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Chapter 4

I felt the tugging in my essence.

Now I wonder who might be summoning me? Most certainly, it wouldn't be Nathaniel, alias John Mandrake. No. Because he dismissed me barely a month ago with the understanding that I'd get a good and proper rest in the Other Place. And surely, not even the most rude, arrogant, self-important wind-bag of a magician would be so callous as to go back on their own word and wrench my pour dilapidated soul from – oh, of course it's Mandrake.

In the pentacle, I took on a decidedly irritable guise. An entirely unimpressed and inanimate footstool appeared in my pentacle and just sat there.

Mandrake, in his patented, ridiculous, not-quite-spandex black suit, was looking slightly more haggard than I'd last seen him. He eyed the footstool askance.

I would have been more enraged if I hadn't expected this backstabbery from him. But I've had years of practice with Mandrake promising me freedom, only to have him summon me back for increasingly less life-threatening or ambitious reasons. Last time he summoned me it was to help him with paperwork. The nerve!

"Bartimaeus? Could you change into something, a little more… impressive?"

The wood grain on the seat of my stool contorted into a mouth. "I could, but I don't feel like it. Now what do you want?"

Oo, did I sound peeved. And now I could see that I was having an effect on the kid. He was haggard. His hair was slightly disheveled. He'd brushed it over to try and make a good impression on me, but he kept fidgeting, twitching his fingers and pulling at his mane of greasy locks. This was interesting. I've seen Mandrake at his worst (and I mean worst), and he's never much bothered with trying to impress me by covering up his little insecurities. That he was nervous and disheveled of course was nothing new.

This gave me something to go on.

"Well, I can only imagine why you'd bring to your tortuous earth. Did you misplace your shampoo? Come across a dirty tissue on your desk?"

"Whatever Bartimaeus. This is serious. I need you to guard me, protect me."

"Hmm… I'd rather not. Now why don't you go ahead and dismiss me and get yourself a nice and qualified imp."

Mandrake stamped his foot, "No. I'm the master here, and you must to as I bid you."

The footstool burst out laughing. It was as if he had just reverted to his twelve year old self. I just couldn't take him seriously.

"Why?" I sneered, "What should I protect you from? Did Jessica Whitwell feel you were getting too important and finally decide to knock you off?"

Mandrake looked at me scornfully. He wasn't among the top council magicians yet; he didn't understand.

Mandrake twitched his fingers and ran a hand through his hair. "Bartimaeus? You've fought a lot of spirits before now, haven't you? You're always bragging about it."

The footstool felt the need to puff itself up with importance, but footstools can't really do that. "Of course I have, I've been in a hundred battles between civilizations that have long since crumbled to dust. You want a complete repertoire? We might be here for days."

The magician groaned. "That won't be necessary."

Now it was time to get serious. This wasn't a very promising situation and I was getting an eerie feeling. I shifted to Ptolemy's form and faced him eye to eye. "What exactly is going on, and what is it you need me to protect you from?"

Mandrake took a deep breath and swallowed. I rather noticed that he was purposefully avoiding eye contact. "Farrar and I co-summoned an afrit, and it… got out of control. Its charge is to return to me when it has information. When it completes its charge, it'll be free to do whatever it wants."

Ptolemy shook his head. "That's bad."

"I can't dismiss it without Farrar, and she has refused to help."

"Of course she has," I agreed, eyeing him meaningfully, "who would go out of their way to help you? Unless of course, they were under a direct charge."

Mandrake fidgeted some more.

I ventured a hesitant question, "What level of afrit?"

"Thirteenth," he whispered.

"Ah." I said. Well that was bad. If it were a lowly afrit, I'd be able to outfox him any day. But a thirteenth level afrit is practically a marid, and just like toddlers or luggage, never to be left unattended.

"Well?" Mandrake asked. His face was pinched and he was sweating. I realized the strain he must be under having summoned both me and a powerful afrit. Poor little guy needed some good news to buck him up.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"Say your prayers, buddy, cause you're a dead man walking. Nothing I can do about it. A thirteenth level afrit? Are you insane?" I paused. "Well, yes, I suppose you are. But your genius plans of summoning spirits way beyond your capacities is finally going to get you killed. And if you aren't careful, they'll kill me too."

Ptolemy's eyes flashed.

Mandrake gulped, ran a hand through his hair. "There's only one other thing we can do. If we can solve the mystery before the afrit does, I would be able to persuade Farrar to dismiss it with me."

Ptolemy rolled his eyes. "Oh I see where this is going." And I did too. I could chastise, demean, and berate Nathaniel all I wanted, but he wouldn't listen. He would come up with some clever security against me letting slip his birth name and I would be stuck putting my essence at risk saving him from being killed by his own ineptitude.

If it weren't for that inconvenient master-servant dichotomy, I would have laughed in his face and dematerialized back to the peace of the Other Place. But instead, I ground my teeth as Mandrake nodded and began to explain the situation of the explosion and the missing ambassador's wife.