Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (34 page)

plod away within the system. Arthur knows all about
that,
don't you, Underwood? But when he is strong, he strikes. How do you think Rupert Devereaux himself came to

power?
His
master killed the previous Prime Minister in a coup twenty years ago and he inherited the title. That is the truth of it.

That is how things are always done. When I use the Amulet next week, I will be

following in a grand tradition reaching back to Gladstone." The glasses flashed, a hand was raised, ready to begin a gesture. "It may console you to know that even before you arrived, I was resolved to kill you and everyone in this house. I cannot leave anything to chance. So your stupidity in coming here has actually changed nothing."

An image of Mrs. Underwood, downstairs in the kitchen, flashed through

Nathaniel's mind.

Tears flooded his eyes. "Please—"

"You are weak, boy. Just like your master." Lovelace clapped his hands. The light in the study suddenly darkened. A tremor ran across the floor. Nathaniel sensed

something appearing in the far corner of the room, but fear froze him in place—he dared not look to see. At his side, Underwood uttered the words of a defensive charm. A

shimmering green net of protective threads rose up to enfold him. Nathaniel was

excluded, defenseless.

"Master—!"

At that moment, like a shaft collapsing in a slate mine, a terrible voice echoed

through the room.

"YOUR WISH?"

Lovelace's voice: "Destroy them both. And anything else living in the house. Burn it to the ground with all its contents."

Underwood gave a great cry. "Take the boy! Leave me!" He pushed Nathaniel

with frantic strength. Nathaniel sprawled forward, stumbled, and fell. His eyes were blind with tears; he tried to rise, conscious only of his utter helplessness. Close by sounded a splintering noise. He opened his mouth to scream. Then claws descended and seized him

around the throat.

30

Bartimaeus

I give Underwood's desk the credit. It was an old-fashioned, sturdy affair, and

fortunately Jabor had materialized on its far side. The three seconds it took him to smash his way straight through it gave me time to move. I had been loitering on the ceiling, in a crevice above the light shade; now I dropped straight down, transforming into a gargoyle as I did so. I landed directly on my master, grabbed him unceremoniously around the

neck, and, since Jabor blocked the window, bounded away in the direction of the door.

My response went almost unnoticed: the magicians were otherwise occupied.

Swathed in his defensive nexus, Underwood sent a bolt of blue fire crackling toward

Lovelace. The bolt hit Lovelace directly in his chest and vanished. The Amulet of

Samarkand had absorbed its power.

I broke through the door with the boy under my arm and set off up the stairs. I

hadn't reached the top when a colossal explosion ripped through the passage from behind and sent us slamming against a far wall. The impact dazed me. As I lay there,

momentarily stunned, a series of deafening crashes could be heard. Jabor's attack had

perhaps been overzealous: it sounded as if the entire study floor had given way beneath him.[1]

[1] Typical Jabor, this. He's just the sort who'd happily saw off a branch he was

sitting on, or paint himself steadily into a corner. If he were given to D.I.Y., that is. Which he isn't.

It didn't take me long to put my essence in order and get to my feet, but believe it

or not, in those few moments, that benighted boy had gone. I caught sight of him on the landing, heading for the stairs. And going down.

I shook my head in disbelief. What had I told him about staying out of trouble?

He'd already walked straight into Lovelace's hands and risked both our lives in the

process. Now here he was, in all probability heading straight toward Jabor. It's all very well running for your little life, but at least do it in the right direction. I flapped my wings and set off in grim pursuit.

The second golden rule of escaping is: make no unnecessary sounds. As the boy

reached the ground floor, I heard him breaking this in no uncertain terms with a bellow that echoed up and down the stairwell: "Mrs. Underwood! Mrs. Underwood! Where are you?" His shouts sounded even above the crashing noises reverberating through the house.

I rolled my eyes to the skies and descended the final flight of stairs, to find the

hall already beginning to fill with billowing coils of smoke. A dancing red light flickered from along the passage.

The boy was ahead of me—I could see him stumbling toward the fire.

"Mrs. Underwood!"

There was a movement far off in the smoke. A shape, hunched in a corner behind

a barrier of licking flames. The boy saw it too. He tottered toward it. I speeded up, claws outstretched.

"Mrs. Underwood? Are you—?"

The shape rose, unbent itself. It had the head of a beast.

The boy opened his mouth to scream. At that precise moment I caught up with

him and seized him round the middle. He settled for a choking yell.

"It's me, you idiot." I hiked him backward toward the stairs. "It's coming to kill you. Do you want to die along with your master?"

His face went blank. The words shocked him. I don't think that until that moment

he had truly comprehended what was happening, despite seeing it all unfold before his

eyes. But I was happy to spell it out; it was time he learned the consequences of his

actions.

Out through a wall of fire strode Jabor. His skin gleamed as if it had been oiled;

the dancing flames were reflected on him as he stalked along the hall.

We started up the stairs again. My limbs strained at my master's weight. His limbs

dragged; he seemed incapable of movement.

"Up,"
I snarled. "This house is terraced. We'll try the roof."

He managed a mumble. "My master..."

"Is dead," I said. "Swallowed whole, most probably." It was best to be precise.

"But Mrs. Underwood..."

"Is no doubt with her husband. You can't help her now."

And here, believe it or not, the fool began to struggle, flailing about with his puny

fists. "No!" he shouted. "It's my fault! I must find her—!" He wriggled like an eel, slipping from my grasp. In another moment he would have hurled himself around the

banister and straight into Jabor's welcoming arms. I let out a vivid curse[2] and, grabbing him by an earlobe, pulled him up and onward.

[2] Don't worry. It was in Old Babylonian. The boy wouldn't have understood the

references.

"Stop struggling!" I said. "Haven't you made enough useless gestures for one day?"

"Mrs. Underwood—"

"Would not want you to die too," I hazarded.[3] "Yes, it
is
your fault, but, er, don't blame yourself. Life's for the living... and, erm.... Oh,
whatever."
I ran out of steam.[4]

Whether or not it was my words of wisdom, the boy stopped straining against me. I had

my arm round his neck and was dragging him up and round each corner, half flying, half walking, fast as I could lift him. We reached the second landing and went on again, up the attic stairs. Directly below, the steps cracked and splintered under Jabor's feet.

[3] Without much conviction. It seemed a perfectly reasonable desire to me.

[4] Psychology of this sort is not my strong suit. I haven't a clue what motivates

most humans and care even less. With magicians it's usually pretty simple: they fall into three distinct types, motivated by ambition, greed, or paranoia. Underwood, for example, now he was the paranoid type, from what I'd seen of him. Lovelace?

Easy—ambition leaked from his body like a foul smell. The boy was of the

ambitious kind as well, but he was still young, unformed. Hence this sudden ridiculous burst of altruism.

By the time we reached the top, my master had recovered himself sufficiently to

be stumbling along almost unaided. And so, like the hopeless pair in a three-legged race who trail in last to a round of sympathetic applause, we arrived at the attic room still alive. Which was something, I suppose.

"The window!" I said. "We need to get onto the roof!" I bundled Nathaniel across to the skylight and punched it open. Cold air rushed in. I flew through the opening and, perching on the roof, extended a hand back down into the room. "Come on," I said.

"Out."

But to my astonishment, the infernal boy hesitated. He shuffled off to a corner of

the room, bent down and picked something up. It was his scrying glass. I ask you! Jackal-headed death hard on his heels, and he was dawdling for
that?
Only then did he amble over to the skylight, his face still wiped clean of expression.

One good thing about Jabor. Slow. It took him time to negotiate the tricky

proposition of the stairs. If it had been Faquarl chasing, he'd have been able to overtake us, lock and bar the skylight, and maybe even fit it with a nice new rollerblind before we got there. Yet so lethargic was my master that I barely had him within grabbing distance when Jabor finally appeared at the top of the stairs, sparks of flame radiating from his body and igniting the fabric of the house around him. He caught sight of the boy, raised a hand and stepped forward.

And banged his head nicely on the low-slung attic door.

This gave me the instant I needed. I swung down from the skylight, holding on

with my feet like a gibbon, seized the boy under an arm and swung myself back up and

away from the hole. As we fell back against the tiles, a gout of flame erupted from the skylight. The whole building shook.

The boy would have lain there all night if I'd let him, staring glassy-eyed at the

stars. He was in shock, I think. Maybe nobody had seriously tried to kill him before.

Conversely, I had reactions born of long practice: in a trice I was up again, hoisting him with me and rattling off along the sloping roof, gripping tightly with my claws.

I made for the nearest chimney and, flinging the boy down behind it, peered back

the way we had come. The heat from below was doing its work: tiles were popping out of position, small flames dancing through the cracks between them. Somewhere, a mass of

timber cracked and shifted.

At the skylight, a movement: a giant black bird flapping clear of the fire. It

alighted on the roof crest and changed form. Jabor glared back and forth. I ducked down behind the chimney and snatched a quick look up ahead.

There was no sign of any of Lovelace's other slaves: no djinn, no watchful

spheres. Perhaps, with the Amulet back in his hands, he felt he had no need of them. He was relying on Jabor.

The street was terraced: this gave us an avenue of escape stretching away along a

succession of connecting houses. To the left, the roofs were a dark shelf above the lamp-lit expanse of the street.

To the right, they looked over the shadowy mass of the gardens, full of overgrown

trees and bushes.

Some way off, a particularly large tree had been allowed to grow close to its

house. That had potential.

But the boy was still sluggish. I couldn't rely on a speedy flight from him. Jabor

would nail us with a Detonation before we'd gone five meters.

I risked a quick peek around the edge of the brickwork. Jabor was approaching,

head lowered a little, snuffling in our trail. Not long before he guessed our hiding place and vaporized the chimney.

Now was very much the time to think of a brilliant, watertight plan.

Failing that, I improvised.

Leaving the boy lying, I rose up from behind the chimney in gargoyle form. Jabor

saw me; as he fired, I closed my wings for a moment, allowing myself to drop

momentarily through the air. The Detonation shot above my plummeting head and curved

away over the roof to explode harmlessly[5]

somewhere in the street beyond. I flapped my wings again and soared closer to

Jabor, watching all the while the little sheets of flame licking up around his feet, cracking the tiles and feeding on the hidden timbers that fixed the roof in place.

[5] To me. Which is what counts.

I held up my claws in a submissive gesture. "Can't we discuss this? Your master

may want the boy alive."

Jabor was never one for small talk. Another near miss almost finished the

argument for me. I spiraled around him as fast as I could, keeping him as near as possible in the same spot. Every time he fired, the force of his shot weakened the section of roof on which he stood; every time this happened the roof trembled a little more violently. But I was running out of energy—my dodges grew less nimble. The edge of a Detonation

clipped a wing and I tumbled to the tiles.

Jabor stepped forward.

I raised a hand and fired a return shot. It was weak and low, far too low to trouble

Jabor. It struck the tiles directly in front of his feet. He didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he let out a triumphant laugh, which was cut short by the whole section of roof

collapsing. The master beam that spanned the length of the building split in two; the joists fell away, and timber and plaster and tile upon tile dropped into the inferno of the house, taking Jabor with them. He must have fallen a good long way from there—down four

burning floors to the cellars below ground. Much of the house would have fallen on top of him.

Flames crackled through the hole. To me, as I grasped the edge of the chimney

and swung myself over to the other side, it sounded rather like a round of applause.

The boy was crouching there, dull-eyed, looking out into the dark.

"I've given us a few minutes," I said, "but there's no time to waste. Get moving."

Whether or not it was the friendly tone of my voice that did it, he struggled to his feet quickly enough. But then he set off, shuffling along the rooftop with all the speed and elegance of a walking corpse. At that pace it would have taken him a week to get close to the tree. An old man with two glass eyes could have caught up with him, let alone an