Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (19 page)

That was a nasty business and they've still not found the murderer, six months

on."

This made me prick up my ears, but I didn't show it. I scratched my nose casually.

"Yeah, Mr. Lovelace said something bad had happened. Didn't say what, though."

"Well, he wouldn't to a speck like you, would he? Some people reckon it was the

Resistance what did it, whatever that is. Or a renegade magician—that's more likely,

perhaps. I don't know, you'd think with all the resources the State's got—"

"So what did happen to the Amulet? It got nicked, did it?"

"It got stolen, yes. And there was murder involved too. Grisly. Dear me, it was

most upsetting.

Poor,
poor
Mr. Beecham." And so saying, this travesty of a foliot wiped a tear from his eye.[5] "You asked me if we'd had the Amulet here? Well, of course not. It was far too valuable to be presented on the open market. It's been government property for years, and for the last thirty of them it was kept under guard at Mr. Beecham's estate in Surrey. High security, portals and all. Mr. Beecham used to mention it occasionally to Mr.

Pinn when he came to see us. He was a fine man—hard but fair, very admirable. Ah, me."

[5] You could see how far he'd gone over to the enemy by the way he described

the death of a magician as

"murder." And was upset! Honestly, it almost makes you long for the simple

aggression of Jabor.

"And somebody stole the Amulet from Beecham?"

"Yes, six months ago. Not one portal was triggered, the guards were none the

wiser, but late one evening it was gone. Vanished! And there was poor Mr. Beecham,

lying beside its empty case in a pool of blood. Quite dead! He must have been in the

room with the Amulet at the time the thieves entered, and before he could summon help

they'd cut his throat. What a tragedy! Mr. Pinn was most upset."

"I'm sure he was. That's terrible, guv'nor, a most terrible thing." I looked as mournful as an imp can be, but hidden inside I was crowing with triumph. This was just the tasty bit of information I had been searching for. So Simon Lovelace
had indeed
had the Amulet stolen—and he'd had murder committed to get it. The black-bearded man that

Nathaniel had seen in Lovelace's study must have gone there fresh from killing Beecham.

Moreover, whether he was working on his own, or as part of some secret group, Lovelace had stolen the Amulet from the Government itself, and was thus engaged in treason. Well, if this didn't please the kid, I was a mouler.

One thing was for sure: the boy Nathaniel had got himself into deep waters when

he'd ordered me to pinch the Amulet, far deeper than he knew. It stood to reason that

Simon Lovelace would stop at nothing to get the thing back—and silence anyone who

knew that he'd had it in the first place.

But why had he stolen it from Beecham? What made him risk the wrath of the

State? I knew the Amulet by reputation—but not the exact nature of its power. Perhaps

this foliot could help me on the matter. "That Amulet must be quite something," I said.

"Useful piece, is it?"

"So my master informs me. It is said to contain a most powerful being—

something from the deepest areas of the Other Place, where chaos rules. It protects the wearer against attack by—

The foliot's eyes strayed behind me and he broke off with a sudden gasp. A

shadow enveloped him, a broad one that swelled as it extended out across the polished

floor. The tinkling bell sounded as the door to Pinn's Accoutrements opened, briefly

allowing the din of Piccadilly traffic into the shop's comfortable hush. I turned round slowly.

"Well, well, Simpkin," Sholto Pinn said, as he pushed shut the door with an ivory cane.

"Entertaining a friend while I'm out, are we? While the cat's away..."

"N-n-no, master, not at all." The sniveling wretch was touching his forelock and bowing and retreating as best he could. His swollen head was visibly shriveling. What an exhibition. I stayed where I was, cool as a cucumber, leaning against the wall.

"Not a friend?" Sholto's voice was low, rich, and rumbling; it somehow made you think of sunlight shining on age-blackened wood, of jars of beeswax polish and bottles of fine red port.[6] It was a good-humored voice, seemingly always on the cusp of breaking into a throaty chuckle. A smile played on his thin, wide lips, but the eyes above were cold and hard. Close up he was even larger than I'd expected, a great white wall of a man.

With his fur coat on, he might have been mistaken in bad light for a mammoth's backside.

[6] No? Oh, well. It's the poet in me, I think.

Simpkin had edged away against the front of the counter. "No, master. H-he is a

messenger for you. H-h-he brings a message."

"You stagger me, Simpkin! A messenger with a message! Extraordinary. So why

didn't you take the message and send him on his way? I left you with plenty of work to do."

"You did, master, you did. He has only just arrived!"

"More extraordinary than ever! With my scrying glass, I have been watching you

both chattering away like fishwives for the last ten minutes! What explanation can there be? Perhaps my eyesight is fading at last in my advanced old age." The magician drew his monocle out of a waistcoat pocket, screwed it into position over his left eye[7] and took a couple of steps forward, idly swinging his cane.

Simpkin flinched but made no answer.

[7] With the aid of their lenses, magicians can see clearly onto the second and

third planes and blearily onto the fourth. Sholto was no doubt checking me out on these.

Fortunately my imp-form extended to the fourth, so I was safe.

"Well then." The cane suddenly swung in my direction. "Your message, imp, where is it?"

I touched my forelock respectfully. "I entrusted it to my memory, sir. My master

considered it too important to be inscribed on paper."

"Is that so?" The eye behind the monocle looked me up and down. "And your master is...."

"Simon Lovelace, sir!" I gave a smart salute and stood to attention. "And if you'll give me leave, sir, I shall relay his message now, then depart. I do not wish to take up any more of your time."

"Quite so." Sholto Pinn drew closer and fixed me keenly with both eyes. "Your message—please proceed."

"Simply this, sir. 'Dear Sholto, Have you been invited along to Parliament

tonight? I've not—the Prime Minister seems to have forgotten me and I feel rather

snubbed. Please respond with advice A.S.A.P. All the best for now, Simon.' Word for

word, that is, sir, word for word." This sounded plausible enough to me, but I didn't want to push my luck. I saluted again and set off for the door.

"Snubbed, eh? Poor Simon. Mmm." The magician considered a moment. "Before you go, what is your name, imp?"

"Erm—Bodmin, sir."

"Bodmin. Mmm." Sholto Pinn rubbed one of his chins with a thick, jeweled

finger. "You're doubtless keen to get back to your master, Bodmin, but before you go I have two questions."

Reluctantly I drew to a halt. "Oh—yes, sir."

"What a polite imp you are, to be sure. Well, first—why would Simon not
write
down
such a harmless note? It is hardly seditious and might well become mangled in the memory of a lesser demon such as yourself."

"I have a very fine memory, sir. Renowned for it, I am."

"Even so, it is out of character.... No matter. My other question..." And here Sholto moved a step or two closer and sort of loomed. He loomed very effectively. In my current shape I didn't half feel small. "My other question is this: why did Simon not ask my advice in person fifteen minutes ago,
when I met him for a prearranged lunch?"

Ah. Time to leave.

I made a leap for the exit, but quick as I was, Sholto Pinn was quicker. He banged

his cane on the floor and tilted it forward. A yellow ray of light shot from the end and collided with the door, sending out globular plasms that froze instantly against anything they touched. I somersaulted over them through a cloud of icy vapor and landed on the

top of a display stand chock-full of satin undergarments. The staff let out another beam; before it hit I was already in midair, leaping over the head of the magician and landing hard on the top of his counter, scattering papers in every direction.

Then I spun and fired off a Detonation—it collided directly with the magician's

back, propelling him forward straight into the frozen display stand. He had a protective field around him—I could see it as pretty yellow sparkles when I flipped through the

planes—but though there wasn't the hole in him I wanted, he was badly winded. He

subsided gasping into a mess of icy boxer shorts. I set off for the nearest window,

intending to bust my way out into the street.

I had forgotten Simpkin. Stepping smartly from behind a rack of cloaks, he swung

a giant staff (with a tag marked Extra-large) directly at my head. I ducked; the staff smashed into the glass front of the counter. Simpkin drew back to repeat the blow; I

leaped at him, wrested the staff from his claws and gave him a clout that reversed the topography of his features. With a grunt he fell back into a pile of silly hats, and I proceeded on my way.

Between two mannequins, I spied a nice open stretch of window, made of clear,

curved glass that refracted the incoming sunlight into gentle rainbow colors. It looked very pretty and expensive. I fired a Detonation through it, sending a cloud of powdered glass shards pluming out into the street, and dived for the hole.

Too late. As the window broke, a trap was triggered.

The mannequins turned round.

They were made of dark polished wood—the kind of shop dummy that has no

human features, just a slender smooth oval where the face should be. The barest

suggestion of a nose perhaps, but no mouth, no eyes. They were modeling the latest

fashionable wizard gear: his-'n'-hers black suits with slim white pinstripes and razor-sharp lapels; lemon-white shirts with high, well-starched collars; daringly colorful ties.

They wore no shoes: from each trouser-leg projected only a simple nub of wood.

As I leaped between them, their arms shot out to bar the way. From the depths of

each sleeve a silver blade extended and clicked into place in their fingerless hands. I was going too fast to stop, but I was still holding the extra-large staff. The blades swung toward me in two synchronized arcs. I raised the staff in front of my face just in time: the blades sank deep into it, almost cutting right through and jerking me to a sudden painful halt.

For a moment I felt the cold aura of the silver against my skin,[8] then I let go of

the staff and flung myself back. The mannequins shook their blades; my staff fell to the floor in two halves. They bent their knees and sprang—

[8] Silver hurts us badly; it burns our essence with its searing cold. Which is why

Sholto had installed it in his security system. What it did to the djinn imprisoned within the mannequins I dread to think.

I back-flipped over the counter.

The silver blades bit into the parquet flooring where I had just stood.

I needed to change, and fast—the falcon form would probably do—but I also

needed to defend myself. Before I could make up my mind quite how, they were upon me

again, whistling through the air, wind ruffling their oversize collars. I dived to one side, crashing into a pile of empty gift boxes.

One mannequin landed on the countertop, the other behind it, their smooth heads

turning toward me.

I could feel my energy getting low. Too many changes, too many spells in too

short a time. But I wasn't helpless yet. I cast an Inferno on the nearer mannequin—the one creeping along the counter. A burst of blue fire erupted from its crisp white shirtfront and began to spread quickly across the fabric.

Its tie shriveled, its jacket smoldered. The mannequin ignored this, as it was

bound to do;[9] it raised its blade again. I edged back. The mannequin bent its legs, ready to spring. Fire was licking across the torso; now the varnished timber body was itself ablaze.

[9] The djinni within was forced to obey its instruction—the defense of the shop

—no matter what the consequence to itself. This was where I held a slight advantage,

since my only current obligation was to save my skin.

The mannequin jumped high into the air and looped down onto me, the flames

dancing behind it like an outstretched cloak. At the last moment I jumped aside. It hit the ground heavily. There was a painful crack: the weakened, burning wood had splintered in the impact. The mannequin gave a lopsided stride toward me, its body swaying at a

grotesque angle—then its legs gave way. It collapsed in a fiery mess of blackening limbs.

I was about to do the same to its companion, which had hopped over the bonfire

and was fast approaching, when a slight sound behind alerted me to the partial recovery of Sholto Pinn. I glanced back. Sholto was half sitting up, looking as if he'd been hit by a herd of buffalo. A pair of Y-fronts draped his forehead at a fetching angle. But he was still dangerous. He groped for his staff, found it, stabbed it in my direction. The yellow ray of light shot out once more—but I was already gone from the spot, and the plasms

enveloped the second mannequin in mid bound. Its limbs helplessly frozen, it crashed to the floor, shattering a leg into a dozen pieces.

Sholto cursed, looked around wildly. He really didn't have to look far for little me.

I was right above him, balanced on the top of a free-standing set of shelves. The whole stack was filled with meticulously indexed files and beautifully arranged displays of

shields, statuary, and antique boxes that had all no doubt been filched from their proper owners across the world. It must have been worth a fortune. I leaned my back against the wall, set my feet firmly on the shelf top and pushed hard.