Ptolemy's Gate (Bartimaeus, #3)

by Jonathan Stroud

In principle there’s nothing shameful about struggling when a building falls upon you. I’ve had such problems before; it’s part of the job description.

He wore a shapeless blue-gray smock that would have been considered hideous in a medieval fishing village.

“I think it’s rather profound, sir.” “Excellent. Then the commoners’ll snap it up.”

But I’ve always believed that misfortunes of birth shouldn’t stand in the way of talent.

I wouldn’t say it was clever, because you’re human, but it wasn’t a bad effort, all in all.

“You? You’d only recognize the sharp end if you sat on it.”

“I’m not sure I do subtle.”

“Aren’t you just a little curious?” The voice was nearer now. “I’d have thought you’d be dying to know about my choice of form.” Sure, I was curious, but “dying to know” was exactly what I wasn’t. I’m happy to indulge in snappy banter with the best of them, but chats are out when the alternative is escaping with my life.

“So go on then,” I snapped. “Get it over with.” A frown passed across the inexpressive face. “You want me to kill you already?” “Not that. The rubbish joke you’re thinking up. About it being good of me to hang around, or something like that. Go on, you know you want to. Get it out of your system.” The scholar looked pained. “As if I’d stoop so low, Bartimaeus. You judge me by your own subterranean standards of repartee, which are as regrettable as the condition of your essence. Look at you! As perforated as a sponge. If I were your master, I’d use you to mop the floor.”

“That’s a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland…”

According to some,2 heroic deaths are admirable things. I’ve never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you’re also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking.

All part of his attempt to appease the commoners, Mandrake had initiated a series of penny-dreadful pamphlets, which told heroic tales of British soldiers fighting in the American wilderness. A typical title was Real War Stories. They were illustrated by bad woodcuts and purported to be true accounts of recent events. Needless to say, the American magicians were savage and cruel, using the blackest magic and the most hideous demons. Conversely, the square-jawed Brits always insisted on good manners and fair play and invariably got out of scrapes by improvising homemade weapons from fence posts, tin cans, and pieces of string. The war was depicted as being both necessary and virtuous. It was the old, old story—I’ve seen imps carve similar claims on official stelae up and down the Nile delta, defending pharaohic wars. The people tended to ignore those too.

Sample dialogue: “Oh, so you reckon you can, eh?” “Yeah, no problem, pal!” “Yeah?” “Yeah!” All to a backdrop of the others whooping and slapping their hairy haunches. For intellectual reach and vigor, it was midway between the debates of ancient Athens and those of more recent English parliaments.