Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (27 page)

Perhaps he
would
tell his master, own up to his suspicions about Lovelace and the Amulet. Things would be painful, but simpler that way.

"Drink your soup first." She got up. "Make sure you have everything ready to tell your master when he comes back."

"Why's Mr. Underwood gone to the ministry? It's a Sunday." Nathaniel was

already picking up some of the garments and stuffing them back into the drawers.

"Some emergency, dear. A rogue djinni has been caught in central London."

A slight shiver ran down Nathaniel's spine. "A djinni?"

"Yes. I don't know the details, but apparently it was masquerading as one of Mr.

Lovelace's imps. It broke into Mr. Pinn's shop and caused no end of damage. But they

sent an afrit and caught it soon enough. It's being interrogated now. Your master thinks the magician that sent the djinni may have some link to these artifact thefts that have been so bothering him—and perhaps to the Resistance too. He wants to be there when they

force the information out. But that's not really your prime concern now—is it, John? You need to be deciding what to say to your master. And scrub this floor till it shines!"

"Yes, Mrs. Underwood."

"Good boy. I'll look in for your tray later."

No sooner had the door been locked than Nathaniel was running to the skylight,

throwing it open and reaching under the cold wet tiles for the bronze disc. He drew it in and shut the window against the lancing rain. The disc was cold; it took several minutes of escalating inducements before the imp's face reluctantly appeared.

"Blimey," it said. "It's been a while. Thought you'd forgotten me. You ready to let me out yet?"

"No." Nathaniel was in no mood to play around. "Bartimaeus. Find him. I want to see where he is and what he's doing. Now. Or I'll bury this disc in the earth."

"Who's got out the wrong side of bed today? There's such a thing as asking nicely!

Well, I'll have a go, but I've had easier requests in my time, even from you...." Muttering and grimacing with strain, the baby's face faded out, only to reappear again, faintly, as if from afar. "Bartimaeus, you say?

Of Uruk?"

"Yes! How many of them can there be?"

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Touchy. Well, don't hold your breath. This may take

some time."

The disc went blank. Nathaniel hurled it onto the bed, then thought better of it and

stowed it away under the mattress, out of sight. In great agitation, he proceeded to tidy his room, scrubbing the floor till all traces of the pentacles were gone and even the marks of candle grease had been improved. He stowed his clothes away tidily and returned

everything to its proper place. Then he drank his soup. It was cold.

Mrs. Underwood returned to reclaim the tray, and surveyed the room with

approval. "Good boy, John," she said. "Now tidy yourself up, and have a wash while you're about it. What was that?"

"What, Mrs. Underwood?"

"I thought I heard a voice calling."

Nathaniel had heard it too. A muffled "Oi!" from under the bed. "I think it was from downstairs,"

he said weakly. "Maybe someone at the door?"

"Do you think so? I'd better see, I suppose." Somewhat uncertainly, she departed, locking the door behind her.

Nathaniel flung the mattress aside. "Well?" he snarled.

The baby's face had big bags under the eyes and was now somehow unshaven.

"Well," it said,

"I've done the best I could. Can't ask for no more than that."

"Show me!"

"Here you go, then." The face vanished, to be replaced by a long-distance view across London.

A silver strip that had to be the Thames wound across the backdrop between a

dark gray mess of warehouses and wharves. Rain fell, half obscuring the scene, but

Nathaniel easily made out the focus of the picture: a giant castle, protected by endless loops of high, gray walls. In its center was a tall, squared keep, with the Union Jack flying from its central roof. Black-sided police trucks moved below in the castle yard, together with troops of tiny figures, not all of them human.

Nathaniel knew what he was looking at, but he did not want to accept the truth.

"And what's this got to do with Bartimaeus?" he snapped.

The imp was weary, heavy-voiced. "That's where he is, as far as I can reckon. I

picked up his trail in the middle of London, but it was already faint and cold. It led here, and I can't get any closer to the Tower of London, as you well know. Far too many

watchful eyes. Even from this distance, a few outriding spheres nearly caught me. I'm fair tuckered out, I am. Anything else?" it added, as Nathaniel failed to react. "I need a kip."

"No, no, that's all."

"First sensible thing you've said all day." But the imp did not fade. "If he's in there, this Bartimaeus is in trouble," it observed in a rather more cheery manner.
"You
didn't send him out there, did you?"

Nathaniel made no reply.

"Oh
dear,"
said the imp. "Then, that being the case, I'd say you was in almost as much bother as him, wouldn't you? I 'spect he's probably coughing up your name right

now." It bared its sharp, small teeth in a face-splitting grin, blew a loud raspberry, and vanished.

Nathaniel sat very still, holding the disc in his hands. The daylight in the room

gradually faded away.

24

Bartimaeus

Put a scarab beetle, roughly the size of a matchbox, up against a four-meter-tall,

bull-headed leviathan wielding a silver spear, and you don't expect to see much of a

contest, especially when the beetle is imprisoned within a small orb that will incinerate its essence if it touches so much as a stray antenna. True, I did my best to prolong the issue by hovering just off the top of the pillar, in the vague hope that I could dart to one side as the spear crashed down—but to be honest my heart wasn't really in it. I was about to be squashed by a lummox with the IQ of a flea, and the sooner we got it over with, the

better.

So I was a little surprised when the utukku's shrieking war cry was cut off by a

sudden yelled command, just as the spear was about to descend upon my head.

"Baztuk, stop!"

Eagle-beak had spoken; the urgency in his voice was clear. Once it has made its

mind up to do something, an utukku finds it hard to change tack: Bull-head stopped the spear's downward swing with difficulty, but kept it raised high above the orb.

"What
now,
Xerxes?" he snarled. "Don't try to rob me of my revenge! Twenty-seven centuries I've wanted Bartimaeus in my power—"

"Then you can wait a minute more. He'll keep. Listen—can you hear something?"

Baztuk cocked his head to one side. Within the orb, I stilled the humming of my

wings and listened too. A gentle tapping sound... so low, so subtle, it was impossible to tell from which direction it came.

"That's nothing. Just workmen outside. Or the humans marching again. They like

doing that.

Now, shut up, Xerxes." Baztuk was not inclined to spare the matter another

thought. The sinews along his forearms knotted as he readied the spear.

"It's not workmen. Too near." The feathers on Xerxes's crest looked ruffled. He was jumpy.

"Leave Bartimaeus alone and come and listen. I want to pinpoint it."

With a curse, Baztuk stomped away from my column. He and Xerxes ranged

around the perimeter of the room, holding their ears close to the stones and muttering to each other to tread more quietly. All the while the little tapping noise continued, soft, irregular, and maddeningly unlocatable.

"Can't place it." Baztuk scraped his spear-tip against the wall. "Could come from anywhere.

Hold on...! Maybe
he's
doing it...." He looked evilly in my direction.

"Not guilty, your honor," I said.

"Don't be stupid, Baztuk," Eagle-beak said. "The orb stops him using magic beyond its barrier.

Something else is going on. I think we should raise the alarm."

"But nothing's
happened!"
Bull-head looked panicked. "They'll punish us. At least let me kill Bartimaeus first," he pleaded. "I mustn't lose this chance."

"I think you should
definitely
call for help," I advised. "It's almost certainly something you can't handle. A deathwatch beetle, maybe. Or a disorientated

woodpecker."

Baztuk blew spume a meter into the air. "That's the last straw, Bartimaeus! You

die!" He paused. "Mind you, it
might
be a deathwatch beetle, come to think of it...."

"In a solid stone building?" Xerxes sneered. "I think not."

"What makes you an expert all of a sudden?"

A new argument broke out. My two captors faced up to each other again, strutting

and shoving, roused to blind fury by each other's stupidity and by the occasional careful prompting from me.

Underneath it all, the
tap, tap, tap
ping went on. I had long since located the source of it as a patch of stone high up along one wall, not too far from the single

window. While encouraging the squabble, I kept a constant eye on this area, and was

rewarded, after several minutes, by spying a discreet shower of stone-dust come trickling out between two blocks. A moment later, a tiny hole appeared; this was rapidly enlarged as more dust and flakes dropped from it, propelled by something small, sharp and black.

To my annoyance, after walking their way round the room in a flurry of girly

slaps and yells, Xerxes and Baztuk had come to rest not far from the mysterious hole. It was only a matter of time before they would notice the spiraling dust-fall, so I decided I had to risk all in a final gambit.

"Hey, you pair of sand-eaters!" I shouted. "The moon shines on the corpses of your fellows! The jackals carry home the severed heads for their pups to play with!"[1]

[1] Well, this loses something in translation, of course. I shouted it in the language of Old Egypt, which both of them knew and hated. It was a reference to the time when

the pharaoh sent his armies deep into the lands of Assyria, causing general mayhem. It is deeply impolite for djinn to bring up between themselves the memories of human wars

(in which we are always forced to take sides). Reminding utukku of wars that they
lost
is both impolite
and
deeply unwise.

As I had expected, Baztuk instantly left off tugging at Xerxes's side feathers and

Xerxes prised his fingers out of Baztuk's nose. Both of them slowly turned toward me

with murder in their eyes. So far, so good. I calculated that I had approximately thirty seconds before whatever was coming through the hole put in an appearance. Should it

delay, I was dead—if not by the hands of Baztuk and Xerxes, then by the orb, which had now diminished to the size of a runty grapefruit.

"Baztuk," Xerxes said politely, "I shall allow you to strike the first blow."

"That is good of you, Xerxes," Baztuk replied. "Afterward, you may dice the remains to your heart's content."

Both hefted their spears and strode toward me. Behind them, the tapping suddenly

ceased, and from the hole in the wall, which had by now grown quite large, a shiny beak poked out, sharp as an anvil. This was followed by a tufted jet-black head, complete with beady eye. The eye flicked rapidly to and fro, taking in the scene, then silently the bird behind it began to squeeze its way through the hole, wriggling forward in a distinctly unbirdlike way.

With a shake and a hop, an enormous black raven perched on the lip of the stone.

As its tail feathers cleared the hole, another beak appeared behind it.

By now the utukku had reached my pillar. Baztuk flung back his arm.

I coughed. "Look behind you!"

"That won't work on me, Bartimaeus!" Baztuk cried. His arm jerked forward, the spear began to plunge. A flash of black shot across its path, seized the spear-shaft in its beak, and flew onward, wrenching it out of the utukku's hand. Baztuk gave a yelp of

astonishment and turned. Xerxes spun around too.

A raven sat on a vacant column, holding the spear neatly in its beak.

Uncertainly, Baztuk stepped toward it.

With deliberate care, the raven bit down on the steel shaft. The spear snapped in

two; both halves fell to the ground.

Baztuk stopped dead.

Another raven fluttered down and came to rest on a neighboring pillar. Both sat

silently, watching the utukku with unblinking eyes.

Baztuk looked at his companion. "Er, Xerxes...?"

Eagle-beak rattled his tongue warningly. "Raise the alarm, Baztuk," he said. "I'll deal with them."

He bent his legs, leaped high into the air. With a sound like ripping cloth, his

great, white wings unfolded. They beat once, twice; he soared up, up, almost to the

ceiling. The feathers angled, tensed; he spun and dived, head first, wings back, one hand holding the outstretched spear; hurtling down at lightning speed.

Toward a raven, calmly waiting.

A look of doubt came into Xerxes's eyes. Now he was almost upon the raven, and

still it hadn't moved. Doubt was replaced by sudden fear. His wings jerked out;

desperately, he tried to bank, to avoid colliding—

The raven opened its beak wide.

Xerxes screamed.

There was a blur of movement, a snap and a gulp. A few fluttering feathers drifted

slowly down upon the stones around the pillar. The raven still sat there, a dreamy look in its eyes. Xerxes was gone.

Baztuk was making for the wall where the portal would appear. He was fumbling

in a pouch strapped to his waist. The second raven lazily hopped from one pillar to

another, cutting him off. With a cry of woe, Baztuk hurled his spear. It missed the raven, embedding itself to the hilt in the side of the pillar. The raven shook its head sorrowfully and spread its wings. Baztuk wrenched his pouch open and removed a small bronze