I was talking too much, I knew, but I couldn’t help it. I was worried. The kid was looking at me with a calculating expression that I didn’t like.
“Besides,” I said, “with me gone, no one will know you have the Amulet. You’ll be able to use it in complete secrecy. It’s a precious commodity—everybody seems to want it. I didn’t tell you before, but some girl tried to jump me for it when I was hanging around in town.”
The boy frowned. “What girl?”
“Search me.” I neglected to mention that this was pretty much what the girl had succeeded in doing.
He shrugged. “It’s Simon Lovelace I’m interested in,” he said, almost to himself. “Not the Amulet. He humiliated me, and I’m going to destroy him for it.”
“Too much hate is bad for you,” I ventured.
“Why?”
“Um …”
“I shall tell you a secret, demon,” he went on. “By dint of my magic,6 I saw how Simon Lovelace came by the Amulet of Samarkand. Some months ago, a stranger—swarthy, black-bearded and cloaked—came to him in the middle of the night. He brought him the Amulet. Money was exchanged. It was a furtive meeting.”
I snorted. “What’s surprising there? It’s how all magicians trade. You should know that. They thrive on unnecessary secrecy.”
“It was more than that. I saw it in Lovelace’s eyes and in the eyes of the stranger. There was something illegal, underhand about it…. The man’s cloak was stained with fresh blood.”
“I’m still not impressed. Murder’s part of the game for you lot. I mean, you’re obsessed with revenge already, and you’re only about six.”
“Twelve.”
“Same difference. No, there’s nothing unusual in it. That bloke with the bloodstains probably runs a well-known service. He’ll be in the Yellow Pages, if you let your fingers do the walking.”
“I want to find out who he is.”
“Hmm. Black-bearded and cloaked, eh? That narrows our suspects down to about fifty-five percent of the magicians in London. Doesn’t even exclude all the female ones.”
“Stop talking!” The kid seemed to have had enough.
“What’s the matter? I thought we were getting along well.”
“I know that the Amulet was stolen. Someone was killed to get it. When I find out who, I shall expose Lovelace and see him destroyed. I will plant the Amulet, lure him to it and alert the police at the same time. They will catch him red-handed. But first, I want to know all about him and what he gets up to. I want to know his secrets, how he does business, who his friends are, everything! I need to discover who had the Amulet before and exactly what it does. And I must know why Lovelace stole it. To this end, I charge you, Bartimaeus—”
“Wait just a minute. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“I know your true name, Natty boy. That means I have some power over you. It’s not all one way anymore, is it?”
The kid paused to consider.
“You can’t hurt me so easily now,” I went on. “And that limits your room for maneuver in my book. Throw something at me, and I’ll throw it right back.”
“I can still bind you to my will. You still have to obey my commands.”
“That’s true. Your commands are the terms on which I’m in this world at all. I can’t break out of them without your unleashing the Shriveling Fire.7 But I can sure as hell make life difficult for you when I carry out your orders. For example, while I’m spying on Simon Lovelace, why shouldn’t I grass you up to some other magician? The only thing that stopped me doing that before was fear of the consequences. But I’m not so worried about them now. And even if you explicitly forbid me to grass you up, I’ll find some other way to do you a nasty. Let slip your birth name, maybe, to acquaintances of mine. You won’t be able to sleep in your bed for terror of what I might do.”
He was rattled, I could see that much. His eyes flicked from side to side, as if hunting for a flaw in my reasoning. But I was quietly confident: entrusting a mission to a djinni who knows your name is like tossing lit matches into a fireworks factory. Sooner or later you’re going to have consequences. The best he could do was to let me go and hope no one else called me up while he was alive.
Or so I thought. But he was an unusually clever and resourceful child.
“No,” he said slowly, “I can’t stop you if you want to betray me. All I can do is make sure you suffer along with me. Let’s see….”
He rummaged through the pockets of his shabby coat. “There must be something in here somewhere…. Aha!” His hand emerged holding a small battered tin, on which the words Old Chokey were ornately inscribed.
“That’s a tobacco tin!” I exclaimed."Don’t you know smoking kills?”
“It doesn’t contain tobacco anymore,” the boy said. “It’s one of my master’s incense pots. It’s full of rosemary now.” He lifted the lid a fraction; sure enough, an instant later, a waft of the hellish scent reached me and made the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Some herbs are very bad for our essence, and rosemary is one of these. In consequence, magicians can’t get enough of it.8
“I’d turf that out and fill it up with some honest baccy,” I advised. “Far healthier.”
The boy closed the lid. “I am going to send you on a mission,” he said. “The moment you’ve gone, I shall cast the spell of Indefinite Confinement, binding you into this tin. The spell will not take effect immediately; in fact I shall make it start up a month from today. If for any reason I am not around to cancel this spell before a month is up, you shall find yourself drawn into this tin and trapped there, until such time as it is opened again. How’d you like the idea of that? A few hundred years encased in a small tin of rosemary. That will do wonders for your complexion.”
“You’ve got a scheming little mind, haven’t you?” I said glumly.
“And in case you’re tempted to risk the penalty, I shall bind this tin with bricks and throw it into the Thames before the day is out. So don’t go expecting anyone to release you early.”
“I won’t.” Too right—I’m not insanely optimistic.9
The kid’s face now bore a horribly triumphant look. He looked like an unpleasant boy in a playground who’d just won my best marble.
“So, Bartimaeus,” he said, sneering. “What do you say to that?”
I gave him a beaming smile.
“How about you forget all that silly tin business and just trust me instead?”
“Not a chance.”
My shoulders sagged. That’s the trouble, you see. No matter how hard you try, magicians always find a way to clobber you in the end.
“All right, Nathaniel,” I said. “What exactly is it that you want me to do?”
15
No sooner had the djinni transformed itself into a pigeon and flown from his window than Nathaniel closed the fastener, drew the curtains, and sank down upon the floor. His face was corpse-white and his body shook with exhaustion. For almost an hour, he remained slumped against the wall, staring at nothing.
He had done it; yes, he had done it all right. The demon was bested, was under his control again. He only had to work the binding spell on the tin, and Bartimaeus would be forced to serve him for as long as he desired. It was all going to be fine. He had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.
So he told himself. But his hands trembled in his lap and his heart pounded painfully against his chest, and the confident assertions he tried to conjure fell from his mind. Angrily, he forced himself to breathe deeply and clasped his hands together tightly to suppress the shaking. Of course, this fear was only natural. He had ducked the Stimulating Compass by a fraction of a second. It was the first time he had come near death. That sort of thing was bound to cause a reaction. In a few minutes he would be back to normal; he could work the spell, take the bus to the Thames….
The djinni knew his birth name.
It knew his birth name.
Bartimaeus of Uruk, Sakhr al-Jinni of Al-Arish… He h
ad allowed it to uncover his name. Mrs. Underwood had spoken, and the djinni had heard; and in that moment the cardinal rule had been broken. And now Nathaniel was compromised, perhaps forever.
He felt the panic welling up in his throat; the force of it practically made him gag. For the first time he could remember, his eyes stung with tears. The cardinal rule… if you broke that, you gave yourself up for lost. Demons always found a way. Give them any power at all and sooner or later they would have you. Sometimes it took years, but they would always…
He remembered famous case studies from the books. Werner of Prague: he had allowed his birth name to be uncovered by a harmless imp in his employ; in due course the imp had told a foliot and the foliot had told a djinni and the djinni had told an afrit. And three years later, when Werner had been crossing Wenceslas Square to buy a smoked sausage, a whirlwind had swept him into the air. For several hours his howls from above had deafened the townspeople going about their business, until the disruption had finished with pieces of the magician raining down upon on the weathervanes and chimneys. And this fate was hardly the most horrible that had befallen careless magicians. There was Paulo of Turin, Septimus Manning, Johann Faust….
A sob broke from Nathaniel’s mouth, and the small, pathetic sound shocked him out of his despair and self-pity. Enough of this. He wasn’t dead yet, and the demon was still under his command. Or it would be, once he had disposed of the tobacco tin properly. He would pull himself together.
Nathaniel struggled to his feet, his limbs awash with weakness. With a great effort, he drove his fears to the back of his mind and began his preparations. He redrew the pentacle and changed the incense. He lit new candles. He stole down to his master’s library and double-checked the incantations. Then he added more rosemary to the tobacco tin, placed it in the center of its circle, and began the spell of Indefinite Confinement. After five long minutes, his mouth was dry and his voice cracked, but a steel-gray aura began to gleam across the surface of the tin. It flared and faded. Nathaniel uttered the name of Bartimaeus, added an astrological date on which the confinement would begin, and finished. The tin was as before. Nathaniel put it in the pocket of his jacket, snuffed out the candles, and drew the rug over the markings on the floor. Then he collapsed upon the bed.
When Mrs. Underwood brought her husband his lunch an hour later, she confided an anxiety with him.
“I’m worried about the boy,” she said. “He’s barely touched his sandwich. He’s flopped himself down at the table, white as a sheet. Like he’s been up all night. Something’s scared him, or he’s sickening for something.” She paused. “Dear?”
Mr. Underwood was inspecting the array of food upon his plate. “No mango chutney, Martha? You know I like it with my ham and salad.”
“We’ve run out, dear. So what do you think we should do?”
“Buy some more. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Heavens above, woman—”
“About the boy.”
“Mmm? Oh, he’s all right. The brat’s just nervous about the Naming. And about summoning his first impling. I remember how terrified I got—my master practically had to whip me into the circle.” Mr. Underwood shoveled a forkful of ham into his mouth. “Tell him to meet me in the library in an hour and a half’s time and not to forget the Almanac. No—make it an hour. I’ll need to ring Duvall about those thefts afterward, curse him.”
In the kitchen, Nathaniel had still only managed half a sandwich. Mrs. Underwood ruffled his hair.
“Buck up,” she said. “Is it the Naming that’s unsettled you? You mustn’t worry about it at all. Nathaniel’s nice, but there are lots of other good names out there. Just think, you can choose whatever name you like, within reason. As long as no other current magician has it. Commoners don’t have that privilege, you know. They have to stick with what they’re given.” She bustled about, filling the teapot and finding the milk and all the while talking, talking, talking. Nathaniel felt the tin weighing down his pocket.
“I’d like to go out for a bit, Mrs. Underwood,” he said. “I need some fresh air.”
She looked at him blankly. “But you can’t, dear, can you? Not before your Naming.Your master wants you in the library in an hour. And don’t forget the Nominative Almanac, he says. Though having said that, you do look rather peaky Fresh air would do you good, I suppose…. I’m sure he won’t notice if you nip out for five minutes.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Underwood. I’ll stay in.” Five minutes? He needed two hours, maybe more. He would have to dispose of the tin later, and hope Bartimaeus didn’t try anything beforehand.
She poured a cup of tea and plonked it on the table before him. “That’ll put color in your cheeks. It’s a big day for you, Nathaniel. When I see you again, you’ll be someone else. This will probably be the last time I call you by your old name. I suppose I shall have to start forgetting it now.”
Why couldn’t you have started forgetting it this morning? he thought. A small, malicious part of him wished to blame her for her careless affection, but he knew that this was totally unjust. It was his fault the demon had been on hand to hear her. Safe, secret, strong. He was none of these things now. He took a gulp of tea and burned his mouth.
“Come in, boy, come in.” His master, seated in a tall upright chair beside the library desk, seemed almost genial. He eyed Nathaniel as he approached and indicated a stool beside him. “Sit, sit. Well, you’re looking smarter than usual. Even wearing a jacket, eh? I’m pleased to see that you register the importance of the occasion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Where’s the Almanac? Good, let’s have it….” The book was bound in shiny green leather, with an ox-hair ribbon bookmark. It had been delivered by Jaroslav’s only the day before and had not yet been read. Mr. Underwood opened the cover delicately and glanced at the title page. “Loews Nominative Almanac, three hundred ninety-fifth edition… How time flies. I chose my name from the three hundred fiftieth, would you believe? I remember it as if it were yesterday.”
“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel stifled a yawn. His exertions of the morning were catching up with him, but he had to concentrate on the task in hand. He watched as his master flipped the pages, talking all the while.
“The Almanac, boy, lists all official names used by magicians between Prague’s golden age and the present. Many have been used more than once. Beside each is a register that indicates whether the name is currently being occupied. If not, the name is free to be taken. Or you can invent one of your own. See here—'Underwood, Arthur; London’… I am the second of that name, boy. The first was a prominent Jacobean; a close associate of King James the first, I believe. Now, I have been giving the matter some consideration, and I think you would do well to follow in the footsteps of one of the great magicians.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought Theophilus Throckmorton, perhaps—he was a notable alchemist. And… yes, I see that combination is free. No? That doesn’t appeal? What about Balthazar Jones? You’re not convinced? Well, perhaps he is a hard act to follow. Yes, boy? You have a suggestion?”
“Is William Gladstone free, sir? I admire him.”
“Gladstone!” His master’s eyes bulged. “The very idea … There are some names, boy, that are too great and too recent to touch. No one would dare! It would be the height of arrogance to assume his mantle.” The eyebrows bristled. “If you aren’t capable of a sensible suggestion, I shall do the choosing for you.”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t think.”
“Ambition is all very well, my lad, but you must cloak it. If it is too obvious, you will find yourself brought down in flames before you reach your twenties. A magician must not draw attention to himself too soon; certainly not before he has summoned his first mouler. Well, we shall browse together from the beginning….”
It took an hour and twenty-five minutes for the choice to be made, and a harrowing time Nathaniel had of it. His master seemed to have a great deal of affection for obscure magicians wit
h obscurer names, and Fitzgibbon, Treacle, Hooms, and Gallimaufry were avoided only with difficulty. Likewise, Nathaniel’s preferences always seemed too arrogant or ostentatious to Mr. Underwood. But in the end the choice was made. Wearily, Mr. Underwood brought out the official form and entered in the new name and signed it. Nathaniel had to sign too, in a large box at the bottom of the page. His signature was spiky and ill-formed, but then it was the first time he had used it. He read it back to himself under his breath: John Mandrake. He was the third magician of that name. Neither of his predecessors had achieved much of significance, but by this time Nathaniel didn’t care. Anything was better than Treacle. It would do.
His master folded the paper, placed it into a brown envelope, and sat back in his chair.
“Well, John,” he said. “It is done. I shall get that stamped at the ministry directly and you will then officially exist. However, don’t go getting above yourself. You still know almost nothing, as you will see when you attempt to summon the natterjack impling tomorrow. Still, the first stage of your education is completed, thanks to me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Heaven knows, it has been six long and tedious years. I often doubted you would get this far. Most masters would have turned you out on to the streets after that little affair last year. But I persevered…. No matter. From now on you may wear your lenses.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nathaniel couldn’t help blinking. He was already wearing them.
Mr. Underwood’s voice took on a complacent tone. “All being well, in a few years we will have you in a worthy job: perhaps as an under-secretary in one of the lesser ministries. It won’t be glamorous, but it will suit your modest capabilities perfectly. Not every magician can aspire to become an important minister like me, John, but that shouldn’t stop you making a contribution of your own, however meager. In the meantime, as my apprentice, you will be able to assist me in trivial conjurations, and pay me back a little for all the effort I have spent on you.”
“It would be an honor, sir.”
Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand Page 11
