“You were right, Bartimaeus,” the old man chuckled. “You do dance well. Now, are you going to give me any more back chat? If so, another notch upon the cylinder it shall be.”

 

“No, no —there’s no need for that.” To my great relief the stylus was slowly replaced behind the aged ear. I clapped my hands vigorously. “So, another job, you say? What joy! I’m humbled that you have selected me from among so many other worthy djinn. What brought me to your attention tonight, great Master? The ease with which I slew the giant of Mount Lebanon? The zeal with which I put the Canaanite rebels to flight? Or just my general reputation?”

 

The old man scratched his nose. “None of that; rather it was your behavior last night, when the watch imps observed you in the form of a mandrill swaggering through the undergrowth below the Sheep Gate, singing lewd songs about King Solomon and loudly extolling your own magnificence.”

 

The maiden gave a surly shrug. “Might not have been me.”

 

“The words ‘Bartimaeus is best,’ repeated at tedious length, suggest otherwise.”

 

“Well, all right. So I’d had too many mites at supper. No harm done.”