Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (31 page)

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."

"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