Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (12 page)

rushing things and think you know it all. So cheer up and let me see how you've got on with that tree."

Following a few minutes of calm discussion about art-related issues, the

conversation resumed its usual peaceful course, but it was not long afterward that the lesson was suspended by the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Underwood, all in a fluster.

"Nathaniel!" she cried. "There you are!"

Ms. Lutyens and Nathaniel both stood up respectfully. "I've looked all over for

you, dear," Mrs.

Underwood said, breathing hard. "I thought you'd be in the schoolroom...."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Underwood," Ms. Lutyens began. "It was such a nice day—"

"Oh, that doesn't matter. That's quite all right. It's just that my husband needs Nathaniel straight away. He has guests over, and wishes to present him."

"There you are, then," Ms. Lutyens said quietly, as they hurried back up the garden. "Mr.

Underwood isn't overlooking you at all. He must be very pleased with you to

introduce you to other magicians. He's going to show you off!"

Nathaniel smiled weakly, but said nothing. The thought of meeting other

magicians made him feel quite queasy. Through all his years in the house he had never

once been allowed to meet his master's professional colleagues, who appeared there

intermittently. He was always packed off to his bedroom, or kept out of harm's way with his tutors upstairs. This was a new and exciting development, if a rather frightening one.

He imagined a room stuffed full of tall, brooding men of power, glowering at him over

their bristling beards and swirling robes. His knees shook in anticipation.

"They're in the reception room," Mrs. Underwood said as they entered the

kitchen. "Let's look at you...." She wet her finger and hurriedly removed a pencil-lead smudge from the side of his forehead. "Very presentable. All right, in you go."

The room
was
full; he'd got that part right. It was warm with bodies, the smell of tea, and the effort of polite conversation. But by the time Nathaniel had closed the door and edged across to occupy the only space available, in the lee of an ornamental dresser, his magnificent visions of a company of great men had already evaporated.

They just didn't look the part.

There wasn't a cape to be seen. There were precious few beards on display, and

none half as impressive as that of his own master. Most of the men wore drab suits with drabber ties; only a few sported daring additions, such as a gray waistcoat or a visible breast-pocket handkerchief. All wore shiny black shoes. It felt to Nathaniel as if he had strayed upon an undertakers' office party. None of them seemed like Gladstone, in

strength or in demeanor. Some were short, others were crabbed and old, more than one

was prone to pudginess. They talked among themselves earnestly, sipping tea and

nibbling dry biscuits, and not one of them raised his voice above the consensus

murmuring.

Nathaniel was deeply disappointed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and

breathed deeply.

His master was inching himself through the throng, shaking hands and uttering an

odd, short, barking laugh whenever a guest said something that he thought was intended to be funny. Catching sight of Nathaniel, he beckoned him over; Nathaniel squeezed

between a tea plate and someone's protruding belly and approached.

"This is the boy," the magician said gruffly, clapping Nathaniel on the shoulder in an awkward gesture. Three men looked down at him. One was old, white-haired, with a

florid sun-dried-tomato face, covered in tiny creases. Another was a doughy, watery-eyed individual in middle age; his skin looked cold and clammy, like a fish on a slab. The third was much younger and more handsome, with slicked-back hair, round glasses, and a

xylophone-size array of gleaming white teeth. Nathaniel stared back at them in silence.

"Doesn't look like much," the clammy man said. He sniffed and swallowed

something.

"He's learning slowly," Nathaniel's master said, his hand still patting Nathaniel on the shoulder in an aimless manner that suggested he was ill at ease.

"Slow, is he?" said the old man. He spoke with an accent so thick that Nathaniel could barely understand the words. "Yes, some boys are. You must persevere."

"Do you beat him?" the clammy man asked.

"Rarely."

"Unwise. It stimulates the memory."

"How old are you, boy?" the younger man said.

"Ten, sir." Nathaniel said politely. "Eleven in Nov—"

"Still a couple of years before he'll be any use to you, Underwood." The young man cut over Nathaniel as if he did not exist. "Costs a fortune, I suppose."

"What, bed and board? Of course."

"I'll bet he eats like a ferret, too."

"Greedy, is he?" said the old man. He nodded regretfully. "Yes, some boys are."

Nathaniel listened with barely suppressed indignation. "I'm not greedy, sir," he said in his politest voice. The old man's eyes flickered toward him, then drifted away again as if he had not heard; but his master's hand clamped down on his shoulder with

some force.

"Well, boy; you must get back to your studies," he said. "Run along."

Nathaniel was only too happy to leave, but as he began to sidle off the young man

in the glasses raised a hand.

"You've got a tongue in your head, I see," he said. "Not afraid of your elders."

Nathaniel said nothing.

"Perhaps you don't think we're your betters too?"

The man spoke lightly, but the sharpness in his voice was clear. Nathaniel could

tell at once that he himself was not the point at issue and that the young man was

challenging his master through him.

He felt as if he ought to answer, but was so confused by the question that he did

not know whether to say yes or no.

The young man misinterpreted his silence. "He thinks he's too good to talk to us at all now!" he said to his companions and grinned. The clammy man tittered wetly into his hand and the old, red-faced man shook his head. "Tcha," he said.

"Run along, boy," Nathaniel's master said again.

"Hold on, Underwood," the young man said, smiling broadly. "Before he goes, let's see what you've taught this whippet of yours. It'll be amusing. Come here, lad."

Nathaniel glanced across at his master, who did not meet his eye. Slowly and

unwillingly he drew near to the group again. The young man snapped his fingers with a

flourish and spoke at top speed.

"How many classified types of spirit are there?"

Nathaniel replied without a pause. "Thirteen thousand and forty-six, sir."

"And unclassified?"

"Petronius postulates forty-five thousand; Zavattini forty-eight thousand, sir."

"What is the
modus apparendi
of the Carthaginian subgroup?"

"They appear as crying infants, sir, or as doppelgängers of the magician in his

youth."

"How should one chastise them?"

"Make them drink a vat of asses' milk."

"Hmmph. If summoning a cockatrice, what precautions should one take?"

"Wear mirrored glasses, sir. And surround the pentacle with mirrors on two other

sides also, to force the cockatrice to gaze in the remaining direction, where its written instructions will be waiting."

Nathaniel was gaining in confidence. He had committed simple details such as

these to memory long ago, and he was pleased to note that his unerringly correct answers were exasperating the young man. His success had also stopped the clammy man's

snickering, and the old magician, who was listening with his head cocked to one side, had even nodded grudgingly once or twice. He noticed his master smiling, rather smugly. Not that I owe any of this to you, Nathaniel thought witheringly. I
read
all this. You've taught me next to nothing.

For the first time there was a pause in the barrage of the young man's questions.

He appeared to be thinking. "All right," he said at last, speaking much more slowly now and rolling the words luxuriously over his tongue, "what are the six Words of Direction?

Any language."

Arthur Underwood uttered a startled protest. "Be fair, Simon! He can't know that

yet!" But even as he spoke, Nathaniel was opening his mouth. This was a formula

contained in several of the books in his master's large bookcase, where Nathaniel was

already browsing.

"Appare; Mane; Ausculta; Se Dede; Pare; Redi:
Appear; Remain; Listen;

Submit; Obey; Return." He looked into the young magician's eyes as he finished,

conscious of his triumph. Their audience murmured their approval. His master now wore

an unconcealed grin; the clammy man raised his eyebrows; and the old man made a wry

face, quietly mouthing, "Bravo." But his interrogator just shrugged dismissively, as if the incident were of no account. He looked so supercilious that Nathaniel felt his self-satisfaction turn into a fiery anger.

"Standards must have dropped," said the young man, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at an imaginary spot on his sleeve, "if a backward apprentice can be congratulated for spouting something we all learned at our mothers' teats."

"You're just a sore loser," Nathaniel said.

There was a moment's hush. Then the young man barked a word, and Nathaniel

felt something small and compact land heavily upon his shoulders. Invisible hands

clenched into his hair and jerked it backward with vicious strength, so that his face stared at the ceiling, and he cried out with pain. He tried to raise his arms but found them

pinioned to his sides by a hideously muscular coil that wrapped itself around him like a giant tongue. He could see nothing except the ceiling; delicate fingers tickled his exposed throat with horrible finesse. In panic, he cried out for his master.

Someone came close, but it was not his master. It was the young man.

"You cocksure guttersnipe," the young man said softly. "What will you do now?

Can you get free? No. How surprising: you're helpless. You know a few words, but you're capable of nothing.

Perhaps this will teach you the dangers of insolence when you're too weak to fight

back. Now, get out of my sight."

Something sniggered in his ear and with a kick of powerful legs removed itself

from Nathaniel's shoulders. At the same moment, his arms were freed. His head drooped

forward; tears welled from his eyes. They were caused by the injury to his hair, but

Nathaniel feared that they would seem the weeping of a cowardly boy. He wiped them

away with his cuff.

The room was still. All the magicians had dropped their conversations and were

staring at him.

Nathaniel looked at his master, silently appealing for support or aid, but Arthur

Underwood's eyes were bright with rage—rage that appeared to be directed at him.

Nathaniel returned the look blankly, then he turned and walked along the silent passage that parted for him across the room, reached the door, opened it, and Walked through.

He shut the door carefully and quietly behind him.

White-faced and expressionless, he climbed the stairs.

On the way up he met Mrs. Underwood coming down.

"How did it go, dear?" she asked him. "Did you shine? Is anything wrong?"

Nathaniel could not look at her for grief and shame. He started to go past her

without answering, but at the last moment stopped short. "It was fine," he said. "Tell me, do you know who the magician is with the little glasses and the wide, white teeth?"

Mrs. Underwood frowned. "That would be Simon Lovelace, I expect. The Junior

Minister for Trade. He
does
have quite a set of gnashers, doesn't he? A rising star, I'm told. Did you meet him?"

"Yes. I did."

You're capable of nothing.

"Are you sure you're all right? You look so pale."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Underwood. I'll go up, now."

"Ms. Lutyens is waiting for you in the schoolroom."

You're helpless.

"I'll go right along, Mrs. Underwood."

Nathaniel did not go to the schoolroom. With slow, steady tread, he made his way

to his master's workroom, where the dust on the dirty bottles gleamed in the sunlight, obscuring their pickled contents.

Nathaniel walked along the pitted worktable, which was strewn with diagrams

that he had been working on the day before.

You're too weak to fight back.

He stopped and reached out for a small glass box, in which six objects buzzed and

whirred.

We'll see.

With slow, steady tread, Nathaniel crossed to a wall-cupboard and pulled at a

drawer. It was so warped that it stuck halfway, and he had to place the glass box carefully on the work surface before wrenching it open with a couple of forceful tugs. Inside the drawer, among a host of other tools, was a small steel hammer. Nathaniel took it out,

picked up the box again, and, leaving the drawer hanging open, left the sunny workroom.

He stood in the cool shadows of the landing, silently rehearsing the Words of

Direction and Control. In the glass box, the six mites tore back and forth with added zest; the box vibrated in his hands.

You're capable of nothing.

The party was breaking up. The door opened, and the first few magicians emerged

in dribs and drabs. Mr. Underwood escorted them to the front door. Polite words were

exchanged, farewells said. None of them noticed the pale-faced boy watching from

beyond the stairs.

You had to say the name
after
the first three commands, but
before
the last. It was not too difficult, provided you didn't trip over the quicker syllables. He ran it through his head again. Yes, he had it down fine.

More magicians departed. Nathaniel's fingers were cold. There was a thin film of