Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (36 page)

"I have my scrying glass," Nathaniel said. "And I have you." Hurriedly, he sat himself back beside the fire. The cold of the room still pierced him through.

"Ah yes, I was coming to that." The djinni began clearing a space among the

debris of the floor with the side of its boot. "When you've calmed down a bit, I shall bring you some chalk. Then you can draw me a circle here and set me free."

Nathaniel stared at him.

"I've completed my charge," the boy continued. "And more, much more. I spied on Lovelace for you. I found out about the Amulet. I saved your life."

Nathaniel's head felt oddly light and woozy, as if it were stuffed with cloth.

"Please! Don't rush to thank me!" the boy went on. "I'll only get embarrassed. All I want is to see you drawing that pentacle. That's all I need."

"No," Nathaniel said. "Not yet."

"Sorry?" the boy replied. "My hearing must be going, on account of that dramatic rescue I pulled off last night. I thought you just said no."

"I did. I'm not setting you free. Not yet."

A heavy silence fell. As Nathaniel watched, his little fire began to dwindle, as if it were being sucked down through the floor. It vanished altogether. With little cracking noises, ice began to crust onto the scraps of wood that a moment before had been burning nicely. Cold blistered his skin. His breath became harsh and painful.

He staggered upright. "Stop that!" he gasped. "Bring back the fire."

The djinni's eyes glittered. "It's for your own good," it said. "I've just realized how inconsiderate I was being. You don't want to see another fire—not after the one you

caused last night. Your conscience would hurt you too much."

Flickering images rose before Nathaniel's eyes: flames erupting from the ruined

kitchen. "I didn't start the fire," he whispered. "It wasn't my fault."

"No?
You
hid the Amulet.
You
framed Underwood."

"No! I didn't intend Lovelace to come. It was for security—"

The boy sneered. "Sure it was—
your
security."

"If Underwood had been any good he'd have survived! He'd have fought Lovelace

off—raised the alarm!"

"You don't believe that. Let's face it,
you
killed them both."

Nathaniel's face twisted in fury. "I was going to expose Lovelace! I was going to trap him with the Amulet—show the authorities!"

"Who cares? You were too late. You failed."

"Thanks to you, demon! If you hadn't led them to the house none of this would

have happened!"

Nathaniel seized on this idea like a drowning man. "It's all your fault and I'm

going to pay you back!

Think you're ever going to be freed? Think again! You're staying permanently. It's

Perpetual Confinement for you!"

"Is that so? In that case—" the counterfeit boy stepped forward and was suddenly very close—"I might as well kill you myself right now. What have I got to lose? I'll be in the tin either way, but I'll have the satisfaction of breaking your neck first." Its hand descended gently on Nathaniel's shoulder.

Nathaniel's skin crawled. He resisted the overpowering temptation to shy away

and run, and instead stared back into the dark, blank eyes.

For a long moment, neither said anything.

At last Nathaniel licked his dry lips. "That won't be necessary," he said thickly.

"I'll free you before the month is up."

The djinni pulled him closer. "Free me
now!"

"No." Nathaniel swallowed. "We have work to do first."

"Work?" It frowned; its hand stroked his shoulder. "What work? What is there to do?"

Nathaniel forced himself to remain quite still. "My master and his wife are dead. I must avenge them. Lovelace must pay for what he did."

The whispering mouth was very near now, but Nathaniel could feel no breath

against his face.

"But I've told you. Lovelace is too powerful. You haven't a hope of besting him.

Forget the matter, as I do. Release me and forget your troubles."

"I cannot."

"Why so?"

"I—I owe it to my master. He was a good man—"

"No, he wasn't. That's not the reason at all." The djinni whispered directly into his ear. "It isn't justice or honor that drives you now, boy, but guilt. You can't take the consequences of your actions.

You seek to drown out what you've done to your master and his wife. Well, if

that's the way you humans choose to suffer, so be it. But leave me out of the equation."

Nathaniel spoke with a firmness he did not feel. "Until your month is up you'll

obey me if you ever want your freedom."

"Going after Lovelace practically amounts to suicide in any case—yours
and

mine." The boy smiled nastily. "That being so, I still don't see why I shouldn't kill you now...."

"There will be ways to expose him!" Nathaniel could not help himself; he was speaking far too fast. "We just need to think it through carefully. I'll make a bargain with you. Help me avenge myself on Lovelace and I'll set you free immediately afterward.

Then there can be no doubt about our positions. It's in both our interests to succeed."

The djinni's eyes glittered. "As always, a laudably fair arrangement, dictated from a one-sided position of power. Very well. I have no choice. But if at any time you place either of us at undue risk, be warned—I shall get my revenge first."

"Agreed."

The boy stepped back and released Nathaniel's shoulder. Nathaniel retreated, eyes

wide, breathing hard. Humming gently, the djinni wandered to the window, reigniting the fire casually as it passed. Nathaniel struggled to calm himself, to regain control. Another wave of misery washed through him, but he did not succumb. No time for that. He must

appear strong in front of his slave.

"Well then, master," the djinni said. "Enlighten me. Tell me what we do."

Nathaniel kept his voice as level as he could. "First, I need food, and perhaps new clothes. Then we must pool our information on Lovelace and the Amulet. We also need to know what the authorities think about... about what happened last night."

"That last one's easy," Bartimaeus said, pointing out of the window. "Look out there."

32

"Times!
Morning edition!"

The newspaper boy wheeled his handcart slowly along the pavement, stopping

whenever passersby thrust coins in his direction. The crowd was thick and the boy's

progress was slow. He had barely made it as far as the baker's by the time Nathaniel and Bartimaeus sidled out from the alley beside the derelict library and crossed the road to meet him.

Nathaniel still had in his pocket the remnants of the money he had stolen from

Mrs.

Underwood's jar a few days before. He glanced at the cart: it was piled high with

copies of
The
Times
—the Government's official paper. The newspaper boy himself wore a large, checked cloth cap, fingerless gloves, and a long dark coat that reached almost to his ankles. The tips of his fingers were mauve with cold. Every now and then he roared out the same hoarse call:
"Times!
Morning edition!"

Nathaniel had little experience of dealing with commoners. He hailed the boy in

his deepest, most assertive voice.
"The Times.
How much is it?"

"Forty pence, kid." Coldly, Nathaniel handed over the change and received the newspaper in return. The paperboy glanced at him, first incuriously, and then with what seemed a sudden intense interest. Nathaniel made to pass on, but the boy addressed him.

"You look rough, chum," he said cheerily. "Been out all night?"

"No." Nathaniel adopted a stern expression, which he hoped would discourage

further curiosity.

It didn't work. "Course you ain't, course you ain't," the paperboy said. "And I wouldn't blame you for not admitting it if you had. But you ought to be careful with the curfew on. The police are sniffing about more than usual."

"What curfew's this?" the djinni asked.

The paperboy's eyes widened. "Where've you been, mate? After that disgraceful

attack on Parliament, there's an eight o'clock curfew each night this week. It won't do nothing, but the search spheres are out, and the Night Police too, so you'll want to hole up somewhere before they find you and eat you. Looks to me like you struck lucky so far.

Tell you what—I could find you a good place to shelter tonight, if you need it. It's safe, and the spot to go"—he paused, looked up and down the street, and lowered his voice

—"if you've got anything you might want to sell."

Nathaniel looked at him blankly. "Thank you. I haven't."

The boy scratched the back of his head. "Suit yourself. Well, can't hang about

chatting. Some of us have got work to do. I'm off." He took up the poles of his handcart and moved away, but Nathaniel noticed him look back at them over his shoulder more

than once.

"Strange," Bartimaeus said. "What was that about?"

Nathaniel shrugged. He had already dismissed it from his mind. "Go and get me

some food and warmer clothes. I'll go back to the library and read this."

"Very well.
Do
try to keep out of trouble while I'm gone." The djinni turned and headed off into the crowd.

The article was on page two, sandwiched between the Employment Ministry's

monthly request for new apprentices and a short report from the Italian campaign. It was three columns in length. It noted with regret the deaths in a severe house fire of the Internal Affairs Minister Arthur Underwood and his wife, Martha. The blaze had started at approximately 10:15 P.M. and had only been fully extinguished by fire crews and

emergency service magicians three hours later, by which time the whole building had

been gutted. Two neighboring houses had been badly affected, and their occupants

evacuated to safety. The cause of the fire was unknown, but police were keen to interview Mr. Underwood's apprentice, John Mandrake, aged twelve, whose body had not been

recovered.

Some confused reports had him being observed running from the scene.

Mandrake was rumored to be of an unstable disposition; he was known to have assaulted

several prominent magicians the year before and the public was told to approach him

with caution. Mr. Underwood's death, the article concluded, was a sad loss to the

Government; he had served his ministry ably all his life and made many significant

contributions, none of which the paper had space to describe.

Sitting below the windows, Nathaniel let the paper drop. His head sank against his

chest; he closed his eyes. Seeing in cold, clear print the confirmation of what he already knew struck him like a fresh blow. He reeled with it, willing the tears to come, but his grief remained pent up, elusive. It was no good. He was too tired for anything. All he wanted was to sleep....

A boot nudged him, not softly. He started and awoke.

The djinni stood over him, grinning. It carried a paper bag from which steam

curled promisingly.

Raw hunger overcame Nathaniel's dignity—he snatched the bag, almost spilling

the polystyrene cup of coffee on his lap. To his relief, beneath the cup were two neatly wrapped greaseproof paper parcels, each containing a hot steak sandwich. It seemed to

Nathaniel that he had never eaten anything half as good in his entire life. In two straight minutes, both sandwiches were gone and he sat nursing the coffee in his chilblained

fingers, breathing heavily.

"What
an exhibition," the djinni said.

Nathaniel slurped the coffee. "How did you get this?"

"Stole it. Got a delicatessen man to make it all up, then ran off with it while he was at the cash register. Nothing fancy. The police were summoned."

Nathaniel groaned. "That's all we need."

"Don't worry. They'll be looking for a tall blond woman in a fur coat. Speaking of which"—it pointed to a small mound amid the debris of the floor—"you'll find some better clothing there. Coat, trousers, hat, and gloves. I hope they'll fit you. I picked the scrawniest sizes I could find."

A few minutes later, Nathaniel was better fed, better clothed, and partially

revived. He sat beside the fire and warmed himself. The djinni crouched nearby, staring into the flames.

"They think I did it." Nathaniel indicated the newspaper.

"Well, what do you expect? Lovelace isn't going to come clean, is he? What

magician would do a stupid thing like that?" Bartimaeus eyed him meaningfully. "The whole point of starting the fire was to hide all trace of his visit. And since he couldn't kill you, he's set you up to take the rap."

"The police are after me."

"Yep. The police on one side, Lovelace on the other. He'll have his scouts out

trying to track you down. A nice little pincer movement. That's what he wants—to keep

you on the run, isolated, out of his hair."

Nathaniel ground his teeth. "We'll see about that. What if I go to the police

myself? They could raid Lovelace's house—find the Amulet...."

"Think they'll listen to you? You're a wanted man. I use
man
in the broadest possible sense there, obviously. Even if you weren't, I'd be cautious about contacting the authorities. Lovelace isn't acting alone. There's his old master, Schyler—"

"Schyler?" Of course—the wizened red-faced old man. "Schyler is his master?

Yes... I know him. I overheard them discussing the Amulet at Parliament. There's another one, too, called Lime."

The djinni nodded. "That may just be the tip of the iceberg. A great many search

spheres chased me when I stole the Amulet that first night—they were the work of

several magicians. If it
is
a wide conspiracy, and you go to the authorities, you can't trust anyone in a position of power not to tip him off and kill you instead. For example, Sholto Pinn, the artifact merchant, may be in on it. He is one of Lovelace's closest friends, and in fact was having lunch with him only yesterday. I discovered that shortly before I was