Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (30 page)

Bartimaeus would tell them Nathaniel's name and the police would come to call. And

then...

With a shiver of fear, Nathaniel remembered the injuries Sholto Pinn had

displayed the evening before. The consequences would not be pleasant.

Even if, by some miracle, Bartimaeus kept quiet, there was Underwood to deal

with too.

Already Nathaniel's master had promised to disown him—and perhaps worse.

Now he only had to read the scribbled notes he had removed from Nathaniel's room to

discover precisely what his apprentice had summoned. Then he would demand the full

story. Nathaniel shuddered to guess what methods of persuasion he might use.

What could he do? Mrs. Underwood had suggested a way out. She had advised

him simply to tell the truth. But the thought of revealing his secrets to his master's spite and sarcasm made Nathaniel feel physically sick.

Thrusting the dilemma aside, Nathaniel summoned the weary imp and, ignoring

its protests, sent it out to spy on the Tower of London once more. From a safe distance, he watched in awe as an angry horde of green-winged demons spiraled like locusts above

the parapets, then suddenly dispersed in all directions across the darkening sky.

"Impressive, that is," the scrying glass commented. "Real class. You don't mess with them high-level djinn. Who knows?" it added. "Maybe some of them are coming for
you!"

"Find Underwood," Nathaniel snarled. "Where is he and what is he doing?"

"My, aren't we in a bate? Let's see, Arthur Underwood.... Nope, sorry. He's in the Tower too.

Can't get access. But we can speculate, can't we?" The imp chuckled. "He's

probably talking to your Bartimaeus pal right now."

Further observation of the Tower was obviously useless. Nathaniel tossed the disc

under the bed. It was no good. He would have to come clean about everything. He would

have to tell his master—someone he had no respect for, who had failed to protect him,

who had cowered and sniveled before Lovelace. Nathaniel could well imagine how

Underwood's fury would be expressed—in sneers and jibes and fears for his own petty

reputation.... And as for what would happen then...

Perhaps an hour later, he caught the echo of a door slamming somewhere below.

He froze, listening for his master's dreaded footsteps on the stair, but for a long while no one came. And when the key did turn in the lock, he knew already, from the gentle

wheezing, that it was Mrs. Underwood outside. She carried a small tea tray, with a glass of milk and a rather curled tomato-and-cucumber sandwich.

"I'm sorry this is late, John," she said. "Your food's been ready for ages, but your master came home before I could bring it up." She took a deep breath. "I mustn't stop.

Things are a little hectic downstairs."

"What... what's happening, Mrs. Underwood?"

"Eat your sandwich, there's a good boy. It looks like you need it—you're quite

pale. It won't be long before your master calls you, I'm sure."

"But did he say anything—?"

"Heavens, John! Will you never stop asking questions? He said a great deal, but

nothing that I'm going to share with you now. There's a pan of water on downstairs and I have to make him something quickly. Eat your sandwich, dear."

"Is my master—?"

"He's locked himself in his study, with orders not to be disturbed. Apart from his food, of course. There's quite an emergency on."

An emergency... In that instant Nathaniel came to a sudden decision. Mrs.

Underwood was the only person he could trust, the only person who truly cared. He

would tell her everything: about the Amulet, about Lovelace. She would help him with

Underwood, even with the police, if necessary; he didn't know how, but she would make

everything all right.

"Mrs. Underwood—"

She held up a hand. "Not now, John. I haven't time."

"But, Mrs. Underwood, I really need—"

"Not a word more! I have to go."

And with a harassed smile, she went. The door shut. The key turned. Nathaniel

was left staring after her. For an instant he felt as if he were about to cry, then a stubborn anger swelled inside him.

Was he some naughty child, to be left moping in the attic while his punishment

was prepared? No. He was a magician! He would not be ignored!

All his equipment had been taken. He had nothing left, except the scrying glass—

and all that could do was look. Still, looking might lead to knowledge. And knowledge

was power.

Nathaniel took a bite of the curling sandwich and instantly regretted it. Setting the

plate aside, he crossed to the skylight and looked out at London's carpeting of yellow lights stretching away under the night sky. Surely if Bartimaeus had mentioned his name, Underwood or the police would have collared him by now. It was curious. And this

emergency... was it related to Bartimaeus or not?

Underwood was below, doubtless on the phone. The solution was simple: a little

spying would swiftly clear up the matter.

Nathaniel retrieved the scrying glass. "My master is in his study. Go close so that I see all; moreover, listen and relay everything he says directly and accurately to me."

"Who's a little sneak, then? Sorry, sorry, fair enough! Your morals are none of my business.

Here we go, then..."

The center of the disc cleared; in its place, a strong, clear view of his master's

study.

Underwood sat in his leather chair, hunched forward with both elbows on his

desk. One hand was clutching the telephone receiver; the other waved and gesticulated as he talked. The imp drew closer; now the agitation on Underwood's face became clear. He was plainly shouting. Nathaniel rapped the disc. "What's he saying?" The imp's voice began in the middle of a sentence. There was a slight delay between Underwood's lips

moving and the sound reaching Nathaniel, but he could see the imp was reporting

accurately. "...telling me? All three escaped? Leaving dozens of casualties? It's unheard of!

Whitwell and Duvall must answer for this. Yes, well, I
do
feel strongly, Grigori.

This is a significant blow to my enquiries. I was intending to interrogate it myself. Yes, me. Because I'm sure it is linked to the artifact thefts... it's the latest escalation. Everyone knows the finest objects are held at Pinn's; it was hoping to steal them.... Well, yes, it would mean a magician was involved... yes, I know that's unlikely.... Even so, this was one of my best leads... the
only
lead, to be truthful, but what do you expect when I'm given no funding? What about their identities? No joy there
either?
This
will
be a kick in the teeth for Jessica—that's one good thing to come out of the whole sorry affair... Yes—I suppose so. And listen, Grigori, changing the subject for a moment, I wanted to ask your opinion on something more personal...."

At this, the imp's commentary stopped, though Underwood was evidently still

talking, his mouth close up to the receiver. Nathaniel applied an improving Shock to the disc, at which the imp's face appeared.

"Hoi, there was no call for that!"

"The
sound,
where's the sound?"

"He's whispering, ain't he? I can't hear a thing. And it ain't safe to go any closer."

"Let me hear it!"

"But, boss, you know there's a safe limit. Magicians often have protective sensors; you know, even
this
guy—"

Nathaniel's face felt sore and puffy under the strain. He was past caution. "Do it.

You won't want me to ask again."

The imp did not answer. Underwood's face reappeared, so close it almost filled

the center of the disc. The hairs tufting from his nostrils were rendered in loving three-dimensional detail. The magician was nodding. "I agree. I suppose I
should
be flattered...

Yes, looking at it that way, the boy
is
a testimony to my hard graft and inspiration. Now,
my
old master—"

He broke off, with a wince and a shudder, as if something cold had brushed

against him. "Sorry, Grigori. It was just, I felt—" Nathaniel saw the eyes narrow, the familiar brows beetle sharply. At this the image on the disc suddenly broadened out, as if the imp were retreating hurriedly across the room.

Underwood uttered a loud syllable; the imp's voice tried to copy it, but cut out

midway, as if turned off like a radio. The image remained, quivering strangely.

Nathaniel couldn't suppress a catch in his voice. "Imp, what's happening?"

Nothing. Silence from the imp.

"I order you to leave the study and return to me."

No answer.

The image in the disc was not reassuring. Shaky though it was, Nathaniel could

see Underwood putting down the telephone, then slowly rising and coming round to the

front of his desk, all the while peering hard—up, down, in every direction—as if hunting for something he knew was there. The image shook still harder: the imp seemed to be

redoubling its efforts to escape, but to no avail. In mounting panic, Nathaniel applied a few frantic Shocks to the disc in vain. The imp was frozen, unable to speak or move.

Underwood crossed to a cupboard at the back of the study, rummaged within it,

and returned, carrying a metal cylinder. He shook it: from four small holes at its top, a white powder was emitted, which quickly spread out to fill the room. Whatever the

powder did, the effect was immediate.

Underwood gave a start and stared upward—directly at Nathaniel. It was as if the

disc was a window and he was looking directly through it. For a moment, Nathaniel

thought his master could actually see him, then he realized it was simply the suspended imp that hung revealed.

Horror-stricken, Nathaniel watched his master bend down to the carpet and pull at

a loop of ribbon. A great square section of carpet peeled up and fell away to one side.

Below were two painted pentacles. His master stepped inside the smaller, never for one moment taking his eyes away from the frozen imp. He began to speak, and within

seconds a tall misty apparition appeared within the larger circle. Underwood uttered a command. The apparition bowed and vanished. To Nathaniel's amazement, Underwood's

body seemed to shimmer and slide away from itself. His master still stood within the

pentacle, but another version of his master, ghostlike and see-through, stood alongside it.

The ghostly form lifted into the air, kicked its heels and began to float forward—

straight to where the helpless imp was still relaying the view from the study. Nathaniel screamed commands and shook the disc in fury, but could do nothing to stop his master's slow approach. Closer, closer... The spectral eyebrows were lowered, the glinting eyes never looked away. Now Underwood's form swelled to fill the disc—it seemed as if it

would break right through....

Then nothing. The disc showed the study again, with Underwood's physical body

still standing motionless in the pentacle.

Despite his panic, Nathaniel knew all too well what was happening. Having

located the spy and safely frozen it in position, Underwood had decided to follow the

imp's astral cord back to its source to learn the identity of the enemy magician. Such sources might be many miles away; perhaps his master was expecting a long journey in

his djinni-controlled form. If so, he was about to get a surprise.

Too late, Nathaniel realized what he had to do. The window! If he could throw the

disc out into the street, perhaps his master would not guess....

He had only taken two strides in the direction of the skylight when, without a

sound, the translucent head of Arthur Underwood welled up through the floorboards. It

was see-through and glowing with a greenish phosphorescence; the tip of the dilapidated beard extended into the floor.

Slowly, slowly, the head revolved through ninety degrees, until at last it caught

sight of Nathaniel standing above it, holding the scrying glass in his hands.

At this, an expression appeared on his master's face that Nathaniel had never seen

before. It was not the familiar look of impatient disdain that had long characterized

Underwood's tutelage. It was not even the fury he had witnessed that morning, following the discovery in his room. Instead, it was first a look of extreme shock, and then a sudden explosion of such malice that Nathaniel's knees gave way. The disc fell from his hands; he slumped against the wall; he tried to speak, but could not.

The ghostly head stared at him from the center of the floor. Nathaniel stared back;

unable to tear his eyes away. Then—very muffled and distant, perhaps because it was

uttered by the physical body in the study far below—Underwood's voice came sounding

from inside the upturned disc.

"Traitor..."

Nathaniel's mouth opened, but let forth only a strangled croak.

The voice spoke again. "Traitor! You have betrayed me. I shall discover who is

guiding you to spy on me."

"No one—there's no one...." Nathaniel could only manage the barest whisper.

"Prepare yourself! I shall come for you."

The voice faded. Underwood's head descended, spiraling into the floor. The

phosphorescent glow vanished with it from the room. With trembling fingers, Nathaniel

picked up the disc and peered into it. After a few seconds the view of the study grew

misty as his master's spirit form passed back through the imp; it drifted away across the carpet to where the body waited. Coming alongside, it adopted the exact same posture

and merged in with itself. A moment later, Underwood was himself again and the

shadowy apparition had reappeared in the other circle. With a clap of the hands,

Underwood dismissed the djinni; it bowed and vanished. He stepped out of the pentacle, eyes blazing, and strode out of shot toward his study door.