Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (32 page)

coped with them."

"Quite." Simon Lovelace spoke through his teeth.

"Do you think it has any connection with the attack on Parliament?"

"A moment, please." Lovelace held up his hand. "I have reason to suspect that the theft of the—of my item, was not the work of the so-called Resistance, but that of a

fellow magician."

Underwood frowned. "You think so? How can you be sure?"

"Because I know what carried out the raid. It goes by the unseemly name of

Bartimaeus. A middle-ranking djinni of great impudence and small intelligence.[1] It is nothing special. Any half-wit might have summoned it. A half-wit
magician,
that is, not a commoner."

[1] At this point someone with excellent hearing might have heard a spurt of

webbing being shot furiously into the ceiling in the corner of the room Fortunately, the imp was busy trying to intimidate Underwood by changing its frozen expression very,

very slowly. It didn't hear a thing.

"Nevertheless," Underwood said mildly, "this Bartimaeus got away with your item."[2]

[2] I felt a sudden surge of affection for the old fool. Didn't last long. Just thought I'd mention it.

"It was a bungler! It allowed itself to be identified!" Lovelace controlled himself with difficulty.

"No, no—you are quite right. It got away."

"And as to who summoned it..."

The glasses flashed. "Well, Arthur, that is why I am here. To see
you."

There was a momentary pause while Underwood's brain cells struggled to make

the connection.

Finally, success. Several emotions competed for control of his face, then all were

swept away by a kind of glacial smoothness. The temperature in the room grew cold.

"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "What did you say?"

Simon Lovelace leaned forward and rested his two hands on the dining table. He

had very well manicured nails. "Arthur," he said, "Bartimaeus has not been keeping a low profile lately. As of this morning, it was imprisoned within the Tower of London,

following its attack on Pinn's of Piccadilly."

Underwood reeled with astonishment.
"That
djinni? How—how do you know

this? They were unable to learn its name.... And—and it escaped, this very afternoon...."

"It did indeed." Lovelace did not explain how. "After its escape, my agents...

spotted it. They followed Bartimaeus across London—and back here."[3]

[3] Oops. It looked as if Lovelace had guessed I might escape from Faquarl He

must have set spies watching the Tower to trail us once we broke free And I'd led them straight back to the Amulet in double-quick time How embarrassing.

Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"

"Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious

cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I

am inside..." Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."

"But..."

"I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you

coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."

The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate

sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different

expression, then reverted to the original.

Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.

"I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite

within my rights.

But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well

aware—is rather...

contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get

out, now would we?

So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some...

arrangement
that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff.

"I'm waiting."

If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he

might have saved himself.[4] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.

[4] He could have produced the Amulet, agreed to terms, and seen Lovelace head

off satisfied into the night.

Of course, now that he knew a little of Lovelace's crimes, he would certainly have

been bumped off soon afterward, but that breathing space might have given him time to

shave his beard, put on a flowery shirt, fly off somewhere hot and sandy and so survive.

"You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How
dare
you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should
I
take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I wouldn't bother robbing you.

Everyone knows your star has waned.

You're not
worth
harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably,

they lie.

Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my

house!"

As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep

shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.

"Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."

The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."

"I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."

"I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."

"Well, then..."

Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air

and landed on the mahogany top of the dining-room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.

"Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."

The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the

door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a

laden tray.

"Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr.

Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"

Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great

care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end

where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large porcelain

teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display-rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.

Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.

"Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."

Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the display-rack.

The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.

"That's
right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs.

Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.

The door closed.

As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.

With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole

end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.

There was a brief silence.

Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.

"What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.

Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance.

"That was my best teapot."

He gave three whistles, shrill, high-pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and

booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin-imp, blue-faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin-imp sprang, turning in

midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong.

The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin-imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.

Underwood turned back to Lovelace, who had watched all this tight-lipped.

I confess the old man surprised me—he was putting up a better show than I'd

expected.

Nevertheless the strain of raising that tame imp was taking its toll. The back of his

neck was sweaty.

Lovelace knew this too. "One last chance," he snapped. "Give me my property or I'll raise the stakes. Lead me to your study."

"Never!" Underwood was beside himself with strain and rage. He did not heed the promptings of common sense.

"Watch then." Lovelace smoothed back his oiled hair. He spoke a few words

under his breath.

There was a frisson in the dining room; everything in it flickered. The wall at the

far end of the room became insubstantial. It receded, moving farther and farther back

until it could no longer be seen. In its place a corridor of uncertain dimensions stretched away. As Underwood watched, a figure appeared far off along the corridor. It began to

move toward us, growing larger at great speed, but floating, for its legs were still.

Underwood gasped and stumbled back. He knocked against his chair.

He was right to gasp. I knew that figure, the bulky frame, the jackal's head.

"Stop!" Underwood's face was waxen; he gripped his chair for support.

"What was that?" Simon Lovelace held his fingers to his ear. "I can't hear you."[5]

[5] How unnecessary. What play-actors these magicians are.

"Stop! All right, you win! I'll take you to my study now! Call it off!"

The figure grew in size. Underwood was cowering. The goblin-imp made a rueful

face and withdrew hastily back through the tiles. I shifted in my corner, wondering quite what I was going to do when Jabor finally entered the room.[6]

[6] So Faquarl had been right A small army of horlas and utukku had been unable

to stop Jabor. This didn't bode too well.

All at once Lovelace gave a sign. The infinite corridor and the approaching figure

vanished. The wall was there again as before, a yellowed photograph of Underwood's

smiling grandmother hanging in its center.

Underwood was on his knees beside the ruins of his tea service. He shook so hard

he could barely stand.

"Which way to your study, Arthur?" Simon Lovelace said.

29

Nathaniel

Nathaniel stood alone on the landing, gripping the banister as if he feared to fall.

A murmur of voices came from the dining room below; it rose and fell, but he hardly

registered it. The panic rushing in his head drowned out all other sounds.
The only bad
magician is an incompetent one.
And what was incompetence? Loss of control. Slowly, steadily, over the last few days, everything had spiraled out of Nathaniel's control. First, Bartimaeus had learned his birth name. He had remedied that all right with the tobacco tin, but the respite had not lasted long. Instead, disaster after disaster had struck in quick succession. Bartimaeus had been captured by the Government, Underwood had

discovered his activities and his career had been ruined before it had begun. Now the

demon refused to obey his orders and Lovelace himself was at the door. And all he could do was stand and watch, helpless to react. He was at the mercy of the events he had set in motion. Helpless...

A small noise sliced through his self-pity and jolted him upright. It was the gentle

humming made by Mrs. Underwood as she padded along the hall from the kitchen toward

the dining room. She was bringing tea: Nathaniel heard the clinking of the china on the tray she carried. A knock upon the door followed; more clinking as she entered, then

silence.

In that moment, Nathaniel quite forgot his own predicament. Mrs. Underwood

was in danger.

The enemy was in the house. In a few moments, he would doubtless force or

persuade Underwood to open his study for inspection. The Amulet would be found. And

then... what might Lovelace do—to Mr. Underwood or his wife?

Bartimaeus had told him to wait upstairs and be ready for the worst. But

Nathaniel had had enough of helpless loitering. He was not done yet. The situation was desperate, but he could still act.

The magicians were in the dining room. Underwood's study was empty. If he

could slip inside and retrieve the Amulet, perhaps he could hide it somewhere, whatever Bartimaeus might say.

Quietly, quickly, he stole downstairs to the landing below, to the level of his

master's study and workrooms. The muffled voices from the ground floor were raised

now: he thought he could hear Underwood shouting. Time was short. Nathaniel hastened