Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (38 page)

again.

For a few minutes Nathaniel watched the boy's approach, deliberating with

himself. In all probability, there was no point in buying another paper: little would have changed since the morning.

But
The Times
was his only link with the outside world; it might give him more information—about the police search for him, or the conference. Besides, he would go

mad if he didn't do something. He rummaged in a pocket and checked his change. The

result decided him. Treading carefully in the half-light, he crossed to the staircase, descended to the ground floor and squeezed past the loose plank into the side alley.

"One copy, please." He caught up with the paperboy just as he was wheeling his cart round a corner, off the main street. The boy's cap was hanging from the back of his head; a sprig of white hair spilled out onto his brow. He looked round and gave a slightly toothless grin.

"You again. Still out on the streets?"

"One copy." It seemed to Nathaniel that the boy was staring at him. He held his coins out impatiently. "It's all right—I've got the money."

"Never said you hadn't, chum. Trouble is, I've just sold out." He indicated the empty interior of his cart. "Lucky for you, my mate will have some left. His pitch isn't so lucrative as mine."

"It doesn't matter." Nathaniel turned to go.

"Oh, he'll be just along here. Won't take a minute. I always meet him near the

Nag's Head at the end of the day. Just round the next corner."

"Well..." Nathaniel hesitated. Bartimaeus could be back at any time, and he'd been told to stay inside.
Told?
Who was the master here? It was just round the corner; it would be fine. "All right," he said.

"Dandy. Come on, then." The boy set off, the wheel of his cart squeaking and shaking on the uneven stones. Nathaniel went beside him.

The side road was less frequented than the main highway, and few people passed

them before they arrived at the next corner. The lane beyond was quieter still. A little way along it was an inn, a squat and ugly building with a flat roof and gray pebbledash walls.

An equally squat and ugly horse was depicted on a badly painted sign, hanging above the door. Nathaniel was disconcerted to see a small vigilance sphere hovering unobtrusively beside it.

The paperboy seemed to sense Nathaniel's hesitation. "Don't worry; we're not

going near the spy. It only watches the door, acts as a deterrent. Doesn't work, mind.

Everyone at the Nag's Head just goes in the back. Anyway, here's old Fred."

A narrow alley ran off from the lane at an angle between two houses, and at its

entrance another handcart had been parked. Behind it, in the shadows of the alley, a tall youth wearing a black leather jacket lounged against the wall. He was eating an apple

methodically and regarding them from under lowered eyelids.

"Hello, Fred," the paperboy said heartily. "I've brought a chum to see you."

Fred said nothing. He took a giant bite out of the apple, chewed it slowly with his

mouth slightly open, and swallowed. He eyed Nathaniel up and down.

"He's after an evening paper," the boy explained.

"Is he?" Fred said.

"Yeah, I'd run out. And he's the one I was telling you of and all," the paperboy added quickly.

"He's got it on him now."

At this, Fred straightened, stretched, tossed the remains of the apple down the

alley and turned to face them. His leather jacket squeaked as he moved. He stood head-

and-shoulders taller than Nathaniel and was broad-chested too; a sea of spots on his chin and cheeks did nothing to detract from his slightly menacing appearance. Nathaniel felt a little uneasy, but drew himself up and spoke with as much brusque confidence as he

could. "Well, do you have one? I don't want to waste my time."

Fred looked at him. "I've run out of papers too," he said.

"Don't worry. I didn't really need it." Nathaniel was only too eager to depart.

"Hold on—" Fred stretched out a large hand and grabbed him by a sleeve. "No need to run off so quick. It ain't curfew yet."

"Get off me! Let me go!" Nathaniel tried to shake himself free. His voice felt tight and high.

The paperboy patted him on the back in a friendly manner. "Don't panic. We're not looking for trouble. We don't look like magicians, do we? Well then. We just want to ask you a few questions, don't we, Fred?"

"That's right." Fred seemed to exert no effort, but Nathaniel found himself drawn into the alley, out of sight of the inn along the street. He did his best to quell his mounting fear.

"What do you want?" he said. "I haven't got any money."

The paperboy laughed. "We're not trying to rob you, chum. Just a few questions,

like I said.

What's your name?"

Nathaniel swallowed. "Um... John Lutyens."

"Lutt-chens? Aren't we posh? So what are you doing round here, John? Where's

your home?"

"Er, Highgate." As soon as he said it, he guessed it was a mistake.

Fred whistled. The paperboy's tone of voice was politely skeptical.
"Very
nice.

That's a magician's part of town, John. You a magician?"

"No."

"What about your friend?"

Nathaniel was momentarily taken aback. "My—my friend?"

"The good-looking dark kid you were with this morning."

"Him? Good-looking? He's just someone I met. I don't know where he's gone."

"Where did you get your new clothes?"

This was too much for Nathaniel to take. "What
is
this?" he snapped. "I don't have to answer all this! Leave me alone!" A trace of imperiousness had returned to his manner.

He had no intention of being interrogated by a pair of commoners—the whole situation

was absurd.

"Simmer down," the paperboy said. "We're just interested in you—and in what you've got in your coat."

Nathaniel blinked. All he had in his pocket was the scrying glass, and no one had

seen him use that, he was sure. He'd only taken it out in the library. "My coat? There's nothing in it."

"But there is," Fred said. "Stanley knows—don't you, Stanley?"

The paperboy nodded. "Yup."

"He's lying if he says he's seen anything."

"Oh, I ain't
seen
it," the boy said.

Nathaniel frowned. "You're talking nonsense. Let me go, please." This was

insufferable! If only Bartimaeus was to hand, he would teach these commoners the

meaning of respect.

Fred squinted at his watch in the gloom of the alley. "Must be getting on to

curfew, Stanley.

Want me to take it off him?"

The paperboy sighed. "Look, John," he said patiently. "We just want to see what it is you've stolen, that's all. We're not cops or magicians, so you don't have to beat about the bush. And—who knows?—perhaps we can make it worth your while. What were you

going to do with it, anyway?

Use it? So—just show us the object you've got in your left-hand pocket. If not, I'll

have to let old Fred here go to work."

Nathaniel could see he had no choice. He put his hand in his pocket, drew out the

disc, and wordlessly handed it over.

The paperboy examined the scrying glass in the light of his lantern, turning it over

and over in his hands.

"What do you think, Stanley?" Fred asked.

"Modern," he said at last.
"Very
crudely done. Homemade piece, I'd say. Nothing special, but it's worth having." He passed it across to Fred to examine.

A suspicion took sudden shape in Nathaniel's mind. The recent spate of artifact

thefts was a big concern to ministers. Devereaux had mentioned it in his speech, while his master had linked the crimes to the mysterious Resistance which had attacked Parliament two days before. It was thought that commoners had carried out the thefts, and that the magical objects were then made available to enemies of the Government. Nathaniel

remembered the wild-eyed youth standing on the terrace at Westminster Hall, the

elemental sphere spinning through the air. Here perhaps was firsthand evidence of the

Resistance in action. His heart beat fast. He had to tread very carefully.

"Is it—is it valuable?" he said.

"Yeah," Stanley said. "It's useful in the right hands. How did you get hold of it?"

Nathaniel thought fast. "You're right," he said. "I, er... I did steal it. I was in Highgate—I don't live there myself, obviously—and I passed this big house. There was

an open window—and I saw something shining on the wall just inside. So I nipped in and took it. No one saw me. I just thought I could sell it maybe, that's all."

"All things are possible, John," the paperboy said. "All things are possible. Do you know what it does?"

"No."

"It's a magician's divining disc, or scrying glass—something like that."

Nathaniel was gaining confidence now. It was going to be easy enough to fool

them. His mouth gaped in what he imagined was a commoner's stupefied amazement.

"What—can you see the future in it?"

"Maybe."

"Can you work it?"

Stanley spat violently against the wall. "You cheeky little sod! I ought to punch you hard for that."

Nathaniel backtracked in confusion. "Sorry—I didn't mean... Well, um, if it's

valuable, do you know anyone who might want to buy it? Thing is, I badly need the

cash."

Stanley glanced across at Fred, who nodded slowly. "Your luck's in!" Stanley said, in a chipper tone. "Fred's up for it, and I always go along with old Fred. We
do
know someone who might be able to give you a good price, and perhaps help you out if you're down on your luck. Come along with us and we can arrange a meeting."

This was interesting, but inconvenient. He couldn't waltz off across London to an

unknown rendezvous now—he had already been away from the library too long. Getting

to Lovelace's conference was far more important. Besides, he would need Bartimaeus

with him if he was to get involved with these criminals. Nathaniel shook his head. "I can't come now," he said. "Tell me who it is, or where I need to go, and I'll meet you there later."

The two youths stared at him blankly. "Sorry," Stanley said. "It's not that sort of meeting—and not that sort of someone, neither. What've you got to do that's so important, anyway?"

"I've got to, um, meet my friend." He cursed silently. Mistake.

Fred shifted; his jacket squeaked. "You just said you didn't know where he was."

"Er, yes—I need to find him."

Stanley looked at his watch. "Sorry, John. It's now or never. Your friend can wait.

I thought you wanted to sell this thing."

"I do, but not tonight. I'm really interested in what you suggest. I just can't do it now. Listen—I'll meet you here tomorrow. Same time, same place." He was growing

desperate now, speaking too fast. He could sense their mounting suspicion and disbelief; all that mattered was getting away from them as fast as possible.

"No can do." The paperboy adjusted his cap squarely on his head. "I don't think we're going to get any joy here, Fred. What say we head off?"

Fred nodded. With disbelief, Nathaniel saw him stow the scrying glass inside his

jacket pocket.

He let out a shout of rage. "Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"

"You missed your chance, John—if that
is
your name. Beat it." Stanley reached down for the poles of his handcart. Fred gave Nathaniel a push that sent him sprawling back against the wet stones of the wall.

At this, Nathaniel felt all restraint dissolve; with a strangled cry, he fell upon Fred, pummelling him with his fists and kicking out wildly in all directions.

"Give—me—back—my—disc!"

The toe cap of one boot connected hard with Fred's shin, eliciting a bellow of

pain. Fred's fist swung up and caught Nathaniel on the cheek; the next thing he knew he was lying in the muck of the alley floor, head spinning, watching Fred and Stanley

disappear hurriedly along the alley with their carts bouncing and leaping behind them.

Fury overwhelmed his dizziness, it took control of his sense of caution. He

struggled to his feet and set off unsteadily in pursuit.

He could not go fast. Night hung heavy in the alley; its walls were curtains of

gray scarcely lighter than the inky nothingness out in front. Nathaniel felt his way step by fevered step, one hand brushing the bricks on his right, listening hard for the telltale squeaking and scraping of the handcarts up ahead.

It seemed that Fred and Stanley had been forced to slow down too—the sounds of

their progress never quite faded; he was able to guess their route at every junction.

Once again, his helplessness infuriated him. Curse the djinni! It was never there

when he needed it! If he ever caught the thieves, they'd suffer such—Now where? He

paused beside a tall, barred window, caked with grime. Distantly he made out the noise of handcart wheels banging hard on stone.

The left fork. He set off down it.

A little later he became aware that the sound up ahead had changed. Muttered

voices replaced the noise of movement. He went more cautiously now, pressing himself

close to the wall, placing each footfall carefully to avoid splashing in the wet.

The alley drew to an end at a narrow, cobbled lane, fringed with mean little

workshops, all derelict and boarded up. Shadows choked the doorways like cobwebs. A

faint smell of sawdust hung in the air.

He saw the handcarts sitting in the middle of the lane. The pole with Stanley's

light had been removed from its cart and could now be seen glowing faintly in a sheltered doorway. Within its wan halo, three figures talked quietly: Fred, Stanley and someone

else—a slight figure, wearing black.

Nathaniel could not make out his face.

Nathaniel hardly breathed; he strained to hear their words. No good. He was too