful peace, and debate remained – for now – limited to angry words and a few workers’ strikes. Still, Kitty thought with a wry smile, so it was with change. She had an assured if inexplicable faith in the ministers of the interim government to move things forward. By the same token, she was happy to be well out of it. Her role in that part of things was finished.
A mission-bent woman brandishing a caged chicken pushed Kitty roughly aside to reach the stall behind her. Kitty stumbled and shook her head. Even the teeming stalls in Trafalgar square, full of their plastic tourist souvenirs, boxed magical paraphernalia, and piles of goods alternately purchased and stolen from every country the Empire could reach, could not compare to the dusty, close-cramped chaos of Alexandria. The seaport marketplace assaulted her senses in every way possible. Scents of a hundred spices, perfumes, and incents trickled into her nose, mixed with those of cooked meat, manure, and the urine that lined the walls of the alley into which the stalls were wedged. Colors from tailor’s stalls shone brightly in the sun, accented by glints off of metal ornaments and jewelry on both merchants and buyers alike. Musicians banged drums and played pipes to varying degrees of mediocrity, while farmers led bellowing oxen and bleating goats through the throng for inspection. The heated arguments of haggling patrons and sellers drifted above the cacophony and mixed with the cries of merchants announcing their wares and the odd soap-box individuals crying out in languages she could not understand.
Kitty had never seen anything like it. It was a bizarre mix of life and decay, old and new, existing in some strange tandem. Alexandria had once been the jewel of multiple ancient and impressive empires, advanced and civilized, famous for its learning, architecture, culture, and military prowess. Now starlings nested where skilled craftsman had once labored, and lewd graffiti shared space with weathered hieroglyphs. It was enough confusion to intimidate anyone unused to it.
Of course, the heat didn’t help. Kitty wiped her forehead with her linen sleeve, already soaked with sweat from the afternoon’s stroll. As she did, the back of her hand brushed the lined, weathered skin of her face and briefly confused her.
Kitty sighed. She still wasn’t quite used to the dramatic change in her features since she had followed Bartimaeus to the Other Place almost six months ago. The continual fatigue in her muscles was difficult to forget, yet somehow it was harder to grasp that her skin and hair more closely resembled a woman of fifty years, rather than her spare nineteen. She recalled Jakob’s surprise at her altered features two months ago when she had finally visited him Bruges. She had joked that it simply now rendered them equal, that it was only fair she share some facial distortion, since her resilience had protected her from the Black Tumbler that had forever scarred Jakob’s face in black and grey lines when they were children. This had elicited a small smile from him, but she’d had a hard time dodging questions about how it had happened. Like most commoners, Jakob and his family feared demons and their ilk – quite understandably in most cases. She simply couldn’t explain to him that she had researched for three years how to summon Bartimaeus, and even less that she had willingly departed her body in order to meet him in his own world.
Bartimaeus. Kitty’s mind drifted down familiar paths. Bartimaeus, Ptolemy, the Other Place, humans and djinn working together, the fall of Nouda the demon and his hybrids…Nathaniel. No, she couldn’t think about Nathaniel. Kitty’s eyes prickled briefly, but no tears came. She hadn’t shed a single tear since that day. She thought about the last time she had seen Bartimaeus, in Brughes, two months ago – and scowled. That was no good. She was on her own. Kitty squared her shoulders and prepared to push through the throng.
“Lady!” a crackled voice yelled. “Buy a fig lady? Juicy fresh figs, nonna yer wrinkled dry bits here.” Kitty turned. A tanned old woman, about seventy to guess, with tangled white hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a brown sarong, stood by a stall of fruit that roasted in the noonday heat. Flies buzzed over the contents. The woman grinned toothlessly. “Looks like you could use some juice to unpucker that face, dearie. Come have a look at my fruits.”
“Your fruits are rotting,” Kitty pointed out.
“Adds to the flavor! A wine then? Pre-rotted for you, no charge, an’ the flies come discounted.”
“I prefer my meat cooked, thank you,” Kitty said, hoisting her bag and half turning. The woman cackled.
“How about a cool cup of water then luvie? You look half cooked yourself. An’ that’s for free. Us biddies oughter stick together, doncha think?”
Kitty hesitated. She knew it was unwise to trust anyone in this teeming mass, but the woman intrigued her. Most of the merchants barked at her in heavily accented or broken English, but this voice had an unmistakable if slightly archaic London accent. She paused, and then shrugged. “To tell the truth, I’d be grateful,” she said, “and I need to sit down.”
The crone dragged a pair of stools into the shallow but shaded space under the stall’s roof and produced a clay pitcher and two cups. After subtly checking to make sure her knives were in place and her valuables tucked safely way, Kitty ducked under the awning.
“Got no chairs for civilized folk, but we can pretend eh?” The woman poured water into one of the cups and handed it to Kitty, then poured another for herself and sat down. “There we are,” she said. “High tea at Whitehall. Yer health dearie,” she said, toasting Kitty, and drank. Kitty raised her cup but did not sip until she saw the woman swallow. It was water, brackish but palpable, and surprisingly cool.
“’S the clay,” the woman said, correctly interpreting Kitty’s expression. “Trade secret – keeps it cool.” Kitty nodded and drained her cup, then gratefully accepted a refill. When she’d quenched her thirst, she looked at the woman.
“You’re English,” she said simply.
“By birth,” the crone replied. “And me son and daughters are still there, but I been here thirty years now. Gone native, or near enough as makes no damn.”
“Why did you leave?” Kitty wanted to know. “Surely it’s safer there.”
“Working for magicians and their filth? Hardly.” The old woman spat. “Scraping and bowing and ‘yes yer lordship’ for every penny? Not for me. And never would have made no difference nohow.” The woman pointed to her face. “Romani stock see, me mother’s side. Ye’d be lucky to see a single camp of us dirtying up their precious streets or country sides anymore.”
“But there are magicians here, aren’t there?”
“Not many,” the woman said. “Hacks and hedge witches mostly. Any o’ thems as have real talent emigrate to Britain, or lately are snapped up by the recruiting offices.”
“I saw that.” Kitty mused. She wanted to say more, but kept quiet. The collapse of the magicians’ regime had left a literal vacuum of power in the ministries of Whitehall, with only a smattering of mediocre magicians to fill it. While the commoner representatives of the interim government largely claimed it was better that way, it presented an undeniable national security dilemma. Britain’s foes were not powerful, but one or two with ambitious plans, France and Spain maybe, might do some serious damage on the edges before the government pulled itself together. While the debate raged on, the remaining ministers had taken it upon themselves to recruit young talent from the Empire’s protectorates, accomplishing the dual task of filling the void and preventing fledgling magicians from growing up with anti-British sentiments. Kitty had to appreciate the ingenuity, though it made her skin crawl.
“You ask me,” the old woman said, “‘s better that way. The less talented we are, the more they leave us alone.”
“And it’s better for you here?” Kitty asked. “Being different?”
“Have you looked around, girl? Listened? All sorts of people here. Turk, Czech, French, English, don’t matter to us who’s in power so long as they have coin to pay and we have goods to sell. And for the most part, that works for them too. Nevermind the common folk eh?”
“I suppose.” Kitty said, blandly.
“But enough of my yammering,” the old woman said, flapping her hand. “What brings you to Egypt dearie? Not exactly a time for tourism, from what we hear out of Europe.”
Kitty shrugged. “I’m not here to sightsee, though it certainly might be worth it. I came to visit the Library.”
“I hope you brought a djinni who can turn back time,” the old woman cackled. “Old Gaius burned it down centuries ago.”
“I know,” Kitty said, eyeing the crone. “It’s for research. I’m an archaeologist of sorts. After the terrible incident at the British Museum a few years back, we’re reevaluating our collection, trying to restock and think of new ways to present things, maybe in the context of where they originated.”
“Where they were stolen from, you mean,” the crone nodded. “Well, ye won’t find any stolen relics here, missy. Those will be in London.”
Kitty shrugged. “Well, I’ll try anyway,” she said. “Better than going back completely empty handed.” She stood, and handed the cup back to the old woman. “Thank you very much for this. Can I trouble you to tell me which way the Library is?”
“Watch the stall a moment, and I’ll have my nephew take you. He can show you some good stops along the way.”
Kitty shook her head and smiled. “That’s not necessary, though very kind. Just tell me which way please.”
The crone shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she told Kitty, and explained the route. Thanking her again, Kitty set off once more into the sunlight and chaos, frowning.
2
Bartimaeus
If pure essence had eyes, I would have rolled mine. The all-too familiar pinching and burning of a summons was tugging at me again, and I was ticked off. Being summoned is never pleasant – slavery usually isn’t – but after my last jaunt on Earth, I was particularly in no mood to go back again anytime soon. Not that that visit hadn’t been unusually entertaining in some ways. I had, in tandem with my then-master, pulled of some rather fantastic feats too numerous to relate here,[6] but circumstances in that case were very particular, and I knew this was more likely to be the usual schtick. Pentacles, pain, punishment, arrogance, mindless errands and all that. Normally I was up for a good taunt, but right now I wasn’t even in the mood for that.
At least I could take comfort in the fact that whatever trumped-up magician was summoning me now wasn’t likely to be British. I mean, it depended on who had taken power, but at last check, all the major government ministers had been possessed by afrits and higher level djinni and then in due course incinerated – by me, of course.[7] My guess was that whatever magicians remained in England, those hadn’t been eaten by spirits or beaten up by angry mobs, didn’t have the skill to summon a being as sophisticated as myself.
It was also a slight consolation that even though it hadn’t been very long since my last summons,[8] I was fully restored to my usual vigor. The second to last time I had been dismissed from Earth, I had only enough essence left to form the shape of a small, gelatinous pyramid.[9] This time at least, I could come up with something more impressive.
- So…choices, choices. It was always tricky to come up with something truly original, and I prided myself on detail. What mood did I want to inspire? Fear? Awe? Majesty? Given that I was feeling a bit peeved this time, I decided to keep it simple. As my essence emerged from the pinching sieve of the transition, I shaped myself into a whirling desert dust storm, the kind you used to see in Egypt, complete with the howls of jackals in the distance. The lights went out. The ground shook. The painful cries and shrieks of lost souls echoed and formed themselves into a bitter, terrifying wail with which I prepared to –
“Hello Bartimaeus.”
Ah.
The shrieking died off. The room returned to normal. Annoyed as I was, I wasn’t going to need the show with this particular summoner, and she’d probably have just laughed anyway.
“Hello, Kitty.” An awkward pause.
“Erm, would you mind not doing that?”
“What?”
“Swirling that way. You’re making me dizzy.”
“Oh, sorry.” I let the sands collapse and resolve into the form of a stone gargoyle, winged and beaked. Kitty’s wrinkled face fell.
“What now?” I said, pique returning.
“Oh I was just…” she said. “I was rather hoping to see…”
“Yes?”
“…Ptolemy,” she finished awkwardly.
“Ah. No can do, sorry. New policy of mine. No more dressing up like humans.”
“Oh…” she said, quietly.
More silence. I was going to have to do something soon. I’m a creature of action. Standing around making small talk is not my thing, especially when my essence is aching.
“Well, I-” Kitty began.
“Is there a point to this little parley?” I inquired, examining my claws. “I assume you didn’t call me here for tea.” Kitty frowned, but continued.
“No of course not,” she said. “I just wanted to see that you’ re alive.” Her face lit. Bartimeaus, you’re alive!”
“That’s me,” I said. “Master of survival. Defeater of deranged magician-possessing spirits. Defender of the little people of London.” I’ve had better titles.
“And you destroyed Nouda,”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Nathaniel?” she asked. “Is he…?”
“Gone.” I said. She paused as if waiting for more of an answer. I didn’t offer one.
“But how did you-”
“Long story. And kind of boring, really. I’d rather not go into it if you don’t mind.” Kitty looked more confused than ever, but she said nothing. We both looked at the floor.[10]
“So.” I said, irritation overcoming my momentary quiet. “Didn’t take you long, did it?”
“What didn’t?” Kitty said, eyebrows suspicious. I pointed meaningfully at the pentacle I stood in.
“Taking up a new career are we? Decided all that ‘common good’ and ‘spirits and humans living in harmony’ was too difficult? Not that I’m surprised, all you humans devolve to your own self-interests eventually, but I did think it would take you a bit longer.”
“Oh Bartimaeus, I’m so sorry!” she said. “But I needed to talk to you, and well, I didn’t know how else to do it. Well, not without going…you know.” I knew. But I wasn’t going to say it. Still, something in her expression struck my sophisticated senses.
“You needed to talk to me?” I wheedled. Kitty looked down, wrinkled cheeks flushing a little.
“Well…I wanted to talk to you.”
“By pulling me bowels first through a sieve full of pins and needles, sure.” I replied.
“That’s not-”
“Oh it’s completely understandable,” I said. “I’m very good company. But really, Kitty, I can’t be going here and there for little chats. You know what it does to my essence. So if you’ll just dismiss me-”
“Bartimeaus if you’ll just let me speak!” she snapped, hands on hips, eyes flashing. Now this was the Kitty I knew.
“I need your help.” She continued. “We defeated Nouda, and London is safe, relatively speaking, and I came across to you in the Other Place. That’s a good beginning. But if we’re going to continue Ptolemy’s work, to really try to bridge the gap between humans and djinn, then we need to know more. And I think that if you and I work together, we can-”
“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
“What?” Kitty asked, perturbed.
“It’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think, that we’re talking about bridging the gap between humans and spirits while I’m forcibly stuck here in a pentacle?”
“Well…I suppose…” Kitty said, frowning. “But that’s just the point. If I dismiss you, you can’t stay here at all. You’ll fade away.”
“True. But you could grant me some freedom of movement at least. Give me some free will in the matter.”
“Oh…” she said thoughtfully. “Alright…I think I know how to do that.” She gestured with her fingers. “I release you, Bartimeaus” she said, somewhat awkwardly. “You’re free to go where you will and do as you like.”
“Dandy.” I said. “Bye then,” and I began to dissolve into smoke.
“BARTIMEAUS!!”
I paused. That bright aura of hers was flashing like a sunburst in her anger, and I had to admit, it was impressive.
“Will you listen to me?” she growled through her teeth. “Just listen.” She paused, frowning, and then said, “Please?”[11]
I held still a moment, then flipped in midair and settled comfortably on the floor as if nothing had happened. “Alright,” I said cheerfully. “Go on.”
This seemed to mollify her. She sat down and continued.
“There are problems we have to deal with, Bartimeaus,” she said, and pursed her lips. “We have a way to summon spirits to our world, and Ptolemy created a way for humans to go to the Other Place. But both worlds hurt the essence of the other, and neither method puts human and spirit on truly equal terms. Magicians subjugate djinn here, and no human could survive the Other Place without a spirit’s guidance. This can all be overcome if you have a bond of trust with a spirit, but that doesn’t happen often.”
“Fancy that,” I quipped. She ignored me and continued, gaining confidence.
“What we need,” she said, “is some form of equal ground. A place or a method that balances the terms of the conversation, a place where there’s an opportunity to build that trust.” Kitty’s eyes, which had begun to stare off into space with her inspiration, turned on me once more.
“Bartimeaus,” she said. “You said that Ptolemy never finished his work. He dropped his notes on the Other Place in the spice markets the day that you…that he died, right?”
Kitty’s words were heading far too close to places I didn’t want to go. I was agitated, but I kept my features perfectly bland.
“But you were there Bartimeaus! You were with him all those years while he wrote. Everything that he knows, you know. Maybe there’s something left, and even if there isn’t, I’m sure if we work at it, you and I could-.”
“No.” I said.
“What?”
“No.” I hopped onto my feet. “Look Kitty, I’ll admit, you had me going for a bit. Studying all those years to summon me, coming to the Other Place...no one else has ever done that, not since Ptolemy. And after you came, after what happened,” I looked at her face, “it was only fair that I help you.”
I chose my next words with the utmost care. I at least owed it to her to let her down easy.
“But to be honest, this concept, spirits and magicians all sugar and spice – it stinks like a copy of Real War Stories. It’s a nice idea, but utter poppycock.”
She said nothing, so I went on.
“Like I told you once, just look after yourself, eh? Survive. Hey, now the magicians are gone maybe you can even thrive. Make a new life. Knit some socks maybe? Or,” I corrected as her eyes flashed, “or something. Either way, just let it go. You’ll be happier.” I settled my wings, pleased with my diplomacy, and waited for what was sure to be a sensible reply.
Kitty looked at me for a long moment, eyebrows snapped together in a thin line, expression perplexed. She stayed that way so long I half expected her to sprout roots, but suddenly she shook her head and came back to life. I waited for the assent. Here it came.
“Rubbish,” she said, waving a dismissive hand.
“Excellent. I …what?”
“Rubbish,” she repeated simply. “You don’t believe that, Bartimeaus, or you wouldn’t have prompted me to follow you to the Other Place. Now, I was thinking we could start by going to Alexandria…” She began to run her finger over a leather bound atlas in front of her.
“Just a minute!” I snapped. The nerve! I had gone to pains to be kind, and the girl didn’t even have the decency to take me seriously!
“Spare me, Bartimeaus. I’ve heard these protests before. Can we just skip over them and get to the real work? I don’t have as much energy to waste these days. Now-”
“Coo, listen to you, Miss High and Mighty! You sound just like a magician.”
That got her attention.
“I do not!” She snapped.
“But why shouldn’t you? I continued, looking around. “You’re collecting all the toys. Pentacles, chalk, candles, incents, fancy-bound books.” I nodded. “A few crystals, lenses, and some dead things in jars and you’ll be in business. Bit too plain in here though. Where are we anyway?”
“Bruges,” she answered. “But that’s not-”
“Bruges? No wonder your head’s full of cotton![12] What on earth are you doing here?”
“Visiting Jakob. Bartimeaus-”
“Ah, how is dear Jakob? Still imitating a zebra?”
“Bartimeaus!”
“Did you and he ever have a thing? I could see that being very poetic. ‘The Granny and the Equid.’”
Kitty slammed the atlas shut. “What the hell is the matter with you, Bartimeaus?”
“Moi? Nothing at all. You’re the one who’s in a fit of pique. Getting senile are we?”
“Why are you being so nasty?” she demanded. I’m trying to help you, to help all djinn. To end your slavery.”
“Help us?” I was really riled now. “How, exactly? By finding some sort of ethereal Switzerland where we can all have a nice chat with tea and biscuits? There is no such place, Kitty. Our essences ache and dissolve when we’re here, and your bodies decay when you’re in the Other Place. There will never be equal terms. You magicians – ” Kitty scowled. “ – you humans summon us here with your word webs and bind essence that’s never meant to be molded into physical form, causing us pain. You make us suffer damp, wet, earth; petrol fumes; electricity – hell, your own human stink makes us sick. No sane djinni would ever sign up for that, especially not for some hamby pamby trust chat. I’m sorry kiddo, but your idea is a load of dung. Even if it were possible, it would never work. There’s too much history. Coercion, pain, revenge, repeat. That’s what your world has molded us into. That’s how it will always be.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she yelled. “I’m not an idiot, Bartimeaus. I know it will be hard. Impossible maybe, but what’s the alternative? We go on as we have? That does no one any good. Not magicians, or commoners, spirits, not you, not me, not…” She paused and bit her lip. “It will all happen as it has so many times, like you said, empire by empire. And for what? So we can do it all again? I don’t know about you, but that’s not for me.” Her face grew hostile. “And since when did you become so defeatist? You pride yourself on your achievements, and on being so clever. Since when does Bartimeaus of Uruk pass up a challenge?”
“Since he found one that can’t be won.” I snapped.
“So, what?” she prodded. “You’ll go back to the Other Place and wait to be summoned by some other magician who will force you to do what he wants?”
“Nope. I’ll go into retirement.”
Kitty looked perplexed.
“You’ll recall,” I reminded her, “that you mentioned dismissing me for good if I helped you last time; if I agreed to your icky plan. Well, I did. I presume you have some sway with whoever’s running things now, as gratitude for saving their fleshy behinds?” She opened her mouth to reply. “Then I’d appreciate it,” I continued, raising a claw, “if you could kindly have my name officially removed from whatever rosters and compendiums are left.”
“Even if I did, that won’t buy you freedom!” She said, exasperated. “Someone else will summon you, sooner or later.”
“Neither will your plan. At least this way I get a decent kip.”
Kitty shook her head. “I don’t buy it, Bartimeaus. Maybe I don’t know as much as Ptolemy, but I do know you. You thrive on adventure. You’re thrilled by it. Are you telling me that floating around as pure essence for the rest of eternity is your idea of exciting?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I told you, it’s not the same over there. We don’t need purpose. Purpose is a human concept. The more like humans we become, the worse it is for us.”
“Why?” she pressed. “What do you have to lose?”
“Everything.”
Kitty looked at me with a bemused expression. Eventually she shook her head.
“I don’t understand, Bartimeaus. I’m not asking you buy into the idea, just to help me out with it.”
“Not interested.”
She scowled. “You’re a hypocrite. You helped Ptolemy, and he believed it, even when you didn’t.”
“Ptolemy,” I growled, “was wrong.”
A silence filled the room, greater than any of the previous awkward pauses. Kitty’s wrinkled face looked as if I’d slapped it, and despite its aged lines, I had never seen it look younger.
“But you…” she whispered. “You told me. The first time I summoned you. You told me the sacrifice he made. You said that even if he’d come to you with such a ridiculous idea then, you’d have helped him. There was no limit to your bond.”
“And look where that got him. No, Kitty. I’m done helping magicians, official or otherwise, chase mad dreams.”
Kitty sat back on her heels, slowly, hands in her lap, and stared out a window to her left, face blank.
I mulled over the events of the last few minutes.[13] Despite my excellent cognitive abilities I couldn’t figure out exactly how we’d gotten to this point. I had been trying to advise Kitty on how to have a nice, quiet life, and somehow we’d ended up yelling at each other. Squabbling, arguing, or otherwise debating with Kitty was nothing unusual, but actual fighting was new. Looking at her sitting so still reminded me of the gangly little stick figure mannequin she’d made in the Other Place, and I felt a bit guilty. She had sacrificed a lot, and maybe I had been harsh. But it was tough love. I was doing her a favor. I decided to try again.
“Look, Kitty...” I said, and then paused. Unexpectedly, my form began to unravel, and in an instant I realized that I had missed Kitty’s hands gesturing in her lap, and the murmured commands coming from her lips.
“Wait hold on, Kitty – !” I tried to resist, but it was too late. Kitty turned her face towards me and her voice grew firmer as she spoke the dismissal. There was nothing in her eyes but emptiness, and underneath that, something broken.
I went. I couldn’t do anything else. I felt a brief tickling in my essence as the gargoyle form dissolved, and then nothing. I was gone.
3
Kitty
Kitty glanced at her watch. She stuffed her notebook and pen back into her shoulder bag and carefully gathered up the books and parchments she had taken off the shelves under the supervision of the Serapeum’s priests. Despite her fib to the old woman at the market about her purposes, it was the ancient Library she was interested in, and the daughter library in the Serapeum temple was all that remained of the original collection.
Predictably, she hadn’t found much of use, but in some measure this was because she wasn’t positive what she was looking for. She had spent most of the afternoon poring over every document the priests could find related to Ptolemeus of Alexandria, which turned out to be a scattered collection of contemporary accounts of his miraculous works, tax records, and early history. She knew there were more complete works in the British Library in London, and in English no less, but there was something compelling about sitting in this ancient building, gently handling original parchments with gloved hands, that made her feel closer to Ptolemy and to the pursuit of knowledge that had been his life. Her sensible self told her she was being silly, but something deeper – the calm self-assurance she’d felt since returning from the Other Place – told her that this was the place to begin, and she trusted it. So there she had sat for several hours, staring at unfamiliar scripts as if she could absorb their meaning, and thinking.
Her self-assurance was not completely unflappable; Bartimeaus had seen to that. Kitty found herself unwillingly running over the conversation in her mind for the thousandth time. She couldn’t make the pieces fit. On the one hand she knew, she knew, with that same infallible instinct, that all the djinni’s huff and puff about never helping a human again was just that – hot air. Even if he didn’t buy in to the cause, she just couldn’t make herself believe that it would prevent him from wanting to help her. She’d seen his memories in the Other Place, witnessed his affection for Ptolemy, for her, and for the sacrifice both of them had made. Now suddenly all those doors were closed. It didn’t make sense.
And yet, his flat refusal had, in seconds, severely shaken the foundations of a confidence and certainty that she had begun to take for granted. She hadn’t felt so utterly young, so utterly stupid, and so deeply disappointed since Bartimeaus had refused her the first time, before she’d followed him to the Other Place. Yet this was worse, much worse, because it had preceded from something that, up to that point, she hadn’t considered possible. Moreover, it was followed by unexpected feelings. Despair. Grief. And loneliness. A cumulative loneliness that she had borne almost she had almost unconsciously borne during the three years before the government collapse. It had evaporated when she’d gone to the Other Place, and when she’d worked alongside Bartimeaus and Nathaniel to stop Nouda and the hybrids. But it returned in full force at that moment, and she was left feeling hollow and empty, wondering what it had all been for. Her sacrifice, Nathaniel’s death. Without Bartimeaus, they meant nothing.
Staying with Jakob and his family had alleviated the emptiness somewhat, and in a few days her resolve returned, if not her good humor. The depth of her feelings made her want to be practical. She tried to talk herself out of her doubts. Surely she was trying to project humanity onto something totally inhuman. Bartimeaus had refused her, because he no longer cared, if indeed he ever had. That was how it was, and she had to accept it.
But she couldn’t. There had to be something else at work. She’d thought she’d glimpsed flashes of it in his manner. The way his stone tail had twitched and his claws had softly raked the floor in apparent agitation while she spoke. And at the end, right before he disappeared, she had sworn, she had really thought she saw…
She shook herself. The conclusion of this loop was always the same. She supposed in the end it did not matter. Bartimeaus would not help her, so she would find someone who would.
Thanking the remaining priest, Kitty passed out of the Serapeum into the evening twilight. The streets were largely empty of people, the crowds having passed into more active parts of the city for the night. Checking her map, Kitty found her bearings and turned to walk back to her hotel on the seafront.
She stopped. Something niggled at her, a sense of déjà vu. An alley, a stranger, and…
With lightning speed, she swiveled and clutched the neck of an ugly, blue-black creature, about a foot and a half tall, hovering in mid-air on bat-like wings. The creature’s eyes bulged under its horns, as if in surprise, and then it promptly exploded into a shower of black droplets with an acrid smell. A cackle sounded from nearby.
“Oh very good, dearie.”
Kitty turned again, and stared at the old woman from the marketplace.
“A mouler?” she sneered. “Give me some credit, please.”
A toothless grin, a hand gesture, and two blue-skinned demons materialized above the crone’s shoulders, both slightly larger than the mouler. One fired off what looked like a small ball of fire toward Kitty’s right shoulder, while the other flew directly at her. Angling left and backing up, she drew her wrist knives and threw. The first hit the oncoming demon directly in the throat. It gagged, fell to the ground, and tumbled head over tail into Kitty’s ankles before dissolving. Her second knife grazed the other demon’s shoulder. It hissed in pain, fired another spark, and then arced to her right and towards her. Kitty backed up again quickly and thudded against the stone wall of the temple. Ducking, she drew an S-shaped blade from the front pocket of her bag and slashed it across the demon’s belly as it passed above her head. The blade cut like butter, and the creature shrieked before melting and dissolving into the dusty street. Kitty took a breath and rose on suddenly aching and cramped knees.
“Silver, eh? You are prepared.” The crone observed Kitty, evidently unfazed by the demise of her servants. “What gave me away?”
“A few things,” Kitty said, wiping her brow and readjusting her grip on the blade. “Your accent, for one. Seemed like it never could decide where it was from.”
The old woman laughed. “Well, we do get around.”
Kitty filed that interesting detail for later. “That’s not so unusual in a crowded place like this, but some of the things you said were odd – things older than you look. Calling Julius Ceasar by his birth name, for example.”
“’e was better as a boy,” the woman nodded. “Still had some respect for his elders.”
“You used the word ‘djinni’ instead of ‘demon,’” Kitty continued. “Barely any magicians do that, let alone commoners.”
“I believe in historical correctness,” the woman said.
“But the thing that cinched it was how you talked to me.”
“Oh? How so?”
“You twice referred to me as ‘girl.’ No one who sees only the surface of things,” Kitty gestured to her own skin, “would make that assumption. But you did.”
“I did indeed. Well bravo dearie, you found me out. You did give me a bit of a run around coming here, but it weren’t a hard thing to find you again, not with that aura of yours. I wasn’t counting on resistance or silver, but nevermind! Moulers and foliots come cheaper than my fruits. No harm done.”
“Is that so.”
“Water under the bridge love. They served their purpose.”
The woman snapped her fingers. Kitty had only a second to register the sudden glow of strange symbols etched in the dirt below her feet before she crumpled in a faint.
4
Kitty
She woke in a dank cellar with walls of black stone. Coming to, Kitty realized three things at once. One, she had the worst headache of her life. Two, she was bound and gagged, lying on her side. Not doing well so far. Three, something was rumbling nearby. Something large.
Craning her neck, Kitty tried to look around. A single light bulb cast pallid light from the ceiling, but an orange glow emanated from a medieval-looking brazier on the far side of the room. As her eyes adjusted, Kitty saw the figure of the old woman, sitting in a chair next to the brazier, hands on its arms, head bowed on her chest. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if she were deep asleep.
She blinked slowly and looked again. No, she was positive. The deep rumbling was coming from the old woman. In the same moment Kitty realized that the chair sat in a pentacle. Her heart started to race. This was not good. Not good at all.
Breathing deeply through her nose, she took stock. Head – throbbing. Ankles, wrists – bound by rough rope. Arms and legs, cramped. She must have been here at least an hour. Fingers, toes – working.
Where were her weapons? She knew her wrist sheathes were empty. What about her boots? She rubbed her left calf on the floor, but felt nothing. Her fingers tickled the small of her back. Gone. She’d have to roll over to check the other boot, but she suspected it was similarly empty.
Stupid! She cursed herself. She’d been overconfident – had fatally underestimated the old woman. She listened hard, but couldn’t hear anything outside of the room. She was alone, weak, and helpless, with no way to call for help.
That was not useful. She searched the room for her bag, which contained a number of minor, but useful magical items – inferno sticks, mouler glasses, even one elemental sphere – but she couldn’t see into the dark corners. Even if it were there, she wasn’t sure she could get to it. Well, the next step was to flop over and make sure her right boot was empty. She didn’t think it would do any good, but she would very foolish later if she was wrong. If there was a later.
She had started to struggle on the floor, willing movement into her aching joints and limbs, when the old woman’s head lifted, eyes glowing a deep red.
Then they weren’t. They just were just human eyes.
“Well, hello there dearie,” the crone said cheerily, rising from the chair. “Apologies for the delay, just doing a bit o’ housekeeping. Now then, how do you feel? Whoops-a-daisie, let’s have that gag out.”
Kitty coughed and spat as the cloth came off, trying to bring moisture into her parched throat.
“Sorry about that dear,” the crone continued. “Couldn’t have you calling for help while I was havin’ me nap. And couldn’t do anything about that head ‘til you came ‘round. Let’s see.” She flicked an index finger into Kitty’s forehead, making her flinch. She was ready spit venom at the woman when suddenly the throbbing eased, and she felt normal again.
“There we are,” said the woman. “Good as new.” She backed up and surveyed the girl on the floor.
“Why did you – ” she started, and then changed her mind. There were more important questions. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want with me?”
“You can call me Yaga dearie.” She grinned her toothless grin. “And you are?”
“Piss off.”
“Tch. Well, if you don’t want to be civilized,” she said, and turned her heel.
“Clara,” Kitty answered irritably. “Clara Bell.”
The crone called Yaga turned to look at her. Her eyes unfocused for a moment, and then she hissed.
“Liar.” Then she shrugged. “Still, was worth a try. Sometimes they don’t know. But ye’re a clever one girly, no mistake. Shoulda asked when you were still fuzzy. Ah well. As to fixing that dear, just making sure all the doors are open. That’s a lovely aura you’ve got there, bright as the noon sun. Didn’t want it dampened none – it’s better if you’re conscious.”
“What does my aura have to do with anything?”
The crone grinned. “Everything, love. It’s why you’re here. I’m going to eat it.”
Kitty’s heart thumped. She needed stall. She needed to do something until she could work her way out of this.
“You have a demon inside you.”
“That’s right, dearie.”
“Were you…were you part of Nouda’s djinn? Did you escape from London?”
“Hah!” The old woman spat. “That was a sight to see. William Gladstone’s precious successors being driven around like chariots by rogue spirits. Idiot boys. Do you really think, dearie, that the British were the first think of summoning a demon into flesh?”
Kitty stared at her, both puzzled and intrigued.
“But you’re alive,” she said. “You haven’t been consumed.”
“Quite right. I don’t let my slaves run amok.” She made a gesture. Previously invisible tattoos appeared all along her arms, legs, and chest. Staring closer, Kitty was shocked to recognize that they imitated the rune of a pentacle.
“Built-in by-laws dear. Keeps Abezy nice and constrained, while I draw on his power.”
“‘Abezy?’”
“Yes, Abezy, my afrit. He lives in here.” She tapped her chest.
“I don’t understand,” Kitty said, trying to draw out the conversation. “Why do you want my aura?”
“The usual reasons dear. Youth, power.”
Kitty stared at her, uncomprehending. She recalled, with a shudder, Nouda’s endless feast of humans. Bartimeaus had said it was to galvanize his essence. But…
“But you have power. If your afrit is inside of you, then it’s protected. You have all the power you need.”
Yaga sighed. “So young. No perspective. Aye, Abezy is powerful dear, but he’s also old.” She cackled. “Like me, thanks to his power. He may be safe from this world, but it doesn’t strengthen him any, and he gets hungry, poor dear. A millennia or so, and he needs a meal. And who knows, might help put some color back in me cheeks.” She tapped her face.
This was not going well.
“So!” Yaga said, clapping her hands. “Shall we get started? Any last requests love? Tea, a biscuit?”
Well, if she was in for it, Kitty wasn’t going down whimpering. “I don’t deal with slavers,” Kitty snapped. “I’ll talk to your afrit, if you don’t mind.”
Yaga cackled. “Well why not? He’ll be doing the consuming anyway. Abezy? Out you come!”
The red eyes appeard, and the room suddenly felt oppressive.
“And who,” Kitty seethed, “are you supposed to be?”
The crone’s mouth opened, a booming voice emanated.
“I…AM…ABEZETHIBOU. PERSECUTOR OF THE ISRAELITES."
A pause.
“Is that it?”
“WHAT?”
“That’s all you’ve done? Persecuted some Israelites?”
The creature in the crone seemed to shift.
“I AM A DEMON. I FELL FROM THE HEAVENS. I COME FROM A GREAT AND TERRIBLE PLACE, WHERE WORMS CRAWL THROUGH THE FACES OF THOUSANDS OF LOST SOULS, AND THEIR SCREAMS ECHO IN THE HILLS.”
“Oh please,” Kitty scoffed. “Spare me. I’ve been to the Other Place. It’s nothing like that. Just whirling colors and formlessness.”
“HOW DARE YOU, MORTAL. I WILL REND YOU LIMB FROM LIMB. I WILL SCOOP OUT YOUR EYES AND BURN THE SOCKETS. I WILL SUCK THE MARROW FROM YOUR BONES.”
“No, you won’t.” Kitty said simply. “Not in that body, anyway. You haven’t the proper teeth. You’re just going to eat my aura, like a good slave, because she says so.”
“THE MISTRESS FEEDS MY ESSENCE.”
“She also keeps you imprisoned. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I CAN DO NOTHING MORTAL. I AM BOUND.”
“Can’t you do anything? I don’t know, pinch her? Give her a kick in the intestines?”
The woman’s face showed an inhuman sort of amusement.
“I AM BOUND,” it repeated. “BOUND TO HER. OUR FATES ARE ONE.”
“That’s not true,” Kitty said. “You just need to find a way.”
“I GROW TIRED OF THIS, MORTAL. AND I AM HUNGRY.”
“Well, fine. If that’s how you’re going to be.” Kitty folded her arms and scowled. The demon seemed to hesitate.
“YOU ARE NOT…SCARED?”
“Why should I be?”
“THE OTHERSSS…THEY SCREAMED. ALL OF THEM, THEY SCREAMED.”
“I’m not them,” Kitty said firmly. “I’ve dealt with far greater spirits than you before. Smarter too.”
“REALLLLYYY…WHOOOO? WHO IS GREATER THAN AZBEZTHIBOU?”
“Bartimaeus,” she said with finality. “Bartimaeus of Uruk. Sakar al-Jinni. Ngorso the Mighty.” A small breath of air ruffled her hair. She continued. “Bartimaeus has more intelligence in a pinky than you have in your entire essence. He’d sort you out in a flash.”
From above, a voice.
“You flatter me, darling.”
5
Bartimaeus
Now this was an interesting scene. Two old grandmothers facing off, one with the bright, pulsing aura of a new star, and the other with the bubbling red mass of an uncomfortable afrit sitting in her chest. At another time, it would have been comical. I would have enjoyed the show.[1] But one of the grannies was Kitty, and she was clearly in trouble. I couldn’t see her too well, but the aura was unmistakable. I could hear her voice though, clear as a bell. At the moment it sounded confused.
“Bartimeaus?”
“Yup, that’s me. The one and only.”
“But…how?”
“I warned you about names Kitty. They’re powerful things. Also, it helps that you’re standing in a pentacle.” Since she’d said my name again, my view of the room had cleared a little more, like a lens coming into focus. Kitty looked at her feet.
“Oh. But I didn’t-”
“So! What are we doing today then? Conversing with hostile afrits?” I eyed the spirit encased in the woman’s flesh. There was something oddly familiar about it.
“Abezethibou? Is that you?”
“BARTIMEAUS?”
“Small world! Though it has been awhile. Last time I saw you, you were trapped in that column of water. You got out huh?”
Granny Number Two’s face frowned. “OOBBVIOUSSLY.”
“Fancy that, I said. Beelzebub always said you’d come back, though I always thought he was a bit full of it.” No answer.
“Soooo. Um. Been doing well?” Again, no answer. I was beginning to think maybe he’d taken offense when suddenly Abezethibou’s essence shrank, pulling inwards, compacting into the chest of the old crone. Human eyes stared up at me – or tried to. There wasn’t much to look at.
“What is this?” a crackled voice demanded. “Who interrupts my feeding? A ghost? A shade?” the old bat squinted. “No…a spirit. Half in, half out. Well weeell…interesting.” The crone paused, as if listening. “A djinni, I see. One of Ptolemy’s. Well, he was a nice boy. Bit hairbrained. Ah, ah now dearie.” The woman swiveled fast and seized Kitty, who’d been edging slowly out of the pentacle.
“Kindly stay inside your pen until I’ve worked out what to do with this fellow.” She flicked gnarled fingers, and Kitty gasped. You could only see it on the upper planes, but the pentacle had gone three dimensional, turning into a sort of cage that contained the energy of Kitty’s aura and threw it back on her like an electric charge. She couldn’t move. This was going to be tricky.
The old woman[2] stared up at me.
“Bartimaeus…” she said, elongating the last syllable. “Bartumaeus of Uruk.”
“Yeah? What?” She stared at me for a long time, and then, unaccountably, began to laugh. A long, loud, ululating cackle that imitated a hyena.
“What the hell is your problem, woman?” I asked, peeved.
“A djinni!” she tittered. “A djinni with a broken heart! A djinni with human bonds! Oh little spirit, you have strayed far.
“Hey now!” I protested. “That’s not on! I am many things Granny, but none of them are ‘little.’ I built the walls of Prague. I have spoken with Solomon. I have traveled --”
“You’ve gone native djinni,” the crone said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “For your kind, there is no greater death. Do not bother to hide it. Old Yaga has eyes, even with things only half-seen. With your name, I can see your nature, I can see your memories, I can see…” she paused again, looking. “Your love!” She cackled again.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” I told her. I had eyed Kitty while the crone – Yaga, evidently – had laughed her wrinkled butt off. She looked confused, but she was also occupied, trying to do something with her hands. I decided to keep the crone talking
“You must be quite something,” I said. “Keeping Abezethibou pent up like a meek kitten. And I haven’t seen clairvoyance like that since the Babylonians.” Yaga. Why did Yaga sound familiar.
“Family inheritance dear,” she said. “But enough chat. You’re in no position to do anything for this little one. I’ll deal with you later.”
This was not good. I had to think fast. Yaga. Yaga. What was it?
Something shifted in my essence. A memory, something that looked like an excerpt from a encyclopedia showed in my mind. Pictures flew by – a mortar and pestle, a house on gigantic chicken legs…
My own memories came rushing in. That was it.
“Hey, Abezethibou, I called. How would you like to get out of there?”
“Shut yer trap djinni,” the crone said.
“I don’t think so Szvetlana.”
The woman uttered a choked cry. Abezethibou’s essence hesitated, and then expanded outward, swirling around the crone in whoops and whirls. His voice sounded.
“DISMISS ME.”
“You disobedient fiend,” Baba Yaga shrieked. “I’ll burn you with the Shriveling Fire, I’ll –AIEEEE!!!!”
“THE FIRE IS ALSO MINE TO CONTROL NOW,” Abezethibou boomed. “I KNOW YOUR TRUE NAME WITCH. I OBEY NO MORE. DISMISS ME OR WE WILL SUFFER TOGETHER FOREVER. OUR FATES WILL BE ONE. DISMISS ME. NNOWWWWW.”
Baba Yaga shrieked and raged in anger and in pain, but eventually, she screamed the words, and Abezethibou’s essence dissolved, fading into nothing. The crone uttered a scream of rage and turned towards Kitty—
Just in time to get a knife in the shoulder. The hag shrieked again, and fled through a dark passage.
6
Kitty
Once she had gotten control of herself and re-stowed the tendril-thin blade that had been Jakob’s gift to her back into her pants pocket, Kitty summoned Bartimaeus and made him explain.
The djinni, now in Ptolemy’s form, shifted its feet. “You might remember, from your last trip, that sometimes the things we do in this world carry over to the Other Place as memories, or imprints. Often they don’t last, but every time we go back, we deliver a fresh spurt of memories that all of us swallow up. The same goes for dying spirits. Well, a few foliots came through a bit ago, and I recognized you in their last thoughts. Nice job by the way, didn’t know you’d kept that blade.”
“That doesn’t explain how I could hear you,” Kitty prompted.
“The elemental gates that you passed through to our world are sort of a crossroads. The divide between the worlds is thinner there. If we hover there, we can sometimes hear things that happen in your world. Not that any of us usually do. But, well, you looked like you were in trouble so I thought I’d check. And when you called my name, well, we heard you.”
“We?”
“Um. That’s right. We. The royal we. I’m thinking of becoming king of somewhere.”
Kitty eyed the djinni suspiciously and sighed. “Look Bartimeaus, I’ve just been hogtied and threatened. I need to clean myself up, and then later maybe we can deal with everything that just happened and why. Is the coast clear?”
“Yep, spic and span. Granny’s gone to cry in a hole somewhere, though I’m sure she’ll be back.”
“No doubt. Okay. Well, for now, I dismiss you Bartimaeus, but I hope we’ll talk soon?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you Kitty.”
This time, as the djinni faded Kitty had no doubts. She knew what she was seeing. A pale face, lank black hair, and kind eyes.
“Nathaniel,” she whispered.
A breeze caressed her, phantom lips touched her cheeks, and then it was gone. Kitty sat on the floor, and cried all the tears that she’d never shed, until now.
[1] From very, very far away. I’m no coward, but there’s a difference between bravery and common sense. When two celestial bodies collide, you generally want to observe through a telescope.
[2] Sorry, should I be more specific? I meant the crone, not Kitty.
[1] Not that he knew this, of course. For all anyone outside the palace was concerned, my master’s power was his own, not that of the spirits that served him. I preferred to keep it this way, for Ptolemy’s sake.
[2] Just in case you’re not following, the prince and my master were both called Ptolemy; they were cousins. I don’t have time to explain right now. It was a case of familial rivalry that my master wanted nothing to do with.
[3] Not impossible for a djinni, though certainly an odd fashion choice. But you have to admit, this would have been a bit alarming on a human. Hey, I’m trying.
[4] In hindsight, this wasn’t an impressive jab. Apart from his head, Ptolemy was almost completely hairless.
[5] To clarify, Ptolemy meant djinn who were summoned by barbarian shamans for their raiding campaigns. No spirit is “barbarian” by nature, though I might have made excuses for my good friend Jabor. We are as many and varied in our earthbound personalities as humans, though millennia of slavery has made a lot of us bitter. And if gobbling up the occasional child is wrong, well, surely that’s some excuse.
[6] They included the following: (1) Driving my master’s body around in a series of nimble maneuvers he’d have never managed otherwise, (2) dropping an obelisk on an adventuresome afrit, (3) single-handedly (in a physical manner of speaking) executing several possessed former members of the government with Gladstone’s Staff, including my old rival Faquarl, (4) some eloquent goading, and (5) assisting in the defeat of a formidable and overstuffed high level marid who was ready to consume all of London.
[7] Oh alright, I suppose my master had some part in it as well.
[8] I didn’t think so anyway…time doesn’t really exist in the Other Place.
[9] A majestic one, of course.
[10] As a point of historical note, this may have been the longest period in history that I have been silent on any subject. Not that I’m a chatter, mind, I’m not at imp, but in most situations I could either extol wisdom of some kind, or at least engage in some eloquent banter. If nothing else could be said for Kitty Jones, she had an uncanny ability to render Bartimeaus of Uruk momentarily speechless.
[11] This was one of the remarkable things about Kitty. Another person in her position might have reminded me that I owed them, let alone that a magician would have just coerced. Had she attempted either, I’d have been out the window and away until she decided to give up and dismiss me. But not her. Where others commanded, she asked (well, with djinn). She was like Ptolemy in that way.
[12] I had been to – or better to say, passed through – Bruges once or twice in my esteemed career. It had the distinctions of being beautiful, historic, and utterly boring. Nothing ever happened there. Its single point of interest, from a djinni’s perspective, was a persnickety imp who had somehow, likely by accident, been encased in the keystone of one of the bridge arches, and whiled away its boredom by insulting the passersby. For an imp, he had some decent quips.
[13] This took roughly the equivalent of a nanosecond in human time. During that time I also mapped out the contours of the room in Egyptian kha-ta and cubic meters, catalogued all the books, recalled conversations I’d once had with one or two of the authors, and solved a highly sophisticated algebraic equation.