"Good. Then there is only one other arrangement we need to make, and that is—"
"Was that the door, sir?"
"Don't interrupt me, boy. How dare you? The other arrangement, which I will withhold if you are insolent again, is the choosing of your official name. We shall turn our attention to that this afternoon. Bring Loew's Nominative Almanac to me in the library after luncheon and we shall choose one for you together."
"Yes, sir."
The boy's shoulders had slumped; his voice was barely audible. He did not need to see me capering on my web to know that I had heard and understood.
Nathaniel wasn't just his official name! It was his real name! The fool had summoned me before consigning his birth name to oblivion. And now I knew it!
Underwood shifted in his chair. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? This is no time for slacking—you've got hours yet to study before lunch. Get on your way."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
The boy moved listlessly to the door. Gnashing my mandibles with glee, I followed him through with an extra—special reverse somersault with octal hitchkick.
I had a chance at him now. Things were a bit more even. He knew my name, I knew his. He had six years' experience, I had five thousand and ten. That was the kind of odds you could do something with.
I accompanied him up the stairs. He was dawdling now, dragging each step out.
Come on, come on! Get back to your pentacle. I was racing ahead, eager for the contest to begin.
Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now, all right.
12
Nathaniel
One summer's day, when Nathaniel was ten years old, he sat with his tutor on the stone seat in the garden, sketching the horse chestnut tree beyond the wall. The sun beat upon the red bricks. A gray—and—white cat lolled on the top of the wall, idly swishing its tail from side to side. A gentle breeze shifted the leaves of the tree and carried a faint scent across from the rhododendron bushes. The moss on the statue of the man with the lightning fork gleamed richly in the yellow sunlight. Insects hummed.
It was the day that everything changed.
"Patience, Nathaniel."
"You've said that so many times, Ms. Lutyens."
"And I'll say it again, I have no doubt. You are too restless. It's your biggest fault."
Nathaniel irritably cross—hatched a patch of shade.
"But it's so frustrating," he exclaimed. "He never lets me try anything! All I'm allowed to do is set up the candles and the incense and other stuff that I could do in my sleep standing on my head! I'm not even allowed to talk to them."
"Quite right too," Ms. Lutyens said firmly. "Remember, I just want subtleties of shading. No hard lines."
"It's ridiculous." Nathaniel made a face. "He doesn't realize what I can do. I've read all his books, and—"
"All of them?"
"Well, all the ones in his little bookcase, and he said they'd keep me going till I was twelve. I'm not even eleven yet, Ms. Lutyens. I mean, I've already mastered the Words of Direction and Control, most of them; I could give a djinni an order, if he summoned it for me. But he won't even let me try."
"I don't know which is less attractive, Nathaniel—your boasting or your petulance. You should stop worrying about what you don't yet have and enjoy what you have now. This garden, for instance. I'm very pleased you thought of having our lesson out here today."
"I always come here when I can. It helps me think."
"I'm not surprised. It's peaceful, solitary… and there are precious few parts of London like that, so be grateful."
"He keeps me company." Nathaniel indicated the statue. "I like him, even though I don't know who he is."
"Him?" Ms. Lutyens glanced up from her sketchbook, but went on drawing. "Oh, that's easy. That's Gladstone."
"Who?"
"Gladstone. Surely you know. Doesn't Mr. Purcell teach you recent history?"
"We've done contemporary politics."
"Too recent. Gladstone died more than a hundred years ago. He was a great hero of the time. There must have been thousands of statues made of him, put up all over the country. Rightly so, from your point of view. You owe him a lot."
Nathaniel was puzzled. "Why?"
"He was the most powerful magician ever to become prime minister. He dominated the Victorian age for thirty years and brought the feuding factions of magicians under government control. You must have heard of his duel with the sorcerer Disraeli on Westminster Green? No? You should go and see. The scorch marks are still on show. Gladstone was famous for his supreme energy and his implacable defiance when the chips were down. He never gave up his cause, even when things looked bad."
"Gosh." Nathaniel gazed at the stern face staring from beneath its covering of moss. The stone hand gripped its lightning bolt loosely, confidently, ready to throw.
"Why did he have that duel, Ms. Lutyens?"
"I believe Disraeli made a rude remark about a female friend of Gladstone's. That was a big mistake. Gladstone never let anyone insult his honor, or that of his friends. He was very powerful and quite prepared to challenge anyone who had wronged him." She blew charcoal from her sketch and held it up to the light critically.
"Gladstone did more than anyone else to help London ascend to magical prominence. In those days Prague was still the most powerful city in the world, but its time had long gone; it was old and decadent and its magicians bickered among the slums of the Ghetto. Gladstone provided new ideals, new projects. He attracted many foreign magicians here by acquiring certain relics. London became the place to be. As it still is, for better or for worse. As I say, you ought to be grateful."
Nathaniel looked at her. "What do you mean, 'For better or for worse? What's worse about it?"
Ms. Lutyens pursed her lips. "The current system is very beneficial for magicians and for a few lucky others who cluster all about them. Less so for everyone else. Now—let me see how your sketch is going."
Something in her tone aroused Nathaniel's indignation. His lessons with Mr. Purcell came flooding into his mind. "You shouldn't speak of the Government like that," he said. "Without magicians, the country would be defenseless! Commoners would rule and the country would fall apart. Magicians give their lives to keep the country safe! You should remember that, Ms. Lutyens." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rather shrill.
"I'm sure that when you have grown up you will make many telling sacrifices, Nathaniel." She spoke rather more sharply than was usual. "But in fact not all countries have magicians. Plenty do very well without them."
"You seem to know a lot about it all."
"For a humble drawing tutor? Do I detect surprise in your voice?"
"Well, you're only a commoner—" He stopped short, flushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Quite right," Ms. Lutyens said shortly, "I am a commoner. But magicians don't have a complete monopoly on knowledge, you know. Far from it. And anyway, knowledge and intelligence are very different things. As you'll one day discover."
For a few minutes they busied themselves with their paper and pens and did not speak. The cat on the wall flicked a lazy paw at a circling wasp. At length Nathaniel broke the silence.
"Did you not want to become a magician, Ms. Lutyens?" he asked, in a small voice.
She gave a small dry laugh. "I didn't have that privilege," she said. "No, I'm just an art teacher, and happy to be one."
Nathaniel tried again. "What do you do when you're not here? With me, I mean."
"I'm with other pupils, of course. What did you think—that I'd go home and mope? Mr. Underwood doesn't pay me enough for moping, I'm afraid. I have to work."
"Oh." It had never occurred to Nathaniel that Ms. Lutyens might have other pupils. Somehow the knowledge gave him a slightly knotty feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Perhaps Ms. Lutyens sensed this; after a short pause she spoke again in a less frosty manner. "Anyway," she said, "I look forward to my lessons here very much. One
of the highlights of my working week. You're good company, even if you're still prone to rushing things and think you know it all. So cheer up and let me see how you've got on with that tree."
Following a few minutes of calm discussion about art—related issues, the conversation resumed its usual peaceful course, but it was not long afterward that the lesson was suspended by the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Underwood, all in a fluster.
"Nathaniel!" she cried. "There you are!"
Ms. Lutyens and Nathaniel both stood up respectfully. "I've looked all over for you, dear," Mrs. Underwood said, breathing hard. "I thought you'd be in the schoolroom…"
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Underwood," Ms. Lutyens began. "It was such a nice day—"
"Oh, that doesn't matter. That's quite all right. It's just that my husband needs Nathaniel straight away. He has guests over, and wishes to present him."
"There you are, then," Ms. Lutyens said quietly, as they hurried back up the garden. "Mr. Underwood isn't overlooking you at all. He must be very pleased with you to introduce you to other magicians. He's going to show you off!"
Nathaniel smiled weakly, but said nothing. The thought of meeting other magicians made him feel quite queasy. Through all his years in the house he had never once been allowed to meet his master's professional colleagues, who appeared there intermittently. He was always packed off to his bedroom, or kept out of harm's way with his tutors upstairs. This was a new and exciting development, if a rather frightening one. He imagined a room stuffed full of tall, brooding men of power, glowering at him over their bristling beards and swirling robes. His knees shook in anticipation.
"They're in the reception room," Mrs. Underwood said as they entered the kitchen. "Let's look at you…" She wet her finger and hurriedly removed a pencil—lead smudge from the side of his forehead. "Very presentable. All right, in you go."
The room was full; he'd got that part right. It was warm with bodies, the smell of tea, and the effort of polite conversation. But by the time Nathaniel had closed the door and edged across to occupy the only space available, in the lee of an ornamental dresser, his magnificent visions of a company of great men had already evaporated.
They just didn't look the part.
There wasn't a cape to be seen. There were precious few beards on display, and none half as impressive as that of his own master. Most of the men wore drab suits with drabber ties; only a few sported daring additions, such as a gray waistcoat or a visible breast—pocket handkerchief. All wore shiny black shoes. It felt to Nathaniel as if he had strayed upon an undertakers' office party. None of them seemed like Gladstone, in strength or in demeanor. Some were short, others were crabbed and old, more than one was prone to pudginess. They talked among themselves earnestly, sipping tea and nibbling dry biscuits, and not one of them raised his voice above the consensus murmuring.
Nathaniel was deeply disappointed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and breathed deeply.
His master was inching himself through the throng, shaking hands and uttering an odd, short, barking laugh whenever a guest said something that he thought was intended to be funny. Catching sight of Nathaniel, he beckoned him over; Nathaniel squeezed between a tea plate and someone's protruding belly and approached.
"This is the boy," the magician said gruffly, clapping Nathaniel on the shoulder in an awkward gesture. Three men looked down at him. One was old, white—haired, with a florid sun—dried—tomato face, covered in tiny creases. Another was a doughy, watery—eyed individual in middle age; his skin looked cold and clammy, like a fish on a slab. The third was much younger and more handsome, with slicked—back hair, round glasses, and a xylophone—size array of gleaming white teeth. Nathaniel stared back at them in silence.
"Doesn't look like much," the clammy man said. He sniffed and swallowed something.
"He's learning slowly," Nathaniel's master said, his hand still patting Nathaniel on the shoulder in an aimless manner that suggested he was ill at ease.
"Slow, is he?" said the old man. He spoke with an accent so thick that Nathaniel could barely understand the words. "Yes, some boys are. You must persevere."
"Do you beat him?" the clammy man asked.
"Rarely."
"Unwise. It stimulates the memory."
"How old are you, boy?" the younger man said.
"Ten, sir." Nathaniel said politely. "Eleven in Nov—"
"Still a couple of years before he'll be any use to you, Underwood." The young man cut over Nathaniel as if he did not exist. "Costs a fortune, I suppose."
"What, bed and board? Of course."
"I'll bet he eats like a ferret, too."
"Greedy, is he?" said the old man. He nodded regretfully. "Yes, some boys are."
Nathaniel listened with barely suppressed indignation. "I'm not greedy, sir," he said in his politest voice. The old man's eyes flickered toward him, then drifted away again as if he had not heard; but his master's hand clamped down on his shoulder with some force.
"Well, boy; you must get back to your studies," he said. "Run along."
Nathaniel was only too happy to leave, but as he began to sidle off the young man in the glasses raised a hand.
"You've got a tongue in your head, I see," he said. "Not afraid of your elders."
Nathaniel said nothing.
"Perhaps you don't think we're your betters too?"
The man spoke lightly, but the sharpness in his voice was clear. Nathaniel could tell at once that he himself was not the point at issue and that the young man was challenging his master through him. He felt as if he ought to answer, but was so confused by the question that he did not know whether to say yes or no.
The young man misinterpreted his silence. "He thinks he's too good to talk to us at all now!" he said to his companions and grinned. The clammy man tittered wetly into his hand and the old, red—faced man shook his head. "Tcha," he said.
"Run along, boy," Nathaniel's master said again.
"Hold on, Underwood," the young man said, smiling broadly. "Before he goes, let's see what you've taught this whippet of yours. It'll be amusing. Come here, lad."
Nathaniel glanced across at his master, who did not meet his eye. Slowly and unwillingly he drew near to the group again. The young man snapped his fingers with a flourish and spoke at top speed.
"How many classified types of spirit are there?"
Nathaniel replied without a pause. "Thirteen thousand and forty—six, sir."
"And unclassified?"
"Petronius postulates forty—five thousand; Zavattini forty—eight thousand, sir."
"What is the modus apparendi of the Carthaginian subgroup?"
"They appear as crying infants, sir, or as doppelgangers of the magician in his youth."
"How should one chastise them?"
"Make them drink a vat of asses' milk."
"Hmmph. If summoning a cockatrice, what precautions should one take?"
"Wear mirrored glasses, sir. And surround the pentacle with mirrors on two other sides also, to force the cockatrice to gaze in the remaining direction, where its written instructions will be waiting."
Nathaniel was gaining in confidence. He had committed simple details such as these to memory long ago, and he was pleased to note that his unerringly correct answers were exasperating the young man. His success had also stopped the clammy man's snickering, and the old magician, who was listening with his head cocked to one side, had even nodded grudgingly once or twice. He noticed his master smiling, rather smugly. Not that I owe any of this to you, Nathaniel thought witheringly. I read all this. You've taught me next to nothing.
For the first time there was a pause in the barrage of the young man's questions. He appeared to be thinking. "All right," he said at last, speaking much more slowly now and rolling the words luxuriously over his tongue, "what are the six Words of Direction? Any language."
Arthur Underwood uttered a startled protest. "Be fair, Simon! He can't know that yet!" But even as he spoke, Nathaniel was ope
ning his mouth. This was a formula contained in several of the books in his master's large bookcase, where Nathaniel was already browsing.
"Appare; Mane; Ausculta; Se Dede; Pare; Redi: Appear; Remain; Listen; Submit; Obey; Return." He looked into the young magician's eyes as he finished, conscious of his triumph. Their audience murmured their approval. His master now wore an unconcealed grin; the clammy man raised his eyebrows; and the old man made a wry face, quietly mouthing, "Bravo." But his interrogator just shrugged dismissively, as if the incident were of no account. He looked so supercilious that Nathaniel felt his self—satisfaction turn into a fiery anger.
"Standards must have dropped," said the young man, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at an imaginary spot on his sleeve, "if a backward apprentice can be congratulated for spouting something we all learned at our mothers' teats."
"You're just a sore loser," Nathaniel said.
There was a moment's hush. Then the young man barked a word, and Nathaniel felt something small and compact land heavily upon his shoulders. Invisible hands clenched into his hair and jerked it backward with vicious strength, so that his face stared at the ceiling, and he cried out with pain. He tried to raise his arms but found them pinioned to his sides by a hideously muscular coil that wrapped itself around him like a giant tongue. He could see nothing except the ceiling; delicate fingers tickled his exposed throat with horrible finesse. In panic, he cried out for his master.
Someone came close, but it was not his master. It was the young man.
"You cocksure guttersnipe," the young man said softly. "What will you do now? Can you get free? No. How surprising: you're helpless. You know a few words, but you're capable of nothing. Perhaps this will teach you the dangers of insolence when you're too weak to fight back. Now, get out of my sight."
Something sniggered in his ear and with a kick of powerful legs removed itself from Nathaniel's shoulders. At the same moment, his arms were freed. His head drooped forward; tears welled from his eyes. They were caused by the injury to his hair, but Nathaniel feared that they would seem the weeping of a cowardly boy. He wiped them away with his cuff.
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