Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (44 page)

selection before ending with warning scarlet or bright yellow. Others contented

themselves with pulling faces, imitating the expressions or gestures of their rivals'

masters. If the magicians noticed all this, they made a good show of ignoring it, but the combination of the guests' false grins and the antics of their imps made Nathaniel's head spin.

"Are you serving those, or taking them for a walk?"

A scowling woman, broad of hip and waist, with an even broader imp floating

behind her. And at her side... Nathaniel's heart fluttered—he recognized the watery eyes, the fishlike face. Mr. Lime, Lovelace's companion, with the smallest, most maladroit imp imaginable skulking behind his ear.

Nathaniel remained expressionless and bowed his head, offering up the dish. "I'm

sorry, madam."

She took two pastries, Lime took one. Nathaniel was staring at the floor meekly,

but he felt the man's gaze upon him.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" the clammy man said.

The woman plucked at her companion's sleeve. "Come, Rufus; why address a

commoner, when there are so many
real
people to talk to? Look—there's Amanda!" The magician shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled away. Glancing uneasily after them, Nathaniel noticed Rufus Lime's imp still staring back at him, its head turned at ninety degrees, until it was lost in the crowd.

The servant beside him was oblivious to it all; the imps were invisible to him.

"You've finished that lot," he said. "Take this tray of drinks round. They're as thirsty as camels. With worse manners, most of them."

Some guests were drifting off down the hall toward an inner gallery, and

Nathaniel was pleased to have an excuse to drift off with them. He needed to get away

from the crowds to explore other regions of the house. So far, he had seen no sign of

Lovelace, the Amulet, or any possible trap. But nothing would happen yet, since the

Prime Minister had not arrived.

Halfway along the hall, the woman from the library was standing in the midst of a

small group, holding court. Nathaniel loitered nearby, allowing guests to swap empty

glasses for the full ones on his tray.

"You'll see it in a few minutes," she said. "It's the most wonderful thing I've
ever
seen. Simon had it brought from Persia especially for this afternoon."

"He's treating you very well," a man said dryly, sipping his drink.

Amanda Cathcart blushed. "He is," she said. "He's very good to me. Oh—but it's simply the cleverest thing! I'm sure it'll set an instant trend. Mind you, it wasn't easy to install—his men have been working on it all week. I saw the room for the first time only this morning. Simon said it would take my breath away and he was right."

"The P.M.'s here," someone shouted. With little cries of excitement, the guests rushed back toward the doors, Amanda Cathcart at their head. Nathaniel copied the other servants and positioned himself respectfully beside a pillar, ready to be called.

Rupert Devereaux entered, slapping his gloves together in one hand and smiling

his half smile. He stood out from the adoring throng not just for his elegant attire and personal grace (which were just as striking as Nathaniel remembered), but for his

companions: a bodyguard of four sullen, gray-suited magicians and—more startlingly—a

hulking two-meter-tall afrit with luminous black-green skin. The afrit stood directly

behind its master, casting baleful red eyes upon the company.

All the imps chittered with fear. The guests bowed their heads respectfully.

Nathaniel realized that the Prime Minister was making a blatant show of his

power to all his assembled ministers, some of whom perhaps aspired to his position. It was certainly enough to impress Nathaniel. How could Lovelace expect to overcome

something as strong as that afrit? Surely the very idea was madness.

But here was Lovelace himself, bounding down the hall to greet his leader.

Nathaniel's face remained impassive; his whole body tensed with hatred.

"Welcome, Rupert!" Much hand-shaking. Lovelace seemed oblivious of the afrit's presence at his shoulder. He turned to address the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! With our beloved Prime Minister here, the conference can officially begin. On behalf of Lady Amanda, may I welcome you to Heddleham Hall. Please treat the house as your own!"

His eyes glanced in Nathaniel's direction.

Nathaniel shrank back deeper into the shadow of the pillar. Lovelace's eyes

moved on. "In a short while, we will hear the first speeches in the grand salon, which Lady Amanda has refurbished especially for today. In the meantime, please make your

way to the annex, where further refreshments will be available."

He waved his hand. The guests began to move off.

Lovelace leaned forward to speak to Devereaux. From behind the pillar, Nathaniel

picked out the words. "I must just collect some props for my opening speech, sir. Would you excuse me? I'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Of course, of course, Lovelace. Take your time."

Devereaux's entourage left the hall, the afrit glowering at the rear. Lovelace

watched them for a moment, then set off alone in the opposite direction. Nathaniel

remained where he was, making a big show of collecting used glasses that had been

discarded on the antique furniture and marble pedestals lining the hall. Then, when the final servant had departed, he set his tray down quietly on a table and, like a ghost in the night, padded off on Lovelace's trail.

38

Simon Lovelace strode alone through the corridors and galleries of the great

house. His head was bowed as he walked, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He

paid no heed to the rows of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and other artifacts he passed; he never looked behind him.

Nathaniel flitted from pillar to pedestal, from bookcase to writing desk,

concealing himself behind each one until he was satisfied the magician was far enough

ahead for him to continue. His heart pounded; he had a rushing noise in his ears—it

reminded him of a time when had been ill in bed with fever. He didn't feel ill now, but very much alive.

The moment was fast approaching when Lovelace would strike. He knew it as if

he had planned it all himself. He didn't yet know what form the attack would take, but he could see its imminence in the tense outline of the magician's shoulders, in his stiff, distracted way of walking.

He wished Bartimaeus would find him. The djinni was his only weapon.

Lovelace ascended a narrow staircase and disappeared through an open arch.

Nathaniel climbed after him, placing his feet noiselessly on the slippery marble steps.

At the arch, he peered round. It was a small library or gallery of some kind, dimly

lit by windows in the roof. Lovelace was making his way along a central aisle between

several rows of projecting bookcases. Here and there sat low display tables, supporting a variety of oddly shaped objects.

Nathaniel took another peek, decided that his quarry was almost at the opposite

door, and tiptoed into the room.

Suddenly, Lovelace spoke. "Maurice!"

Nathaniel shot behind the nearest bookshelf. He flattened himself against it,

forcing himself to breathe quietly. He heard the far door open. Stealthily, careful not to make the slightest noise, he turned his head inch by inch, until he could look over the top of the nearest books. Other bookcases separated him from the opposite side of the gallery, but framed in a gap between two shelves he could just make out the red, wrinkled face of Schyler, the old magician. Lovelace himself was hidden from view.

"Simon—what is wrong? Why have you come?"

"I've brought you a present." Lovelace's voice was casual, amused. "The boy."

Nathaniel nearly fainted with shock. His muscles tensed, ready to run.

Lovelace stepped out from behind the end of the bookshelf. "Don't bother. You'll

be dead before you can leave the room."

Nathaniel froze. Teetering on the edge of panic, he kept quite still.

"Come round here to Maurice." Lovelace motioned with ostentatious courtesy.

Nathaniel shuffled forward. "There's a good boy. And stop trembling like an invalid.

Another lesson for you: a magician never shows his fear."

Nathaniel entered the main aisle and halted, facing the old magician. His body

was shaking with rage, not fear. He cast his eyes left and right, looking for avenues of escape, but saw none. Lovelace's hand patted him on the back; he recoiled from the

touch.

"I'm afraid I haven't got time to talk," Lovelace said. "I will leave you in Maurice's tender care.

He has an offer to make you. Pardon—was that a mumble?"

"How did you know I was here?"

"Rufus Lime recognized you. I doubted that you would try anything too hasty

downstairs, given that the police are hunting you in connection with that... unfortunate fire. So I thought it best simply to lead you away from the crowds, before you could

make trouble. Now forgive me, I have a pressing engagement. Maurice—it's time."

Schyler's face crinkled with satisfaction. "Rupert's arrived, has he?"

"He's arrived, and his men have conjured a formidable afrit. Do you think he

suspects?"

"Tcha!
No. It is the normal paranoia, sharpened by that cursed attack on Parliament. The Resistance has a lot to answer for—they have not made today's task any easier. Once in power, Simon, we must root them out, these stupid children, and hang

them up in chains on Tower Hill."

Lovelace grunted. "The afrit will be present during the speech. Rupert's men will insist."

"You will have to stand close to it, Simon. It must get the first full force."

"Yes. I hope the Amulet—"

"Tcha! Stop wasting time! We have talked about this already. You know it will

hold firm."

Something in the old man's voice reminded Nathaniel of his own master's cold

impatience. The wrinkled face twisted unpleasantly. "You're not fretting about the woman, are you?"

"Amanda? Of course not! She is nothing to me. So"—Lovelace took a deep breath

—"is everything set?"

"The pentacle is ready. I've a good view of the room. Rufus has just put the horn in position, so
that's
dealt with. I shall keep watch. If any of them resist while it is happening, we shall do what we can. But I doubt if we'll be necessary." The old man gave a little titter. "I'm
so
looking forward to this."

"See you shortly." Lovelace turned and headed for the arch. He seemed to have forgotten Nathaniel's existence.

The old man suddenly spoke after him. "The Amulet of Samarkand. Do you wear

it yet?"

Lovelace didn't look back. "No. Rufus has it. That afrit would smell it a mile off, given time. I shall put it on as I enter."

"Well, then—good luck, my boy."

No answer. Presently, Nathaniel heard footsteps clattering away down the stairs.

Then Schyler smiled; all the wrinkles and creases of his face seemed to stem from

the corners of his eyes, but the eyes themselves were blank slits. His body was so stooped with age that he was scarcely taller than Nathaniel; the skin upon his hands looked waxy, dusted with liver spots. Yet Nathaniel could sense the power in him.

"John," Schyler said. "That is your name, is it not? John Mandrake. We were very surprised to find you in the house. Where is your demon? Have you lost it? That is a

careless thing."

Nathaniel compressed his lips. He glanced aside at the nearest display table. It had

a few strange objects on it: stone bowls, bone pipes, and a large moth-eaten headdress, perhaps once worn by a North American shaman. All useless to him.

"I was for killing you straightaway," Schyler said, "but Simon is more farsighted than I am. He suggested we make you a proposition."

"Which is?" Nathaniel was looking at the next display table—it carried a few small, dull cubes of metal, wrapped in faded paper strips.

The magician followed his gaze. "Ah—you are admiring Miss Cathcart's

collection? You will find nothing of power there. It is fashionable among rich and stupid commoners to have magical items in their houses, though quite unfashionable to know

anything about them. Tcha! Ignorance is bliss.

Sholto Pinn is always being pestered by society fools for trinkets like these."

Nathaniel shrugged. "You mentioned a proposition."

"Yes. In a few minutes the hundred most powerful and eminent ministers in the

Government will be dead, along with our sainted Prime Minister. When Simon's new

administration takes control, the lower magical orders will follow us unquestioningly, since we will be stronger than they. However, we are not numerous, and there will soon be spaces, vacancies to fill in the higher reaches of the Government. We shall require talented new magicians to help us rule. Great wealth and the relaxations of power await our allies. Well now, you are young, Mandrake, but we recognize your ability. You have the makings of a great magician. Join with us, and we shall provide you with the

apprenticeship you have always craved. Think about it—no more experiments in solitude, no more bowing or scraping to fools who are scarcely fit to lick your boots! We will test and inspire you, we will draw out your talent and let it breathe. And one day, perhaps, when Simon and I are gone, you will be supreme...."

The voice trailed off, left the image hanging. Nathaniel was silent. Six years of

frustrated ambition were etched into his mind. Six years of suppressed desire—to be

recognized for what he was, to exercise his power openly, to go to Parliament as a great minister of State. And now his enemies were offering it all to him. He sighed heavily.

"You are tempted, John, I see that. Well, what do you say?"