Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (23 page)

shouting, weeping, a few belated and rather redundant screams.

Nathaniel got to his feet, ignoring a sharp pain in his shoulder where he had

collided with the wall, and set off in anxious search of Mrs. Underwood. His boots

slipped in the mess on the floor.

The fat man in the white suit was leaning on his crutches, talking to Simon

Lovelace and the old, wrinkled magician. None of them seemed to have suffered much in

the attack, although Lovelace's forehead was bruised and his glasses slightly cracked. As Nathaniel passed them, they turned together and evidently muttered a joint spell of

summoning, for six tall, slender djinn wearing silver cloaks suddenly materialized in

front of them. Orders were given. The demons rose into the air and floated at speed onto the terrace and away.

Mrs. Underwood sat on her backside with a bewildered look on her face.

Nathaniel crouched at her side. "Are you all right?"

Her chin was caked in mud and the hair around one ear was slightly singed;

otherwise she seemed unharmed. Nathaniel felt a little teary with relief. "Yes, yes, I think so, John. You don't need to hug me so. I am glad you are not hurt. Where is Arthur?"

"I don't know." Nathaniel scanned the bedraggled crowd. "Oh, there he is."

His master had evidently not had time to mount an effective defense—if his

beard, which now resembled the split halves of a lightning-struck tree, was anything to go by. His smart shirt and jacket front had been blown away, leaving only a blackened vest and a slightly smoking tie. His trousers had not escaped either; they now started too late and ended too soon. Mr. Underwood stood near a group of others in a similar

predicament, with a look of goggling outrage on his red and soot-stained face.

"I think he'll live," Nathaniel said.

"Go and help him, John. Go on. I'm fine, really I am. I just need to sit down a

little."

Nathaniel approached his master with some caution. He would not have put it past

Underwood to blame him somehow for the disaster.

"Sir? Are you—"

His master did not seem to register his presence. A bright light of fury shone

beneath his blackened eyebrows. With a magisterial effort, he drew the tattered remnants of his jacket together and joined them at the one remaining button. He flattened down his tie, wincing a little at the heat.

Then he strode over toward the nearest straggling group of guests. Unsure what to

do, Nathaniel trailed along behind.

"Who was it? Did you see?" Underwood spoke abruptly.

A woman whose evening gown hung like damp tissue from her shoulders shook

her head. "It happened too fast." Several of the others nodded.

"Some object, came from behind..."

"Through a portal, perhaps, a renegade magician—"

A white-haired man with a whining voice cut in. "They say someone entered by

the terrace...."

"Surely not—what about security?"

"Excuse me, sir..."

"This Resistance, do you think they—?"

"Lovelace, Schyler, and Pinn have sent tracker demons downriver."

"Sir—"

"The villain must have jumped into the Thames and been swept away."

"Sir! I saw him!"

Underwood turned to Nathaniel at last. "What? What did you say?"

"I saw him, sir. The boy on the terrace—"

"By heaven, if you're lying..."

"No, sir, it was just before he threw it, sir. He had a blue orb in his hand. He ran in through the doors and chucked it, sir. He was dark-haired, a boy, a little older than me, sir. Thin, with dark clothes on; he had a coat, I think; I didn't see what happened to him after he threw it. It was an elemental sphere, I'm sure, sir, a small one; so he didn't need to be a magician to break it...."

Nathaniel paused for breath, suddenly conscious that in his enthusiasm he had

revealed a far greater knowledge of magic than was appropriate in an apprentice who had yet to summon his first mouler. But neither Underwood nor any of the other magicians

seemed to notice this. They took a moment to absorb his words, then turned away from

him and began chattering away at breakneck speed, each talking over the others in their eagerness to proclaim their theories.

"It has to be the Resistance—but are they magicians or not? I've always said—"

"Underwood, Internal Affairs is your department. Have any elemental spheres

been registered stolen? If so, what the hell's being done about it?"

"I can't say; confidential information...."

"Don't mutter into what's left of your beard, man. We've a right to know!"

"Ladies, gentlemen..." The voice was soft, but its effect was immediate. The clamor ceased, all heads turned. Simon Lovelace had appeared on the fringes of the

group. His hair was back in place.

Despite his broken glasses and bruised forehead, he was as elegant as ever.

Nathaniel's mouth felt dry.

Lovelace looked around the group with his quick, dark eyes. "Don't bully poor

Arthur, please,"

he said. For an instant, the smile flicked across the face. "He isn't responsible for this outrage, poor fellow. The assailant appears to have entered from the river."

A black-bearded man indicated Nathaniel. "That's what the boy said."

The dark eyes fixed on Nathaniel and widened slightly with recognition. "Young

Underwood.

You saw him, did you?"

Nathaniel nodded dumbly.

"So. Sharp as ever, I see. Does he have a name yet, Underwood?"

"Erm, yes—John Mandrake. I've filed it officially."

"Well,
John."
The dark eyes fastened upon him. "You're to be congratulated; no one else I've spoken to so far got much of a look at him. The police may want a statement from you in due course."

Nathaniel prised his tongue free. "Yes, sir."

Lovelace turned back to the others. "The assailant left a boat below the terrace, then climbed up the river wall and cut the throat of the guard. There's no body, but a fair bit of blood, so he presumably lowered the corpse into the Thames. He too seems to have jumped into the water after the attack and allowed himself to be swept away. He may

have drowned."

The black-bearded man tutted. "It's unheard of! What was Duvall thinking? The

police should have prevented this."

Lovelace held up a hand. "I quite agree. However, two officers are speedily on the trail; they may find something, though water won't help the scent. I've sent djinn out along the banks too. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more at this point. We must all be grateful that the Prime Minister is safe and that no one important was killed. Might I humbly suggest that you all head home to recuperate—and perhaps treat yourselves to a

change of clothes? More information will no doubt come your way at a later time. Now,

if you'll forgive me..."

With a smile he detached himself and walked away to another knot of guests. The

group looked after him, open-mouthed.

"Of all the arrogant—" The black-bearded magician stopped himself with a snort.

"You wouldn't think he was only Deputy Minister for Trade. He's going to find an afrit waiting for him one of these days.... Well, I'm not hanging around, even if you lot are."

He stomped away; one by one, the others followed suit. Mr. Underwood silently collected his wife, who was busily comparing bruises with a couple from the Foreign Office, and

with Nathaniel trotting along behind, left the breathless confusion of Westminster Hall.

"All I can hope," his master said, "is that this will encourage them to give me more funds. If they don't, what can they expect? With a measly department of six

magicians! I'm not a miracle worker!"

For the first half of the journey, the car had been heavy with silence and the smell

of singed beard. As they left central London, however, Underwood suddenly became

talkative. Something seemed to be preying on his mind.

"It's not your fault, dear," Mrs. Underwood said, soothingly.

"No, but they'll blame me! You heard them in there, boy—accusing me, because

of all the thefts!"

Nathaniel ventured a rare question. "What thefts, sir?"

Underwood slapped the steering wheel with frustration. "The ones carried out by

the so-called Resistance, of course! Magical objects thieved from careless magicians all over London. Objects like the elemental sphere—a few of them
were
taken back in January from a warehouse, if I remember rightly. In the last couple of years, crimes like this have become more and more common, and
I'm
meant to tackle it—with just six other magicians in Internal Affairs!"

Nathaniel was emboldened; he leaned forward on the backseat. "Sorry, sir, but

who are the Resistance?"

Underwood turned a corner too fast, narrowly avoiding an old lady and startling

her into the gutter by slamming his fist down on the horn. "A bunch of traitors who don't like us being in control,"

he snarled. "As if we hadn't given this country all its wealth and greatness. No one knows who they are, but they certainly aren't numerous. A handful of commoners

drumming up support in meeting houses; a few halfwit firebrands who resent magic and

what it does for 'em."

"They're not magicians, then, sir?"

"Of course not, you fool, that's the point! They're common as muck! They hate us

and everything magical, and want to bring the Government down! As if that were

possible." He accelerated through a red light, waving his arm impatiently at the

pedestrians diving back to the safety of the pavement.

"But why would they steal magical objects, sir? If they hate magical things, I

mean."

"Who knows? Their thinking's all wrongheaded, of course; they're only

commoners. Perhaps they hope it'll reduce our power—as if losing a few artifacts would make a blind bit of difference! But some devices can be used by non-magicians, as you

saw today. They may be stockpiling weapons for some future assault, perhaps at the

behest of a foreign government.... It's impossible to tell—until we find them and snuff them out."

"But this was their first actual attack, sir?"

"The first on this scale. There have been a few ridiculous incidents... mouler

glasses tossed at official cars: that sort of thing. Magicians have been hurt. In one case the driver crashed; while he was unconscious, his briefcase, with several magical items, was stolen from his car. It was highly embarrassing for him, the idiot. But now the Resistance has gone too far. You say the assailant was young?"

"Yes, sir."

"Interesting... Youths have been reported at the scene of the other crimes too. Still, young or old, these thieves will rue the day they're caught. After tonight, anyone in

possession of a magician's stolen property will suffer the severest penalties our

Government can devise. They won't die easily, you can be sure of that. Did you say

something, boy?"

Nathaniel had uttered an involuntary noise, something between a choke and a

squeak. A sudden vision of the very stolen Amulet of Samarkand, which even now was

hidden somewhere in Underwood's study, had passed before his eyes. He shook his head,

dumbly.

The car turned the final corner and hummed down the dark and silent road.

Underwood swept into the parking space in front of the house. "Mark my words, boy," he said, "the Government will have to act now. I shall request more personnel for my department first thing in the morning. Then perhaps we'll start catching these thieves.

And when we do, we'll tear them limb from limb."

He got out of the car and slammed the door, leaving a fresh waft of burned hair

behind him.

Mrs. Underwood turned her head toward the backseat. Nathaniel was sitting bolt

upright, neck rigid, looking into space.

"Hot chocolate before bed, dear?" she said.

21

Bartimaeus

The darkness cloaking my mind lifted. Instantly, I was as alert as ever, crystal-

sharp in all my perceptions, a coiled spring ready to explode into action. It was time to escape!

Except it wasn't.

My mind works on several levels at once.[1] I've been known to make pleasant

small talk while framing the words of a spell
and
assessing various escape routes at the same time. This sort of thing regularly comes in handy. But right then I didn't need more than one cognitive level to tell me that escape was wholly out of the question. I was in big trouble.

[1] Several
conscious
levels, that is. By and large, humans can only manage one conscious level, with a couple of more or less unconscious ones muddling along

underneath. Think of it this way: I could read a book with four different stories typed one on top of the other, and take them all in with the same sweep of my eyes. The best I can do for you is
footnotes.

But first things first. One thing I
could
do was look good. The moment I awoke I realized that my form had slipped while I had been out. My falcon form had deteriorated into a thick, oily vapor that sloshed back and forth in midair, as if pulled by a miniature tide. This substance was in fact the nearest I could get to revealing my pure essence[2]

while enslaved on earth, but despite its noble nature, it wasn't wholly fetching.[3] I thus quickly changed myself into the semblance of a slender human female, draped in a

simple tunic, before adding a couple of small horns on her scalp for the heck of it.

[2]
Essence:
the fundamental, essential being of a spirit such as myself, wherein my identity and nature are contained In your world, we are forced to incorporate our

essences into some sort of physical form; in the Other Place, where we come from, our

essences intermingle freely and chaotically.

[3] In fact, it had the appearance and odor of dirty washing-up water.