Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (37 page)

unavoidably detained at Pinn's shop."

Nathaniel's anger flared. "You were far too reckless! I asked you to investigate

Lovelace, not endanger me!"

"Temper, temper. That's precisely what I was doing. It was at Pinn's that I found out about the Amulet. Lovelace had it taken from a government magician named

Beecham, whose throat was cut by the thief. The Government badly wants it back. I

would have learned more, but an afrit came calling and took me to the Tower."

"But you escaped. How?"

"Ah, well, that was the interesting thing," Bartimaeus went on. "It was Lovelace himself who broke me out. He must have heard from Pinn or someone that a djinni of

incredible virtuosity had been captured and guessed at once that I was the one who stole the Amulet. He sent his djinn Faquarl and Jabor on a rescue mission—an extremely risky enterprise. Why do you think he did that?"

"He wanted the Amulet, of course."

"Exactly—and he needs to use it soon. He told us as much last night. Faquarl said the same thing: it's going to be used for something big in the next couple of days. Time is of the essence."

A half-buried memory stirred in Nathaniel's mind. "Someone at Parliament said

that Lovelace was holding a ball, or conference, soon. At a place outside London."

"Yep, I learned that too. Lovelace has a wife, girlfriend, or acquaintance named

Amanda. It is she who is hosting the conference, at some hall or other. The Prime

Minister will be attending. I saw this Amanda at Lovelace's house when I first stole the Amulet. He was trying very hard to charm her—so she can't be his wife. I doubt they've known each other very long."

Nathaniel pondered for a moment. "I overheard Lovelace telling Schyler that he

wanted to cancel the conference. That was when he didn't have the Amulet."

"Yes. But now he's got it again."

Another surge of cold rage made Nathaniel's head spin. "The Amulet of

Samarkand. Did you discover its properties?"

"Little more than I have always known. It has long had a reputation for being an

item of great power. The shaman who made it was a potent magician indeed—far greater

than any of your piffling crowd. His or her tribe had no books or parchments: their

knowledge was passed down by word of mouth and memory alone. Anyway, the Amulet

protects its wearer from magical attack—it is more or less as simple as that. It is not a talisman—it can't be used aggressively to kill your rivals. It only works protectively. All amulets—"

Nathaniel cut in sharply. "Don't lecture me! I
know
what amulets do."

"Just checking. Not sure what they teach kids nowadays. Well, I witnessed a little of the Amulet's powers when I was planting it in Underwood's study for you."

Nathaniel's face contorted. "I wasn't planting it!"

"Of course you weren't. But it dealt with an admittedly fairly poor fire-hex

without any trouble.

Absorbed it just like that—gone. And it disposed of Underwood's lame attack last

night too, as you may have seen while dangling under my arm. One of my informants

stated that the Amulet is rumored to contain an entity from the heart of the Other Place: if so, it will be powerful indeed."

Nathaniel's eyes hurt. He rubbed them. More than anything else, he needed sleep.

"Whatever the Amulet's exact capacity," the djinni continued, "it's clear that Lovelace is going to use it in the next few days, at that conference he arranged. How?

Difficult to guess. Why? Easy. He's seizing power." It yawned.
"That
old story."

Nathaniel cursed. "He's a renegade, a traitor!"

"He's a normal magician. You're just the same."

"What? How dare you! I'll—"

"Well, not yet, maybe. Give it a few years." The djinni looked a little bored. "So

—what do you propose to do?"

A thought crossed Nathaniel's mind. "I wonder...." he said. "Parliament was attacked two days ago. Do you think Lovelace was behind that too?"

The djinni looked dubious. "Doubt it. Too amateur. Also, judging by Lovelace's

correspondence, he and Schyler weren't expecting anything that evening."

"My master thought it was the Resistance—people who hate magicians."

Bartimaeus grinned.
"Much
more likely. You watch out—they may be

disorganized now, but they'll get you in the end. It always happens. Look at Egypt, look at Prague...."

"Prague's decadent."

"Prague's
magicians
are decadent. And they no longer rule. Look over there..." In one area of the library, the rotting shelves had fallen away. The walls there were muraled with layers of graffiti and carefully drawn hierogylphs. "Old Kingdom curses,"

Bartimaeus said. "You get a more informed class of delinquent round here. 'Death to the overlords' that big one says. That's you, Natty boy, if I'm not much mistaken."

Nathaniel ignored this; he was trying to organize his thoughts. "It's too dangerous to go to the authorities about Lovelace," he said slowly. "So there is only one alternative.

I shall attend the conference myself and expose the plot there."

The djinni coughed meaningfully. "I thought we mentioned something about

undue risk... Be careful—that idea sounds suicidal to me."

"Not if we plan carefully. First we need to know where and when the conference

is taking place.

That is going to be tricky.... You will have to go out and discover this information

for me." Nathaniel cursed. "But that will take time! If only I had some books and the proper incense, I could organize a troop of imps to spy on all the ministers at once! No—

they would be hard to control. Or I could—"

The djinni had picked up the newspaper and was flipping through it. "Or you

could just read the information printed here."

"What?"

"Here in the Parliament Circular. Listen: 'Wednesday, December second,

Heddleham Hall.

Amanda Cathcart hosts the Annual Parliamentary Conference and Winter Ball. In

attendance, among others, the Right Honorable Rupert Devereaux, Angus Nash, Jessica

Whitwell, Chloe Baskar, Tim Hildick, Sholto Pinn, and other members of the elite.' "

Nathaniel snatched the paper and read it through. "Amanda Cathcart—that's got to

be Lovelace's girlfriend. There's no doubt about it. This must be it."

"Pity we don't know where Heddleham Hall is."

"My scrying glass will find it." From his pocket, Nathaniel drew the bronze disc.

Bartimaeus eyed it askance.

"I doubt it. It's a poor piece if ever I saw one."

"I
made
this."

"Yes."

Nathaniel passed his hand twice across the disc and muttered the invocation. At

the third time of asking, the imp's face appeared, spinning as if on a roundabout. It raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

"Ain't you dead?" it said.

"No."

"Pity."

"Stop spinning," Nathaniel snarled. "I have a task for you."

"Hold on a sec," the imp said, screeching to a halt suddenly. "Who's that with you?"

"That's Bartimaeus, another of my slaves."

"He'd like to think as much," the djinni said.

The imp frowned. "That's Bartimaeus? The one from the Tower?"

"Yes."

"Ain't he dead?"

"No."

"Pity."

"He's a feisty one." Bartimaeus stretched and yawned. "Tell him to watch it. I pick my teeth with imps his size."

The baby made a skeptical face. "Yeah? I've eaten djinn like you for breakfast,

mate."

Nathaniel kicked a foot against the floor. "Will you both just shut up and let me give my command? I'm in charge here. Right. Imp: I wish you to show me the building

known as Heddleham Hall. Somewhere near London. Owned by a woman named

Amanda Cathcart. So! Be gone about your errand!"

"Hope it ain't too far off, this hall. My astral cord's only so long, you know."

The disc clouded. Nathaniel waited impatiently for it to clear.

And waited.

"That is one slow scrying glass," Bartimaeus said. "Are you sure it's working?"

"Of course. It's a difficult objective, that's why it's taking time. And don't think you're getting off lightly, either. When we find the Hall, I want you to go and check it out.

See if anything's going on.

Lovelace may be setting some kind of trap."

"It would have to be a subtle one to fool all those magicians heading there on

Wednesday. Why don't you try shaking it?"

"It works, I tell you! You see—here we go."

The imp reappeared, huffing and wheezing as if it was hideously out of breath.

"What is it with you?" it panted. "Most magicians use their glasses to spy on people they fancy in the shower. But not you, oh no. That would be much too easy. I've never

approached a place that's so well guarded. That Hall is almost as bad as the Tower itself.

Hair-trigger nexuses, randomly materializing sentries, the lot.

I had to retreat as soon as I got near. This is the best image I could get."

A very blurry image filled the center of the disc. It was possible to make out a

smudgy brown building with several turrets or towers, surrounded by woodland, with a

long drive approaching from one side. A couple of black dots could be seen moving

rapidly through the sky behind the building.

"See those things?" the imp's voice remarked. "Sentries. They sensed me as soon as I materialized. That's them coming for me. Fast, aren't they? No wonder I had to

skeddadle straight away."

The image disappeared; the baby took its place. "How was that?"

"Useless," Bartimaeus said. "We still don't know where the Hall is."

"That's where you're wrong." The baby's face assumed an inconceivably smug

expression. "It's fifty miles due south of London and nine miles west of the Brighton railway line. A huge estate. Can't miss it. I may be slow, but I'm thorough."

"You may depart." Nathaniel passed his hand across the disc, wiping it clear again.
"Now
we're getting started," he said. "The amount of magical protection confirms that that must be where the conference is taking place. Wednesday... We've two days to get there."

The djinni blew out its cheeks rudely. "Two days till we're back at the mercy of

Lovelace, Faquarl, Jabor, and a hundred wicked magicians who think you're an arsonist.

Goody. Can't wait."

Nathaniel's face hardened. "We have an agreement, remember? All we need is

proper planning.

Go to Heddleham Hall now, get as close as you can, and find a way to get in. I

shall wait for you here. I need to sleep."

"Humans really do have no stamina. Very well: I shall go." The djinni rose.

"How long will it take you?"

"A few hours. I'll be back before nightfall. There's a curfew on and the spheres

will be out, so don't leave this building."

"Stop telling me what to do! Just leave! Wait—before you go, how do I build up

the fire?"

A few minutes later, the djinni departed. Nathaniel lay down on the floor close to

the crackling flames. His grief and guilt lay down with him like shadows, but his

weariness was stronger than both of them combined. In under a minute, he was asleep.

33

In his dream, he sat in a summer garden with a woman at his side. A pleasant

feeling of peace was upon him: she was talking and he listened, and the sound of her

voice mingled with the birdsong and the sun's touch upon his face. A book lay unopened on his lap, but he ignored it: either he had not read it, or he did not wish to do so. The woman's voice rose and fell; he laughed and felt her put an arm around his shoulders. At this, a cloud passed over the sun and the air chilled. A sudden gust of wind blew open the cover of the book and riffled its pages loudly. The woman's voice grew deeper; for the first time he looked in her direction... Under a mop of long blond hair, he saw the djinni's eyes, its leering mouth. The grip around his shoulders tightened, he was pulled toward his enemy. Its mouth opened—

He awoke in a twisted posture, one of his arms raised defensively across his face.

The fire had burned itself out and the light was dying in the sky. The library room

was thick with shadow. Several hours must have passed since he had fallen asleep, but he did not feel refreshed, only stiff and cold. Hunger clamped his stomach; his limbs were weak when he tried to stand. His eyes were hot and dry.

In the light of the window, he consulted his watch. Three-forty: the day was

almost gone.

Bartimaeus had not yet returned.

As dusk fell, men with hooked poles emerged from the shops opposite and pulled

the night-grilles down in front of their display windows. For several minutes, the rattles and crashes echoed along the road from both directions, like portcullises being dropped at a hundred castle gates.

Yellow streetlights came on, one by one, and Nathaniel saw thin curtains being

drawn in the windows above the shops. Buses with lit windows rumbled past; people

hurried along the pavements, anxious to get home.

Still Bartimaeus did not come. Nathaniel paced impatiently about the cold, dark

room. The delay enraged him. Yet again he felt powerless, at the mercy of events. It was just as things had always been. In every crisis, from Lovelace's first attack the year before, to the murder of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel had been unable to respond—his

weakness had cost him dearly every time. But things would change now. He had nothing

holding him back, nothing left to lose. When the djinni returned, he would—

"Evening edition! Latest news!"

The voice came faintly to him from along the darkening street. Pressing his head

against the leftmost window, he saw a small weak light come swinging along the

pavement. It hung from a long pole above a wobbling handcart. The paperboy, back