Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (46 page)

[7] They were intertwined. Never mind how.

He didn't seem as fazed as I'd have liked. He threw the disc again. It bit into my

arm, poisoning me with silver.

Ignoring the pain, I tossed the statue like a Highland caber. It did a couple of

stylish flips and landed on the mercenary with a soft thump.

He looked winded, I'll give him that. But even so, he wasn't anything like the

flatness I required.

I could see him struggling under the prone god, trying to get a grip so he could

shove it away. This was getting tedious. Well, if I couldn't stop him, I could certainly slow him down. While he was still floundering around, I jumped over, unlaced his seven-league boots and plucked them off his feet.

Then I threw them as hard as I could into the middle of the lake, where the ducks

were busily regrouping. The boots splashed down in their midst and instantly sank out of sight.

"You'll pay for that," the man said. He was still struggling with the statue, moving it slowly off his chest.

"You don't know when to give up, do you?" I said, scratching a horn irritably. I was wondering what more to do, when I felt my insides being sucked out through my

back. My essence squirmed and writhed. I gasped. The mercenary looked on as my form

grew vaporous and weak.

He gave a heave and shoved the statue off. Through my pain, I saw him getting to

his feet.

"Stop, coward!" he cried. "You must stand and fight!"

I shook a dissolving claw at him. "Consider yourself lucky," I groaned. "I'm letting you off. I had you on the ropes and don't you forg—"

Then I was gone, and my rebuke with me.

40

Nathaniel

The bolt of jet-black plasm hit the nearest display table. The shaman's headdress,

the pots and pipes, the table itself, and a section of the floor all vanished with a noise like something being sucked sharply down a drain. Foul steam rose from the wound in the

floor.

A few feet away, Nathaniel rolled head over heels and got straight to his feet. His

head felt woozy from the roll, but he did not hesitate. He ran for the next display table, the one with the metal cubes. As the old magician raised his hand once more, he scooped up as many cubes as he could and disappeared behind a neighboring bookcase. The

second plasm bolt struck just behind him.

He paused for a moment. Beyond the bookshelves, the old magician made a

clucking noise with his tongue. "What are you doing? Do you plan to toss more mites at me?"

Nathaniel glanced at the objects in his hand. Not mites, but scarcely any better.

Prague Cubes: minor conjuror's tricks peddled by low-caste magicians. Each cube was

little more than a mite bottled up inside a metal shell with a variety of mineral powders.

When released with a simple command, mite and powders combusted in an amusing way.

Silly diversions, nothing more. Certainly not weapons.

Each cube had a paper wrap stamped with the famous distilling-glass logo of the

alchemists of Golden Lane. They were old, probably nineteenth century. Perhaps they

would not work at all.

Nathaniel picked one and tossed it, wrapping and all, over the top of the shelves.

He shouted the Release Command.

With a brilliant shower of silver sparkles and a tinny melody the imp inside the

cube combusted.

A faint but unmistakable fragrance of lavender filled the gallery.

He heard the old magician burst into a hearty chuckle. "How charming! Please—

some more! I wish to smell my best when we take over the country! Do you have rowan

flavor? That would be my favorite!"

Nathaniel selected another cube. Party gimmicks or not, they were the only things

he had.

He could hear the squeaking of the old man's shoes as he shuffled down the

gallery toward the end of his aisle. What could he do? On either side, bookcases blocked his way out.

Or did they? Each shelf was open-backed: on every row, he could see above the

tops of the books into the next aisle. If he pushed himself through...

He tossed the next cube and ran at the shelf.

Maurice Schyler rounded the corner, his hand invisible inside its wavering bulb of

force.

Nathaniel hit the second shelf of books like a high jumper clearing a bar. He

muttered the Release Command.

The cube exploded in the old man's face. A starburst of purple sparks zipped and

spun, high as the ceiling; a nineteenth-century Czech marching song rang out briefly in accompaniment.

In the next aisle along, fifty books crashed down like a falling wall. Nathaniel

sprawled on top of them.

He felt, rather than saw, the third bolt of plasm destroy the aisle behind him.

The magician's voice now carried a slight note of irritation. "Little boy—time is short! Stand still, please." But Nathaniel was already on his feet and hurtling toward the next shelf. He was moving too fast to think, never allowing himself a moment's pause,

lest his terror rose up to overwhelm him. His one aim was to reach the door at the far end of the gallery. The old man had said there was a pentacle there.

"John—listen!" He landed on his back in the next aisle, amid a shower of books.

"I admire your resolve." A leather-bound dictionary fell against the side of his head, making bright lights twinkle across his vision. He struggled upright. "But it is foolish to seek revenge on your master's behalf."

Another burst of magical force: another section of shelving vanished. The room

was filled with thick, acrid smoke. "Foolish and unnatural. I myself
killed
my own master, long ago. Now, if your Underwood had been a worthy man, I would understand

it." Nathaniel threw the third cube behind him; it bounced harmlessly against a table and did not go off. He had forgotten to say the command.

"But he was not a worthy man—was he, John? He was a driveling idiot. Now you

will lose your life for him. You should have stayed away."

Nathaniel had reached the final aisle. He was not far from the door at the end of

the room—it was a few strides off. But here, for the first time, he stopped dead. A great anger swelled inside him and damped down his fear.

Shoes squeaked softly. The old man shuffled back up the gallery, following the

trail of scattered books, checking each side-aisle as he went. He saw no sign of the boy.

Drawing near the door, he turned into the final aisle, hand raised at the ready—

He clicked his tongue in exasperation. The aisle was empty.

Nathaniel, who had silently clambered back through the shelves to the previous

aisle and had now crept up behind him, thus had the element of surprise.

Three cubes hit the magician at once and exploded together at a single command.

They were a lime-green Catherine Wheel, a ricocheting Viennese Cannon, and an

Ultramarine Bonfire, and although the effect of each one individually would have been

modest, taken together they became quite potent. A medley of cheap popular ballads

sounded and the air instantly became heavy with the flavors of rowan, edelweiss, and

camphor. The combined explosion blew the old man off his feet and straight into the door at the end of the gallery. He hit it hard, head first. The door caved in; he slumped across it, his neck twisted oddly. The black energy pulsing on his hand was instantly snuffed out.

Nathaniel walked slowly toward him through the smoke, cupping a final cube

loosely in his palm.

The magician did not move.

Perhaps he was faking it: in a moment he would spring up, ready to fight. This

was possible. He had to be ready for him.

Closer. Still no movement. Now he was adjacent to the old man's splayed leather

shoes....

Another half-step... surely he would get up now.

Maurice Schyler did not get up. His neck was broken. His face sagged against a

panel of the door, his lips slightly apart. Nathaniel was close enough to count all the lines and creases on his cheek; he could see little red veins running across the nose and under the eye.

The eye was open, but glazed, unseeing. It looked like that of a fish on a slab. A

trace of limp white hair fell across it.

Nathaniel's shoulders began to shake. For a moment, he thought he was going to

cry.

Instead he forced himself to remain motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow,

for the shaking to die down. When his emotion was safely contained, he stepped over the body of the old man. "You made a mistake," he said softly. "It is not my
master
that I'm doing this for."

The room beyond was small and windowless. It had perhaps once been a

storeroom. A pentacle had been drawn in the center of the floor, with candles and incense pots carefully arranged around. Two of the candles had been knocked over by the impact of the falling door, and these Nathaniel carefully set upright, in position.

On one of the walls was a gold picture frame, hanging from a nail by a string.

There was neither painting nor canvas inside the frame; instead it was filled with a

beautiful image of a large, circular, sunny room, in which many small figures moved.

Nathaniel knew instantly what the frame was: a scrying glass far sharper and more

powerful than his lost bronze disc. He stepped close to inspect it.

It showed a vast auditorium, filled with chairs, whose carpeted floor shone

strangely. The ministers were entering it from one side, laughing and chatting, still

holding their glasses, accepting glossy black pens and folders from a line of servants by the door. The Prime Minister was there, at the center of a milling throng, the grim afrit still attentively in tow. Lovelace had not yet arrived.

But any moment now, he would enter the hall and set his plan in motion.

Nathaniel noted a box of matches lying on the floor. Hurriedly, he lit the candles,

double-checked the incense and stepped into the pentacle—admiring, despite his haste,

the elegance with which it had been drawn. Then he closed his eyes, composed himself,

and searched his memory for the incantation.

After a few seconds, he had it ready. His throat was a little dry because of the

smoke; he coughed twice and spoke the words.

The effect was instantaneous. It had been so long since Nathaniel had completed a

summons that he gave a little start when the djinni appeared. It was in its gargoyle form and wore a peeved expression.

"You really have got perfect timing, haven't you?" it said. "I'd just got the assassin where I wanted him, and all of a sudden you remember how to call me!"

"It's about to start!" The effort of calling Bartimaeus had made Nathaniel

lightheaded. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. "Look—there in the glass!

They're gathering. Lovelace is on his way now, and he'll be wearing the Amulet, so he

won't feel the effects of whatever happens. I-I think it's a summons."

"You don't say? I'd worked that one out already. Well, come on then—surrender to

my tender claws." It flexed them experimentally; they let off a creaking sound.

Nathaniel went white. The gargoyle rolled its eyes. "I'm going to have to
carry
you," it said.

"We'll have to hurry if we want to stop him entering the room. Once he's in, the

place will be sealed—you can bet on that."

Gingerly, Nathaniel stepped forward. The gargoyle tapped a foot impatiently.

"Don't worry on my account," it snapped, "I won't strain my back or anything. I'm feeling angry and my strength's returned." With this, it made a grab, snatched Nathaniel around the waist and turned to leave, only to trip over the body lying in the doorway.

"Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that." With a bound it had cleared the debris and was leaping through the gallery, spurring itself on with great beats of its stony wings.

Nathaniel's stomach lurched horribly with every stride. "Slow down!" he gasped.

"You'll make me sick!"

"You won't like this then." Bartimaeus leaped through the arch at the end of the gallery, ignored the landing and staircase completely and plummeted directly to the hall thirty feet below. Nathaniel's wail made the rafters echo.

Half flying, half leaping, the gargoyle negotiated the next corridor. "So," it said agreeably, "you've made your first direct kill. How does it feel? Much more manly, I'm sure. Does it help blot out the death of Underwood's wife?"

Nathaniel was too nauseous to listen, let alone answer.

A minute later, the ride came to an end so abruptly that Nathaniel's limbs swung

about like a rag doll's. The gargoyle had halted at the corner of a long corridor; it dropped him to the floor and pointed silently up ahead. Nathaniel shook his head to stop his vision spinning, and stared.

At the other end of the corridor was the open door to the auditorium. Three people

stood there: a haughty servant, who held the door ajar; the fish-faced magician Rufus

Lime; and Simon Lovelace, who was buttoning up his collar. A brief flash of gold showed at his throat, then the collar was adjusted and his tie wrapped in place. Lovelace clapped his companion on the shoulder and strode through the door.

"We're too late!" Nathaniel hissed. "Can't you—?" He looked to his side in surprise—the gargoyle was gone.

A tiny voice whispered in his ear. "Smooth your hair down and get to the door.

You can enter as a servant. Hurry it up!" Nathaniel ignored the strong desire to scratch his earlobe; he could feel something small and ticklish hanging there. He squared his

shoulders, swept back his hair, and trotted along the corridor.

Lime had departed elsewhere. The servant was swinging the door to.

"Wait!" Nathaniel wished his voice were deeper and more commanding. He