The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1
Page 18
To make matters even worse, the wretched boy tried summoning me twice more. He didn't give up easily, probably reckoning he'd made some kind of mistake the first time, and ended up causing me so much discomfort I nearly decided to turn him in.
Nearly, but not quite; no point giving up just yet. There was always the chance something might happen.
"Were you at Angkor Thorn?" Bull—head again, still trying to place me.
"What?" I was the vole at this point; I did my best to sound grandly dismissive, but voles can only do peeved.
"You know, the Khmer Empire. I worked for the imperial magicians, me, when they conquered Thailand. Were you something to do with that? Some rebel?"
"No."[65]
"Sure about that?"
"Yes! Of course I'm sure! You're confusing me with someone else. But forget about that for a minute. Listen…" The vole dropped its voice nice and quiet, and spoke from under a raised paw. "You're obviously a clever fellow, you've been around the block a few times, worked for a lot of the most vicious empires. Look—I've got powerful friends. If you can get me out of here, they'll kill your master for you, free you from your bond."
If Bull—head had possessed more brains, I'd have sworn he was looking at me skeptically. Nevertheless, I plowed on regardless. "How long have you been cooped up here on guard duty?" I said. "Fifty years? A hundred? That's no life for an utukku, is it? You might as well be in an orb like this."
The head came close to the bars. A shower of nose—steam jetted all over me, leaving sticky droplets in my fur. "What friends?"
"Erm, a marid—a big one—and four afrits, very powerful, much stronger than me… You can join us…"
The head retreated with a contemptuous growl. "You must think I'm stupid!"
"No, no…" The vole gave a shrug. "That's what Eagle—beak over there thinks. He said you wouldn't join our plan. Still, if you're not interested…" With a wriggle and a half—hop, the vole turned its back.
"What?" Bull—head hastened round to the other side of the column, holding his spear close to the orb. "Don't you turn your back on me! What did Xerxes say?"
"Oi!" Eagle—beak came hurrying from the far corner of the room. "I heard my name! Stop talking to the prisoner!"
Bull—head looked at him resentfully. "I can talk if I want to. So, you think I'm stupid, do you? Well, I'm not, see? What's this plan of yours?"
"Don't tell him, Xerxes!" I whispered loudly. "Don't tell him anything."
Eagle—beak made a rasping noise with his beak. "Plan? I know no plan. The prisoner's lying to you, Baztuk. What's it been saying?"
"It's all right, Xerxes," I called, brightly. "I haven't mentioned… you know."
Bull—head brandished his spear. "I think it's me who should be asking the questions, Xerxes," he said. "You've been plotting with the captive!"
"No, you idiot—"
"Idiot, am I?"
Then they were off: muzzle to beak, all posturing muscles and flaring crest feathers, shouting and landing punches on each other's armored chests. Ho—hum. Utukku always were easy to fool. In their excitement, I had been quite forgotten, which suited me fine. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed seeing them at each other's throats, but right now it was scant consolation for the mess I was in.
The orb had become uncomfortably tight once more, so I downsized again, this time to a scarab beetle. Not that there was a great deal of point in this; but it delayed the inevitable and gave me room to scurry back and forth on the top of the pillar, flashing my wing—cases in rage and something like despair. That boy, Nathaniel! If ever I got out, I'd wreak such revenge on him that it would enter the legends and nightmares of his people! That I, Bartimaeus, who spoke with Solomon and Hiawatha, should go out like this—as a beetle crushed by an enemy too arrogant to even watch it done! No! Even now, I'd find a way…
I scurried back and forth, back and forth, thinking, thinking…
Impossible. I could not escape. Death was closing in steadily on every side. It was hard to see how the situation could possibly get any worse.
A froth of steam, a roar, a mad, red eye lowered to my level.
"Bartimaeus!"
Well, that was one way. Bull—head was no longer squabbling. He had suddenly remembered who I was. "I know you now!" he cried. "Your voice! Yes, it is you—the destroyer of my people! At last! I have waited twenty—seven centuries for this moment!"
When you're faced with a comment like that, it's hard to think of anything to say.
The utukku raised his silver spear and howled out the triumphant battle cry that his kind always deliver with the death stroke.
I settled for whirring my wings. You know, in a forlorn, defiant sort of way.
23
Nathaniel
What was to become the worst day of Nathaniel's life started out much as it meant to go on. Despite returning from Parliament at such a late hour, he had found it almost impossible to get to sleep. His master's final words rang endlessly through his mind, instilling in him a growing unease: "Anyone in possession of stolen property will suffer the severest penalties…" The severest penalties… And what was the Amulet of Samarkand if not stolen property?
True, on the one hand, he was certain Lovelace had already stolen the Amulet: it was to get proof of this that he had sent Bartimaeus on his mission. But on the other hand, he—or, strictly speaking, Underwood—currently had the stolen goods instead. If Lovelace, or the police, or anyone from the Government should find it in the house… indeed, if Underwood himself should discover it in his collection, Nathaniel dreaded to think what catastrophes might occur. What had started out as a personal strike against his enemy now seemed suddenly a far riskier business. It wasn't just Lovelace he was up against now, but the long arm of the Government too. He had heard about the glass prisms, containing the remains of traitors, that hung from the battlements of the Tower of London. They made an eloquent point. It was never wise to risk official wrath.
By the time the ghostly light that precedes the dawn began to glow around the skylight, Nathaniel was sure of one thing only. Whether the djinni had gathered proof or not, he ought to get rid of the Amulet fast. He would return it to Lovelace and alert the authorities in some way. But for that, he needed Bartimaeus.
And Bartimaeus refused to come to him.
Despite his bone—aching weariness, Nathaniel performed the summoning three times that morning, and three times the djinni did not appear. By the third try, he was practically sobbing with panic, gabbling out the words with hardly a care that a mispronounced syllable might endanger him. When he finished, he waited, breathing fast, watching the circle. Come on, come on.
No smoke, no smell, no demon.
With a curse, Nathaniel canceled the summons, kicked a pot of incense across the room and flung himself upon his bed. What was going on? If Bartimaeus had found some way to break free of his charge… But surely that was impossible—no demon had ever managed such a thing as far as Nathaniel knew. He beat his fist uselessly against the blankets. When he got the djinni back again, he'd make it pay for this delay—he'd subject it to the Jagged Pendulum and watch it squirm!
But in the meantime, what to do?
Use the scrying glass? No, that could come later: the three summonings had worn him out, and first he had to rest. Instead, there was his master's library. That was the place to begin. Maybe there were other, more advanced methods of summoning he could try. Perhaps there was information on tricks djinn used to avoid returning.
He got up and kicked the rug over the chalk circles on the floor. No time to clear it up now. In a couple of hours he was due to meet his master, to finally try the long—awaited summoning of the natterjack impling. Nathaniel groaned with frustration—that was the last thing he needed! He could summon the impling in his sleep, but his master would ensure he checked and double—checked every line and phrase until the process took several hours. It was a waste of energy he could well do without. What a fool his master was!
And ran headlong into his master coming up.
Underwood fell back against the wall, clutching the most expansive part of his waistcoat, which had connected sharply with one of Nathaniel's elbows. He gave a cry of rage and aimed a glancing slap at his apprentice's head.
"You little ruffian! You could have killed me!"
"Sir! I'm sorry, sir. I didn't expect—"
"Careering down stairs like some brainless oik, some commoner! A magician keeps his deportment strictly under control at all times. What are you playing at?"
"I'm dreadfully sorry, sir…" Nathaniel was recovering from the shock; he spoke meekly. "I was just going down to the library, to double—check a few things before our summoning this afternoon. I'm sorry if I was too eager."
His humble manner had its effect. Underwood breathed hard, but his expression relaxed. "Well, if the intention was good, I suppose I can hardly blame you. In fact I was coming to say that unfortunately I shall not be in this afternoon. Something serious has happened and I must—" He stopped; the eyebrows flickered and melted into a frown. "What's that I smell?"
"Sir?"
"That odor… it clings to you, boy." He bent closer and sniffed loudly.
"I—I'm sorry, sir, I forgot to wash this morning. Mrs. Underwood's mentioned this to me before."
"I'm not talking about your own scent, boy, unpleasant though it is. No, it's more like… rosemary… Yes! And laurel… and St. John's wort…" His eyes suddenly widened and flashed in the half—light of the staircase. "This is general summoning incense hanging about your person!"
"No, sir—"
"Don't you dare contradict me, boy! How has it…?" A suspicion dawned in his eyes. "John Mandrake, I wish to see your room! Lead the way."
"I'd rather not, sir—it's a terrible mess; I'd feel embarrassed…"
His master raised himself to his full height, his eyes flashing, his singed beard bristling. He seemed somehow to grow taller than Nathaniel had ever seen him, although the fact that he was standing on the step above probably helped a bit. Nathaniel felt himself shrink back, cowering.
Underwood flourished a finger and pointed up the stairs. "Go!"
Helplessly, Nathaniel obeyed. In silence, he led the way to his chamber, his master's heavy boots treading close behind him. As he opened the door, an unmistakable stench of incense and candle wax gusted up into his face. Nathaniel stood glumly to one side as, stooping under the low ceiling, his master entered the attic room.
For a few seconds, Underwood surveyed the scene. It was an incriminating picture: an upturned pot, with a trail of multicolored incense extending from it across the floor; several dozen summoning candles, still smoldering, arranged against the walls and upon the desk; two heavy books on magic, taken from Underwood's own personal shelves, lying open on the bed. The only things that weren't visible were the summoning circles themselves. They lay hidden under the rug. Nathaniel thought this gave him a possible way out. He cleared his throat.
"If I might explain, sir."
His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug, which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes. Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.
"Well?"
Nathaniel swallowed. He knew that no excuse would save him, but he had to try. "I was just practicing making the marks, sir," he began in an uncertain voice. "Getting the feel for it. I didn't actually summon anything, of course, sir. I wouldn't dare…"
He faltered, stopped. With one hand, his master was pointing to the center of the bigger circle, where a prominent scorch mark had been left by Bartimaeus's first appearance. With the other, he indicated the numerous burns left on the walls by the explosion of the Stimulating Compass. Nathaniel's shoulders sagged.
"Um…"
For an instant, it seemed as though Mr. Underwood's deportment was going to fail him. His face mottled with rage, he took two quick steps in Nathaniel's direction, his hand raised to strike. Nathaniel flinched, but the blow did not fall.
The hand lowered. "No," his master said, panting hard. "No. I must consider how to deal with you. You have disobeyed me in a hundred ways, and in so doing have risked your own life and that of the people in this house. You have dabbled with works of magic that you cannot hope to comprehend—I see Faust's Compendium there, and The Mouth of Ptolemy! You have summoned, or attempted to summon, a djinni of at least the fourteenth level, and even tried to bind it with Adelbrand's Pentacle, a feat that I would balk at. The fact that you undoubtedly failed in no way mitigates your crime. Stupid child! Have you no concept of what such a being might do to you, if you made even the slightest slip? Have all my lessons over the years meant nothing? I should have known you were not to be trusted last year, when your wilful act of violence against the guests of my house nearly ruined my career. I should have disposed of you then, when you were nameless. No one would have given it a second thought! But now that you are named and will be in the next edition of the Almanac, I cannot get rid of you so easily! Questions will be asked, forms will have to be filled, and my judgment will once again be called into doubt. No, I must consider what to do with you, though my hand itches to call up a Reviler on the spot and leave you in its tender care."
He paused for breath. Nathaniel had slumped back to sit on the edge of his bed, all energy crushed from him.
"Take it from me," his master said, "that no apprentice of mine disobeys me in the fashion you have done. If I didn't have to go to the ministry urgently, I would deal with you now. As it is, you are confined to your room until my return. But first"—here he strode across to Nathaniel's wardrobe and flung wide the door—"we must see that you have no other surprises hidden away."
For the next ten minutes, Nathaniel could only sit dull—eyed while his master searched the room. The wardrobe and the chest—of—drawers were turned out and rifled, his meager quantity of clothes strewn upon the floor. Several plastic bags of incense were found, a small supply of colored chalk, and one or two sheaves of notes that Nathaniel had made during his extracurricular studies. Only the scrying glass, secure in its hiding place beneath the eaves, remained undiscovered.
Mr. Underwood gathered up the incense, books, chalk and notes. "I shall read through your scrawlings upon my return from the ministry," he said, "in case I need to question you further about your activities before you receive your punishment. In the meantime, remain here and reflect upon your sins and the ruin of your career."
Without another word, he swept from the attic and locked the door behind him.
Nathaniel's heart was a stone plummeting to the bottom of a deep, dark well. He sat motionless on the bed, listening to the rain tapping on the skylight and, far below, his master banging from room to room in his fury. Eventually a distant slam assured him that Mr. Underwood had left the house.
An unknown time later, he was startled out of his misery by the sound of the key turning in the lock. His heart jolted with fear. Surely not his master back already?
But it was Mrs. Underwood who entered, bringing a small bowl of tomato soup on a tray. She placed it on the table and stood regarding him. Nathaniel could not bring himself to look at her.
"Well," she said, in a level voice, "I hope you're satisfied with yourself. From what Arthur tells me, you have been very bad indeed."
If his master's torrent of anger had merely numbed him, these few words from Mrs. Underwood, laced as they were simply with quiet disappointment, pierced Nathaniel to the marrow. His last vestiges of self—control failed him. He raised his eyes to her, feeling tears prickle against the corners.
"Oh, Nath—John!" He had never heard her so exasperated. "Why couldn't you be patient? Ms. Lutyens used to say that this was your abiding fault, and she
was right! Now you've tried to run before you can walk, and I don't know if your master will ever forgive you."
"He'll never forgive me. He said so." Nathaniel's voice was faint; he was holding back the tears.
"He's extremely angry, John, and rightly."
"He said my—my career was ruined."
"I shouldn't be surprised if that wasn't exactly what you deserved."
"Mrs. Underwood!"
"But perhaps, if you are open and honest with him about what you've done, there is a chance that he will listen to you when he returns. A very small chance."
"He won't; he's too angry."
Mrs. Underwood sat down on the bed beside Nathaniel and put her arm round his shoulder. "You don't think it's unheard of, do you, for apprentices to try too much, too soon? It often marks out those with the most talent. Arthur is livid, but he is also impressed, I can tell. I think you should confide fully in him; throw yourself on his mercy. He will like that."
Nathaniel gave a sniff. "You think so, Mrs. Underwood?" As always, the comfort of her presence and her calm common sense reached past his defenses and soothed his pride. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should tell the truth about everything…
"I will do my best to appease him too," she went on. "Heaven knows, but you don't deserve it. Look at the state of this room!"
"I'll clean it right away, Mrs. Underwood; right away." He felt a little comforted. Perhaps he would tell his master, own up to his suspicions about Lovelace and the Amulet. Things would be painful, but simpler that way.
"Drink your soup first." She got up. "Make sure you have everything ready to tell your master when he comes back."
"Why's Mr. Underwood gone to the ministry? It's a Sunday." Nathaniel was already picking up some of the garments and stuffing them back into the drawers.
"Some emergency, dear. A rogue djinni has been caught in central London."
A slight shiver ran down Nathaniel's spine. "A djinni?"
"Yes. I don't know the details, but apparently it was masquerading as one of Mr. Lovelace's imps. It broke into Mr. Pinn's shop and caused no end of damage. But they sent an afrit and caught it soon enough. It's being interrogated now. Your master thinks the magician that sent the djinni may have some link to these artifact thefts that have been so bothering him—and perhaps to the Resistance too. He wants to be there when they force the information out. But that's not really your prime concern now—is it, John? You need to be deciding what to say to your master. And scrub this floor till it shines!"