"Sir—"
"Not a word!" Underwood began to manhandle Nathaniel across the landing. "Martha, put on the kettle for our visitor. I shall be down in a few minutes. I need to tidy myself up."
"Yes, Arthur."
"Sir—please listen! It's important! In the study—"
"Silence!" Underwood opened a narrow door and shoved Nathaniel through, into a small, cold room filled with old files and stacks of government papers. Without a backward glance, his master shut the door and turned the key. Nathaniel knocked on the wood and frantically called out after him.
"Sir! Sir!" No one answered. "Sir!"
"You're too kind." A large beetle with huge mandibles squeezed itself under the door. "I actually find sir a bit formal for my taste, but it's better than 'recreant demon. »
"Bartimaeus!" Nathaniel stepped back in shock; before his eyes, the beetle grew, distorted… the dark—skinned boy was standing in the room with him, hands on hips and head slightly to one side. As always, the form was a perfect replica: its hair shifted as it moved, the light glistened on the pores of its skin—it could not have been singled out as false from among a thousand true humans. Yet something about it—perhaps the soft, dark eyes that gazed at him—screamed out its alien otherness. Nathaniel blinked; he struggled to control himself. He felt the same disorientation he had experienced during their previous meeting.
The false boy surveyed the bare floorboards and piles of junk. "Who's been a naughty little magician, then?" it said dryly. "Underwood's cottoned on to you at last, I see. He took his time."
Nathaniel ignored him. "So it was you at the window," he began. "How did you—?"
"Down a chimney, how d'you think? And before you say it, I know you didn't summon me, but things have been moving far too fast for me to wait. The Amulet—"
Nathaniel was struck by a sudden horrified realization. "You—you've brought Lovelace here!"
The boy seemed surprised. "What?"
"Don't lie to me, demon! You've betrayed me! You've led him here."
"Lovelace?" It looked genuinely taken aback. "Where is he?"
"Downstairs. He's just arrived."
"Nothing to do with me if he has. Have you been blabbing?"
"Me? It was you—"
"I've said nothing. I've got a tobacco tin to think of…" It frowned and appeared to be thinking. "It is a slight coincidence, I must admit."
"Slight?" Nathaniel was practically hopping with agitation. "You've led him here, you fool! Now, quickly—get the Amulet! Get it away from the study, before Lovelace finds it!"
The boy laughed harshly. "Not a chance. If Lovelace is here, he'll have stationed a dozen spheres outside. They'll home in on its aura and be on me the moment I leave the building."
Nathaniel drew himself up. With his servant returned, he was not as helpless as before. There was still a chance to avoid disaster, providing the demon did as it was told. "I command you to obey!" he began. "Go to the study—"
"Oh, can it, Nat." The boy waved a weary and dismissive hand. "You're not in the pentacle now. You can't force me to obey each new order. Running off with the Amulet will be fatal, take it from me. How strong is Underwood?"
"What?" Nathaniel was nonplussed.
"How strong? What level? I assume from the size of that beard he's no great shakes, but I might be wrong. How good is he? Could he beat Lovelace? That's the point."
"Oh. No. No, I don't think so…" Nathaniel had little actual evidence either way, but his master's past display of servility to Lovelace left him in little doubt. "You think…"
"Your one chance is that if Lovelace finds the Amulet, he might want to keep the whole thing quiet. He may try to do a deal with Underwood. If he doesn't—"
Nathaniel went cold. "You don't think he'll—?"
"Whoops! In all this excitement I nearly forgot to tell you what I came for!" The boy put on a deep and plangent voice: "Know ye that I have devotedly carried out my charge. I have spied on Lovelace. I have sought the secrets of the Amulet. I have risked all for you, O my master. And the results are"—here it adopted a more normal, sardonic tone—"you're an idiot. You've no idea what you've done. The Amulet is so powerful it's been in government keeping for decades—until Lovelace had it stolen, that is. His assassin murdered a senior magician for it. In those circumstances, I don't think it's likely that he'll worry about killing Underwood to retrieve it, do you?"
To Nathaniel, the room seemed to spin. He felt quite faint. This was worse than anything he had imagined. "We can't just stand here," he stammered. "We've got to do something—"
"True. I'll go and watch developments. Meanwhile, you'd better stay here like a good little boy, and be ready for a quick exit if things get nasty."
"I'm not running anywhere." He said it in a small, small voice. His head was reeling with the implications. "Mrs. Underwood…"
"I'll give you a tip born of long experience. Running's good if your skin needs saving. Better get used to the idea, bud." The boy turned to the box room door and set the palm of one hand against it. With a despairing crack, the door split around the lock and swung open. "Go up to your room and wait. I'll tell you what happens soon enough. And be prepared to move fast."
With that, the djinni was gone. When Nathaniel followed, the landing was already empty.
28
Bartimaeus
"My apologies for the intrusion, Arthur," Simon Lovelace said.
Underwood had only just entered his long, dark dining room when I caught up with him—he'd spent a few minutes beside the lower landing mirror smoothing down his hair and adjusting his tie. It didn't make any difference: he still looked disheveled and moth—eaten beside the younger magician, who was standing beside the mantelpiece, examining his nails, as cold and tense as a coiled spring.
Underwood waved his hand in an airy attempt at magnanimity. "My house is yours, I'm sure. I am sorry for the delay, Lovelace. Won't you take a seat?"
Lovelace did not do so. He wore a slim, dark suit with a dark—green tie. His glasses caught the lamp light from the ceiling and flashed with every movement of his head. His eyes were invisible, but the skin below the glasses was gray, heavy, bagged. "You seem flustered, Underwood," he said.
"No, no. I was engaged at the top of the house. I am somewhat out of breath."
I had entered the door as a spider and had crawled my way discreetly over the lintel and up the wall, until I reached the secluded gloom of the darkest corner. Here I spun several hasty threads across, obscuring me as fully as possible. I did so because I could see that the magician had his second—plane imp with him, prying into every nook and cranny with it's hot little eyes.
Quite how Lovelace had come to suspect that the Amulet was in the house, I did not like to guess. For all my denials to the boy, it was certainly an unpleasant coincidence that he had arrived at the exact same time as I had. But working that out could wait: the boy's future—and consequently, mine—depended on my reacting quickly to whatever happened now.
Underwood sat himself in his customary chair and put on a forced smile. "So," he said. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, at least tell that imp of yours to quit its jiggling. It's making me feel quite ill." He spoke with sudden waspish asperity. Simon Lovelace made a clicking sound with his tongue. The imp hovering behind his head instantly became rigid, holding its face in a deliberately unfortunate posture, midway between a gawp and a grin.
Underwood did his best to ignore it. "I do have a few other matters to take care of today," he said. "Perhaps you might tell me what I can do for you?"
Simon Lovelace inclined his head gravely. "A few nights ago," he said, "I suffered a theft. An item, a small piece of some power, was stolen from my house while I was absent."
Underwood made a consoling sound. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you. It is a piece that I hold especially dear. Naturally, I am eager for its return."
"Naturally.
You think the Resistance—?"
"And it is in connection with this that I have called on you today, Underwood…" He spoke slowly, carefully, skirting round the issue. Perhaps even now he hoped he would not have to make the accusation directly. Magicians are always circumspect with words; hasty ones, even in a crisis, can lead to misfortune. But the older man was oblivious to the hint.
"You can count on my support, of course," Underwood said equably. "These thefts are an abomination. We have known for some time that a black market for stolen artifacts exists and I for one believe that their sale helps to fund resistance to our rule. We saw yesterday what outrages this can lead to." Underwood's eyebrows lifted with something like amusement. "I must say," he went on, "I am surprised to hear that you have fallen victim. Most recent thefts were perpetrated on—may I be frank? —relatively minor magicians. The thieves are often thought to be youths, even children. I would have thought your defenses might have coped with them."
"Quite." Simon Lovelace spoke through his teeth.
"Do you think it has any connection with the attack on Parliament?"
"A moment, please." Lovelace held up his hand. "I have reason to suspect that the theft of the—of my item, was not the work of the so—called Resistance, but that of a fellow magician."
Underwood frowned. "You think so? How can you be sure?"
"Because I know what carried out the raid. It goes by the unseemly name of Bartimaeus. A middle—ranking djinni of great impudence and small intelligence.[74] It is nothing special. Any half—wit might have summoned it. A half—wit magician, that is, not a commoner."
"Nevertheless," Underwood said mildly, "this Bartimaeus got away with your item."[75]
"It was a bungler! It allowed itself to be identified!" Lovelace controlled himself with difficulty. "No, no—you are quite right. It got away."
"And as to who summoned it…"
The glasses flashed. "Well, Arthur, that is why I am here. To see you."
There was a momentary pause while Underwood's brain cells struggled to make the connection. Finally, success. Several emotions competed for control of his face, then all were swept away by a kind of glacial smoothness. The temperature in the room grew cold.
"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "What did you say?"
Simon Lovelace leaned forward and rested his two hands on the dining table. He had very well manicured nails. "Arthur," he said, "Bartimaeus has not been keeping a low profile lately. As of this morning, it was imprisoned within the Tower of London, following its attack on Pinn's of Piccadilly."
Underwood reeled with astonishment. "That djinni? How—how do you know this? They were unable to learn its name… And—and it escaped, this very afternoon…"
"It did indeed." Lovelace did not explain how. "After its escape, my agents… spotted it. They followed Bartimaeus across London—and back here."[76]
Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"
"Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I am inside…" Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."
"But…"
"I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."
The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different expression, then reverted to the original. Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.
"I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite within my rights. But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well aware—is rather… contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get out, now would we? So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some… arrangement that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff. "I'm waiting."
If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he might have saved himself.[77] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.
"You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How dare you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should I take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I would—n't bother robbing you. Everyone knows your star has waned. You're not worth harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably, they lie. Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my house!"
As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.
"Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."
The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."
"I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."
"I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."
"Well, then…"
Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air and landed on the mahogany top of the dining—room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.
"Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."
The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a laden tray.
"Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr. Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"
Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large porcelain teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display—rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.
Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.
"Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."
Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the display—rack. The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.
"That's right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs. Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.
The door closed.
As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.
With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.
There was a brief silence.
Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.
"What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.
Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance. "That was my
best teapot."
He gave three whistles, shrill, high—pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin—imp, blue—faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin—imp sprang, turning in midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong. The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin—imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.
Underwood turned back to Lovelace, who had watched all this tight—lipped.
I confess the old man surprised me—he was putting up a better show than I'd expected. Nevertheless the strain of raising that tame imp was taking its toll. The back of his neck was sweaty.
Lovelace knew this too. "One last chance," he snapped. "Give me my property or I'll raise the stakes. Lead me to your study."
"Never!" Underwood was beside himself with strain and rage. He did not heed the promptings of common sense.
"Watch then." Lovelace smoothed back his oiled hair. He spoke a few words under his breath. There was a frisson in the dining room; everything in it flickered. The wall at the far end of the room became insubstantial. It receded, moving farther and farther back until it could no longer be seen. In its place a corridor of uncertain dimensions stretched away. As Underwood watched, a figure appeared far off along the corridor. It began to move toward us, growing larger at great speed, but floating, for its legs were still.
Underwood gasped and stumbled back. He knocked against his chair.
He was right to gasp. I knew that figure, the bulky frame, the jackal's head.
"Stop!" Underwood's face was waxen; he gripped his chair for support.
"What was that?" Simon Lovelace held his fingers to his ear. "I can't hear you."[78]
"Stop! All right, you win! I'll take you to my study now! Call it off!"
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