Read Online Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page B

“Rekhyt—go with him. See what can be done.”
    In due course I returned, looking plump. “Locusts gone.”
    â€œVery well.” He scowled at his tablets. “I have altogether lost the thread. We were talking about the fluidity of the Other Place, I believe….”
    â€œYou realize,” I said, as I sat delicately on the straw matting, “that you’ve done it now. Got yourself a reputation. Someone who can solve the common ills. Now you’ll never get any peace. Same thing happened to Solomon with the wisdom thing. Couldn’t step outdoors without someone thrusting a baby in his face. Mind you, that was often for a different reason.”
    The boy shook his head. “I am a scholar, a researcher, nothing else. I shall aid mankind by the fruits of my writing, not by my success with bulls or locusts. Besides, it’s you who’s doing the work, Rekhyt. Do you mind removing that wing-case from the corner of your mouth? Thank you. Now, to begin …”
    He was wise about some things, Ptolemy was, but not about others.The next day saw two more women standing outside his chambers; one had problems with hippos on her land, the other carried a sick child. Once again I was sent to deal with them as best I could. On the morning after that, a little line of people stretched out into the street. My master tore his hair and lamented his ill fortune; nevertheless I was dispatched again, along with Affa and Penrenutet, two of his other djinn. So it went. Progress on his research slowed to a snail’s pace, while his reputation among the ordinary people of Alexandria grew fast as summer’s flowering. Ptolemy suffered the interruptions with good, if exasperated, grace. He contented himself with completing a book on the mechanics of summoning and put his other inquiries aside.
    The year aged, and in due time came the Nile’s annual inundation. The floods went down, the dark earth shone fertile and wet, crops were planted, a new season began. Sometimes the queue of supplicants at Ptolemy’s door was lengthy, at other times less so, but it never went away entirely. And it was not long before this daily ritual became known to the black-robed priests of the greater temples, and to the blackhearted prince sitting brooding on his wine-soused throne.

5
    A disrespectful sound alerted Mandrake to the return of the scrying-glass imp. He put aside the pen with which he was scribbling notes for the latest war pamphlets, and stared into the polished disc. The baby’s distorted features pressed up against the surface of the bronze as if it were frantically trying to push free. Mandrake ignored its writhing. “Well?” he asked.
    â€œWell what?” The imp groaned and strained.
    â€œWhere’s Bartimaeus?”
    â€œSitting on a lump of masonry twenty-six miles southeast of here in the shape of a long-haired girl. Very pretty she is, and all. But she ain’t coming.”
    â€œWhat? She—he refused?”
    â€œYep. Ooh, it’s dreadful tight in here. Six years I’ve been inside this disc with never a glimpse of home. You might let me out, you really might. I’ve served you heart and soul.”
    â€œYou have no soul,” Mandrake said. “What did Bartimaeus say?”
    â€œI can’t tell you, you’re that young. It was rude, mind. Made my ears wax up. Well, he ain’t coming voluntarily and that’s all there is to it. Burn him and have done, I say. Can’t think why you ain’t snuffed him already. Oh, not back in that drawer again —can’t you have mercy, you hateful boy?”
    With the disc wrapped and the drawer shut fast, Mandrake rubbed his eyes. The Bartimaeus problem was growing intractable. The djinni was weaker and more cantankerous than ever; almost useless as a servant. In all logic he should let him go, but—as always—he found the thought distasteful. Quite why was hard to say, since