He waved his hand. The guests began to move off.
Lovelace leaned forward to speak to Devereaux. From behind the pillar, Nathaniel picked out the words. "I must just collect some props for my opening speech, sir. Would you excuse me? I'll be with you in a few minutes."
"Of course, of course, Lovelace. Take your time."
Devereaux's entourage left the hall, the afrit glowering at the rear. Lovelace watched them for a moment, then set off alone in the opposite direction. Nathaniel remained where he was, making a big show of collecting used glasses that had been discarded on the antique furniture and marble pedestals lining the hall. Then, when the final servant had departed, he set his tray down quietly on a table and, like a ghost in the night, padded off on Lovelace's trail.
Simon Lovelace strode alone through the corridors and galleries of the great house. His head was bowed as he walked, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He paid no heed to the rows of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and other artifacts he passed; he never looked behind him.
Nathaniel flitted from pillar to pedestal, from bookcase to writing desk, concealing himself behind each one until he was satisfied the magician was far enough ahead for him to continue. His heart pounded; he had a rushing noise in his ears—it reminded him of a time when had been ill in bed with fever. He didn't feel ill now, but very much alive.
The moment was fast approaching when Lovelace would strike. He knew it as if he had planned it all himself. He didn't yet know what form the attack would take, but he could see its imminence in the tense outline of the magician's shoulders, in his stiff, distracted way of walking.
He wished Bartimaeus would find him. The djinni was his only weapon.
Lovelace ascended a narrow staircase and disappeared through an open arch. Nathaniel climbed after him, placing his feet noiselessly on the slippery marble steps.
At the arch, he peered round. It was a small library or gallery of some kind, dimly lit by windows in the roof. Lovelace was making his way along a central aisle between several rows of projecting bookcases. Here and there sat low display tables, supporting a variety of oddly shaped objects.
Nathaniel took another peek, decided that his quarry was almost at the opposite door, and tiptoed into the room.
Suddenly, Lovelace spoke. "Maurice!"
Nathaniel shot behind the nearest bookshelf. He flattened himself against it, forcing himself to breathe quietly. He heard the far door open. Stealthily, careful not to make the slightest noise, he turned his head inch by inch, until he could look over the top of the nearest books. Other bookcases separated him from the opposite side of the gallery, but framed in a gap between two shelves he could just make out the red, wrinkled face of Schyler, the old magician. Lovelace himself was hidden from view.
"Simon—what is wrong? Why have you come?"
"I've brought you a present." Lovelace's voice was casual, amused. "The boy."
Nathaniel nearly fainted with shock. His muscles tensed, ready to run.
Lovelace stepped out from behind the end of the bookshelf. "Don't bother. You'll be dead before you can leave the room."
Nathaniel froze. Teetering on the edge of panic, he kept quite still.
"Come round here to Maurice." Lovelace motioned with ostentatious courtesy. Nathaniel shuffled forward. "There's a good boy. And stop trembling like an invalid. Another lesson for you: a magician never shows his fear."
Nathaniel entered the main aisle and halted, facing the old magician. His body was shaking with rage, not fear. He cast his eyes left and right, looking for avenues of escape, but saw none. Lovelace's hand patted him on the back; he recoiled from the touch.
"I'm afraid I haven't got time to talk," Lovelace said. "I will leave you in Maurice's tender care.
He has an offer to make you. Pardon—was that a mumble?"
"How did you know I was here?"
"Rufus Lime recognized you. I doubted that you would try anything too hasty downstairs, given that the police are hunting you in connection with that... unfortunate fire. So I thought it best simply to lead you away from the crowds, before you could make trouble. Now forgive me, I have a pressing engagement. Maurice—it's time."
Schyler's face crinkled with satisfaction. "Rupert's arrived, has he?"
"He's arrived, and his men have conjured a formidable afrit. Do you think he suspects?"
"Tcha! No. It is the normal paranoia, sharpened by that cursed attack on Parliament. The Resistance has a lot to answer for—they have not made today's task any easier. Once in power, Simon, we must root them out, these stupid children, and hang them up in chains on Tower Hill."
Lovelace grunted. "The afrit will be present during the speech. Rupert's men will insist."
"You will have to stand close to it, Simon. It must get the first full force."
"Yes. I hope the Amulet—"
"Tcha! Stop wasting time! We have talked about this already. You know it will hold firm."
Something in the old man's voice reminded Nathaniel of his own master's cold impatience. The wrinkled face twisted unpleasantly. "You're not fretting about the woman, are you?"
"Amanda? Of course not! She is nothing to me. So"—Lovelace took a deep breath—"is everything set?"
"The pentacle is ready. I've a good view of the room. Rufus has just put the horn in position, so that's dealt with. I shall keep watch. If any of them resist while it is happening, we shall do what we can. But I doubt if we'll be necessary." The old man gave a little titter. "I'm so looking forward to this."
"See you shortly." Lovelace turned and headed for the arch. He seemed to have forgotten Nathaniel's existence.
The old man suddenly spoke after him. "The Amulet of Samarkand. Do you wear it yet?"
Lovelace didn't look back. "No. Rufus has it. That afrit would smell it a mile off, given time. I shall put it on as I enter."
"Well, then—good luck, my boy."
No answer. Presently, Nathaniel heard footsteps clattering away down the stairs.
Then Schyler smiled; all the wrinkles and creases of his face seemed to stem from the corners of his eyes, but the eyes themselves were blank slits. His body was so stooped with age that he was scarcely taller than Nathaniel; the skin upon his hands looked waxy, dusted with liver spots. Yet Nathaniel could sense the power in him.
"John," Schyler said. "That is your name, is it not? John Mandrake. We were very surprised to find you in the house. Where is your demon? Have you lost it? That is a careless thing."
Nathaniel compressed his lips. He glanced aside at the nearest display table. It had a few strange objects on it: stone bowls, bone pipes, and a large moth-eaten headdress, perhaps once worn by a North American shaman. All useless to him.
"I was for killing you straightaway," Schyler said, "but Simon is more farsighted than I am. He suggested we make you a proposition."
"Which is?" Nathaniel was looking at the next display table—it carried a few small, dull cubes of metal, wrapped in faded paper strips.
The magician followed his gaze. "Ah—you are admiring Miss Cathcart's collection? You will find nothing of power there. It is fashionable among rich and stupid commoners to have magical items in their houses, though quite unfashionable to know anything about them. Tcha! Ignorance is bliss.
Sholto Pinn is always being pestered by society fools for trinkets like these."
Nathaniel shrugged. "You mentioned a proposition."
"Yes. In a few minutes the hundred most powerful and eminent ministers in the Government will be dead, along with our sainted Prime Minister. When Simon's new administration takes control, the lower magical orders will follow us unquestioningly, since we will be stronger than they. However, we are not numerous, and there will soon be spaces, vacancies to fill in the higher reaches of the Government. We shall require talented new magicians to help us rule. Great wealth and the relaxations of power await our allies. Well now, you are young, Mandrake, but we recognize your ability. You have the makings of a great magician. Join with us, and we shall provide you with the apprenticeship you have always craved. Think about it—no more experiments in solitude, no more bowing or scraping to fools who are scarcely fit to lick your boots! We will test and inspire you, we will draw out your talent and let it breathe. And one day, perhaps, when Simon and I are gone, you will be supreme...."
The voice trailed off, left the image hanging. Nathaniel was silent. Six years of frustrated ambition were etched into his mind. Six years of suppressed desire—to be recognized for what he was, to exercise his power openly, to go to Parliament as a great minister of State. And now his enemies were offering it all to him. He sighed heavily.
"You are tempted, John, I see that. Well, what do you say?"
He looked the old magician directly in the eye. "Does Simon Lovelace really think I will join him?"
"He does."
"After everything that has happened?"
"Even so. He knows how your mind works."
"Then Simon Lovelace is a fool."
"John—"
"An arrogant fool!"
"You must—"
"After what he has done to me? He could offer up the world and I'd refuse it. Join him? I would rather die!"
Schyler nodded, as if satisfied. "Yes. I know. That is what I told him you'd say. I perceived you as you are—a silly, muddled child. Tcha! You have not been brought up correctly; your mind is fogged. You are of no use to us."
He took a step forward. His shoes squeaked on the shiny floor.
"Well, aren't you going to run, little boy? Your djinni is gone. You have no other power. Would you not like a head start?"
Nathaniel did not run. He knew it would be fatal. He flicked a look at the other tables, but couldn't see clearly what objects they displayed; his enemy blocked the way to them.
"Do you know," the old man said, "I was impressed the first time we met—so young, so full of knowledge. I thought Simon was very harsh on you; even the affair with the mites was amusing and displayed an enterprising nature. Ordinarily I would kill you slowly—that would amuse me further. But we have important business in a few moments and I cannot spare the time."
The magician raised a hand and spoke a word. A shining black nimbus appeared, glimmering and fluctuating around his fingers.
Nathaniel threw himself to one side.
Bartimaeus
I hoped the boy could keep out of trouble long enough for me to reach him. Getting in was taking longer than I thought.
Up and down the wall the lizard scuttled; round cornices, over arches, across pilasters, its progress ever more speedy and erratic. Each window it came to—and there were plenty of them in the mansion—was firmly shut, causing it to flick its tongue in frustration. Hadn't Lovelace and Co.
ever heard of the benefits of fresh air?
Many minutes went by. Still no luck. Truth was, I was loath to break in, except as a last resort.
It was impossible to tell whether the rooms beyond had watchers who might respond to the slightest untoward noise. If I could only find a crack, a cranny to sneak through.... But the place was too well sealed.
There was nothing for it: I would have to try a chimney.
With this in mind I headed roofward, only to have my attention caught by a very tall and ornate set of windows a little way off on a projecting wing of the house. They suggested a sizeable room beyond. Not only that, but a powerful network of magical bars crisscrossed the windows on the seventh plane. None of the Hall's other windows had such defenses. My curiosity was piqued.
The lizard sped across to take a look, scales scuffling on the stones. It gripped a column and poked its head toward the window, being careful to keep well back from the glowing bars. What it saw inside was interesting, all right. The windows looked onto a vast circular hall or auditorium, brightly lit by a dozen chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. At the center was a small raised podium draped with red cloth, around which a hundred chairs had been arranged in a neat semicircle. A speaker's stand stood on the podium, complete with glass and jug of water. Evidently this was the venue for the conference.
Everything about the auditorium's decor—from the crystal chandeliers to the rich gold trimmings on the walls—was designed to appeal to the magicians' (vulgar) sense of wealth and status. But the really extraordinary thing about the room was the floor, which seemed to be entirely made of glass.
From wall to wall it glinted and gleamed, refracting the light of the chandeliers in a dozen unusual tints and shades. If this wasn't unusual enough, beneath the glass stretched an immense and very beautiful carpet. It was Persian made, displaying—amid a wealth of dragons, chimeras, manticores, and birds—a fantastically detailed hunting scene. A life-size prince and his court rode into a forest, surrounded by dogs, leopards, kestrels, and other trained beasts; ahead of them, among the bushes, a host of fleet-footed deer skipped away. Horns blew, pennants waved. It was an idealized Eastern fairy-tale court and I would have been quite impressed, had I not glanced at a couple of the faces of the courtiers. That rather spoiled the effect. One of them sported Lovelace's horrid mug; another looked like Sholto Pinn. Elsewhere, I spied my erstwhile captor, Jessica Whitwell, riding a white mare. Trust Lovelace to spoil a perfectly good work of art with such an ingratiating fancy.[1] No doubt the prince was Devereaux, the Prime Minister, and every important magician was pictured among his fawning throng.
[1] How the weavers of Basra must have loathed being commissioned to create such a monstrosity. Gone are the days when, with complex and cruel incantations, they wove djinn into the fabric of their carpets, creating artifacts that carried their masters across the Middle East and were stain-resistant at the same time. Hundreds of us were trapped this way. But now, with the magical power of Baghdad long broken, such craftsmen escape destitution only by weaving tourist tat for rich foreign clients. Such is progress.
This curious floor was not the only odd thing about the circular hall. All the other windows that looked onto it had shimmering defenses similar to the one through which I spied. Reasonable enough: soon most of the Government would be inside—the room had to be safe from attack. But hidden in the stonework of my window frame were things that looked like embedded metal rods, and their purpose was not at all clear.
I was just pondering this when a door at the far end of the auditorium opened and a magician walked swiftly in. It was the oily man I had seen passing in the car: Lime, the boy had called him, one of Lovelace's confederates. He carried an object in his hand, shrouded under a cloth. With hasty steps and eyes flicking nervously back and forth, he crossed to the podium, mounted it and approached the speaker's stand. There was a shelf inside the stand, hidden from the floor below, and the man placed the object inside it.
Before he did so, he removed the cloth and a shiver ran down my scales.
It was the summoning horn I'd seen in Lovelace's study on the night I stole the Amulet of Samarkand. The ivory was yellow with age and had been reinforced with slender metal bands, but the blackened fingerprints on its side[2] were still quite visible.
[2] The only remains of the first person to blow the horn, it being an essential requirement of such items that their first user must surrender himself to the mercy of the entity he summons. With this notable design flaw, summoning horns are pretty rare, as you'd imagine.
A summoning horn...
I began to see daylight. The magical bars at the windows, the metal ones embedded in the stonework, ready to spring shut. The auditorium's defenses weren't to keep anything out —they were to keep everyone in.
It was definitely time I got inside.
With scant regard for any overflying sentries, I scampered up the wall and over the red-tiled roof of the mansion to the nearest chimney. I darted to the rim of the pot and was about to duck inside, when I drew back, all of a quiver. A net of sparkling threads was suspended below me across the hole. Blocked.
I ran to the next. Same again.
In considerable agitation, I crossed and recrossed the roof of Heddleham Hall, checking every chimney. Each one was sealed. More than one magician had gone to great lengths to protect the place from spies.
I halted at last, wondering what to do.
All this time, at the front of the house below, a steady stream of chauffeured cars[3] had drawn up, disgorged their occupants and headed off to a parking lot at the side. Most of the guests were here now; the conference was about to begin.
[3] In a perfect example of most magicians' dreary style, each and every vehicle was big, black, and shiny.
Even the smallest looked as if it wanted to be a hearse when it grew up.
I looked across the lawns. A few late arrivals were speeding toward the house.
And they weren't the only ones.
In the middle of the lawn was a lake adorned with an ornamental fountain, depicting an amorous Greek god trying to kiss a dolphin.[4] Beyond the lake, the drive curled into the trees toward the entrance gateway. And along it three figures came striding, two going fast, the third faster. For a man who had recently been knocked about by a field mouse, Mr. Squalls was racing along at a fair pace.
Son was doing even better: presumably his lack of clothes encouraged him on his way (at this distance he looked like one big goosebump.) But neither of them matched the pace of the bearded mercenary, whose cloak swirled out behind him as he strode off the drive onto the lawn.
[4] Inadvisable.
Ah. This might spell trouble.
I perched on the lip of the chimney pot, cursing my restraint with Squalls and Son[5] and debating whether I could ignore the distant trio. But another look decided me. The bearded man was coming along faster than ever. Strange—his paces seemed ordinary ones, but they ate up the ground at blinding speed. He had almost halved the distance to the lake already. In another minute he would be at the house, ready to raise the alarm.
[5] I'd thought my blows would keep them unconscious for at least a couple of days. But I'd fluffed it. That's what comes of hurrying a job.
Getting into the house would have to wait. There wasn't time to be discreet. I became a blackbird and flew purposefully from the mansion roof.
The man in black strode nearer. I noted a flicker in the air about his legs, an odd discrepancy, as if their movement was not properly contained within any of the planes. Then I understood: he wore seven-league boots.[6] After a few more paces, his trajectory would be too swift to follow—he might travel a mile with each step. I speeded up my flight.
[6] Potent magical devices, invented in medieval Europe. At the wearers command, the boots can cover considerable distances in the smallest of strides. Normal (Earth) rules of time and space do not apply. Allegedly, each boot contains a djinni capable of traveling on a hypothetical eighth plane (not that I would know anything about that). It was now easier to understand how the mercenary had managed to evade capture when he first stole the Amulet for Lovelace.
The lakeside was a pretty spot (if you didn't count the statue of the disreputable old god and the dolphin). A young gardener was weeding the margins of the shore. A few innocent ducks floated dreamily on the surface of the water. Bulrushes waved in the breeze. Someone had planted a small bower of honeysuckle by the lake: its leaves shone a pleasant, peaceful green in the afternoon sun.
That was just for the record. My first Detonation missed the mercenary (it being difficult to judge the speed of someone wearing seven-league boots), but hit the bower, which vaporized instantly. The gardener yelped and jumped into the lake, carrying the ducks off on a small tidal wave. The bulrushes caught fire. The mercenary looked up. He hadn't noticed me before, probably being intent on keeping his boots under control, so it wasn't strictly sporting, but hey—I was late for a conference. My second Detonation caught him directly in the chest. He disappeared in a mass of emerald flames.
Why can't all problems be as easy to resolve?
I did a quick circuit, eyeing the horizon, but there were no watchers and nothing dangerous in sight, unless you count the underwear of Squalls's son as he and his dad turned tail and raced for the park gateway. Fine. I was just about to head off back to the house, when the smoke from my Detonation cleared away, revealing the mercenary sitting in a muddy depression three feet deep, mucky, blinking, but very much alive.
Hmm. That was something I hadn't counted on.
I screeched to a halt in midair, turned, and delivered another, more concentrated blast. It was the kind that would have made even Jabor's knees tremble a bit; certainly it should have turned most humans into a wisp of smoke blowing in the wind.
But not Beardy. As the flames died down again, he was just getting to his feet, as casual as you like! He looked as if he'd been having a catnap. Admittedly, much of his cloak had burned away, but the body beneath was still hale and hearty.
I didn't bother trying again. I can take a hint.
The man reached inside his cloak and from a hidden pocket withdrew a silver disc. With unexpected speed he reached back and threw—it missed my beak by a feather's breadth and returned spinning to his hand in a lazy arc.
That did it. I'd gone through a lot in the last few days. Everyone I met seemed to want a piece of me: djinn, magicians, humans... it made no difference. I'd been summoned, manhandled, shot at, captured, constricted, bossed about, and generally taken for granted. And now, to cap it all, this bloke was joining in too, when all I'd been doing was quietly trying to kill him.
I lost my temper.
The angriest blackbird you've ever seen made a dive for the statue in the middle of the lake. It landed at the base of the dolphin's tail, stretched its wings around the stone and, as it heaved, took a gargoyle's form once more. Dolphin and god[7] were ripped from their foundations. With a brittle cracking and the rasp of ripping lead, the statue came away. A jet of water spurted from the ruptured pipes inside. The gargoyle raised the statue above its head, gave a bound, and landed on the lakeside bank, not far from where the mercenary was standing.
[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.
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.
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