Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (35 page)

angry djinni. I glanced back. As yet there was no sign of pursuit—only flames roaring up from the hole. Without wasting a moment, I summoned up my remaining strength and

slung the boy over my shoulder. Then I ran as fast as I could along the roof.

Four houses further on, we drew abreast of the tree, an evergreen fir. The nearest

branches were only four meters distant. Jumpable. But first, I needed a rest. I dumped the boy onto the tiles and checked behind us again. Nothing. Jabor was having problems. I

imagined him thrashing around in the white heat of the cellar, buried under tons of

burning debris, struggling to get out.

There was a sudden movement among the flames. It was time to go.

I didn't give the boy the option of panicking. Grasping him around the waist, I ran

down the roof and leaped from the end. The boy made no sound as we arched through the

air, picked out in orange by the light of the fire. My wings beat frantically, keeping us aloft just long enough, until with a whipping and stabbing and a cracking of branches, we plunged into the foliage of the evergreen tree.

I clasped the trunk, stopping us from falling. The boy steadied himself against a

branch. I glanced back at the house. A black silhouette moved slowly against the fire.

Gripping the trunk loosely, I let us slide. The bark sheared away against each claw

as we descended. We landed in wet grass in the darkness at the foot of the tree.

I set the boy on his feet again. "Now—absolute silence!" I whispered. "And keep below the trees."

Then away we slunk, my master and I, into the dripping darkness of the garden, as

the wail of fire engines grew in the street beyond and another great beam crashed into the flaming ruin of his master's house.

Nathaniel

Beyond the broken glass, the sky lightened. The persistent rain that had been

falling since dawn drizzled to a halt. Nathaniel sneezed.

London was waking up. For the first time, traffic appeared on the road below:

grimy red buses with snarling engines carrying the first commuters toward the center of the city; a few sporadic cars, honking their horns at anyone scurrying across their path; bicycles too, with riders hunched and laboring inside their heavy greatcoats.

Slowly, the shops opposite began to open. The owners emerged and with harsh

rattling raised the metal night-grilles from their windows. Displays were adjusted: the butcher slapped down pink slabs of meat on his enamel shelving; the tobacconist hung a rack of magazines above his counter.

Next door, the bakery's ovens had been hot for hours; warm air that smelled of

loaves and sugared doughnuts drifted across the street and reached Nathaniel, shivering and hungry in the empty room.

A street market was starting up in a side road close by. Shouts rang out, some

cheery, others hoarse and guttural. Boys tramped past, rolling metal casks or wheeling barrows piled high with vegetables. A police car cruised north along the road, slowing as it passed the market, then revving ostentatiously and speeding away.

The sun hung low over the rooftops, a pale egg-yellow disc clouded by haze.

On any other morning, Mrs. Underwood would have been busy cooking breakfast.

He could see her there in front of him: small, busy, resolutely cheerful, bustling

round the kitchen clanging pans down on the cooker, chopping tomatoes, slinging toast

into the toaster.... Waiting for him to come down.

On any other morning that would have been so. But now the kitchen was gone.

The house was gone. And Mrs. Underwood, Mrs. Underwood was—

He wanted to weep; his face was heavy with the desire for it. It was as if a

floodtide of emotion lay dammed there, ready to pour forth. But his eyes remained dry.

There was no release. He stared out over the gathering activity of the street below, seeing none of it, numb to the chill that bit into his bones. Whenever he closed his eyes, a

flickering white shadow danced against the dark—the memory of flames.

Mrs. Underwood was—

Nathaniel took a deep, shuddering breath. He buried his hands in his trouser

pockets and felt the touch of the bronze disc there, smooth against his fingers. It made him start and pull his hand away.

His whole body shook with cold. His brain seemed frozen too.

His master—he had tried his best for him. But Mrs. Underwood—he should have

warned her, got her out of the house before it happened. Instead of which, he...

He had to think. This was no time to... He had to think what to do, or he was lost.

For half the night, he had run like a madman through the gardens and backstreets

of north London, eyes vacant, mouth agape. He remembered it only as a series of rushes in the dark, of scrambles over walls and dashes under street lamps, of whispered

commands that he had automatically obeyed. He had a sensation of pressing up against

cold brick walls, then squeezing through hedges, cut and bruised and soaked to the skin.

Once, before the all-clear was given, he had hidden for what seemed like hours at the

base of a compost heap, his face pressed against the moldering slime. It seemed no more real than a dream.

Throughout this flight, he had been replaying Underwood's face of terror, seeing a

jackal head rising from the flames. Unreal also. Dreams within a dream.

He had no memory of the pursuit, though at times it had been close and pressing.

The hum of a search sphere, a strange chemical scent carried on the wind: that was all he knew of it, until, shortly before dawn, they had stumbled down into an area of narrow, redbrick houses and back alleys, and found the boarded-up building.

Here, for the moment, he was safe. He had time to think, work out what to do....

But Mrs. Underwood was—

"Cold, isn't it?" said a voice.

Nathaniel turned away from the window. A little way off across the ruined room,

the boy that was not a boy was watching him with shiny eyes. It had given itself the

semblance of thick winter gear—a down jacket, new blue jeans, strong brown boots, a

woolly hat. It looked very warm.

"You're shivering," said the boy. "But then you're hardly dressed for a winter's expedition. What have you got under that jersey? Just a shirt, I expect. And look at those flimsy shoes. They must be soaked right through."

Nathaniel hardly heard him. His mind was far away.

"This isn't the place to be half naked," the boy went on. "Look at it! Cracks in the walls, a hole in the ceiling... We're open to the elements here. Brrrrrr! Chilly."

They were on the upper floor of what had evidently been a public building. The

room was cavernous, bare and empty, with whitewashed walls stained yellow and green

with mold. All along each wall stretched row upon row of empty shelves, covered in dust, dirt, and bird droppings.

Disconsolate piles of wood that might once have been tables or chairs were

tucked into a couple of corners. Tall windows looked out over the street and wide

marbled steps led downstairs. The place smelled of damp and decay.

"Do you want me to help you with the cold?" the boy said, looking sideways at him. "You have only to ask."

Nathaniel did not respond. His breath frosted in front of his face.

The djinni came a bit closer. "I could make a fire," it said. "A nice hot one. I've got plenty of control over that element. Look!" A tiny flame flickered in the center of its palm. "All this wood in here, going to waste... What
was
this place, do you think? A library? I think so. Don't suppose the commoners are allowed to read much anymore, are they? That's usually the way it goes." The flame grew a little. "You have only to ask, O

my master. I'd do it as a favor. That's what friends are for."

Nathaniel's teeth were chattering in his head. More than anything else—more

even than the hunger that was gnawing in his belly like a dog—he needed warmth. The

little flame danced and spun.

"Yes," he said huskily. "Make me a fire."

The flame instantly died out. The boy's brow furrowed. "Now
that
wasn't very polite."

Nathaniel closed his eyes and heaved a sigh.
"Please."

"Much better." A small spark leaped and ignited a pile of wood nearby. Nathaniel shuffled over and huddled beside it, his hands inches from the flames.

For a few minutes the djinni remained silent, pacing here and there about the

room. The feeling slowly returned to Nathaniel's fingers, though his face stayed numb. At length he became aware that the djinni had come close again, and was sitting on its

haunches, idly stirring a long sliver of wood in the fire.

"How does that feel?" it asked. "Melting nicely, I hope." It waited politely for an answer, but Nathaniel said nothing. "I'll tell you one thing," the djinni went on, in a conversational tone, "you're an interesting specimen. I've known a fair few magicians in my time, and there aren't many who are quite as suicidal as you. Most would think that popping in to tell a powerful enemy you'd pinched his treasure wasn't a terribly bright idea. Especially when you're utterly defenseless. But you? All in a day's work."

"I had to," Nathaniel said shortly. He did not want to talk.

"Mmm. No doubt you had a brilliant plan, which I—and Lovelace, for that matter

—completely missed. Mind telling me what it was?"

"Be silent!"

The djinni wrinkled its nose. "That was your plan? It's a simple one, I'll say that much. Still, don't forget it was
my
life you were risking too back there, acting out your strange convulsion of conscience." It reached into the fire suddenly and removed a burning ember, which it held musingly between finger and thumb. "I had another master like you once. He had the same mulish obstinacy, seldom acted in his own best interests.

Didn't live long." It sighed, tossed the ember back into the flames. "Never mind—all's well that ends well."

Nathaniel looked at the djinni for the first time. "All's
well?"

"You're alive. Does that count as good?"

For an instant, Nathaniel saw Mrs. Underwood's face watching him from the fire.

He rubbed his eyes.

"I hate to say this," the djinni said, "but Lovelace was right. You were totally out of your depth last night. Magicians don't act the way you do. It was a good thing I was there to rescue you.

So—where are you going now? Prague?"

"What?"

"Well, Lovelace knows you've escaped. He'll be looking out for you—and you've

seen what he'll do to keep you quiet. Your only hope is to vanish from the scene and leave London for good.

Abroad will be safest. Prague."

"Why should I go to Prague?"

"Magicians there might help you. Nice beer, too, I'm told."

Nathaniel's lip curled. "I'm no traitor."

The boy shrugged. "If that's no good, then you're left with getting a quiet new life here. There are plenty of possibilities. Let's see... looking at you, I'd say heavy lifting's out—you're too spindly. That rules out being a laborer."

Nathaniel frowned with indignation. "I have no intention—"

The djinni ignored him. "But you could turn your runtlike size to your advantage.

Yes! A sweep's lad, that's the answer. They always need fresh urchins to climb the flues."

"Wait! I'm not—"

"Or you could become apprentice to a sewer rat. You get a bristle brush, a hook

and a rubber plunger, then wriggle up the tightest tunnels looking for blockages."

"I won't—"

"There's a world of opportunities out there! And all of them better than being a

dead magician."

"Shut up!" The effort of raising his voice made Nathaniel feel his head was about to split in two.

"I don't need your suggestions!" He stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing with anger.

The djinni's jibes had cut through his weariness and grief to ignite a pent-up fury that suddenly consumed him. It rose up from his guilt, his shock, and his mortal anguish and used them for its fuel. Lovelace had said that there was no such thing as honor, that every magician acted only for himself. Very well. Nathaniel would take him at his word. He

would not make such a mistake again.

But Lovelace had made an error of his own. He had underestimated his enemy. He

had called Nathaniel weak, then tried to kill him. And Nathaniel had survived.

"You want me to slink away?" he cried. "I cannot! Lovelace has murdered the only person who ever cared for me—" He halted: there was a catch in his voice, but still his eyes were dry.

"Underwood? You must be joking! He loathed you! He was a man of sense!"

"His wife, I mean. I want justice for her. Vengeance for what he has done."

The effect of these ringing words was slightly spoiled by the djinni's blowing a

loud raspberry. It rose, shaking its head sadly, as if weighed down by great wisdom. "It isn't justice you're after, boy.

It's oblivion. Everything you had went up in flames last night. So now you've got

nothing to lose. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own: you want to go out in a blaze of glory against Lovelace."

"No. I want justice."

The djinni laughed. "It'll be
so
easy, following your master and his wife into the darkness—so much easier than starting life afresh. Your pride is ruling your head, leading you to your death. Didn't last night teach you anything? You're no match for him, Nat.

Give it up."

"Never."

"It's not even as if you're really a magician any more." It gestured at the crumbling walls. "Look around you. Where are we? This isn't some cushy townhouse, filled with books and papers. Where are the candles? Where's all the incense? Where's the
comfort?

Like it or not, Nathaniel, you've lost everything a magician needs. Wealth, security, self-respect, a master... Let's face it, you've got nothing."