Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud Page A

them out to him unscathed. This was easier said than done. She frequently emerged into the lamplight of the magician’s study wheezing and covered in dust, or bruised by a nasty book-fall, only to be told she had the wrong volume, or an incorrect edition, and be sent back to begin again. But Kitty stuck with it. Gradually she became adept at locating the volumes Mr. Button required; she began to recognize the names, the covers, the methods of binding employed by different printers in different cities across the centuries. For his part, the magician was highly satisfied: his helper spared him much inconvenience. So the months passed.
    Kitty took to asking brief questions about some of the works she helped locate. Sometimes Mr. Button gave succinct and breezy answers; more often he suggested she look up the solution herself. When the book was written in English, this Kitty was able to do. She borrowed some of the easier, more general volumes and took them home to her bedsit. Her nocturnal readings prompted further questions to Mr. Button, who directed her to other texts. In this way, directed by caprice and whimsical inclination, Kitty began to learn.
    After a year of such progress Kitty began going on errands for the magician. She procured official passes and visited libraries across the capital; she made occasional forays to herbalists and to suppliers of magical goods. Mr. Button had no imps at his service, and did not practice much actual magic. His interest lay in the cultures of the past, and the history of contact with demons. Occasionally he summoned a minor entity to question it on a particular historical point.
    â€œBut it’s a difficult business with one leg,” he told Kitty. “Summoning’s bad enough with two of ’em, but when you’re trying to draw the circle straight and your stick’s slipping and you keep dropping the chalk, it’s hellish tricky. I don’t risk it often anymore.”
    â€œI could give you a hand, sir,” Kitty suggested. “You’d have to teach me the basics, of course.”
    â€œOh, that would be impossible. Far too dangerous for us both.”
    Kitty found Mr. Button quite adamant on this, and it took her several months of pestering to win him over. Finally, to gain a moment’s peace, he allowed her to fill the bowls with incense, hold the pin in position while he inscribed the circles’ arcs, and light the pig’s-fat candles. She stood behind his chair when the demon appeared and was questioned. Afterward she helped douse the scorch marks left behind. Her calm demeanor impressed the magician; soon she was actively assisting in all his summonings. As in all things, Kitty learned swiftly. She began to memorize some of the common Latin formulae, although she remained ignorant of the language. Mr. Button, who found active work taxing on his health, and who was also inclined to laziness, began to entrust his assistant with more and more procedures. In his cursory way, he helped fill in some of the gaps in her knowledge, although he refused to instruct her formally.
    â€œThe actual craft,” he would say, “is simplicity itself, but it has infinite variations. We shall always keep to basics: summon the creature, keep it constrained, send it off again. I have neither the time nor the inclination to teach you all the subtleties.”
    â€œThat’s fine, sir,” Kitty said. She had neither the time nor the inclination to learn them. A basic practical knowledge of summoning was all that she required.
    The years passed. The war dragged on. Mr. Button’s books were neatly sorted, cataloged, and stacked by author. His assistant was invaluable to him. Now he could direct her to summon foliots and even minor djinn while he sat in comfort watching. It was a highly satisfactory arrangement.
    And—barring the odd fright—Kitty found it satisfactory too.
    With the kettle boiled at last, Kitty made the tea and