Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (8 page)

His master reclined in a wicker chair in front of a window overlooking the street.

His face was often in shadow. Light from the window spilled round him in a nebulous

haze. As Nathaniel entered, a long thin hand would gesture toward the cushions piled

high on the Oriental couch on the opposite wall. Nathaniel would take a cushion and

place it on the floor. Then he sat, heart pounding, straining to catch every nuance of his master's voice, terrified of missing a thing.

In the early years, the magician usually contented himself with questioning the

boy about his studies, inviting him to discuss vectors, algebra, or the principles of

probability, asking him to describe briefly the history of Prague or recount, in French, the key events of the Crusades. The replies satisfied him almost always—Nathaniel was a

very quick learner.

On rare occasions, the master would motion the boy to be silent in the middle of

an answer and would himself speak about the objectives and limitations of magic.

"A magician," he said, "is a wielder of power. A magician exerts his will and effects change. He can do it from selfish motives or virtuous ones. The results of his actions can be good or evil, but the only
bad
magician is an incompetent one. What is the definition of incompetence, boy?"

Nathaniel twitched on his cushion. "Loss of control."

"Correct. Providing the magician remains in control of the forces he has set to

work, he remains—what does he remain?"

Nathaniel rocked back and forth. "Er..."

"The three S's boy, the three S's. Use your head."

"Safe, secret, strong, sir."

"Correct. What is the great secret?"

"Spirits, sir."

"Demons, boy. Call 'em what they are. What must one never forget?"

"Demons are very wicked and will hurt you if they can, sir." His voice shook as he said this.

"Good, good. What an excellent memory you have, to be sure. Be careful how

you pronounce your words—I fancy your tongue tripped over itself there.

Mispronouncing a syllable at the wrong time may give a demon just the opportunity it

has been seeking."

"Yes, sir."

"So, demons are the great secret. Common people know of their existence and

know that we can commune with them—that is why they fear us so! But they do not

realize the full truth, which is that
all
our power derives from demons. Without their aid we are nothing but cheap conjurors and charlatans. Our single great ability is to summon them and bend them to our will. If we do it correctly they must obey us. If we make but the slightest error, they fall upon us and tear us to shreds. It is a fine line that we walk, boy. How old are you now?"

"Eight, sir. Nine next week."

"Nine? Good. Then next week we shall start your magical studies proper. Mr.

Purcell is busy giving you a sufficient grounding in the basic knowledge. Henceforward we shall meet twice weekly, and I shall start introducing you to the central tenets of our order. However, for today we shall finish with your reciting the Hebrew alphabet and its first dozen numbers. Proceed."

Under the eyes of his master and his tutors, Nathaniel's education progressed

rapidly. He delighted in reporting his daily achievements to Mrs. Underwood and basking in the warmth of her praise. In the evenings, he would gaze out of his window toward the distant yellow glow that marked the tower of the Parliament buildings, and dream of the day when he would go there as a magician, as one of the ministers of the noble

government.

Two days after his ninth birthday, his master appeared in the kitchen while he was

eating breakfast.

"Leave that and come with me," the magician said.

Nathaniel followed him along the hall and into the room that served as his

master's library. Mr.

Underwood stood next to a broad bookcase filled with volumes of every size and

color, ranging from heavy leather-bound lexicons of great antiquity to battered yellow paperbacks with mystic signs scrawled on the spines.

"This is your reading matter for the next three years," his master said, tapping the top of the case.

"By the time you're twelve, you must have familiarized yourself with everything it contains. The books are written in Middle English, Latin, Czech, and Hebrew for the

most part, although you'll find some Coptic works on the Egyptian rituals of the dead too.

There's a Coptic dictionary to help you with those. It's up to you to read through all this; I haven't time to coddle you. Mr. Purcell will keep your languages up to speed.

Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Sir?"

"What, boy?"

"When I've read through all this, sir, will I know everything I need? To be a

magician, I mean, sir. It seems such an awful lot."

His master snorted; his eyebrows ascended to the skies.

"Look behind you," he said.

Nathaniel turned. Behind the door was a bookcase that climbed from floor to

ceiling; it overflowed with hundreds of books, each one fatter and more dusty than the last, the sort of books that, one could tell without even opening them, were printed in minute script in double columns on every page. Nathaniel gave a small gulp.

"Work your way through that lot," his master said dryly, "and you might be getting somewhere.

That case contains the rites and incantations you'd need to summon significant

demons; and you won't even begin to use them till you're in your teens, so cast it out of your mind.
Your
case"—he tapped the wood again—"gives you the preparatory knowledge and is more than enough for the moment. Right, follow me."

They proceeded to a workroom that Nathaniel had never visited before. A large

number of bottles and vials clustered there on stained and dirty shelves, filled with liquids of varying color. Some of the bottles had floating objects in them. Nathaniel couldn't tell whether it was the thick, curved glass of the bottles that made the objects look so

distorted and strange.

His master sat on a stool at a simple wooden worktable and indicated for

Nathaniel to sit alongside him. He pushed a narrow box across the table. Nathaniel

opened it. Inside was a small pair of spectacles. A distant memory made him shudder

sharply.

"Well, take them out, boy; they won't bite you. Right. Now look at me. Look at

my eyes; what do you see?"

Unwillingly, Nathaniel looked. He found it very difficult to peer into the fierce,

fiery brown eyes of the old man, and as a result his brain froze. He saw nothing.

"Well?"

"Um, um... I'm sorry, I don't..."

"Look around my irises—see anything there?"

"Um..."

"Oh, you dolt!" His master gave a cry of frustration and pulled the skin below one eye down, revealing its red underbelly. "Can't you see it? A
lens,
boy! A contact lens!

Around the middle of my eye! See it?"

Desperately, Nathaniel looked again, and this time he did see a faint circular rim,

thin as a pencil line around the iris, sealing it in.

"Yes, sir," he said eagerly. "Yes, I see it."

"About time. Right." His master sat back on the stool. "When you are twelve years old, two important things will happen. First, you will be given a new name, which you shall take as your own.

Why?"

"To prevent demons getting power over me by discovering my birth name, sir."

"Correct. Enemy magicians are equally perilous, of course. Secondly, you will get your first pair of lenses, which you can wear at all times. They will allow you to see through a little of the trickery of demons. Until that time you will use these glasses, but only when instructed to, and on no account are they to be removed from this workroom.

Understand?"

"Yes, sir. How do they help see through things, sir?"

"When demons materialize, they can adopt all manner of false shapes, not just in

this material realm, but on other planes of perception too—I shall teach you of these

planes anon, do not question me on them now. Some demons of the higher sort can even

become invisible; there is no end to the wickedness of their deceptions. The lenses, and to a lesser extent the glasses, allow you to look on several planes at once, giving you a chance of seeing through their illusions. Observe—"

Nathaniel's master reached over to a crowded shelf behind him and selected a

large glass bottle that was sealed with cork and wax. It contained a greenish briny liquid and a dead rat, all brownish bristles and pale flesh. Nathaniel made a face. His master considered him.

"What would you say this was, boy?" he asked.

"A rat, sir."

"What kind?"

"A brown one.
Rattus norvegicus,
sir."

"Good. Latin tag too, eh? Very good. Completely wrong, but good nevertheless. It

isn't a rat at all. Put on your glasses and look again."

Nathaniel did as he was told. The spectacles felt cold and heavy on his nose. He

peered through the filmy pebble-glass, taking a moment or two to focus. When the bottle swam into view, he gasped.

The rat was gone. In its place was a small black-and-red creature with a spongy

face, beetle's wings, and a concertina-shaped underside. The creature's eyes were open and bore an aggrieved expression. Nathaniel took the spectacles off and looked again.

The brown rat floated in the pickling fluid.

"Gosh," he said.

His master grunted. "A Scarlet Vexation, caught and bottled by the Medical

Institute of Lincoln's Inn. A minor imp, but a notable spreader of pestilence. It can only create the illusion of the rat on the material plane. On the others, its true essence is revealed."

"Is it dead, sir?" Nathaniel asked.

"Hmm? Dead? I should think so. If not, it'll certainly be angry. It's been in that jar for at least fifty years—I inherited it from my old master."

He returned the bottle to the shelf. "You see, boy," he went on, "even the least powerful demons are vicious, dangerous, and evasive. One cannot withdraw one's guard

for a moment. Observe this."

From behind a bunsen burner, he drew a rectangular glass box that seemed to

have no lid. Six minute creatures buzzed within it, ceaselessly butting against the walls of their prison. From a distance they seemed like insects; as he drew closer, Nathaniel

observed that they had rather too many legs for this to be so.

"These mites," his master said, "are possibly the lowest form of demon. Scarcely any intelligence to speak of. You do not require your spectacles to see their true form. Yet even these are a menace unless properly controlled. Notice those orange stings beneath their tails? They create exquisitely painful swellings on the victim's body; far worse than bees or hornets. An admirable method of chastising someone, be it annoying rival... or disobedient pupil."

Nathaniel watched the furious little mites butting their heads against the glass. He

nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir."

"Vicious little things." His master pushed the box away. "Yet all they need are the proper words of command and they will obey any instruction. They thus demonstrate, on

the smallest scale, the principles of our craft. We have dangerous tools that we must

control. We shall now begin learning how to protect ourselves."

Nathaniel soon found that it would be a long time before he was allowed to wield

the tools himself. He had lessons with his master in the workroom twice a week, and for months he did nothing except take notes. He was taught the principles of pentacles and the art of runes. He learned the appropriate rites of purification that magicians had to observe before summoning could take place. He was set to work with mortar and pestle

to pound out mixtures of incense that would encourage demons or keep unwanted ones

away. He cut candles into varying sizes and arranged them in a host of different patterns.

And not once did his master summon anything.

Impatient for progress, in his spare time Nathaniel devoured the books in the

library case. He impressed Mr. Purcell with his omnivorous appetite for knowledge. He

worked with great vigor in Ms. Lutyens's drawing lessons, applying his skill to the

pentacles he now traced under the beady eye of his master. And all this time, the

spectacles gathered dust on the workroom shelf.

Ms. Lutyens was the only person to whom he confided his frustrations.

"Patience," she told him. "Patience is the prime virtue. If you hurry, you will fail.

And failure is painful. You must always relax and concentrate on the task in hand. Now, if you're ready I want you to sketch that again, but this time with a blindfold."

Six months into his training, Nathaniel observed a summoning for the first time.

To his deep annoyance, he took no active part. His master drew the pentacles, including a secondary one for Nathaniel to stand in. Nathaniel was not even allowed to light the

candles and, what was worse, he was told to leave the spectacles behind.

"How will I see anything?" he asked, rather more pettishly than was his habit with his master; a narrow-eyed stare instantly reduced him to silence.

The summoning began as a deep disappointment. After the incantations, which

Nathaniel was pleased to find he largely understood, nothing seemed to happen. A slight breeze blew through the workroom; otherwise all was still. The empty pentacle stayed

empty. His master stood close by, eyes shut, seemingly asleep. Nathaniel grew very

bored. His legs began to ache. Evidently this particular demon had decided not to come.

All at once, he noticed with horror that several of the candles in one corner of the

workroom had toppled over. A pile of papers was alight, and the fire was spreading.

Nathaniel gave a cry of alarm and stepped—

"Stay where you are!"