Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (17 page)

mattered....

A great weariness descended upon him with every step.

16

Bartimaeus

When I set out from the boy's attic window, my head was so full of competing

plans and complex stratagems that I didn't look where I was going and flew straight into a chimney.

Something symbolic in that. It's what fake freedom does for you.

Off I went, flying through the air, one of a million pigeons in the great metropolis.

The sun was on my wings, the cold air ruffled my handsome feathers. The endless rows

of gray-brown roofs stretched below me and away to the dim horizon like the furrows of a giant autumn field. How that great space called to me. I wanted to fly until I had left the cursed city far behind, never looking back. I could have done so. No one would have

stopped me. I would not be summoned back.

But I could not follow this desire. The boy had made quite clear what would

happen if I failed to spy on Simon Lovelace and dish the dirt on him. Sure, I could go anywhere I wanted right now. Sure, I could use any methods I chose to acquire my info

(bearing in mind that anything I did that harmed Nathaniel would in due course harm me too). Sure, the boy would not summon me for a while at least. (He was weary and needed rest.[1]) Sure, I had a month to do the job. But I still had to obey his orders to his satisfaction. If not, I had an appointment with Old Chokey, which at that moment was

probably settling softly into the thick, dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames.

[1] He wasn't the only one, believe me.

Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price.

Thinking things through, I decided that I had the meager choice of starting with a

known place or with a known fact. The place was Simon Lovelace's villa in Hampstead,

where much of his secret business presumably occurred. I did not wish to enter it again, but perhaps I could mount a watch outside and see who went in and who went out. The

fact was that the magician had seemingly come into possession of the Amulet of

Samarkand by ill means. Perhaps I could find someone who knew more about the object's

recent history, such as who had owned it last.

Of the two starting points, visiting Hampstead seemed the best way to begin. At

least I knew how to get there.

This time I kept as far away as possible. Finding a house on the opposite side of

the road that afforded a decent view of the villa's front drive and gate, I alighted upon it and perched on the gutter.

Then I surveyed the terrain. A few changes had been made to Lovelace's pad since

the night before.

The defense nexus had been repaired and strengthened with an extra layer, while

the most badly scorched trees had been cut up and taken away. More ominously, several

tall, thin, reddish creatures were now prowling the lawns on the fourth and fifth planes.

There was no sign of Lovelace, Faquarl, or Jabor, but then I didn't expect anything

right away. I was bound to have to wait for an hour or so. Fluffing up my feathers against the wind, I settled down to my surveillance.

Three days I stayed on that gutter. Three whole days. It did me good to rest

myself, I'm sure, but the ache that grew up within my manifestation made me fretful.

Moreover, I was very bored.

Nothing significant happened.

Each morning, an elderly gardener toddled around the estate scattering fertilizer

on the stretches of lawn where Jabor's Detonations had landed. In the afternoons, he

snipped at token stems and raked the drive before pottering in for a cup of tea. He was oblivious to the red things, three of which stalked him at all times, like giant yearning birds of prey. No doubt only the strict terms of their summoning prevented them from

devouring him.

Each evening, a flotilla of search spheres emerged to resume their hunt across the

city. The magician himself remained inside, doubtless orchestrating other attempts to

locate his amulet. I wondered idly whether Faquarl and Jabor had suffered for letting me escape. One could only hope.

On the morning of the third day, a soft coo of approval broke my concentration. A

small, well-presented pigeon had appeared on the guttering to my right and was looking at me with a distinctly interested tilt of the head. Something about it made me suspect it was female. I gave what I hoped was a haughty and dismissive coo and looked away. The

pigeon gave a coquettish hop along the guttering. Just what I needed: an amorous bird. I edged away. She hopped a little closer. I edged away again. Now I was right at the end of the gutter, perched above the opening to the drainpipe.

It was tempting to turn into an alley cat and frighten her out of her feathers, but it was too risky to make a change so close to the villa. I was just about to fly elsewhere, when at long last I spotted something leaving Simon Lovelace's compound.

A small circular hole widened in the shimmering blue nexus and a bottle-green

imp with bat's wings and the snout of a pig issued through it. The hole closed up; the imp beat his wings and flew down the road at streetlamp height.

He carried a pair of letters in one paw.

At that moment, a purring coo sounded directly in my ear. I half turned my head

—and looked directly into the beak of that benighted she-pigeon. With devious feminine cunning she'd seized the opportunity to snuggle right up close.

My response was eloquent and brief. She got a wingtip in the eye and a kick in the

plumage.

And with that I was airborne, following the imp.

It was clear to me that he was a messenger of some kind, probably entrusted with

something too dangerous or secret for telephone or mail. I had seen creatures of his kind before.[2] Whatever he was carrying now, this was my first opportunity to spy on

Lovelace's doings.

[2] Some societies I had known made great use of messenger imps. The rooftops

and date palms of old Baghdad (which had neither telephone nor e-mail) used to swarm

with the things after breakfast and shortly before sundown, which were the two

traditional times for messages to be sent.

The imp drifted over some gardens, soaring on an updraft. I followed, laboring

somewhat on my stubby wings. As I went I considered the situation carefully. The safest and most sensible thing to do was to ignore the envelopes he was carrying and

concentrate instead on making friends with him. I could, for instance, adopt the

semblance of another messenger imp and start up a conversation, perhaps winning his

confidence during the course of several "chance" meetings. If I were patient, friendly and casual enough, he would no doubt eventually spill some beans....

Or I could just beat him up instead. This was a quicker and more direct approach

and all in all I favored it. So I followed the imp at a discreet distance and jumped him over Hampstead Heath.

When we were in a remote enough area, I made the change from pigeon to

gargoyle; then I swooped down upon the unlucky imp, and bundled us to earth among

some scrubby trees. This done, I held him by a foot and gave him a decent shaking.

"Leggo!" he squealed, flailing back and forth with his four clawed paws. "I'll have you! I'll cut you to ribbons, I will!"

"Will you, my lad?" I dragged him into a thicket and fixed him nicely under a small boulder. Only his snout and paws protruded.

"Right," I said, sitting myself cross-legged on top of the stone and plucking the envelopes from a paw. "First I'm going to read these, then we can talk. You can tell me what and all you know about Simon Lovelace."

Affecting not to notice the frankly shocking curses that sounded up from below, I

considered the envelopes. They were very different. One was plain and completely blank: it bore no name or mark and had been sealed with a small blob of red wax. The other was more showy, made of soft yellowish vellum, its seal had been pressed with the shape of the magician's monogram, SL. It was addressed to someone named R. Devereaux, Esq.

"First question," I said. "Who's R. Devereaux?"

The imp's voice was muffled but insolent. "You're kidding! You don't know who

Rupert Devereaux is? You stupid or something?"

"A small piece of advice," I said. "Generally speaking, it isn't wise to be rude to someone bigger than you, especially when they've just trapped you under a boulder."

"You can stick your advice up—"

* * * * * * * * * *[3]

[3] These polite asterisks replace a short, censored episode characterized by bad

language and some sadly necessary violence. When we pick up the story again,

everything is as before, except that I am perspiring slightly and the contrite imp is the model of cooperation.

"I'll ask again. Who is Rupert Devereaux?"

"He's the British Prime Minister, O Most Bounteous and Merciful One."

"Is he?[4] Lovelace
does
move in high circles. Let's see what he's got to say to the Prime Minister, then...."

[4] On the night I stole the Amulet, I'd heard Lovelace being skeptical about the

Prime Minister's abilities and this gap in my knowledge suggested he was right. If

Devereaux had been a prominent magician, chances are I would have heard his name.

Word spreads quickly about the powerful ones, who are always the most trouble.

Extending the sharpest of my claws I carefully prised the sealing wax off the

envelope with minimum damage and placed it on the boulder beside me for safekeeping.

Then I opened the envelope.

It wasn't the most thrilling letter I've ever intercepted.

Dear Rupert,

Please accept my deepest, most humble apologies, but I may be slightly late

arriving at
Parliament this evening. Something urgent has come up in relation to next
week's big event
and I simply must try to resolve it today. I would not wish for any of the
preparations to get
badly behind schedule. I do hope you will see fit to forgive me if I am
delayed.

May I take this opportunity to say again how eternally grateful we are to have

the
opportunity of hosting the conference? Amanda has already renovated the hall and is
now in
the process of installing new soft furnishings (in the Nouveau Persian style) in
your suite. She
has also ordered a large number of your favorite delicacies, including
fresh larks' tongues.

Apologies again. I will certainly be present for your address.

Your faithful and unfailingly obedient servant,

Simon

Just your typical groveling magician-speak, the kind of sycophantic twaddle that

leaves an oily sensation on the tongue. And isn't greatly informative either. Still, at least I had no difficulty in guessing what "something extremely urgent" was—that could only be the missing Amulet, surely. Also, it was noticeable that he needed to sort it out before a

"big event" next week—a conference of some kind.

Perhaps that was worth investigating. As for Amanda: she could only be the

woman I had seen with Lovelace on my first trip to the villa. It would be useful to learn more about her.

I replaced the letter carefully in the envelope, took up the sealing wax, and, by

judiciously applying a tiny burst of heat, melted its underside. Then I stuck the seal down again and—presto!

Good as new.

Next, I opened the second envelope. Inside was a small slip of paper, inscribed

with a brief message.

The tickets remain lost. We may have to cancel the performance. Please consider

our
options. Will see you at P. tonight.

Now, this was more like it!
Much
more suspicious: no addressee, no signature at the bottom, everything nice and vague. And, like all the best secret messages, its true meaning was concealed. Or at least, it would have been for any human numbskull who'd

chanced to read it. I, on the other hand, instantly saw through all the tripe about lost tickets. Lovelace was quietly discussing his missing amulet again. It looked as if the kid was right: perhaps the magician
did
have something to hide. It was time to ask my friend the imp a few straight questions.

"Right," I said, "this blank envelope. Where are you taking it?"

"To the residence of Mr. Schyler, O Most Awful One. He lives in Greenwich."

"And who is Mr. Schyler?"

"I believe, O Light of All Djinn, that he is Mr. Lovelace's old master. I regularly take correspondence between them. They are both ministers in the Government."

"I see." This was something to go on, if not much. What were they up to? What was this

"performance" that might have to be canceled? From the clues in both letters, it seemed that Lovelace and Schyler would meet to discuss their affairs this evening at

Parliament. It would be well worth being there to hear what they had to say.

In the meantime, I resumed my enquiries. "Simon Lovelace. What do you know

about him?

What's this conference he's organizing?"

The imp gave a forlorn cry. "O Brilliant Ray of Starlight, it grieves me, but I do not know! May I be toasted for my ignorance! I simply carry messages, worthless as I

am. I go where I'm directed and bring replies by return, never deviating from my course and never pausing—unless I am so fortunate as to be waylaid by your good grace and

squashed under a stone."

"Indeed. Well, who is Lovelace closest to? Who do you carry messages to most

often?"

"O Most Glorious Person of High Repute, perhaps Mr. Schyler is his most

frequent correspondent. Otherwise, no one stands out. They are mainly politicians and

people of stature in London society. All magicians, of course, but they vary greatly. Only the other day, for instance, I carried messages to Tim Hildick, Minister for the Regions, to Sholto Pinn of Pinn's Accoutrements and to and from Quentin Makepeace, the theatrical