Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (26 page)

When you're faced with a comment like that, it's hard to think of anything to say.

The utukku raised his silver spear and howled out the triumphant battle cry that

his kind always deliver with the death stroke.

I settled for whirring my wings. You know, in a forlorn, defiant sort of way.

23

Nathaniel

What was to become the worst day of Nathaniel's life started out much as it meant

to go on.

Despite returning from Parliament at such a late hour, he had found it almost

impossible to get to sleep. His master's final words rang endlessly through his mind,

instilling in him a growing unease:

"Anyone in possession of stolen property will suffer the severest penalties..."
The
severest
penalties...
And what was the Amulet of Samarkand if not stolen property?

True, on the one hand, he was certain Lovelace had already stolen the Amulet: it

was to get proof of this that he had sent Bartimaeus on his mission. But on the other hand, he—or, strictly speaking, Underwood—currently had the stolen goods instead. If

Lovelace, or the police, or anyone from the Government should find it in the house...

indeed, if Underwood himself should discover it in his collection, Nathaniel dreaded to think what catastrophes might occur. What had started out as a personal strike against his enemy now seemed suddenly a far riskier business. It wasn't just Lovelace he was up

against now, but the long arm of the Government too. He had heard about the glass

prisms, containing the remains of traitors, that hung from the battlements of the Tower of London. They made an eloquent point. It was never wise to risk official wrath.

By the time the ghostly light that precedes the dawn began to glow around the

skylight, Nathaniel was sure of one thing only. Whether the djinni had gathered proof or not, he ought to get rid of the Amulet fast. He would return it to Lovelace and alert the authorities in some way. But for that, he needed Bartimaeus.

And Bartimaeus refused to come to him.

Despite his bone-aching weariness, Nathaniel performed the summoning three

times that morning, and three times the djinni did not appear. By the third try, he was practically sobbing with panic, gabbling out the words with hardly a care that a

mispronounced syllable might endanger him.

When he finished, he waited, breathing fast, watching the circle.
Come on, come

on.

No smoke, no smell, no demon.

With a curse, Nathaniel canceled the summons, kicked a pot of incense across the

room and flung himself upon his bed. What was going on? If Bartimaeus had found some

way to break free of his charge... But surely that was impossible—no demon had ever

managed such a thing as far as Nathaniel knew. He beat his fist uselessly against the

blankets. When he got the djinni back again, he'd make it pay for this delay—he'd subject it to the Jagged Pendulum and watch it squirm!

But in the meantime, what to do?

Use the scrying glass? No, that could come later: the three summonings had worn

him out, and first he had to rest. Instead, there was his master's library. That was the place to begin. Maybe there were other, more advanced methods of summoning he could try.

Perhaps there was information on tricks djinn used to avoid returning.

He got up and kicked the rug over the chalk circles on the floor. No time to clear

it up now. In a couple of hours he was due to meet his master, to finally try the long-awaited summoning of the natterjack impling. Nathaniel groaned with frustration—that

was the last thing he needed! He could summon the impling in his sleep, but his master would ensure he checked and double-checked every line and phrase until the process took several hours. It was a waste of energy he could well do without. What a fool his master was!

Nathaniel set off for the library. He clattered down the attic stairs.

And ran headlong into his master coming up.

Underwood fell back against the wall, clutching the most expansive part of his

waistcoat, which had connected sharply with one of Nathaniel's elbows. He gave a cry of rage and aimed a glancing slap at his apprentice's head.

"You little ruffian! You could have killed me!"

"Sir! I'm sorry, sir. I didn't expect—"

"Careering down stairs like some brainless oik, some commoner! A magician

keeps his deportment strictly under control at all times. What are you playing at?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, sir...." Nathaniel was recovering from the shock; he spoke meekly. "I was just going down to the library, to double-check a few things before our summoning this afternoon. I'm sorry if I was too eager."

His humble manner had its effect. Underwood breathed hard, but his expression

relaxed. "Well, if the intention was good, I suppose I can hardly blame you. In fact I was coming to say that unfortunately I shall not be in this afternoon. Something serious has happened and I must—" He stopped; the eyebrows flickered and melted into a frown.

"What's that I smell?"

"Sir?"

"That odor... it clings to you, boy." He bent closer and sniffed loudly.

"I—I'm sorry, sir, I forgot to wash this morning. Mrs. Underwood's mentioned this to me before."

"I'm not talking about your own scent, boy, unpleasant though it is. No, it's more like...

rosemary... Yes! And laurel... and St. John's wort...." His eyes suddenly widened and flashed in the half-light of the staircase. "This is general summoning incense hanging about your person!"

"No, sir—"

"Don't you dare contradict me, boy! How has it...?" A suspicion dawned in his eyes. "John Mandrake, I wish to see your room! Lead the way."

"I'd rather not, sir—it's a terrible mess; I'd feel embarrassed...."

His master raised himself to his full height, his eyes flashing, his singed beard

bristling. He seemed somehow to grow taller than Nathaniel had ever seen him, although the fact that he was standing on the step above probably helped a bit. Nathaniel felt

himself shrink back, cowering.

Underwood flourished a finger and pointed up the stairs. "Go!"

Helplessly, Nathaniel obeyed. In silence, he led the way to his chamber, his

master's heavy boots treading close behind him. As he opened the door, an unmistakable stench of incense and candle wax gusted up into his face. Nathaniel stood glumly to one side as, stooping under the low ceiling, his master entered the attic room.

For a few seconds, Underwood surveyed the scene. It was an incriminating

picture: an upturned pot, with a trail of multicolored incense extending from it across the floor; several dozen summoning candles, still smoldering, arranged against the walls and upon the desk; two heavy books on magic, taken from Underwood's own personal

shelves, lying open on the bed. The only things that weren't visible were the summoning circles themselves. They lay hidden under the rug. Nathaniel thought this gave him a

possible way out. He cleared his throat.

"If I might explain, sir."

His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug,

which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes.

Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole

diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim

intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.

"Well?"

Nathaniel swallowed. He knew that no excuse would save him, but he had to try.

"I was just practicing making the marks, sir," he began in an uncertain voice. "Getting the feel for it. I didn't actually
summon
anything, of course, sir. I wouldn't dare...."

He faltered, stopped. With one hand, his master was pointing to the center of the

bigger circle, where a prominent scorch mark had been left by Bartimaeus's first

appearance. With the other, he indicated the numerous burns left on the walls by the

explosion of the Stimulating Compass.

Nathaniel's shoulders sagged.

"Um..."

For an instant, it seemed as though Mr. Underwood's deportment was going to fail

him. His face mottled with rage, he took two quick steps in Nathaniel's direction, his hand raised to strike.

Nathaniel flinched, but the blow did not fall.

The hand lowered. "No," his master said, panting hard. "No. I must consider how to deal with you. You have disobeyed me in a hundred ways, and in so doing have risked your own life and that of the people in this house. You have dabbled with works of magic that you cannot hope to comprehend—I see
Faust's Compendium
there, and
The Mouth
of Ptolemy!
You have summoned, or attempted to summon, a djinni of at least the fourteenth level, and even tried to bind it with Adelbrand's Pentacle, a feat that I would balk at. The fact that you undoubtedly failed in no way mitigates your crime. Stupid

child! Have you no concept of what such a being might
do
to you, if you made even the slightest slip? Have all my lessons over the years meant nothing? I should have known

you were not to be trusted last year, when your wilful act of violence against the guests of my house nearly ruined my career. I should have disposed of you then, when you were

nameless. No one would have given it a second thought! But now that you are named and

will be in the next edition of the Almanac, I cannot get rid of you so easily! Questions will be asked, forms will have to be filled, and my judgment will once again be called into doubt. No, I must consider what to do with you, though my hand itches to call up a Reviler on the spot and leave you in its tender care."

He paused for breath. Nathaniel had slumped back to sit on the edge of his bed, all

energy crushed from him.

"Take it from me," his master said, "that no apprentice of mine disobeys me in the fashion you have done. If I didn't have to go to the ministry urgently, I would deal with you now. As it is, you are confined to your room until my return. But first"—here he strode across to Nathaniel's wardrobe and flung wide the door—"we must see that you have no other surprises hidden away."

For the next ten minutes, Nathaniel could only sit dull-eyed while his master

searched the room.

The wardrobe and the chest-of-drawers were turned out and rifled, his meager

quantity of clothes strewn upon the floor. Several plastic bags of incense were found, a small supply of colored chalk, and one or two sheaves of notes that Nathaniel had made during his extracurricular studies. Only the scrying glass, secure in its hiding place beneath the eaves, remained undiscovered.

Mr. Underwood gathered up the incense, books, chalk and notes. "I shall read

through your scrawlings upon my return from the ministry," he said, "in case I need to question you further about your activities before you receive your punishment. In the

meantime, remain here and reflect upon your sins and the ruin of your career."

Without another word, he swept from the attic and locked the door behind him.

Nathaniel's heart was a stone plummeting to the bottom of a deep, dark well. He

sat motionless on the bed, listening to the rain tapping on the skylight and, far below, his master banging from room to room in his fury. Eventually a distant slam assured him that Mr. Underwood had left the house.

An unknown time later, he was startled out of his misery by the sound of the key

turning in the lock. His heart jolted with fear. Surely not his master back already?

But it was Mrs. Underwood who entered, bringing a small bowl of tomato soup

on a tray. She placed it on the table and stood regarding him. Nathaniel could not bring himself to look at her.

"Well,"
she said, in a level voice, "I hope you're satisfied with yourself. From what Arthur tells me, you have been very bad indeed."

If his master's torrent of anger had merely numbed him, these few words from

Mrs. Underwood, laced as they were simply with quiet disappointment, pierced Nathaniel to the marrow. His last vestiges of self-control failed him. He raised his eyes to her, feeling tears prickle against the corners.

"Oh, Nath—John!" He had never heard her so exasperated. "Why couldn't you be
patient?

Ms. Lutyens used to say that this was your abiding fault, and she was right! Now

you've tried to run before you can walk, and I don't know if your master will ever forgive you."

"He'll
never
forgive me. He said so." Nathaniel's voice was faint; he was holding back the tears.

"He's extremely angry, John, and rightly."

"He said my—my career was ruined."

"I shouldn't be surprised if that wasn't exactly what you deserved."

"Mrs. Underwood!"

"But perhaps, if you are open and honest with him about what you've done, there

is a chance that he will listen to you when he returns. A very small chance."

"He won't; he's too angry."

Mrs. Underwood sat down on the bed beside Nathaniel and put her arm round his

shoulder.

"You don't think it's unheard of, do you, for apprentices to try too much, too soon?

It often marks out those with the most talent. Arthur is livid, but he is also impressed, I can tell. I think you should confide fully in him; throw yourself on his mercy. He will like that."

Nathaniel gave a sniff. "You think so, Mrs. Underwood?" As always, the comfort of her presence and her calm common sense reached past his defenses and soothed his

pride. Maybe she was right. Maybe he
should
tell the truth about everything....

"I will do my best to appease him too," she went on. "Heaven knows, but you don't deserve it.

Look at the state of this room!"

"I'll clean it right away, Mrs. Underwood; right away." He felt a little comforted.