Bartimaeus's Most Private Files: The Strange Affair of the Anarchist and the Oyster
It's rather curious how magicians, usually fairly learned individuals (for humans, that is) have never learned the meaning of one short, commonly used phrase: 'I'm busy.'
All right, so I wasn't exactly engaged in hard manual labour (or is that djinn-ual labour) when my master, John Mandrake, called me into service. Actually, what I'd been busy doing was composing a rude little ditty that went into great detail describing why the first syllable of my master's surname is inaccurate. I'd write down the lyrics, but I'm afraid they're unprintable. But in an case, I was busier than Mandrake himself, whose job, as far as I could tell, consisted of the taxing task of making up lies all day long and practicing his arrogance by attending meetings with the real experts.
"Bartimaeus," he said seriously as I materialized in the middle of the pentacle. His dark eyebrows bunched together in a frown—there were a few other high-ranking Ministry officials in the room, and for some reason, Mandrake didn't seem to think that summoning a six-foot rubber chicken added to his image of being a powerful magician.
"Bartimaeus," he tried again, still not achieving the stern, controlling tone he was trying for. This may have had something to do with the facts that:
The other Ministry workers were all either looking down their noses at me, disdain evident on their faces (or, in the case of a few low-ranking pages, chuckling to themselves.)
I was now dancing around the pentacle in a manner best compared to a hyperactive squid.
Mandrake was a pathetic excuse for a magician and had a ridiculously whiny and high-pitched voice to boot.
He gave up on trying to say my name in an impressive voice and got to the subject. "I command you to go to—"
"Wait a minute. I'm busy at the moment." I planted my wings on my hips.
He ignored the 'b' word. "I have a task for you. But first… choose a different guise."
"All righty," I chirped, my voice dangerously compliant. "Will do." And where the six-foot rubber chicken had been standing, there was now a panda bear wearing a diaper and a baby bonnet. Humiliating, yes. But more so for Mandrake. I represented him and everything he stood for.
He glared at me.
"What, you want something scary and horrible and disgusting?" I asked kindly, and I changed into an exact replica of Mandrake himself, right down to the replicated bogeys on the replicated breast-pocket handkerchief.
Mandrake made a valiant effort to keep his cool, but a throbbing vein in his temple looked somewhat menacing. "Bartimaeus, I command you to trail Pierre Smith-Smythington and report all findings back to the council by tomorrow."
I folded Mandrake's replicated arms across his replicated chest. "It wouldn't kill you to give me some more details," I grumbled, imitating his pompous, slightly nasal, and VERY irritating voice.
Because Mandrake looked as though he'd very much enjoy ripping off my head with his teeth (which, ironically enough, I'd wanted to do to him on many occasions, especially since I, unlike him, was actually capable of doing) his assistant Rebecca Piper filled me in. "He, his wife, and their ward were to come for dinner tomorrow night, but this morning, one of Miss Whitwell's foliots spotted a note that referred to actions that could cause the collapse of British government. It was signed 'P. S.-S.'"
I snorted, which required the production of more replicated bogeys. "Oh, right, so there aren't any other magicians in London with the initials 'P. S.-S.?"
"With the exception of Pamela Shadwell-Schwankensburger, there are no powerful magicians in London with those initials," confirmed Piper.
"And Madame Shadwell-Schmwankensburger is currently committed to a hospital with dementia. She's unable to speak or leave her bed, let alone organize an anti-government plot," chipped in a rather enthusiastic-looking young boy who clutched a neon-orange clipboard. He clearly found the concept of a Ministry crisis council meeting fascinating, a misconception which I was sure would wear off after a few hours. Before long, he'd be as jaded as the rest of them.
Mandrake's face was cold and set, like a gelatin mold, but considerably less tasty. "Piper, Crump, it's not necessary to give Bartimaeus all of the details. He's a demon, not an equal."
Well, that was certainly true. I would never stoop so low as to refer to Mandrake as my 'equal.' We djinn are a far superior race. (There are a few exceptions, of course. I have known some terribly undignified djinn in my days – not that I could talk, seeing as I'd been a moonwalking rubber chicken less than five minutes before—and there were one or two humans who were not totally corrupt. Ptolemy, for one, springs to mind. But that's not the point.)
"Go, Bartimaeus," instructed Mandrake.
I grimaced and departed with a salute. This salute just so happened to consist of only one finger, and this finger just so happened to be the longest one.