26
Nathaniel
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 his 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—dim
ensional 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 to 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.
Despite his panic, Nathaniel knew all too well what was happening. Having located the spy and safely frozen it in position, Underwood had decided to follow the imp's astral cord back to its source to learn the identity of the enemy magician. Such sources might be many miles away; perhaps his master was expecting a long journey in his djinni—controlled form. If so, he was about to get a surprise.
Too late, Nathaniel realized what he had to do. The window! If he could throw the disc out into the street, perhaps his master would not guess…
He had only taken two strides in the direction of the skylight when, without a sound, the translucent head of Arthur Underwood welled up through the floorboards. It was see—through and glowing with a greenish phosphorescence; the tip of the dilapidated beard extended into the floor. Slowly, slowly, the head revolved through ninety degrees, until at last it caught sight of Nathaniel standing above it, holding the scrying glass in his hands.
At this, an expression appeared on his master's face that Nathaniel had never seen before. It was not the familiar look of impatient disdain that had long characterized Underwood's tutelage. It was not even the fury he had witnessed that morning, following the discovery in his room. Instead, it was first a look of extreme shock, and then a sudden explosion of such malice that Nathaniel's knees gave way. The disc fell from his hands; he slumped against the wall; he tried to speak, but could not.
The ghostly head stared at him from the center of the floor. Nathaniel stared back; unable to tear his eyes away. Then—very muffled and distant, perhaps because it was uttered by the physical body in the study far below—Underwood's voice came sounding from inside the upturned disc.
"Traitor…"
Nathaniel's mouth opened, but let forth only a strangled croak.
The voice spoke again. "Traitor! You have betrayed me. I shall discover who is guiding you to spy on me."
"No one—there's no one…" Nathaniel could only manage the barest whisper.
"Prepare yourself! I shall come for you."
The voice faded. Underwood's head descended, spiraling into the floor. The phosphorescent glow vanished with it from the room. With trembling fingers, Nathaniel picked up the disc and peered into it. After a few seconds the view of the study grew misty as his master's spirit form passed back through the imp; it drifted away across the carpet to where the body waited. Coming alongside, it adopted the exact same posture and merged in with itself. A moment later, Underwood was himself again and the shadowy apparition had reappeared in the other circle. With a clap of the hands, Underwood dismissed the djinni; it bowed and vanished. He stepped out of the pentacle, eyes blazing, and strode out of shot toward his study door.
At this, the spell on the imp was lifted and the baby's face returned to fill the disc. It blew out its cheeks with relief.
"Whoof! I don't mind telling you, that was bad for my system," it said. "Having that horrible old geezer drifting straight through me and right up my cord… it gives me the willies just to think about it, it really does!"
"Shut up! Shut up!" Beside himself with terror, Nathaniel was trying to think.
"Look, do us a favor," the imp said. "You haven't got much time left. Couldn't you just free me now, before you die? Life gets so dreary in this disc; you don't know how lonely it gets. Go on, boss. I'd really appreciate it." The baby's attempt at a winning smile was interrupted as the disc was hurled against the wall. "Ow! Well, I hope you enjoy what's coming to you, then!"
Nathaniel ran to the attic door and rattled desperately at the handle. Somewhere below he heard his master's footsteps hastening up the stairs.
"He's really angry," the imp called. "Even his astral form practically pickled my essence as it went by. I wish I wasn't facing the floor—I'd love to watch what happens when he gets in here."
Nathaniel sprang at the wardrobe, pushed at it frantically; he planned to push it in front of the door, to block the way in. Too heavy, he hadn't the strength. His breathing came in fits and gasps.
"What's the matter?" the imp asked. "You're a big magician now. Call something up to save your skin. An afrit maybe—that should do the job. Or what about that Bartimaeus you're so obsessed with? Where's he when you need him?"
With a sob, Nathaniel stumbled back into the center of the room and turned slowly to face the door.
"Nasty, ain't it?" The imp's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Being at someone else's mercy. Now you know what it feels like. Face it, kid—you're on your own. You've got no one there to help you."
Something tapped on the skylight window.
After an instant in which his heart nearly stopped, Nathaniel looked: a disheveled pigeon was sitting beyond the glass, gesticulating urgently with both wings. In doubt, Nathaniel stepped closer.
"Bartimaeus…?"
The pigeon rapped its beak several times against the pane. Nathaniel raised his hand to undo the catch—
A key rattled in a lock. With a bang, the bedroom door burst open. Underwood stood there, his
face pink with exertion and framed by a furious white mane of hair and beard. Nathaniel's arm dropped to his side; he turned to his master. The pigeon had vanished from the window.
It took Underwood a moment to regain his breath. "Miserable boy! Who is controlling you? Which of my enemies?"
Nathaniel could feel his whole body trembling, but he forced himself to stand stock—still and look his master in the eyes.
"No one, sir. I—"
"Is it Duvall? Or Mortensen? Or Lovelace?"
Nathaniel's lip curled at the last name. "None of those, sir."
"Who taught you to make the glass? Who told you to spy on me?"
Despite his fear, anger flared in Nathaniel's heart. He spoke with contempt. "Will you not take my word? I have already said. There is no one."
"Even now you continue your lies! Very well! Take a last look at this room. You will not be returning here. We will go to my study, where you will enjoy the company of my imps until your tongue is loosened. Come!"
Nathaniel hesitated, but there was no help for it. His master's hand descended on his shoulder and clamped it like a vise. Almost bodily, he was propelled out of the door and down the attic stairs.
On the first landing, Mrs. Underwood met them, in haste and out of breath. When she saw Nathaniel's hapless posture and the fury on her husband's face, her eyes widened with distress, but she did not comment.
"Arthur," she panted, "there is a visitor to see you."
"I haven't time. This boy—"
"It's a matter of the greatest urgency, he says."
"Who? Who says?"
"Simon Lovelace, Arthur. He practically showed himself in."
27
Underwood's brows lowered. "Lovelace?" he growled. "What does he want? Typical of him to turn up at the worst moment. Very well, I will see him. As for you—stop your wriggling!" Nathaniel was making sudden feverish movements, as if attempting to escape his grip. "You, boy, can wait in the box room until I'm ready to deal with you."
The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1 Page 21
