Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand
Page 17
“Of course not, you fool, that’s the point! They’re common as muck! They hate us and everything magical, and want to bring the Government down! As if that were possible.” He accelerated through a red light, waving his arm impatiently at the pedestrians diving back to the safety of the pavement.
“But why would they steal magical objects, sir? If they hate magical things, I mean.”
“Who knows? Their thinking’s all wrongheaded, of course; they’re only commoners. Perhaps they hope it’ll reduce our power—as if losing a few artifacts would make a blind bit of difference! But some devices can be used by non-magicians, as you saw today. They may be stockpiling weapons for some future assault, perhaps at the behest of a foreign government.… It’s impossible to tell—until we find them and snuff them out.”
“But this was their first actual attack, sir?”
“The first on this scale. There have been a few ridiculous incidents … mouler glasses tossed at official cars: that sort of thing. Magicians have been hurt. In one case the driver crashed; while he was unconscious, his briefcase, with several magical items, was stolen from his car. It was highly embarrassing for him, the idiot. But now the Resistance has gone too far.You say the assailant was young?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Interesting …Youths have been reported at the scene of the other crimes too. Still, young or old, these thieves will rue the day they’re caught. After tonight, anyone in possession of a magician’s stolen property will suffer the severest penalties our Government can devise. They won’t die easily, you can be sure of that. Did you say something, boy?”
Nathaniel had uttered an involuntary noise, something between a choke and a squeak. A sudden vision of the very stolen Amulet of Samarkand, which even now was hidden somewhere in Underwood’s study, had passed before his eyes. He shook his head, dumbly.
The car turned the final corner and hummed down the dark and silent road. Underwood swept into the parking space in front of the house. “Mark my words, boy,” he said, “the Government will have to act now. I shall request more personnel for my department first thing in the morning. Then perhaps we’ll start catching these thieves. And when we do, we’ll tear them limb from limb.”
He got out of the car and slammed the door, leaving a fresh waft of burned hair behind him. Mrs. Underwood turned her head toward the backseat. Nathaniel was sitting bolt upright, neck rigid, looking into space.
“Hot chocolate before bed, dear?” she said.
21
The darkness cloaking my mind lifted. Instantly, I was as alert as ever, crystal-sharp in all my perceptions, a coiled spring ready to explode into action. It was time to escape!
Except it wasn’t.
My mind works on several levels at once.1 I’ve been known to make pleasant small talk while framing the words of a spell and assessing various escape routes at the same time. This sort of thing regularly comes in handy. But right then I didn’t need more than one cognitive level to tell me that escape was wholly out of the question. I was in big trouble.
But first things first. One thing I could do was look good. The moment I awoke I realized that my form had slipped while I had been out. My falcon form had deteriorated into a thick, oily vapor that sloshed back and forth in midair, as if pulled by a miniature tide. This substance was in fact the nearest I could get to revealing my pure essence2 while enslaved on earth, but despite its noble nature, it wasn’t wholly fetching.3 I thus quickly changed myself into the semblance of a slender human female, draped in a simple tunic, before adding a couple of small horns on her scalp for the heck of it.
With this done, I appraised my surroundings with a jaundiced eye.
I was standing on top of a small stone plinth or pillar, which rose about two meters high from the middle of a flagstoned floor. On the first plane my view was clear in all directions, but on the second to seventh, it was blocked by something nasty: a small energy sphere of considerable power. This was made up of thin, white, crisscrossing lines of force that expanded out from the top of the pillar beside my slender feet and met again over my delicate head. I didn’t have to touch the lines to know that if I did so they would cause me unbearable pain and hurl me back.
There was no opening, no weak spot in my prison. I could not get out. I was stuck inside the sphere like some dumb goldfish in a bowl.
But unlike a goldfish, I had a good memory. I could remember what had happened after I busted out of Sholto’s shop. The silver Snare falling on me; the afrit’s red-hot hooves melting the pavement stones; the smell of rosemary and garlic throttling me fast as a murderer’s hands until my consciousness fled. The outrage of it—me, Bartimaeus, spark out on a London street! But there was time for anger later. Now I had to keep calm, look for a chance.
Beyond the surface of my sphere was a sizeable chamber of some antiquity. It was built of gray stone blocks and roofed with heavy wooden beams. A single window high up on one wall let in a shaft of weak and ailing light, which barely managed to push through the swirling motes of dust to reach the floor. The window was fitted with a magical barrier similar to my prison. Elsewhere in the room were several other pillars similar to the one on which I stood. Most were desolate and empty, but one had a small, bright, and very dense blue sphere balanced upon it. It was hard to be sure, but I thought I could see a contorted something pressed inside.
There were no doors in the walls, though that meant little. Temporary portals were common enough in magicians’prisons. Access to the next chamber out (or in) would be impossible except through gateways opened to order by combinations of trusted magician-warders. It would be tire-somely difficult to bypass these, even if I could escape my prison sphere.
The guards didn’t help matters either. They were two sizeable utukku,4 stolidly marching around the perimeter of the room. One of them had the face and crest of a desert eagle, all cruel curving beak and bristling plumes. The other had a bull’s head, blowing clouds of spittle out of his nostrils. Both walked like men on massive legs; their great, veined hands clasping silver-tipped spears. Feathered wings lay folded heavily on their muscled backs. Their eyes rolled ceaselessly back and forth, covering every inch of the room with their stupid, baleful glare.
I gave a light, rather maidenly sigh. Things really didn’t seem too promising.
Still, I wasn’t beaten yet. Judging by the impressive scale of the prison, I was probably in the hands of the Government, but it was best to be sure. The first thing to do was grill my warders for as much information as they had.5
I gave a slightly insolent whistle. The nearest utukku (the eagle-headed one) looked across, jerking his spear in my direction.
I smiled winsomely. “Hello there.”
The utukku hissed like a serpent, showing his sharp, red-bird’s tongue. He approached, still feinting toughly with the spear.
“Steady with that thing,” I said. “It’s always more impressive to hold a weapon still. You look as if you’re trying to skewer a marshmallow with a toasting fork.”
Eagle-beak came close. His feet were on the ground, two meters below me, but even so he was easily tall enough to look me in the eye. He was careful not to get too near to the glowing wall of my sphere.
“Speak out of turn again,” the utukku said, “and I’ll prick you full of holes.” He pointed to the tip of his spear. “Silver, this is. It can pass through your sphere easy and prick you good, if you don’t shut up.”
“Point already taken.” I brushed a loop of hair back from my brow. “I can see I’m at your mercy.”
“That’s right.” The utukku made to go off, but a lonely thought had somehow made it into the wasteland of his mind. “Here,” he added, “my colleague,”—he indicated Bull-head, who was watching us from a distance with his little red eyes—“he says he’s seen you somewhere before.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Long time ago. Only you looked different. He says he’s smelled you certain. Only he can’t think when.”
The utukku’s crest tipped back a little as he considered my question. “No harm your knowing that,” he said at last. “We’re in the Tower. The Tower of London.” He spoke this with considerable relish, banging the base of his spear on the flagstones to emphasize each word.
“Oh. That’s good, is it?”
“Not for you.”
Several flippant remarks were lining up to be spoken here, but I forced them back with difficulty and remained silent. I didn’t want to be pricked. The utukku marched away to resume his patrol, but now I spied Bull-head coming closer, snuffling and sniffling all the while with his vile wet nose.
When he was so close to the edge of my sphere that the gouts of froth he breathed out fizzed and foamed against the charged white threads, he let out a tormented growl. “I know you,” he said. “I know your scent. Long ago, yes, but I never forget. I know your name.”
“A friend of a friend, perhaps?” I eyed his spear-tip nervously. Unlike Eagle-beak, he didn’t wave it about at all.
“No … an enemy …”
“Terrible when you can’t remember something that’s right on the tip of your tongue,” I observed. “Isn’t it, though? And you try so hard to recall it, but often as not you can’t because some fool’s interrupting you, prattling away so you can’t concentrate, and—”
Bull-head gave a bellow of rage. “Shut up! I almost had it then!”
A tremor ran through the room, vibrating along the floor and up the pillar. Instantly, Bull-head spun on his heels and trotted across to take up a sentry position against a nondescript bit of wall. A few meters away, Eagle-beak did the same. Between them an oval seam appeared in the air; it widened at the base, becoming a broad arch. Within the arch was a blackness, and from this two figures emerged, slowly gathering color and dimension as they forced their way out of the treacly nothingness of the portal. Both were human, though their shapes were so different that this was hard to believe.
One of them was Sholto.
He was as round as ever, but hobbling nicely, as if every muscle pained him. I was pleased to see too that his plasm-firing walking stick had been swapped for a pair of very ordinary crutches. His face looked as though an elephant had just got up from it, and I swear his monocle had sticky tape on its rim. One eye was black and closed. I allowed myself a smile. Despite my predicament, there were still a few things left in life to enjoy.
Sholto’s bruised immensity made the woman alongside him seem even thinner than she actually was. A stooping heron of a creature, she was dressed in a gray top and a long black skirt, with straight white hair chopped short abruptly behind her ears. Her face was all cheekbones and eyes, and entirely colorless—even her eyes were washed out, two dull marbles the color of rainwater sitting in her head. Long-nailed fingers like scalpels jutted from her frilly sleeves. She carried the odor of authority and danger: the utukku clicked their heels and saluted as she passed, and with a snap of her too-sharp nails, the portal behind her closed into nothing.
Trapped in my sphere I watched them approach—thin and fat, stooped and limping. All the while, behind its monocle, Sholto’s good eye was fixed on me.
They stopped a few meters off. The woman snapped her fingers again, and to my slight surprise, the flagstones on which they stood rose slowly into the air. The captive imps beneath the stones gave occasional grunts as they shouldered the burden, but otherwise it was a pretty smooth move. Hardly any wobbling. Soon the stones stopped rising and the two magicians stood regarding me at my level. I stared back, impassive.
“Woken up, have you?” the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.6 “Good. Then perhaps you can help us. First, your name. I won’t waste time calling you Bodmin; the records have been checked and we know that’s a false identity. The only djinni with that name perished in the Thirty Years War.”
I shrugged, said nothing.
“We want your name, your purpose in coming to Mr. Pinn’s shop and everything you know about the Amulet of Samarkand. Above all, we want to know the identity of your master.”
I brushed my hair out of my eye and smoothed it back. My gaze wandered round the room in a bored sort of way.
The woman did not become angry or impatient; her tone remained level.
“Are you going to be sensible?” she said. “You can tell us straightaway or tell us later on. It is entirely up to you. Mr. Pinn, by the way, does not think you will be sensible. That is why he has come. He wishes to see your pain.”
I gave the battered Sholto a wink. “Go on,” I prompted him (with rather more cheer than I actually felt), “give me a wink back. It’s good exercise for a bruised eye.” The magician bared his teeth, but did not speak.
The woman made a motion and her flagstone slid forward. “You are not in a position to be impudent, demon. Let me clarify the situation for you. This is the Tower of London, where all enemies of the Government are brought for punishment. Perhaps you have heard of this place? For one hundred fifty years magicians and spirits of all kinds have found their way here; none have left it, save at our pleasure. This chamber is protected by three layers of hex-locks. Between each layer are vigilant battalions of horlas and utukku, patrolling constantly. But even to reach them you would have to leave your sphere, which is impossible. You are in a Mournful Orb. It will tear your essence if you touch it. At a word of my command"—she uttered a word and the force-lines on the sphere seemed to shudder and grow—"the orb will shrink a little. You can shrink too, I’m sure, so to start with you will be able to avoid being burned and blistered. But the orb can shrink to nothing—and that you cannot do.”
I couldn’t help glancing across at the neighboring pillar, with its densely packed blue sphere. Something had been inside that orb and its remains were in there still. The orb had shrunk until it had run out of room. It was like glimpsing a dead spider at the bottom of a dark glass bottle.
The woman had followed my gaze. “Exactly,” she said. “Need I say more?”
“If I do talk,” I said, addressing her for the first time, “what happens to me then? What’s to stop you squeezing the juice out of me anyway?”
“If you cooperate we will let you go,” she said. “We have no interest in killing slaves.”
She sounded so brutally forthright I almost believed her. But not quite.
Before I could react, Sholto Pinn gave a wheezing cough to draw the woman’s attention. He spoke with difficulty, as if his ribs were hurting him. “The attack,” he whispered. “The Resistance …”
“Ah, yes.” The woman turned back to me. “You will gain even more chance of a reprieve if you can give us information about an incident that happened yesterday evening, after your capture—”
“Hold on,” I said. “How long have you kept me knocked out?”
“For a little under twenty-four hours. We would have interrogated you last night, but as I say, this incident …We didn’t get round to removing the silver net until about thirty minutes ago. I am impressed at the speed of your recovery.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve had practice.7 So, this incident … Tell me what happened.”
“It was an attack by terrorists, styling themselves the Resistance. They claim to loathe all forms of magic, but notwithstanding that, we believe they may have some magical connections. Djinn such as yourself, perhaps; conjured by enemy magicians. It’s possible.”
This Resistance again. Simpkin had mentioned them too. He’d guessed they’d stolen the Amulet. But Lovelace was responsible for that—perhaps he was behind this latest outrage as well.
“What sort of attack was it?”
“An elemental sphere. Futile, haphazard.”
Didn’t sound quite Lovelace’s cup of tea. I saw him as more of a stealth-and-intrigue man, the kind who authorizes murders while nibbling cucumber sandwiches at garden parties. Also, his note to Schyler had suggested they were planning something a little farther ahead.
My musings were rudely disrupted by a guttural snarl from my old friend Sholto.
“Enough of this! It will not tell you of its own free will. Reduce the orb, dear Jessica, so that it squirms and speaks! We are both far too busy to loiter in this cell all day.”
For the first time, the thin-lipped slash that was the woman’s mouth extended outward in a kind of smile. “Mr. Pinn is impatient, demon,” she said. “He does not care whether you speak or not, as long as the orb is put to work. But I always prefer to follow the proper procedure. I have told you what we require—now is the time for you to talk.”
A pause followed. I’d like to say it was pregnant with suspense. I’d like to say that I was wrestling with my conscience about whether to spill the beans about Nathaniel and my mission; that waves of doubt poured dramatically across my delicate features, while my captors waited on tenterhooks to know what my decision would be. I’d like to say that, but it would be a lie.8 So it was in fact a rather more leaden, dreary, and desolate kind of pause, during which I tried to reconcile myself to the pain that I knew would be forthcoming.
Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to stitch Nathaniel up good and proper. I’d have given them everything: name, address, shoe size—I’d even have hazarded a guess about his inside-leg measurement if they’d wanted it. I’d have told them about Lovelace and Faquarl too, and precisely where the Amulet of Samarkand was to be found. I’d have sung like a canary—there was so much to tell. But … if I did so, I doomed myself. Why? Because: 1. There was a good chance they’d just squish me in the orb anyway, and 2. Even if they did let me go, Nathaniel would then be killed or otherwise inconvenienced and I’d be bound for Old Chokey at the bottom of the Thames. And just the thought of all that rosemary made my nose run.9