Ptolemy's Gate (52 page)

Nathaniel shook his head. “That's irrelevant,” he said. “Stick to the job in hand.”

I am. Can I help it if you raid my memories?

Nathaniel didn't answer. He had caught sight of faces he recognized lying amid the rubble. The corners of his mouth clamped down. “Let's go,” he said.

What's with the retrospective grief? You didn't like them anyway.

“We need to speed up.”

All right. Leave the movement to me.

This was the most peculiar sensation of all: to relax your muscles, to deliberately cut off all command from them, yet feel them tense and spring, move with great harmonious sweeps and bounds, feel them surging with an exuberance that was not human. Nathaniel kept tight hold of the Staff; other than this, he allowed the djinni free rein. With a single bound, he had crossed the hall, landed on a fallen block. A pause; his head moved left and right, then he was away again—a giant stride, then another; he ducked down through the hole in the wall, soared up into another room, dark, ravaged, filled with debris. He did not get a chance to focus on it; he was too busy trying to cope with his lurching stomach, with the thrill of the energies awoken within him. Up into the air and down again—out of this room and through another—past a staircase blown to matchwood, across a mess of masonry, boulder-sized. Through a gaping arch of ruptured stone—

Out onto the streets of Whitehall.

They landed, knees bent, ready to spring again. Nathaniel's head was cocked, his eyes swiveled; they saw all planes.

“Oh no …” he whispered.

Oh YES,
the djinni said.

Whitehall was aflame. Above the rooftops the lowest clouds glowed pink and orange; fiery light drained between them into chasms of blackness, pricked with stars. The great ministries of government, where imperial business never ceased, stood dark and empty. All lights were off, the street lamps too. A building to the north—was it the Education Ministry? Nathaniel could not tell—had a fire burning on an upper floor. Little flickering darts of redness waved from the windows like autumn leaves. Smoke rose to mingle with the clouds. Other blazes crackled in buildings opposite. It all had an unreal quality, like illusions in one of Makepeace's plays.

The street was empty save for debris, toppled lamps and statues, and—lying dark and small like scalded ants—scattered human bodies. Here a limousine had been hurled through the glass front of the Ministry of Transport; there one of the vast sculptures “Respect for Authority” lay in ruins—its monolithic feet all that remained upon its pedestal. The war memorials had been likewise shattered, the road half blocked with granite. From up the slow curve of Whitehall, from the direction of Trafalgar Square, a dull explosion sounded.

“That way,” Nathaniel said. His legs sprang, he soared high, dived low. At his height he was level with the second story of the buildings; each time he dropped to earth he gave it only the lightest glancing touch before springing on. His boots rattled loosely on his feet.

“You know I'm wearing the seven-league boots,” he gasped. The wind took his breath away.

Of course I know. I am you for the moment, like it or not. We don't need them yet. Are you ready with the Staff? There's something up ahead.

Past the war memorials, past abandoned cars. The body of a wolf lay in the middle of the road, along with tatters of barbed wire, warning signs, the remnants of a police cordon. Ahead was Trafalgar Square. Nelson's Column rose into the night, bathed in a mustard-yellow glow. Small explosions echoed back and forth beneath it. Among the stalls and booths of the tourist market, little shadows fled and scattered. Something bounded at their heels.

Nathaniel came to rest at the edge of the square. He bit his lip. “It's chasing the people.”

Bit of sport. Probably thinks she's back at the Colosseum …
¹
Look! That man survived a Detonation. Some of these guys have resilience.

Nathaniel placed a hand over his eyes. “Your thoughts went in different directions there. Keep it simple. I can't cope.”

Okay. Staff ready? Well then, here we go-o-o-!

Before Nathaniel could prepare himself, his legs had given a bound: he was across the road, in among the burning stalls. Down through the smoke—past a cowering woman and a small child. A hop, a leap … Straight ahead, standing by a fountain, bent like a beast—the body of Clive Jenkins. Pale green fires burned behind his eyes; his mouth hung slack, distended. Yellow vapor curled from his hands.

Nathaniel stared in shock, with difficulty regained control. He raised the Staff—

His legs leaped once more. He found himself flying through the air. At his back, an explosion; tiny pieces of concrete struck the side of his face. He landed on the head of a lion statue, directly beneath the column.

“What did you move us for?” he shouted. “I was just getting ready—”

Another second and we'd have been blown apart. Got to be faster. Naeryan's an afrit; she doesn't waste time.
²

“Will you
stop
doing that? I'm trying to concentrate.” Nathaniel focused the Staff, readied himself…

Well, hurry it up. She's getting closer. If we had the Amulet we'd be laughing. Why'd you have to give it to Kitty anyhow? … Mmm, yeah, I know. Fair point. Isn't it hard to maintain an argument when you can read each other's mind? Uh-oh—Detonation coming. I'm going to jump.

“Go on then.”

Sure? You don't mind?

“Just do it!”

Out from the smoke came a horribly hopping figure. The afrit within had mastered the limbs, yet chose to move on tiptoe rather than with human tread. A flash of golden light blew the lion statue apart, but Bartimaeus had already pulled the correct tendons, engaged the muscles—Nathaniel found himself somersaulting directly over the monster's head, landing at its back.

Now,
Bartimaeus said.

Nathaniel spoke a single word. The Staff was triggered. A shaft of white light, diamond hard, narrow as a hand's breadth, shot from the center of the carved pentacle at its head. The ground shuddered; Nathaniel's teeth rattled in his jaw.The light missed Clive Jenkins's body by several feet and struck Nelson's Column, snapping it like a bread stick. The white light vanished. Nathaniel looked up. The afrit looked up. In utter silence the column teetered, shifted, and slowly, slowly seemed to grow…. Then it was collapsing on them with a whistling almost like a scream, and Bartimaeus was launching them sideways, through the fabric of a burning stall, down onto the paving, hard upon the wounded shoulder, as the column fell to earth and sliced the square in two.

Nathaniel was on his feet in an instant. Pain flared in his collarbone. A voice of fury was shouting in his mind.
You've got to direct it properly!
I'll
do it next time!

“No, you won't. The demon—where is it?”

Long gone by now, no doubt. You really messed that up big time.

“Now listen—” A movement a few meters away attracted his notice. Four white faces—a woman and her children crouching between the stalls. Nathaniel held out his hand. “It's all right,” he said. “I'm a magician—”

The woman gave a little scream; the children started and clustered close to her. A sardonic voice sounded in his head.
Oh, nice one. Very reassuring. Why not offer to cut their throats too, while you're about it?

Nathaniel cursed inwardly. Outwardly, he tried to smile. “I'm on your side,” he said. “Stay here. I'll—”

He looked up suddenly. The voice in his head:
See it?
Through the burning tatters of the stall, amid the clouds of dust that rose from the shattered pieces of the fallen column, he caught the glint of green. He refocused: on the higher planes he glimpsed the narrowed eyes more easily, the furtive lolloping movement in the dark. Nearer and nearer Clive Jenkins's body came, tiptoeing from stall to stall, hoping to catch him unawares.

Bartimaeus spoke quickly:
It'll be a Flux this time…. Because I'm a djinni—that's how I know these things. Fluxes cover a wide area. She'll hope to disable you. I can put a Shield over us, but that'll deflect the stream from the Staff.

“Can you put the Shield over those people? … Do that, then.
We
won't need one.”

Nathaniel allowed his hand to lift. Energies coursed through the outstretched fingers. A blue sphere extended over the huddled commoners, sealing them in. He turned back toward the square. Dust rose; black fragments drifted from the burning fabric of the stalls. No tiptoeing demon to be seen.

“Where is it?”

How should I know? You've not got eyes in the back of your head. I can only look where you do.

“All right, all right, calm down.”

I'm
calm. It's
you
who isn't. All these weird chemicals shooting through your system, pepping you up. It's no wonder humans don't think straight. There! No—-just the wind flapping that canvas. Ooh. Made me jump, that did.

Nathaniel scanned the square. The Staff hummed in his hand. He tried to tune out the constant flitter of the djinni's voice, its flood of memories; at times they almost swamped him. Where was the demon hiding? Behind the column's splintered base? Doubtful … too far away …
Where,
then?

It's beyond me,
Bartimaeus said.
Maybe she's run off.

Nathaniel took a few tentative steps forward. His skin crawled; he felt the imminence of danger. Far away across the square he saw a railing, a set of steps leading below the pavement. It was the subway, the Underground…. Below the square stretched a network of tunnels, connecting with the trains, carrying pedestrians beneath the roads. And those tunnels came up …

At different points about the square….

Turn!
He thought the order, relaxed his muscles, allowed the djinni to do the rest. As he spun, he spoke the word, directed the Staff. A bolt of white light beamed out—cut through the air, atomized the body of Clive Jenkins that came creeping up behind him. One minute the demon was there, clammy hand outstretched to deal a Flux, the next it had vanished, along with the subway entrance beyond it. Foul ash blew upon the molten pavement.

Good thinking, that was,
the djinni said.
Didn't remember Naeryan being that sneaky.

Nathaniel took a slow breath. He crossed to where the little group crouched beneath their Shield and waved a hand. Bartimaeus removed the sphere. The woman stood up quickly, clutching the children close. “Whitehall's the safest way,” Nathaniel began. “The demons are gone from there, I think. Go that way, but do not fear, madam. I'll—” He halted; the woman had turned from him; face blank, eyes sullen and remote, she ushered the children away between the stalls.

What do you expect?
The djinni's voice cut in on his surprise.
You and your kind got her into this mess in the first place. She won't be thanking you in a hurry, whatever you do. Don't worry, though, Nat. You're not totally alone. You've always got me.
Laughter bubbled unbidden through his mind.

For a few seconds Nathaniel stood where he was, head a little bent, looking out upon the desolation of the square. Then he set his shoulders, firmed his grip upon the Staff, rapped the heel of his boot once upon the ground—and was gone.

34

K
itty located the prisoners far faster than she had expected. The slowest part was at the outset—as she geared herself up to leave the little room. When she first stood, every muscle in her body protested to the skies; she shuddered as if from extreme cold; her head felt light and watery. But she did not capsize.

I've just got to relearn it, she thought. Remind my body what it can do.

And it was true that with each shuffling step, her confidence grew. She made it to the cache of weapons piled beside the door. She grimaced, bent her knees, crouched, and held that position, wobbling and cursing, as she rummaged through the pile. Jolt-sticks, Inferno sticks, elemental spheres … familiar objects from the Resistance years. She had no bag, but tucked an Inferno and a jolt-stick in her belt. Two spheres, with difficulty, fitted in the tattered pockets of her jacket. (She removed Ptolemy's
Apocrypha
and set it, not without a certain reverence, on the floor. It had served its purpose well.) Among the magical objects lay a silver disc, smooth and razor-edged. Subduing a slight, unaccountable, aversion, she added it to a pocket. Then, supporting herself against the wall, she clawed herself back to her feet.

Carefully, little by little, she set off out of the room, over the shattered fragments of the door, down the corridor, past the bleak expanse of the ruined Hall of Statues. She had a memory in her mind—of plaintive sounds coming from behind a door close to where Nathaniel and she had been imprisoned.

As she went, Kitty was conscious of a strange division within her. Never had she felt so appallingly weak, so tentatively tied to earthly strength. Yet, by the same token, neither had she ever felt so wholly sure of herself as she did now. Often in the past she had been filled with reckless certainty, with joyful confidence in her youth and vigor.This was not like that. It was a calmer feeling, quieter, entirely unconnected with physical things, and lacking the edginess they tended to involve. It was a kind of implacable assurance; she felt it radiate from her as she shuffled along.