Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (39 page)

far away. He could not fight them now, but any scrap of information might be useful in the future. It was worth risking. He edged a little nearer.

Still no luck. He could tell only that Fred and Stanley were largely silent, that the

other figure was holding court. He had a high voice, young and sharp.

A little closer...

On the next step his boot knocked against an empty wine bottle that had been

placed against the wall. It teetered, clinked faintly against the bricks, righted itself. It didn't fall. But the clink was enough.

The light in the doorway jerked; three faces turned toward him: Stanley's, Fred's

and—

In the instant Nathaniel was allowed, he only caught a glimpse, but it imprinted

itself indelibly upon his mind. A girl's face, pale and young, with straight, dark hair whipping around. Her eyes were wide, startled but not scared, fierce too. He heard her cry a command, saw Fred lunge forward, glimpsed something pale and shiny shoot

toward him out of the darkness. Nathaniel ducked frantically and cracked the side of his head against the brickwork of the building. Bile rose to his throat; he saw lights before his eyes. He collapsed in the puddle at the base of the wall.

Neither fully unconscious nor awake, he lay motionless, eyes closed, body

relaxed, dimly aware of his surroundings. Pattering footsteps came close, a metal

scraping sounded, leather squeaked. He sensed a presence near him, something light

brushing his face.

"You missed him. He's out, but alive." A female voice.

"I can cut his throat for you, Kitty." Fred speaking.

The pause that followed might have been of any duration; Nathaniel could not

tell. "No... He's only a stupid kid. Let's go."

Silence fell in the darkened alley. Long after his head stopped swimming, long

after the water had soaked through his coat to chill his flesh, Nathaniel remained quite still. He dared not move.

34

Bartimaeus

I had been back for almost five hours when a weary scuffling sounded at the loose

plank and my sad, bedraggled and extremely smelly master tumbled back into the library.

Leaving a trail of what I hoped was mud in his wake, he limped his way like some giant land snail up the stairs to the first-floor room, where he promptly collapsed against a wall. Out of a spirit of scientific curiosity, I lit a small Flame and inspected him closely.

It's a good job I've had experience dealing with stygian implets and the like, because he wasn't a pretty sight. He seemed to have been taken bodily and rolled through a

particularly pungent mire or stable yard, before being stirred head first into a vat of dirt and grass-cuttings. His hair stuck up like a porcupine's rump. His jeans were torn and bloodied at the knee. He had a large bruise on his cheek and a nasty cut above one ear.

Best of all, though, his eyes were
furious.

"Had a good evening, sir?" I said.

"A fire," he snarled. "Make me a fire. I'm freezing."

This haughty master mode sounded a little out of place coming from something a

jackal would have spurned, but I didn't object. I was finding it all too amusing. So I gathered sundry bits of wood, got a reviving fire going, then settled down (in Ptolemy's form) as close as I could stomach.

"Well," I said cheerily, "this makes a pleasant change. Usually it's the djinni who comes in worn out and covered in muck. I approve of such innovations. What made you

leave the library? Did Lovelace's forces find you? Did Jabor break in?"

He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. "I went to get a newspaper."

This was getting better and better! I shook my head regretfully. "You should leave such a dangerous assignment to people better qualified: next time ask an old granny, or a toddler—"

"Shut up!" His eyes blazed. "It was that paperboy! And his friend Fred! Two
commoners!
They lured me away from here and stole my disc—the one I made. I

followed them and they tried to kill me; would have done it too, if it wasn't for the girl—"

"A girl? What girl?"

"But even so I smashed my head open and fell in a puddle, and then, when they'd

gone, I couldn't find the way back and it was after curfew and the search spheres were out and I had to keep hiding as they passed. In the end, I found a stream under a bridge and lay there in the mud for ages while the lights patrolled up and down the road above. And
then,
when they'd gone, I
still
had to find my way back. It took me hours!
And
I hurt my knee."

Well, it wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but it was the best bedtime story
I'd
heard in a long time. It quite cheered me up.

"They're part of the Resistance," he went on, staring into the fire. "I'm sure of it.

They're going to sell my disc—give it to the same people who attacked Parliament! Ahh!"

He clenched his fists. "Why weren't you there to help me? I could have caught them—

forced them to tell me about their leader."

"If you recall," I remarked, coldly, "I was off on a mission
you
gave me. Who was this girl you mentioned?"

"I don't know. I only saw her for a second. She was in charge of them. One day,

though, I'll find her and make her pay!"

"I thought you said she stopped them from killing you?"

"She still took my disc! She's a thief and a traitor."

Whatever else the girl was, she sounded very familiar. A thought struck me. "How

did they know you had the disc? Did you show it to them?"

"No. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"That's beside the point. Are you sure you didn't bring it out when you were

fumbling for change?"

"No.
The paperboy just
knew,
somehow. Like he was a djinni or an imp."

"Interesting..." It sounded exactly like the same bunch who jumped me the night I had the Amulet of Samarkand. My girl and her cronies hadn't needed to see the Amulet to
know
I had it on me, either. And they'd later found me hidden behind my Concealment spell. Useful abilities, which were evidently being put to good use. If they were part of this Resistance movement, it sounded like opposition to the magicians was more

developed—and potentially formidable—than I'd thought.

Times were moving on in London....

I didn't share these thoughts with the boy. He was the enemy, after all, and the last

thing magicians need are any clever insights. "Leaving your misfortunes to one side for a moment," I said,

"perhaps you wish to hear my report?"

He grunted. "You found Heddleham Hall?"

"I did—and if you choose I can get you there. Beside the Thames is a railway

heading south, over the river and out of London. But first I should tell you about the defenses Lovelace has rigged up around his girlfriend's house. They are formidable.

Airborne foliots patrol the surrounding countryside, while higher-ranking entities

materialize at random on the ground. There are at least two protective domes over the

estate itself, which also change position. I was unable to get beyond the boundary on my foray, and it will be even harder to succeed with a deadbeat like you in tow."

He didn't rise to the bait. He was too tired. "However," I continued, "I can feel in my essence that they are hiding something at the Hall. These defenses are in place two days too early, which involves a colossal expenditure of power. That implies mischief

going on."

"How long will it take to get there?"

"We can reach the edge of the estate by nightfall—if we catch an early morning

train. There's a long walk at the other end. But we'll need to get going now."

"Very well." He began to get up, squelching and oozing as he did so.

"Are you
sure
about this plan?" I said. "I could take you to the docks instead.

There's bound to be vacancies for cabin boys there. It's a hard life, but a good one. Think of all that salty air."

There was no answer. He was on his way out. I gave a sigh, snuffed out the fire,

and followed him.

The route I selected was a strip of wasteland that ran south and east between the

factories and warehouses, following a narrow tributary of the Thames. Although the

stream itself was meager, it meandered excessively across its mini flood plain, creating a maze of hummocks, marshes, and little pools that took us the rest of the night to

negotiate. Our shoes sank into mud and water, sharp reeds spiked our legs and hands, and mosquitoes whined occasionally about our heads. The boy, by contrast, whined pretty

much continually. After his adventures with the Resistance, he was in a very bad temper.

"It's worse for me than it is for you," I snapped, after a particularly petulant outburst. "I could have flown this in five minutes, but oh, no—I have to keep you company. Writhing about in mud and slime is
your
birthright, human, not mine."

"I can't see where I'm putting my feet," he said. "Create some light, can't you?"

"Yes, if you want to attract the attention of night-flying djinn. The streets are well watched—as you've already discovered—and don't forget Lovelace may still be seeking

us too. The only reason I've chosen this way is
because
it's so dark and unpleasant."

He did not seem greatly comforted by this; nevertheless, his protests ceased.[1]

[1] One side-benefit of this route was that its difficulties eventually took his mind

off the loss of his precious scrying glass. Honestly, the way he went on about it, you'd think that imp was his blood brother, rather than a vulgar baby impersonator trapped

against its will. He did seem to have taken his misfortune personally. But after the loss of his beloved Mrs. Underwood, I suppose the disc was his only friend in the world, poor

thing.

As we stumbled on, I considered our situation with my usual impeccable logic. It

had been six days since the kid had summoned me. Six days of discomfort building up

inside my essence. And no immediate end in sight.

The kid. Where did he rate in my list of all-time human lows? He wasn't the worst

master I had endured,[2] but he presented some peculiar problems of his own. All

sensible magicians, well versed in clever cruelty, know when the time is right to fight.

They risk themselves (and their servants) comparatively rarely. But the kid hadn't a clue.

He had been overwhelmed by a disaster brought about by his own meddling, and his

reaction was to lunge back at his enemy like a wounded snake.

Whatever his original grudge against Lovelace, his previous discretion had now

been replaced by a desperation powered by grief. Simple things like self-preservation

were disregarded in his pride and fury. He was going to his death. Which would have

been fine, except he was taking me along for the ride.

[2] A "good master" is a contradiction in terms, of course. Even Solomon would have been insufferable, he was so prissy in his early years, but fortunately he could

command 20,000 spirits with one twist of his magic ring, so with him I got plenty of days off.

I had no solution to this. I was bound to my master. All I could do was try to keep

him alive.

By dawn, we had followed the waste strip down from north London almost to the

Thames. Here the stream widened briefly before sluicing over a series of weirs into the main river. It was time to rejoin the roads. We climbed a bank to a wire fence (in which I burned a discreet hole), stepped through it and came out on a cobbled street. The political heart of the city was on our right, the Tower district on our left; the Thames stretched ahead. Curfew was safely over, but there was no one yet about.

"Right," I said, halting. "The station is close by. Before we go there, we need to solve a problem."

"Which is?"

"To stop you looking—and smelling—like a swineherd." The various fluids of the wasteland adhered to him in a complex splatter-pattern. He could have been framed and

hung up on a fashionable wall.

He frowned. "Yes. Clean me up first. There must be a way."

"There is."

Perhaps I shouldn't have seized him and dunked him in the river. The Thames isn't

that much cleaner than the quagmire we'd waded through. Still, it washed off the worst of the muck. After a minute of vigorous dousing, I allowed him to come up, water spouting through his nostrils. He made a gurgling sound that was hard to identify. I had a stab, though.

"Again? You
are
thorough."

Another good rinsing made him look as good as new. I propped him up in the

shadows of a concrete embankment and dried his clothes out with discreet use of a

Flame. Oddly, his temper had not improved with his smell, but you can't have everything.

With this matter resolved, we set off and arrived at the railway station in time to

catch the first train of the morning south. I stole two tickets from the kiosk, and while sundry attendants were busy combing the platforms for a red-faced clergywoman with a

plausible manner, settled back into my seat just as the train got underway. Nathaniel sat in a different part of the carriage—rather pointedly, I thought. His improvised makeover still seemed to rankle with him.

The first part of the journey out of the city was thus the quietest and least

troublesome half-hour I had enjoyed since first being summoned. The train pottered along at an arthritic pace through the never-ending outskirts of London, a dispiriting jumbled wilderness of brick that looked like moraine left by a giant glacier. We passed a

succession of rundown factories and concrete lots run to waste; beyond them stretched

narrow terraced streets, with chimney smoke rising here and there. Once, high up against the bright, colorless cloud that hid the sun, I saw a troop of djinn heading west. Even at that distance, it was possible to pick out the light glinting on their breastplates.