Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (41 page)

huddled in his coat under a pile of leaves, which rustled perpetually with his shivering.

"Want some heat?" I whispered.

His head moved a little. It was hard to tell whether it was a shiver or a shake.

"No?"

"No."

"Why?"

His jaw was clamped so tight it could barely unlock. "It might draw them to us."

"Sure it isn't pride? Not wanting help from a nasty demon? You'd better be careful with all this frost about—bits might drop off. I've seen it happen."[1]

[1] Very, very nasty it was. Remind me to tell you about it some day.

"L-leave me."

"Suit yourself." I returned to my tree. Some while later, as the eastern sky began to lighten, I heard him sneeze, but otherwise he remained stubbornly silent, locked into his self-appointed discomfort.

With the arrival of dawn, hanging about as a bat became a less convincing

occupation. I took myself off under the bushes and changed into a field mouse. The boy was where I had left him, stiff as a board and rather dribbly about the nose. I perched on a twig nearby.

"How about a handkerchief, O my master?" I said.

With some difficulty, he raised an arm and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He

sniffed. "Has anything happened yet?"

"Still a bit under your left nostril. Otherwise clean."

"I meant on the road."

"No. Too early. If you've got any food left, you should eat it now. We need to be all set when the first car comes by."

As it transpired, we needn't have hurried. All four roads remained still and silent.

The boy ate the last of his food, then crouched in the soaking grass under a bush,

watching one of the lanes. He appeared to have caught a slight chill, and shivered

uncontrollably inside his coat. I scurried back and forth, keeping an eye out for trouble, but finally returned to his side.

"Remember," I said, "the car mustn't be seen to stop more than a few seconds, or one of the sentries might smell a rat. We've got to get on board as soon as it reaches the crossroads. You'll have to move fast."

"I'll be ready."

"I mean
really
fast."

"I'll be
ready,
I said."

"Yes, well. I've seen slugs cover ground more quickly than you. And you've made

yourself ill by refusing my help last night."

"I'm not ill."

"Sorry, didn't catch that. Your teeth were chattering too loudly."

"I'll be fine. Now leave me alone."

"This cold of yours could let us down big time if we get in the house. Lovelace

might follow the trail of sn—Listen!"

"What?"

"A car! Coming from behind us. Perfect. It'll slow right here. Wait for my order."

I scampered through the long grasses to the other side of the copse and waited

behind a large stone on the dirt bank above the road. The noise of the oncoming vehicle grew loud. I scanned the sky—no watchers could be seen, and the trees hid the road from the direction of the house. I readied myself to spring....

Then hunched down behind the stone. No good. A black and shiny limousine: a

magician's car.

Too risky to try. It flashed past in a welter of dust and pebbles; all skirling brakes and shining bonnet.

I caught a glimpse of its occupant: a man I did not know, broad-lipped, pasty, with

slicked-back hair.

There was no sign of an imp or other guardian, but that meant nothing. There was

no point in ambushing a magician.

I returned to the boy, still motionless under the bush. "No go," I said. "Magician."

"I've got eyes." He sniffed messily. "I know him, too. That's Lime, one of Lovelace's cronies.

Don't know why he's in on the plot; he's not very powerful. I once stung him with

some mites. He swelled up like a balloon."

"Did you?" I confess I was impressed. "What happened?"

He shrugged. "They beat me. Is that someone coming?"

A bicycle had appeared around the bend in front of us. Upon it was a short, fat

man, his legs whirring round like helicopter blades. Above the bicycle's front wheel was an enormous basket, covered with a weighted white cloth. "Butcher," I said.

The boy shrugged. "Maybe. Do we get him?"

"Could you wear his clothes?"

"No."

"Then we let him pass. There'll be other options."

Red-faced and perspiring freely, the cyclist arrived at the crossroads, skidded to a

halt, wiped his brow and proceeded on toward the Hall. We watched him go, the boy's

eyes mainly on the basket.

"We should have taken him out," he said, wistfully. "I'm starving."

Time passed and the bicycling butcher returned. He whistled as he pedaled,

making light of his journey. His basket was now empty, but no doubt his wallet had been nicely filled. Beyond the hedge, one of the sentries trailed in his wake with great loping bounds, its body and tattered robes almost translucent in the sunlight.

The butcher freewheeled into the distance. The boy suppressed a sneeze. The

sentry drifted away. I scuttled up a thorn stem that ran through the bush and peered out at the top. The skies were clear; the winter sun bathed the fields with unseasonal warmth.

The roads were empty.

Twice more during the next hour, vehicles approached the crossroads. The first

was a florist's van, driven by a slatternly woman smoking a cigarette. I was about to

pounce on her, when out of the corner of my mouse's eye I spied a trio of blackbird

sentries sailing lazily over the copse at low altitude. Their beady eyes flicked hither and thither. No chance: they would have seen everything. I hid and let the woman drive on

her way.

The blackbirds flew off, but the next passerby served me no better: a magician's

convertible with the top down, this time coming
from
the direction of the Hall. The driver's face was mostly obscured under a cap and a pair of driving goggles: I only caught a flash of reddish beard, short and clipped, as he shot by.

"Who's that?" I asked. "Another accomplice?"

"Never seen him before. Maybe he was the one who drove in last night."

"He's not sticking around, whoever he is."

The boy's frustration was getting to him. He beat a fist against the grass. "If we don't get in soon, all the other guests will start arriving. We need time in there to find out what's going on. Ahh! If I only had more power!"

"The eternal cry of all magicians," I said wearily. "Have patience."

He looked up at me savagely. "You need
time
to have patience," he snarled. "We
have
no time."

But in fact it was only twenty minutes later that we got our chance.

Once again the sound of a car; once again I crossed to the other side of the copse

and took a look from the top of the bank. As soon as I did so, I knew the time had come.

It was a dark-green grocer's van, tall and squared, with smart black mudguards and a

newly washed look. On its side, in proud black lettering, were painted the words

SQUALLS AND SON, GROCERS OF

CROYDON, TASTY COMESTIBLES FOR SOCIETY—and to my great delight,

it appeared as if Squalls and Son themselves were sitting in the cab. An elderly man with a bald head was at the wheel.

At his side sat a chipper youth wearing a green cap. Both looked eager and well

spruced up for their big day; the old man's head seemed to have been buffed until it

shone.

The field mouse flexed its muscles behind its ambush stone.

The van drew closer, its engine rattling and growling under the bonnet. I checked

the skies—no blackbirds or other dangers. All clear.

The van drew abreast of the copse, out of sight of the distant Heddleham gateway.

Both Squalls and Son had wound down their windows to catch the pleasant air.

Son was humming a happy tune.

Midway past the copse, Son caught a slight rustling noise from outside the cab.

He glanced to his right.

And saw a field mouse whistling through the air in a karate attack position, claws

out, hind legs foremost—right at him.

The mouse plopped straight through the open window. Neither Squalls nor Son

had time to react. There was a whirl of inexplicable movements from within the cab; it rocked violently to and fro.

The van swerved gently and ran up against the dirt bank at the side of the road,

where its wheel skidded and slipped. The engine petered and cut out.

A moment's silence. The passenger door opened. A man who looked very like

Squalls hopped out, reached back in and drew out the unconscious bodies of Squalls and Son. Son had lost the majority of his clothes.

It was the matter of a moment to drag the pair across the road, up the bank and

into the depths of the copse. I hid them there under a bramble thicket and returned to the van.[2]

[2] Faquarl would have argued that it was more expedient simply to devour them,

while Jabor wouldn't have argued at all, but just done it. But I find that human flesh makes my essence ache. It's like eating bad seafood—too much accumulated grime per

mouthful.

This was the worst bit for me. Djinn and vehicles just don't mix; it's an alien

sensation to be trapped in a tin shroud, surrounded by the smells of petrol, oil, and

artificial leather, by the stench of people and their creations. It reminds you how weak and shoddy it must feel to be a human, requiring such decrepit devices to travel far.

Besides, I didn't really know how to drive.[3]

[3] To date, the only experience I'd had of driving had been during the Great War,

when the British army had been camped thirty miles outside Prague. A Czech magician,

who shall remain nameless, charged me to steal certain documents. They were well

guarded and I was forced to pass the enemy djinn by driving a staff ambulance into the British camp. My driving was very bad, but at least it enabled me to complete my

disguise (by filling the ambulance with each soldier I knocked down en route). When I

entered the camp, the men were rushed off to the hospital, while I slipped away to steal the campaign plans.

Nevertheless, I got the engine started again and managed to reverse away from the

bank into the middle of the road. Then onward to the crossroads. All this had taken

scarcely a minute, but I admit I was anxious: a sharp-eyed sentry might well wonder why the van was taking so long to clear the trees. At the crossroads I slowed, took a hasty look around, and leaned toward the passenger window.

"Quick! Get in!"

A nearby bush rustled frantically, there was a wrenching at the cab door and the

boy was inside, breathing like a bull elephant. The door slammed shut; an instant later, we were on our way, turning right along the Heddleham road.

"It's you, is it?" he panted, staring at me.

"Of course. Now get changed, quick as you can. The sentries will be on us in

moments."

He scrabbled around on the seat, ripping off his coat and reaching for Son's

discarded shirt, green jacket, and trousers. How smart this outfit had been five minutes before; now it was all crumpled.

"Hurry up! They're coming."

Across the fields from both sides, the sentries approached, hopping and bounding,

black rags flapping. The boy pawed at his shirt.

"The buttons are so tight! I can't undo them!"

"Pull it over your head!"

The sentry to my left was approaching fastest. I could see its eyes—two black

ovals with pinpricks of light at their cores. I tried to accelerate, pressed the wrong pedal; the van shuddered and nearly stopped. The boy's head was halfway through the shirt

collar at the time. He fell forward against the dashboard.

"Ow! You did that on purpose!"

I pressed the correct pedal. We speeded up once more. "Get that jacket on, or

we're done.

And the cap."

"What about the trousers?"

"Forget them. No time."

The boy had the jacket on and was just jamming the cap down on his tousled head

when the two sentries drew alongside. They remained on the other side of the hedges,

surveying us with their shining eyes.

"Remember—we shouldn't be able to see them," I said. "Keep looking straight ahead."

"I am." A thought struck him. "Won't they realize what you are?"

"They're not powerful enough." I devoutly hoped that this was true. I thought they were ghuls,[4]

but you can never be sure these days.[5]

[4]
Ghuls:
lesser djinn of an unsavory cast, keen on the taste of humans Hence efficient (if frustrated) sentries They can only see onto five planes. I was Squalls on all but the seventh

[5] Everything seems to aspire to be something better than it is. Mites aspire to be

moulers, moulers aspire to be foliots, foliots aspire to be djinn Some djinn aspire to be afrits or even marids In each case it's hopeless. It is impossible to alter the limitations of one's essence. But that doesn't stop many entities waltzing around in the guise of

something more powerful than they are. Of course, when you're pretty darn perfect to

start with, you don't want to change anything.

For a time, we drove along the road toward the bank of trees. Both of us looked

straight ahead.

The sentries kept pace beside the van.

Presently, the boy spoke again. "What am I going to do about the trousers?"

"Nothing. You'll have to make do with what you've got. We'll be at the gate soon.

Your top half's smart enough, anyway."

"But—"

"Smooth down your jacket, get rid of any wrinkles you can see. It'll have to do.

Right—I'm Squalls and you're my son. We're delivering groceries to Heddleham Hall,

fresh for conference day.

Which reminds me, we'd better check what it is we're actually bringing. Can you

have a look?"