Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud Page B

returned to the magician, who was sitting as before in the sofa’s depths, studying his book. Mr. Button gave a grunt of thanks as she set the teapot down.
    â€œTrismegistus notes,” he said, “that succubi tend to recklessness when summoned, and are often impelled to self-destruction. They can be placated by placing citrus fruits among the incense, or by the soft playing of panpipes. Hum, they are sensual beasts evidently.” He scratched his stump absently through his trousers. “Oh, I found something else too, Lizzie. What was that demon you were asking about the other day?”
    â€œBartimaeus, sir.”
    â€œYes, that’s it. Trismegistus has a reference to him, in one of his tables of Antique Djinn. Somewhere in the appendices, you’ll find.”
    â€œOh, really, sir? That’s great. Thank you.”
    â€œGives a little of his summoning history. Brief. You won’t find it terribly interesting.”
    â€œNo, sir. I very much doubt it.” She held out a hand. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

O n a hot morning in midsummer, a sacred bull broke free of its compound beside the river; it rampaged up among the fields, biting at flies and swinging its horns at anything that moved. Three men who tried to secure it were badly injured; the bull plunged on among the reeds and broke out onto a path where children played. As they screamed and scattered, it paused as if in doubt. But the sun upon the water and the whiteness of the children’s clothes enraged it. Head down, it charged upon the nearest girl, and would have gored or trampled her to death had not Ptolemy and I been strolling down that way.
    The prince raised a hand. I acted. The bull stopped, midcharge, as if it had collided with a wall. Head reeling, eyes crossed, it capsized into the dust, where it remained until attendants secured it with ropes and led it back into its field.
    Ptolemy waited while his aides calmed the children, then resumed his constitutional. He did not refer to the incident again. Even so, by the time we returned to the palace a flock of rumors had taken flight and was swooping and swirling about his head. By nightfall everyone in the city, from the lowest beggar to the snootiest priest of Ra, had heard or misheard something of it.
    As was my wont, I had wandered late among the evening markets, listening to the rhythms of the city, to the ebb and flow of information carried on its human tide. My master was sitting cross-legged on the roof of his quarters, intermittently scratching at his papyrus strip and gazing out toward the darkened sea. I landed on the ledge in lapwing’s form and fixed him with a beady eye.
    â€œIt’s all over the bazaars,” I said. “You and the bull.”
    He dipped his stylus into the ink. “What matter?”
    â€œPerhaps no matter; perhaps much. But the people whisper.”
    â€œWhat do they whisper?”
    â€œThat you are a sorcerer who consorts with demons.”
    He laughed and completed a neat numeral. “Factually, they are correct.”
    The lapwing drummed its claws upon the stone. “I protest! The term ‘demon’ is fallacious and abusive in the extreme!” 1
    Ptolemy put down his stylus. “It is a mistake to be too concerned with names and titles, my dear Rekhyt. Such things are never more than rough approximations, matters of convenience. The people speak thus out of ignorance. It’s when they understand your nature and are still abusive that you will have to worry.” He grinned at me sidelong. “Which is always possible, let’s face it.”
    I raised my wings a little, allowing the sea wind to ruffle through my feathers. “Generally you come off well in the accounts so far. But mark my words, they’ll be saying you let the bull loose soon.”
    He sighed. “In all honesty, reputation—for good or ill—doesn’t much bother me.”
    â€œIt may not