Free Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud

alone of all his slaves the djinni never treated him with anything approaching respect. His abuse was tiring, exasperating beyond measure … and also oddly refreshing. Mandrake lived in a world where true emotions skulked forever behind politely smiling masks. But Bartimaeus made no pretense of his dislike. Where Ascobol and company were emollient and fawning, Bartimaeus was as impertinent now as the day he had first met him, back when he was just a child, owner of an entirely different name….
    Mandrake’s mind had drifted. He coughed and drew himself up. That was the basic point, of course. The djinni knew his birth name. A risky thing for a man in his position! If another magician summoned him and learned what the demon knew….
    He sighed; his mind trundled from one well-worn track to another. A dark-haired girl. Pretty. No prizes for guessing the djinni’s guise. Ever since Kitty Jones had died, Bartimaeus had used her shape to mock him. Not without success, either. Even three years on, visualizing her face gave Mandrake a sharp pang in his side. He shook his head in weary self-reproach. Forget her! She was a traitor, dead and gone.
    Well, the wretched demon was of no importance. The pressing issue was the growing disruption caused by the war. That—and the dangerous new abilities appearing among the commoners. Fritang’s tale of the egg-throwing urchins was just the latest in a long line of troublesome accounts.
    Since Gladstone, magicians had observed a basic rule. The less commoners knew about magic and its tools, the better. Thus, every slave, from the scrawniest imp to the most arrogant afrit, was ordered to avoid unnecessary exposure when out on his master’s business. Some utilized the power of invisibility; most went in disguise. So it was that the myriad demons thronging the streets of the capital or rushing above its rooftops went, as a rule, unnoticed.
    But now this was no longer the case.
    Each week brought new accounts of demonic exposure. A flock of messenger imps was spotted above Whitehall by a squealing group of schoolchildren; magicians reported that the imps had been correctly disguised as pigeons—they should not have aroused suspicion. Days later a jeweler’s apprentice, newly arrived in London, ran wild-eyed down Horseferry Road and leaped over the river wall into the Thames. Witnesses claimed he had screamed warnings of ghosts among the crowds. Close inquiry revealed that spy demons were at work in Horseferry Road that day.
    If commoners were being born with the power to see demons, the disruption that had lately plagued London could only get worse…. Mandrake shook his head irritably. He needed to visit a library, look for historical precedent. Such an outbreak might have happened before.… But he had no time—the present was difficult enough. The past would have to wait.
    A knock at the door; his servant entered unobtrusively, keeping well away from the pentacles on the floor.
    â€œThe Deputy Police Chief is here to see you, sir.”
    Mandrake’s forehead runkled in surprise. “Oh. Really? Very well. Show her up.”
    It took three minutes for the servant to descend to the reception room two floors below and return with the visitor, giving Mr. Mandrake ample time to draw out a small pocket mirror and inspect himself carefully. He smoothed down his shorn hair where it stuck up in a tuft; he brushed a few motes of dust from off his shoulders. Satisfied at last, he immersed himself in the papers on his desk—a model of zealous, well-kempt industry.
    He recognized that such preening was laughable, but he did it anyway. He was always self-conscious when the Deputy Police Chief came to see him.
    A brusque knock; with light feet and deft, decisive movements, Jane Farrar entered and crossed the room, carrying an orb-case in one hand. Mr. Mandrake half stood courteously, but she waved him back down.
    â€œYou don’t need to tell me