Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (29 page)

"Imps coming," I hissed. A battalion had scurried through an arch into the far corner of the yard and were fanning out to begin a meticulous survey of every brick and stone. We were still concealed within the flock of ravens, but not for long.

Faquarl spat another feather onto the grass, where it briefly changed into a

writhing strip of jelly before melting away. "Very well. Up, over, and out. Don't stop for anything."

I gestured politely with a wing. "After you."

"No, no, Bartimaeus—after
you!"
The raven flexed one large, clawed foot. "I shall be right behind you
all
the time, so please be original and don't try to escape."

"You have a horrid, suspicious mind." The imps were creeping nearer, sniffing the ground like dogs. I took off and shot up toward the battlements at speed. As I drew level with them, I perceived a sentry patroling the walkway. It was a small foliot, with a

battered bronze horn strapped to the side of his head. Unfortunately, he perceived me too.

Before I could react, he had swiveled his lips to the mouthpiece of the horn and blown a short, sharp blast, which instantly triggered a wave of answering signals from along the wall, high and low, loud and soft, away into the distance. That did it: our cover was well and truly blown. I weaved at the sentry, talons grasping; he gave a squeak, lost his

balance and tumbled backward over the edge of the wall. I shot across the battlements, over a steep bank of tumbled black rocks and earth, and away from the Tower into the

city.

No time to lose, no time to look back. I flapped onward, fast as I could. Beneath

me passed a broad gray thoroughfare, heavy with traffic, then a block of flat-roofed

garages, a narrow street, a slab of shingle, a curve of the Thames, a wharf and steelyard, another street.... Hey! This wasn't too bad—with my customary panache, I was getting

away! The Tower of London must already be a mile back. Pretty soon, I could...

I looked up and blinked in shock. What was this? The Tower of London loomed

ahead of me.

Groups of flying figures were massing over the central keep. I was flying back

toward it! Something had gone seriously wrong with my directions. In great perplexity I did a U-turn round a chimney and shot off again in the opposite direction. Faquarl's voice sounded behind me.

"Bartimaeus, stop!"

"Didn't you see them?" I yelled back over my wing. "They'll be on us in moments!" I redoubled my speed, ignoring Faquarl's urgent calls. Rooftops flashed below me, then the mucky expanse of the Thames, which I crossed in record time, then—

The Tower of London, just as before. The flying figures were now shooting out in

all directions, each group following a search sphere. One lot was heading my way. Every instinct told me to turn tail and flee, but I was too confused. I alighted upon a rooftop. A few moments later, Faquarl appeared beside me, panting and swearing fit to burst.

"You fool! Now we're back where we started!"

A penny dropped. "You mean—"

"The first Tower you saw was a mirror illusion. We should have gone straight

through it.[4]

Lovelace warned me of it—and you wouldn't wait to listen! Curse my injured

wing and curse you, Bartimaeus!"

[4]
Mirror illusion:
a particularly cunning and sophisticated spell. It forms false images of a large-scale object—e.g. an army, a mountain, or a castle. They are flat and dissolve away as you pass through them. Mirror illusions can baffle even the cleverest opponent. As demonstrated here.

The battalion of flying djinn was crossing the outer walls. Barely a street's

distance separated us.

Faquarl hunched dismally behind a chimney. "We'll never out-fly them."

Inspiration came. "Then we won't fly. We passed some traffic lights back there."

"So what?" Faquarl's normal urbanity was wearing a little thin.

"So we hitch a ride." Keeping the building between me and the searchers, I

swooped off the roof and down to an intersection, where a line of cars was halted up at a red light. I landed on the pavement, near the back of the queue, with Faquarl close on my heels.

"Right," I said. "Time to change."

"What to?"

"Something with strong claws. Hurry up, the lights are turning green." Before Faquarl could object, I hopped off the pavement and under the nearest car, trying to

ignore the repellent stench of oil and petrol fumes and the sickening vibrations that

intensified as the unseen driver revved the engine. With no regret, I bade farewell to the raven and took on the form of a stygian implet, which is little more than a series of barbs on a tangle of muscle. Barbs and prongs shot out and embedded themselves in the filthy metal of the undercarriage, securing me fast as the car began to inch forward and away. I had hoped Faquarl would be too slow to follow, but no such luck: another implet was

right beside me, grimly hanging on between the wheels and keeping his eyes fixed on me the whole time.

We didn't talk much during the journey. The engine was too loud. Besides, stygian

implets go in for teeth, not tongues.

An endless time later, the car drew to a halt. Its driver got out and moved away.

Silence. With a groan, I loosened my various intricate holds and dropped heavily to the tarmac, groggy with motion sickness and the smell of technology.[5] Faquarl was no

better off. Without speaking, we became a pair of elderly, slightly manky cats, which

hobbled out from under the car and away across a stretch of lawn toward a thick clump of bushes. Once there, we finally relaxed into our preferred forms.

[5] Many modern products—synthetic plastics, metal alloys, the inner workings

of machines—carry so much of the
human
about them that they afflict our essence if we get too close for too long. It's probably some sort of allergy.

The cook sank down upon a tree stump. "I'll pay you back for that, Bartimaeus,"

he gasped.

"I've never had such torture."

The Egyptian boy grinned. "It got us away, didn't it? We're safe."

"One of my prongs punctured the petrol tank. I'm covered with the stuff. I'll come up in a rash—"

"Quit complaining." I squinted through the foliage: a residential street, big semis, lots of trees.

There was no one in sight, except for a small girl playing with a tennis ball in a

nearby drive. "We're in some suburb," I said. "Outskirts of London, or beyond." Faquarl only grunted. I cast a sly side glance.

He was re-examining the wound Baztuk had given him. Looked bad. He'd be

weakened.

"Even with this gash I'm more than a match for you, Bartimaeus, so come and sit

down." The cook gestured impatiently. "I've something important to tell you."

With my usual obedience, I sat on the ground, cross-legged, the way Ptolemy

used to do. I didn't get too close. Faquarl reeked of petrol.

"First," he said, "I've completed my side of the bargain: against my better judgement, I saved your skin. Now for your side. Where is the Amulet of Samarkand?"

I hesitated. Only the existence of that tin at the bottom of the Thames prevented

me from giving him Nat's name and number. True, I owed Faquarl for my escape, but

self-interest had to come first.

"Look," I said. "Don't think I'm not grateful to you springing for me just now. But it isn't easy for me to comply. My master—"

"Is considerably less powerful than mine." Faquarl leaned forward urgently. "I want you to apply your silly, footling brain and
think
for a moment, Bartimaeus. Lovelace badly wants the Amulet back, badly enough to command Jabor and me to break
into
his government's securest prison to save the miserable life of a slave like you."

"That
is
pretty badly," I admitted.

"Imagine how dangerous that was—for us
and
for him. He was risking all. That alone should tell you something."

"So what does he need the Amulet
for?"
I said, cutting to the chase.

"Ah, that I can't tell you." The cook tapped the side of his nose and smiled knowingly. "But what I can say is that you would find it very much in your interests, Bartimaeus, to join up with us on this one. We have a master who is going places, if you know what I mean."

I sneered. "All magicians say that."

"Going places
very
soon. We're talking days here. And the Amulet is vital to his success."

"Maybe, but will
we
share his success? I've heard all this type of guff before. The magicians use us to gain more power for themselves and then simply redouble our

bondage! What do
we
get out of it?"

"I have plans, Bartimaeus—"

"Yes, yes, don't we all? Besides, none of this changes the fact that I'm bound to my original charge. There are severe penalties—"

"Penalties can be
endured!"
Faquarl slapped the side of his head in frustration.

"My essence is still recovering from the punishments Lovelace inflicted when you

vanished with his Amulet! In fact, our existence—and don't pretend to apologize,

Bartimaeus; you don't care in the least—our existence here is nothing
but
a series of penalties! Only the cursed magicians themselves change, and as soon as one drops into

his grave, another springs up, dusts off our names and summons us again! They pass on, we endure."

I shrugged. "I think we've had this conversation before. Great Zimbabwe, wasn't

it?"

Faquarl's rage subsided. He nodded. "Maybe so. But I sense change coming and if

you
had
any sense you'd feel it too. The waning of an empire always brings unstable times: trouble rising from the streets, magicians squabbling heedlessly, their brains

softened by luxury and power.... We've both seen this often enough, you and I. Such

occasions give us greater opportunities to act. Our masters get
lazy,
Bartimaeus—they give us more leverage."

"Hardly."

"Lovelace is one of those. Yes, he's strong, all right, but he's reckless. Ever since he first summoned me, he has been frustrated by the limitations of his ministerial role. He aches to emulate the great magicians of the past, to daunt the world with his

achievements. As a result, he worries away at the strings of power like a dog with a

moldy bone. He spends all his time in intrigue and plotting, in ceaseless attempts to gain advantage over his rivals... he never rests. And he's not alone, either. There are others like him in the Government, some even more reckless than he. You know the type: when

magicians play for the highest stakes, they rarely last long. Sooner or later they'll make mistakes and give us our chance. Sooner or later, we'll have our day."

The cook gazed up at the sky. "Well, time's getting on," he said. "Here's my final offer. Guide me to the Amulet and I promise that, whatever penalty you suffer, Lovelace will subsequently take you on. Your master, whoever it is, won't be able to stand in his way. So then we'll be partners, Bartimaeus, not enemies. That'll make a nice change,

won't it?"

"Lovely," I said.

"Or..."
Faquarl placed his hands in readiness on his knees. "You can die here and now in this patch of undistinguished suburban scrub. You know you've never beaten me

before; chance has always saved your bacon.[6] It won't this time."

[6] Chance or, as I prefer to think of it, my own quick-wittedness. But it was true

that somehow I'd always managed to avoid a full-on fight.

As I was considering this rather weighty statement and debating how best to run,

we were interrupted. With a small leafy crashing, something came down through the

branches and bounced gently at our feet. A tennis ball. Faquarl leaped off the stump and I sprang to my feet—but it was too late to hide. Someone was already pushing her way into the center of the copse.

It was the little girl I had seen playing in her drive: about six years old, freckle-

faced, tousle-haired, a baggy T-shirt stretching down to her grubby knees. She stared at us, half fascinated, half alarmed.

For a couple of seconds, not one of us moved. The girl looked at us. Faquarl and I

stared at the girl. Then she spoke.

"You smell of petrol," said the girl.

We did not answer her. Faquarl moved his hand, beginning a gesture. I sensed his

regretful intention.

Why did I act then? Pure self-interest. Because with Faquarl momentarily

distracted, it was the perfect opportunity to escape. And if I happened to save the girl too... well, it was only fair. It was she who gave me the idea.

I lit a small Spark on the end of one finger and tossed it at the cook.

A soft noise, like a gas fire being ignited, and Faquarl was an orange-yellow ball

of flame. As he blundered about, roaring with discomfort, setting fire to the leaves about him, the little girl squealed and ran. It was good thinking: I did the same.[7]

[7] Only without the squeal. Obviously.

And in a few moments I was in the air and far away, hurtling at top speed toward

Highgate and my stupid, misbegotten master.

26

Nathaniel

As evening drew on, the clenching agonies of dread closed in upon Nathaniel.

Pacing about his room like a panther in a cage, he felt as if he were trapped in a dozen different ways. Yes, the door was locked so he could not physically escape, but this was the least of his problems.

At that very moment, his servant Bartimaeus was imprisoned in the Tower, being

subjected to whatever tortures the high magicians could devise. If it really
had
caused carnage in central London this was exactly what the demon deserved. But Nathaniel was

its master. He was responsible for its crimes.

And that meant the magicians would be looking for him too.

Under torture, the threat of Perpetual Confinement would be forgotten.