The cook sank down upon a tree stump. “I’ll pay you back for that, Bartimaeus,” he gasped. “I’ve never had such torture.”
The Egyptian boy grinned. “It got us away, didn’t it? We’re safe.”
“One of my prongs punctured the petrol tank. I’m covered with the stuff. I’ll come up in a rash—”
“Quit complaining.” I squinted through the foliage: a residential street, big semis, lots of trees. There was no one in sight, except for a small girl playing with a tennis ball in a nearby drive. “We’re in some suburb,” I said. “Outskirts of London, or beyond.” Faquarl only grunted. I cast a sly side glance. He was re-examining the wound Baztuk had given him. Looked bad. He’d be weakened.
“Even with this gash I’m more than a match for you, Bartimaeus, so come and sit down.” The cook gestured impatiendy. “I’ve something important to tell you.”
With my usual obedience, I sat on the ground, cross-legged, the way Ptolemy used to do. I didn’t get too close. Faquarl reeked of petrol.
“First,” he said, “I’ve completed my side of the bargain: against my better judgement, I saved your skin. Now for your side. Where is the Amulet of Samarkand?”
I hesitated. Only the existence of that tin at the bottom of the Thames prevented me from giving him Nat’s name and number. True, I owed Faquarl for my escape, but self-interest had to come first.
“Look,” I said. “Don’t think I’m not grateful to you springing for me just now. But it isn’t easy for me to comply. My master—”
“Is considerably less powerful than mine.” Faquarl leaned forward urgently. “I want you to apply your silly, footling brain and think for a moment, Bartimaeus. Lovelace badly wants the Amulet back, badly enough to command Jabor and me to break into his government’s securest prison to save the miserable life of a slave like you.”
“That is pretty badly,” I admitted.
“Imagine how dangerous that was—for us and for him. He was risking all. That alone should tell you something.”
“So what does he need the Amulet for?” I said, cutting to the chase.
“Ah, that I can’t tell you.” The cook tapped the side of his nose and smiled knowingly. “But what I can say is that you would find it very much in your interests, Bartimaeus, to join up with us on this one. We have a master who is going places, if you know what I mean.”
I sneered. “All magicians say that.”
“Going places very soon. We’re talking days here. And the Amulet is vital to his success.”
“Maybe, but will we share his success? I’ve heard all this type of guff before. The magicians use us to gain more power for themselves and then simply redouble our bondage! What do we get out of it?”
“I have plans, Bartimaeus—”
“Yes, yes, don’t we all? Besides, none of this changes the fact that I’m bound to my original charge. There are severe penalties—”
“Penalties can be enduredl” Faquarl slapped the side of his head in frustration. “My essence is still recovering from the punishments Lovelace inflicted when you vanished with his Amulet! In fact, our existence—and don’t pretend to apologize, Bartimaeus; you don’t care in the least—our existence here is nothing but a series of penalties! Only the cursed magicians themselves change, and as soon as one drops into his grave, another springs up, dusts off our names and summons us again! They pass on, we endure.”
I shrugged. “I think we’ve had this conversation before. Great Zimbabwe, wasn’t it?”
Faquarl’s rage subsided. He nodded. “Maybe so. But I sense change coming and if you had any sense you’d feel it too. The waning of an empire always brings unstable times: trouble rising from the streets, magicians squabbling heedlessly, their brains softened by luxury and power…. We’ve both seen this often enough, you and I. Such occasions give us greater opportunities to act. Our masters get lazy, Bartimaeus—they give us more leverage.”
“Hardly.”
“Lovelace is one of those. Yes, he’s strong, all right, but he’s reckless. Ever since he first summoned me, he has been frustrated by the limitations of his ministerial role. He aches to emulate the great magicians of the past, to daunt the world with his achievements. As a result, he worries away at the strings of power like a dog with a moldy bone. He spends all his time in intrigue and plotting, in ceaseless attempts to gain advantage over his rivals … he never rests. And he’s not alone, either. There are others like him in the Government, some even more reckless than he.You know the type: when magicians play for the highest stakes, they rarely last long. Sooner or later they’ll make mistakes and give us our chance. Sooner or later, we’ll have our day.”
The cook gazed up at the sky. “Well, time’s getting on,” he said. “Here’s my final offer. Guide me to the Amulet and I promise that, whatever penalty you suffer, Lovelace will subsequently take you on. Your master, whoever it is, won’t be able to stand in his way. So then we’ll be partners, Bartimaeus, not enemies. That’ll make a nice change, won’t it?”
“Lovely,” I said.
“Or …” Faquarl placed his hands in readiness on his knees. “You can die here and now in this patch of undistinguished suburban scrub. You know you’ve never beaten me before; chance has always saved your bacon.6 It won’t this time.”
As I was considering this rather weighty statement and debating how best to run, we were interrupted. With a small leafy crashing, something came down through the branches and bounced gently at our feet. A tennis ball. Faquarl leaped off the stump and I sprang to my feet—but it was too late to hide. Someone was already pushing her way into the center of the copse.
It was the little girl I had seen playing in her drive: about six years old, freckle-faced, tousle-haired, a baggy T-shirt stretching down to her grubby knees. She stared at us, half fascinated, half alarmed.
For a couple of seconds, not one of us moved. The girl looked at us. Faquarl and I stared at the girl. Then she spoke.
“You smell of petrol,” said the girl.
We did not answer her. Faquarl moved his hand, beginning a gesture. I sensed his regretful intention.
Why did I act then? Pure self-interest. Because with Faquarl momentarily distracted, it was the perfect opportunity to escape. And if I happened to save the girl too … well, it was only fair. It was she who gave me the idea.
I lit a small Spark on the end of one finger and tossed it at the cook.
A soft noise, like a gas fire being ignited, and Faquarl was an orange-yellow ball of flame. As he blundered about, roaring with discomfort, setting fire to the leaves about him, the little girl squealed and ran. It was good thinking: I did the same.7
And in a few moments I was in the air and far away, hurtling at top speed toward Highgate and my stupid, misbegotten master.
26
AS evening drew on, the clenching agonies of dread closed in upon Nathaniel. Pacing about his room like a panther in a cage, he felt as if he were trapped in a dozen different ways.Yes, the door was locked so he could not physically escape, but this was the least of his problems.
At that very moment, his servant Bartimaeus was imprisoned in the Tower, being subjected to whatever tortures the high magicians could devise. If it really had caused carnage in central London this was exactly what the demon deserved. But Nathaniel was its master. He was responsible for its crimes.
And that meant the magicians would be looking for him too.
Under torture, the threat of Perpetual Confinement would be forgotten. Bartimaeus would tell them Nathaniel’s name and the police would come to call. And then …
With a shiver of fear, Nathaniel remembered the injuries Sholto Pinn had displayed the evening before. The consequences would not be pleasant.
Even if, by some miracle, Bartimaeus kept quiet, there was Underwood to deal with too. Already Nathaniel’s master had promised to disown him—and perhaps worse. Now he only had to read the scribbled notes he had removed from Nathaniel’s room to discover precisely what h
is apprentice had summoned. Then he would demand the full story. Nathaniel shuddered to guess what methods of persuasion he might use.
What could he do? Mrs. Underwood had suggested a way out. She had advised him simply to tell the truth. But the thought of revealing his secrets to his master’s spite and sarcasm made Nathaniel feel physically sick.
Thrusting the dilemma aside, Nathaniel summoned the weary imp and, ignoring its protests, sent it out to spy on the Tower of London once more. From a safe distance, he watched in awe as an angry horde of green-winged demons spiraled like locusts above the parapets, then suddenly dispersed in all directions across the darkening sky.
“Impressive, that is,” the scrying glass commented. “Real class.You don’t mess with them high-level djinn.Who knows?” it added. “Maybe some of them are coming for you.”
“Find Underwood,” Nathaniel snarled. “Where is he and what is he doing?”
“My, aren’t we in a bate? Let’s see, Arthur Underwood…. Nope, sorry. He’s in the Tower too. Can’t get access. But we can speculate, can’t we?” The imp chuckled. “He’s probably talking to your Bartimaeus pal right now.”
Further observation of the Tower was obviously useless. Nathaniel tossed the disc under the bed. It was no good. He would have to come clean about everything. He would have to tell his master—someone he had no respect for, who had failed to protect him, who had cowered and sniveled before Lovelace. Nathaniel could well imagine how Underwood’s fury would be expressed—in sneers and jibes and fears for his own petty reputation.… And as for what would happen then …
Perhaps an hour later, he caught the echo of a door slamming somewhere below. He froze, listening for his master’s dreaded footsteps on the stair, but for a long while no one came. And when the key did turn in the lock, he knew already, from the gentle wheezing, that it was Mrs. Underwood outside. She carried a small tea tray, with a glass of milk and a rather curled tomato-and-cucumber sandwich.
“I’m sorry this is late, John,” she said. “Your food’s been ready for ages, but your master came home before I could bring it up.” She took a deep breath. “I mustn’t stop.Things are a little hectic downstairs.”
“What … what’s happening, Mrs. Underwood?”
“Eat your sandwich, there’s a good boy. It looks like you need it—you’re quite pale. It won’t be long before your master calls you, I’m sure.”
“But did he say anything—?”
“Heavens, John! Will you never stop asking questions? He said a great deal, but nothing that I’m going to share with you now. There’s a pan of water on downstairs and I have to make him something quickly. Eat your sandwich, dear.”
“Is my master—?”
“He’s locked himself in his study, with orders not to be disturbed. Apart from his food, of course. There’s quite an emergency on.”
An emergency … In that instant Nathaniel came to a sudden decision. Mrs. Underwood was the only person he could trust, the only person who truly cared. He would tell her everything: about the Amulet, about Lovelace. She would help him with Underwood, even with the police, if necessary; he didn’t know how, but she would make everything all right.
“Mrs. Underwood—”
She held up a hand. “Not now, John. I haven’t time.”
“But, Mrs. Underwood, I really need—”
“Not a word more! I have to go.”
And with a harassed smile, she went. The door shut. The key turned. Nathaniel was left staring after her. For an instant he felt as if he were about to cry, then a stubborn anger swelled inside him.Was he some naughty child, to be left moping in the attic while his punishment was prepared? No. He was a magician! He would not be ignored!
All his equipment had been taken. He had nothing left, except the scrying glass—and all that could do was look. Still, looking might lead to knowledge. And knowledge was power.
Nathaniel took a bite of the curling sandwich and instantly regretted it. Setting the plate aside, he crossed to the skylight and looked out at London’s carpeting of yellow lights stretching away under the night sky. Surely if Bartimaeus had mentioned his name, Underwood or the police would have collared him by now. It was curious. And this emergency … was it related to Bartimaeus or not?
Underwood was below, doubtless on the phone. The solution was simple: a little spying would swiftly clear up the matter.
Nathaniel retrieved the scrying glass. “My master is in his study. Go close so that I see all; moreover, listen and relay everything he says directly and accurately to me.”
“Who’s a little sneak, then? Sorry,, sorry, fair enough! Your morals are none of my business. Here we go, then …”
The center of the disc cleared; in its place, a strong, clear view of his master’s study. Underwood sat in his leather chair, hunched forward with both elbows on his desk. One hand was clutching the telephone receiver; the other waved and gesticulated as he talked. The imp drew closer; now the agitation on Underwood’s face became clear. He was plainly shouting.
Nathaniel rapped the disc. “What’s he saying?”
The imp’s voice began in the middle of a sentence. There was a slight delay between Underwood’s lips moving and the sound reaching Nathaniel, but he could see the imp was reporting accurately. “… telling me? All three escaped? Leaving dozens of casualties? It’s unheard of! Whitwell and Duvall must answer for this. Yes, well, I do feel strongly, Grigori. This is a significant blow to my enquiries. I was intending to interrogate it myself. Yes, me. Because I’m sure it is linked to the artifact thefts … it’s the latest escalation. Everyone knows the finest objects are held at Pinn’s; it was hoping to steal them…. Well, yes, it would mean a magician was involved … yes, I know that’s unlikely…. Even so, this was one of my best leads … the only lead, to be truthful, but what do you expect when I’m given no funding? What about their identities? No joy there either? This will be a kick in the teeth for Jessica—that’s one good thing to come out of the whole sorry affair …Yes—I suppose so. And listen, Grigori, changing the subject for a moment, I wanted to ask your opinion on something more personal.…”
At this, the imp’s commentary stopped, though Underwood was evidently still talking, his mouth close up to the receiver. Nathaniel applied an improving Shock to the disc, at which the imp’s face appeared.
“Hoi, there was no call for that!”
“The sound, where’s the sound?”
“He’s whispering, ain’t he? I can’t hear a thing. And it ain’t safe to go any closer.”
“Let me hear it!”
“But, boss, you know there’s a safe limit. Magicians often have protective sensors; you know, even this guy—”
Nathaniel’s face felt sore and puffy under the strain. He was past caution. “Do it. You won’t want me to ask again.”
The imp did not answer. Underwood’s face reappeared, so close it almost filled the center of the disc. The hairs tufting from his nostrils were rendered in loving three-dimensional detail. The magician was nodding. “I agree. I suppose I should be flattered …Yes, looking at it that way, the boy is a testimony to my hard graft and inspiration. Now, my old master—”
He broke off, with a wince and a shudder, as if something cold had brushed against him. “Sorry, Grigori. It was just, I felt—” Nathaniel saw the eyes narrow, the familiar brows beetle sharply. At this the image on the disc suddenly broadened out, as if the imp were retreating hurriedly across the room. Underwood uttered a loud syllable; the imp’s voice tried to copy it, but cut out midway, as if turned off like a radio. The image remained, quivering strangely.
Nathaniel couldn’t suppress a catch in his voice. “Imp, what’s happening?”
Nothing. Silence from the imp.
“I order you to leave the study and return to me.”
No answer.
The image in the disc was not reassuring. Shaky though it was, Nathaniel could see Underwood putting down the telephone, then slowly rising and coming round t
o the front of his desk, all the while peering hard—up, down, in every direction—as if hunting for something he knew was there. The image shook still harder: the imp seemed to be redoubling its efforts to escape, but to no avail. In mounting panic, Nathaniel applied a few frantic Shocks to the disc in vain. The imp was frozen, unable to speak or move.
Underwood crossed to a cupboard at the back of the study, rummaged within it, and returned, carrying a metal cylinder. He shook it: from four small holes at its top, a white powder was emitted, which quickly spread out to fill the room. Whatever the powder did, the effect was immediate. Underwood gave a start and stared upward—directly at Nathaniel. It was as if the disc was a window and he was looking directly through it. For a moment, Nathaniel thought his master could actually see him, then he realized it was simply the suspended imp that hung revealed.
Horror-stricken, Nathaniel watched his master bend down to the carpet and pull at a loop of ribbon. A great square section of carpet peeled up and fell away to one side. Below were two painted pentacles. His master stepped inside the smaller, never for one moment taking his eyes away from the frozen imp. He began to speak, and within seconds a tall misty apparition appeared within the larger circle. Underwood uttered a command. The apparition bowed and vanished. To Nathaniel’s amazement, Underwood’s body seemed to shimmer and slide away from itself. His master still stood within the pentacle, but another version of his master, ghostlike and see-through, stood alongside it.
The ghostly form lifted into the air, kicked its heels and began to float forward—straight to where the helpless imp was still relaying the view from the study. Nathaniel screamed commands and shook the disc in fury, but could do nothing to stop his master’s slow approach. Closer, closer … The spectral eyebrows were lowered, the glinting eyes never looked away. Now Underwood’s form swelled to fill the disc—it seemed as if it would break right through.…
Then nothing. The disc showed the study again, with Underwood’s physical body still standing motionless in the pentacle.
Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand Page 21
