Nathaniel selected another cube. Party gimmicks or not, they were the only things he had.
He could hear the squeaking of the old man’s shoes as he shuffled down the gallery toward the end of his aisle. What could he do? On either side, bookcases blocked his way out.
Or did they? Each shelf was open-backed: on every row, he could see above the tops of the books into the next aisle. If he pushed himself through …
He tossed the next cube and ran at the shelf.
Maurice Schyler rounded the corner, his hand invisible inside its wavering bulb of force.
Nathaniel hit the second shelf of books like a high jumper clearing a bar. He muttered the Release Command.
The cube exploded in the old man’s face. A starburst of purple sparks zipped and spun, high as the ceiling; a nineteenth-century Czech marching song rang out briefly in accompaniment.
In the next aisle along, fifty books crashed down like a falling wall. Nathaniel sprawled on top of them.
He felt, rather than saw, the third bolt of plasm destroy the aisle behind him.
The magician’s voice now carried a slight note of irritation. “Little boy—time is short! Stand still, please.” But Nathaniel was already on his feet and hurtling toward the next shelf. He was moving too fast to think, never allowing himself a moment’s pause, lest his terror rose up to overwhelm him. His one aim was to reach the door at the far end of the gallery. The old man had said there was a pentacle there.
“John—listen!” He landed on his back in the next aisle, amid a shower of books. “I admire your resolve.” A leather-bound dictionary fell against the side of his head, making bright lights twinkle across his vision. He struggled upright. “But it is foolish to seek revenge on your master’s behalf.” Another burst of magical force: another section of shelving vanished. The room was filled with thick, acrid smoke. “Foolish and unnatural. I myself killed my own master, long ago. Now, if your Underwood had been a worthy man, I would understand it.” Nathaniel threw the third cube behind him; it bounced harmlessly against a table and did not go off. He had forgotten to say the command. “But he was not a worthy man—was he, John? He was a driveling idiot. Now you will lose your life for him. You should have stayed away.”
Nathaniel had reached the final aisle. He was not far from the door at the end of the room—it was a few strides off. But here, for the first time, he stopped dead. A great anger swelled inside him and damped down his fear.
Shoes squeaked softly. The old man shuffled back up the gallery, following the trail of scattered books, checking each side-aisle as he went. He saw no sign of the boy. Drawing near the door, he turned into the final aisle, hand raised at the ready—
He clicked his tongue in exasperation. The aisle was empty.
Nathaniel, who had silently clambered back through the shelves to the previous aisle and had now crept up behind him, thus had the element of surprise.
Three cubes hit the magician at once and exploded together at a single command. They were a lime-green Catherine Wheel, a ricocheting Viennese Cannon, and an Ultramarine Bonfire, and although the effect of each one individually would have been modest, taken together they became quite potent. A medley of cheap popular ballads sounded and the air instantly became heavy with the flavors of rowan, edelweiss, and camphor. The combined explosion blew the old man off his feet and straight into the door at the end of the gallery. He hit it hard, head first. The door caved in; he slumped across it, his neck twisted oddly. The black energy pulsing on his hand was instantly snuffed out.
Nathaniel walked slowly toward him through the smoke, cupping a final cube loosely in his palm.
The magician did not move.
Perhaps he was faking it: in a moment he would spring up, ready to fight. This was possible. He had to be ready for him.
Closer. Still no movement. Now he was adjacent to the old man’s splayed leather shoes….
Another half-step … surely he would get up now.
Maurice Schyler did not get up. His neck was broken. His face sagged against a panel of the door, his lips slightly apart. Nathaniel was close enough to count all the lines and creases on his cheek; he could see little red veins running across the nose and under the eye.
The eye was open, but glazed, unseeing. It looked like that of a fish on a slab. A trace of limp white hair fell across it.
Nathaniel’s shoulders began to shake. For a moment, he thought he was going to cry.
Instead he forced himself to remain motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the shaking to die down. When his emotion was safely contained, he stepped over the body of the old man. “You made a mistake,” he said softly. “It is not my master that I’m doing this for.”
The room beyond was small and windowless. It had perhaps once been a storeroom. A pentacle had been drawn in the center of the floor, with candles and incense pots carefully arranged around. Two of the candles had been knocked over by the impact of the falling door, and these Nathaniel carefully set upright, in position.
On one of the walls was a gold picture frame, hanging from a nail by a string. There was neither painting nor canvas inside the frame; instead it was filled with a beautiful image of a large, circular, sunny room, in which many small figures moved. Nathaniel knew instantly what the frame was: a scrying glass far sharper and more powerful than his lost bronze disc. He stepped close to inspect it. It showed a vast auditorium, filled with chairs, whose carpeted floor shone strangely.
The ministers were entering it from one side, laughing and chatting, still holding their glasses, accepting glossy black pens and folders from a line of servants by the door. The Prime Minister was there, at the center of a milling throng, the grim afrit still attentively in tow. Lovelace had not yet arrived.
But any moment now, he would enter the hall and set his plan in motion.
Nathaniel noted a box of matches lying on the floor. Hurriedly, he lit the candles, double-checked the incense and stepped into the pentacle—admiring, despite his haste, the elegance with which it had been drawn. Then he closed his eyes, composed himself, and searched his memory for the incantation.
After a few seconds, he had it ready. His throat was a little dry because of the smoke; he coughed twice and spoke the words.
The effect was instantaneous. It had been so long since Nathaniel had completed a summons that he gave a little start when the djinni appeared. It was in its gargoyle form and wore a peeved expression.
“You really have got perfect timing, haven’t you?” it said. “I’d just got the assassin where I wanted him, and all of a sudden you remember how to call me!”
“It’s about to start!” The effort of calling Bartimaeus had made Nathaniel lightheaded. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. “Look—there in the glass! They’re gathering. Lovelace is on his way now, and he’ll be wearing the Amulet, so he won’t feel the effects of whatever happens. I-I think it’s a summons.”
“You don’t say? I’d worked that one out already. Well, come on then—surrender to my tender claws.” It flexed them experimentally; they let off a creaking sound.
Nathaniel went white. The gargoyle rolled its eyes. “I’m going to have to carry you,” it said. “We’ll have to hurry if we want to stop him entering the room. Once he’s in, the place will be sealed—you can bet on that.”
Gingerly, Nathaniel stepped forward. The gargoyle tapped a foot impatiently. “Don’t worry on my account,” it snapped, “I won’t strain my back or anything. I’m feeling angry and my strength’s returned.” With this, it made a grab, snatched Nathaniel around the waist and turned to leave, only to trip over the body lying in the doorway.
“Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that.” With a bound it had cleared the debris and was leaping through the gallery, spurring itself on with great beats of its stony wings.
Nathaniel’s stomach lurched horribly with every stride. “Slow down!” he gasped. “You’ll make me sick!”
“
You won’t like this then.” Bartimaeus leaped through the arch at the end of the gallery, ignored the landing and staircase completely and plummeted directly to the hall thirty feet below. Nathaniel’s wail made the rafters echo.
Half flying, half leaping, the gargoyle negotiated the next corridor. “So,” it said agreeably, “you’ve made your first direct kill. How does it feel? Much more manly, I’m sure. Does it help blot out the death of Underwood’s wife?”
Nathaniel was too nauseous to listen, let alone answer.
A minute later, the ride came to an end so abruptly that Nathaniel’s limbs swung about like a rag doll’s. The gargoyle had halted at the corner of a long corridor; it dropped him to the floor and pointed silently up ahead. Nathaniel shook his head to stop his vision spinning, and stared.
At the other end of the corridor was the open door to the auditorium. Three people stood there: a haughty servant, who held the door ajar; the fish-faced magician Rufus Lime; and Simon Lovelace, who was buttoning up his collar. A brief flash of gold showed at his throat, then the collar was adjusted and his tie wrapped in place. Lovelace clapped his companion on the shoulder and strode through the door.
“We’re too late!” Nathaniel hissed. “Can’t you—?” He looked to his side in surprise—the gargoyle was gone.
A tiny voice whispered in his ear. “Smooth your hair down and get to the door.You can enter as a servant. Hurry it up!” Nathaniel ignored the strong desire to scratch his earlobe; he could feel something small and ticklish hanging there. He squared his shoulders, swept back his hair, and trotted along the corridor.
Lime had departed elsewhere. The servant was swinging the door to.
“Wait!” Nathaniel wished his voice were deeper and more commanding. He approached the servant at speed. “Let me in too! They want someone extra to serve the drinks!”
“I don’t recognize you,” the man said, frowning. “Where’s young William?”
“Erm, he had a headache. I was called in. At the last minute.”
Footsteps along the corridor; a voice of command. “Wait!”
Nathaniel turned. He heard Bartimaeus swearing on the cusp of his earlobe. The black-bearded mercenary was approaching fast, barefoot ragged cape swinging, blue eyes afire.
“Quick!” The djinni’s voice was urgent. “The door’s open a crack—slip inside!”
The mercenary quickened his pace. “Stop that boy!”
But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant’s shoe. The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.
The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. “Shut it on them!”
He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight on the other side. The door began to swing open.
Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.
“Don’t bother,” it said. “Let him go in. He deserves his fate.”
The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.
The small voice spoke against his ear. “Now, that was ominous,” it said.
41
From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed, events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.
First, where were we? By the locked door, on the very edge of the circular glass floor. This glass had been given a slightly rough surface, so that shoes gripped it, but it was still clear enough for the carpet below to be beautifully displayed. The boy was standing right above the edge of the carpet—a border depicting interlocking vines. Nearby, and at intervals around the whole hall, stood impassive servants, each one beside a trolley heavily laden with cakes and beverages. Within this was the semicircle of chairs that I had seen from the window, now groaning under the assembled bottoms of the magicians. They were sipping their drinks and half listening to the woman, Amanda Cathcart, who was standing on the podium in the center of the hall, welcoming them all there. At her shoulder, his face expressionless, was Simon Lovelace, waiting.
The woman was wrapping up her speech. “Last, I hope you will not mind my drawing your attention to the carpet on display below. We commissioned it from Persia, and I believe it is the biggest in England. I think you will find yourselves all included if you look carefully.” (Murmured approval, a few cheers.) “This afternoon’s discussion will last until six. We will then break for dinner in the heated tents on the lawn outside, where you will be entertained by some Latvian sword jugglers.” (Enthusiastic cheering.) “Thank you. May I now hand you over to your true host, Mr. Simon Lovelace!” (Strained and ragged clapping.)
While she droned on, I was busy whispering in the boy’s ear.1 I was a head louse at this point, which is pretty much as small as I can go. Why? Because I didn’t want the afrit to notice me until it couldn’t be avoided. She was the only otherworld being currently in evidence (for politeness’sake, all the magicians’imps had been dismissed for the duration of the meeting) but she was bound to see me as a threat.
“This is our last chance,” I said. “Whatever Lovelace is going to do, take it from me he’ll do it now, before the afrit picks up the Amulet’s aura. He’s got it round his neck. Can you creep up behind him and pull it into view? That’ll rouse the magicians.”
The boy nodded. He began to sidle around the edge of the crowd. On the podium, Lovelace began an obsequious address: “Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, may I say how honored we are….”
We were now at the edge of the audience, with a clear run down the edge of the magicians’chairs toward the podium. The boy started forward at a canter, with me urging him on like a jockey does a willing (if stupid) horse.
But as he passed the first delegate, a bony hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of the neck.
“And where do you think you’re going, servant?”
I knew that voice. For me it brought back displeasing memories of her Mournful Orb. It was Jessica Whitwell, all cadaverous cheeks and cropped white hair. Nathaniel struggled in her grip. I wasted no time, but motored over the top of his ear and down the soft white skin behind it, making for the grasping hand.
Nathaniel wriggled. “Let—me—go!”
“… it is a delight and a privilege.…” As yet, Lovelace had heard nothing.
“How dare you seek to disrupt this meeting?” Her sharp nails dug cruelly into the boy’s neck. The head louse approached her pale, thin wrist.
“You don’t—understand—” Nathaniel choked. “Lovelace has—”
“Silence, brat!”
“… glad to see you here. Sholto Pinn sends his apologies, he is indisposed.…”
“Put him in a Stricture, Jessica.” This was a magician at the next chair along. “Deal with him after.”
I was at her wrist now. Its underside ran with blue veins.
Head lice aren’t big enough for what I had in mind. I became a scarab beetle, with extra-sharp pincers. I bit with gusto.
The woman’s shriek made the chandeliers jangle. She let go of Nathaniel, who stumbled forward, nearly jolting me from the back of his neck. Lovelace was interrupted—he spun round, eyes wide. All heads turned.
Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed. “Watch out!” he croaked (the grip on his neck had nearly throttled him). “Lovelace has got the Am—”
A web of white threads rose up around us and closed over Nathaniel’s head. The woman lowered her hand and sucked on her bleeding wrist.
“—ulet of Samarkand! He’s going to kill you all! I don’t know how, but it’s going to be horrible and—”
Wearily, the scarab beetle tapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. “Don’t bother,” I said. “No one can hear you. She�
��s sealed us off."2 He looked blank. “Not been in one before? Your lot do it to others all the time.”
I was watching Lovelace. His eyes were locked on Nathaniel, and I caught doubt and anger flashing across them before he slowly turned back to his speech. He coughed, waiting for the magicians’chattering to die down. Meanwhile, one hand edged toward the hidden shelf in the lectern.
The boy was panicking now; he lashed out weakly at the rubbery walls of the Stricture.
“Keep calm,” I said. “Let me check it: most Strictures have weak links. If I can find one I should be able to break us out.” I became a fly and, starting at its top, began to circle carefully across the Stricture’s membranes, looking for a flaw.
“But we haven’t time….”
I spoke gently to quieten him. “Just watch and listen.”
I didn’t show it, but I was worried myself now. The boy was right: we really had no time.
“But we haven’t time—” Nathaniel began.
“Just shut up and watch!” The fly was buzzing frantically around their prison. It sounded decidedly panicked.
Nathaniel had barely enough room to move his hands, and nowhere near enough to do anything with his legs or feet. It was like being inside a mummy’s case or an iron maiden. As he had this thought, the terror of all constricted things bubbled up within him. He suppressed a mounting urge to scream, took a deep breath and, to help distract himself, focused on events around him.
After the unfortunate interruption, the magicians had turned their attention back to the speaker, who was acting as if nothing had happened: “In turn, I would like to thank Lady Amanda for the use of this wonderful hall. Incidentally, may I draw your attention to the remarkable ceiling, with its collection of priceless chandeliers? They were taken from the ruins of Versailles after the French Wars, and are made of adamantine crystal. Their designer …”
Lovelace had a lot to say about the chandeliers. All the delegates craned their necks upward, making noises of approval. The opulence of the hall ceiling interested them greatly.
Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand Page 33
