Ptolemy's Gate Read Online Free PDF

down in front of him. Flicking the fabric aside, he revealed a bronze disc, shiny with the use of years.
    The magician stared down into the scrying glass, willing it into life. Something stirred in its depths.
    â€œFetch Bartimaeus,” he said.

3
    W ith dawn, the first people returned to the little town. Hesitant, fearful, groping their way like blind men up the street, they began to inspect the damage wrought to their houses, shops, and gardens. A few Night Police came with them, ostentatiously flourishing Inferno sticks and other weapons, though the threat was long since gone.
    I was disinclined to move. I spun a Concealment around the chunk of chimney where I sat and removed myself from the humans’ sight. I watched them passing with a baleful eye.
    My few hours’ rest had done me little good. How could it? It had been two whole years since I’d been allowed to leave this cursed Earth; two full years since I’d last escaped the brainless thronging mass of sweet humanity. I needed more than a quiet kip on a chimney stack to deal with that, I can tell you. I needed to go home.
    And if I didn’t, I was going to die.
    It is technically possible for a spirit to remain indefinitely on Earth, and many of us at one time or another have endured prolonged visits, usually courtesy of being forcibly trapped inside canopic jars, sandalwood boxes, or other arbitrary spaces chosen by our cruel masters. 1 Dreadful punishment though this is, it at least has the advantage of being safe and quiet. You aren’t called upon to do anything, so your increasingly weakened essence is not immediately at risk. The main threat comes from the remorseless tedium, which can lead to insanity in the spirit in question. 2
    My current predicament was in stark contrast. Not for me the luxury of being hidden away in a cozy lamp or amulet. No—day in, day out, I was a djinni on the street, ducking, diving, taking risks, exposing myself to danger. And each day it became a little more difficult to survive.
    For I was no longer the carefree Bartimaeus of old. My essence was raddled with Earth’s corruption; my mind was bleary with the pain. I was slower, weaker, distracted from my tasks. I found it hard to change form. In battle my attacks were sputtering and weak—my Detonations had the explosive power of lemonade, my Convulsions trembled like jelly in a breeze. All my strength had gone. Where once, in the previous night’s scrap, I would have sent that public convenience right back at the she-pig, adding a phone box and a bus stop for good measure, now I could do nothing to resist. I was vulnerable as a kitten. A few small buildings in the face, I could stand. But already I was practically at the mercy of second-rate fops such as Ascobol, a fool with no great history to speak of. 3 And if I met a foe with even a grain of power, my luck would surely end.
    A weak djinni is a bad slave—bad twice over, since he is both ineffective and a laughingstock. It does a magician no favors to maintain one in the world. This is the reason why they usually allow us back to the Other Place on a temporary basis, to repair our essence and renew our strength. No master in his right mind would permit a djinni to deteriorate as far as I had done.
    No master in his right mind … Well, that of course was the problem.
    I was interrupted in my gloomy cogitation by a stirring in midair. The girl looked up.
    Above the road appeared the faintest shimmering—a delicate tingling of pretty pink and yellow lights. It was invisible on the first plane, and thus went unnoticed by the people trudging up the street, but if any children had seen it, they’d probably have guessed it to be fairy dust.
    Which shows how wrong you can be.
    With an abrupt scratching noise, the lights froze and were drawn back from the middle like two curtains. Between them appeared the grinning face of a bald baby with bad acne. Its evil little eyes were red and