Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (11 page)

paper. His wife began rearranging a rather sorry display of dried flowers over the

mantelpiece. I guessed then who was responsible for the vase in the boy's room. Dead

flowers for the husband, fresh ones for the apprentice—that was intriguing.

Again Underwood unfolded, turned, smacked the paper, resumed his reading. The

boy stood silently waiting. Now that I was free of the circle and thus not under his direct control, I had a chance to assess him more clinically. He had (of course) removed his

raggedy coat and was soberly dressed in gray trousers and jumper. His hair had been

wetted and was slicked back. A sheaf of papers was under his arm. He was a picture of

quiet deference.

He had no obviously defining features—no moles, no oddities, no scars. His hair

was dark and straight, his face tended toward the pinched. His skin was very pale. To a casual observer, he was an unremarkable boy. But to my wiser and more jaundiced gaze

there were other things to note: shrewd and calculating eyes; fingers that tapped

impatiently on the papers he held; most of all a very careful face that by subtle shifts took on whatever expression was expected of it. For the moment he had adopted a submissive

but attentive look that would flatter an old man's vanity. Yet continually he cast his eye around the room, searching for me.

I made it easy for him. When he was looking in my direction, I gave a couple of

small scuttles on the wall, waved a few arms, wiggled my abdomen in a cheery fashion.

He saw me straight off, went paler than ever, bit his lip. Couldn't do anything about me though, without giving his game away.

In the middle of my dance, Underwood suddenly grunted dismissively and

slapped the back of his hand against his paper. "See here, Martha," he said. "Makepeace is filling the theaters again with his Eastern piffle.
Swans of Araby...
I ask you, did you ever hear of such sentimental claptrap? And yet it's sold out until the end of January!

Quite bizarre."

"It's all booked up? Oh, Arthur, I'd rather wanted to go—"

"And I quote:'... in which a sweet-limbed missionary lass from Chiswick falls in

love with a tawny djinni...'—it's not just romantic nonsense, it's damnably dangerous too.

Spreads misinformation to the people."

"Oh, Arthur—"

"You've seen djinn, Martha. Have you seen one 'with dusky eyes that will melt

your heart'? Melt your face, maybe."

"I'm sure you're right, Arthur."

"Makepeace should know better. Disgraceful. I'd do something about it, but he's

in too deep with the Prime Minister."

"Yes, dear. Would you like more coffee, dear?"

"No. The P.M. should be helping out my Internal Affairs department rather than

socializing his time away. Four more thefts, Martha, four in the last week. Valuable items they were, too. I tell you, we're going to the dogs." So saying, Underwood lifted his mustache with one hand and expertly passed the lip of his cup beneath. He drank long

and loudly. "Martha, this is cold. Fetch more coffee, will you?"

With good grace the wife bustled off on her errand. As she exited, the magician

tossed his paper to one side and deigned to notice his pupil at last.

The old man grunted. "So. You're here, are you?"

Despite his anxiety, the boy's voice was steady. "Yes, sir. You sent for me, sir."

"I did indeed. Now, I have been speaking to your teachers, and with the exception of Mr.

Sindra, all have satisfactory reports to make on you." He held up his hand to

silence the boy's prompt articulations of thanks. "Heaven knows, you don't deserve it after what you did last year. However, despite certain deficiencies, to which I have

repeatedly drawn your attention, you have made some progress with the central tenets.

Thus"—a dramatic pause—"I feel that the time is right for you to conduct your first summons."

He uttered this last sentence in slow resounding tones that were evidently

designed to fill the boy with awe. But Nathaniel, as I was now so delighted to call him, was distracted. He had a spider on his mind.

His unease was not lost on Underwood. The magician rapped the table

peremptorily to attract his pupil's attention.

"Listen to me, boy!" he said. "If you fret at the very prospect of a summons you will never make a magician, even now. A well-prepared magician fears nothing. Do you

understand?"

The boy gathered himself, fixed his attention on his master. "Yes, sir; of course, sir."

"Besides, I shall be with you at all times during the summoning, in an adjoining

circle. I shall have a dozen protective charms to hand and plenty of powdered rosemary.

We shall start with a lowly demon, a natterjack impling.[4] If that proves successful, we shall move on to a mouler."[5]

[4]
Natterjack impling:
an unadventurous creature that affects the semblance and habits of a dull sort of toad.

[5]
Mouler:
even less exciting than a natterjack impling, were that possible.

It was a measure of how unobservant this magician was that he quite failed to

notice the flame of contempt that flickered in the boy's eyes. He only heard the blandly eager voice. "Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to it very much, sir."

"Excellent. You have your lenses?"

"Yes, sir. They arrived last week."

"Good. Then there is only one other arrangement we need to make, and that is—"

"Was that the door, sir?"

"Don't interrupt me, boy. How dare you? The other arrangement, which I will

withhold if you are insolent again, is the choosing of your official name. We shall turn our attention to that this afternoon.

Bring
Loew's Nominative Almanac
to me in the library after luncheon and we

shall choose one for you together."

"Yes, sir."

The boy's shoulders had slumped; his voice was barely audible. He did not need

to see me capering on my web to know that I had heard and understood.

Nathaniel wasn't just his official name! It was his real name! The fool had

summoned me before consigning his birth name to oblivion. And now I knew it!

Underwood shifted in his chair. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? This is no

time for slacking—you've got hours yet to study before lunch. Get on your way."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The boy moved listlessly to the door. Gnashing my mandibles with glee, I

followed him through with an extra-special reverse somersault with octal hitchkick.

I had a chance at him now. Things were a bit more even. He knew my name, I

knew his. He had six years' experience, I had five thousand and ten. That was the kind of odds you could do something with.

I accompanied him up the stairs. He was dawdling now, dragging each step out.

Come on, come on! Get back to your pentacle.
I was racing ahead, eager for the contest to begin.

Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now, all right.

12

Nathaniel

One summer's day, when Nathaniel was ten years old, he sat with his tutor on the

stone seat in the garden, sketching the horse chestnut tree beyond the wall. The sun beat upon the red bricks. A gray-and-white cat lolled on the top of the wall, idly swishing its tail from side to side. A gentle breeze shifted the leaves of the tree and carried a faint scent across from the rhododendron bushes. The moss on the statue of the man with the

lightning fork gleamed richly in the yellow sunlight. Insects hummed.

It was the day that everything changed.

"Patience, Nathaniel."

"You've said that so many times, Ms. Lutyens."

"And I'll say it again, I have no doubt. You are too restless. It's your biggest fault."

Nathaniel irritably cross-hatched a patch of shade.

"But it's so frustrating," he exclaimed. "He never lets me
try
anything! All I'm allowed to do is set up the candles and the incense and other stuff that I could do in my sleep standing on my head! I'm not even allowed to talk to them."

"Quite right too," Ms. Lutyens said firmly. "Remember, I just want subtleties of shading. No hard lines."

"It's ridiculous." Nathaniel made a face. "He doesn't realize what I can do. I've read all his books, and—"

"All
of them?"

"Well, all the ones in his little bookcase, and he said they'd keep me going till I was twelve. I'm not even eleven yet, Ms. Lutyens. I mean, I've already mastered the

Words of Direction and Control, most of them; I could give a djinni an order, if he

summoned it for me. But he won't even let me try."

"I don't know which is less attractive, Nathaniel—your boasting or your

petulance. You should stop worrying about what you don't yet have and enjoy what you

have now. This garden, for instance.

I'm very pleased you thought of having our lesson out here today."

"I always come here when I can. It helps me think."

"I'm not surprised. It's peaceful, solitary... and there are precious few parts of London like that, so be grateful."

"He keeps me company." Nathaniel indicated the statue. "I like him, even though I don't know who he is."

"Him?" Ms. Lutyens glanced up from her sketchbook, but went on drawing. "Oh, that's easy.

That's Gladstone."

"Who?"

"Gladstone. Surely you know. Doesn't Mr. Purcell teach you recent history?"

"We've done contemporary politics."

"Too recent. Gladstone died more than a hundred years ago. He was a great hero

of the time.

There must have been thousands of statues made of him, put up all over the

country. Rightly so, from your point of view. You owe him a lot."

Nathaniel was puzzled. "Why?"

"He was the most powerful magician ever to become prime minister. He

dominated the Victorian age for thirty years and brought the feuding factions of

magicians under government control. You must have heard of his duel with the sorcerer

Disraeli on Westminster Green? No? You should go and see.

The scorch marks are still on show. Gladstone was famous for his supreme energy

and his implacable defiance when the chips were down. He never gave up his cause, even when things looked bad."

"Gosh." Nathaniel gazed at the stern face staring from beneath its covering of moss. The stone hand gripped its lightning bolt loosely, confidently, ready to throw.

"Why did he have that duel, Ms. Lutyens?"

"I believe Disraeli made a rude remark about a female friend of Gladstone's. That was a big mistake. Gladstone never let anyone insult his honor, or that of his friends. He was very powerful and quite prepared to challenge anyone who had wronged him." She blew charcoal from her sketch and held it up to the light critically.

"Gladstone did more than anyone else to help London ascend to magical

prominence. In those days Prague was still the most powerful city in the world, but its time had long gone; it was old and decadent and its magicians bickered among the slums of the Ghetto. Gladstone provided new ideals, new projects. He attracted many foreign

magicians here by acquiring certain relics. London became the place to be. As it still is, for better or for worse. As I say, you ought to be grateful."

Nathaniel looked at her. "What do you mean, 'For better or for worse?' What's

worse about it?"

Ms. Lutyens pursed her lips. "The current system is very beneficial for magicians and for a few lucky others who cluster all about them. Less so for everyone else. Now—

let me see how your sketch is going."

Something in her tone aroused Nathaniel's indignation. His lessons with Mr.

Purcell came flooding into his mind. "You shouldn't speak of the Government like that,"

he said. "Without magicians, the country would be defenseless! Commoners would rule and the country would fall apart. Magicians give their lives to keep the country safe! You should remember that, Ms. Lutyens."

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rather shrill.

"I'm sure that when you have grown up you will make many telling sacrifices,

Nathaniel." She spoke rather more sharply than was usual. "But in fact not all countries have magicians. Plenty do very well without them."

"You seem to know a lot about it all."

"For a humble drawing tutor? Do I detect surprise in your voice?"

"Well, you're only a commoner—" He stopped short, flushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Quite right," Ms. Lutyens said shortly, "I
am
a commoner. But magicians don't have a complete monopoly on knowledge, you know. Far from it. And anyway,

knowledge and intelligence are very different things. As you'll one day discover."

For a few minutes they busied themselves with their paper and pens and did not

speak. The cat on the wall flicked a lazy paw at a circling wasp. At length Nathaniel

broke the silence.

"Did you not want to become a magician, Ms. Lutyens?" he asked, in a small

voice.

She gave a small dry laugh. "I didn't have that privilege," she said. "No, I'm just an art teacher, and happy to be one."

Nathaniel tried again. "What do you do when you're not here? With me, I mean."

"I'm with other pupils, of course. What did you think—that I'd go home and

mope? Mr.

Underwood doesn't pay me enough for moping, I'm afraid. I have to work."

"Oh." It had never occurred to Nathaniel that Ms. Lutyens might have other

pupils. Somehow the knowledge gave him a slightly knotty feeling in the pit of his

stomach.

Perhaps Ms. Lutyens sensed this; after a short pause she spoke again in a less

frosty manner.

"Anyway," she said, "I look forward to my lessons here very much. One of the highlights of my working week. You're good company, even if you're still prone to