Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (42 page)

"But—"

"Don't worry, there's nothing odd about you peering in the back." Between us, in the rear wall of the cab, was a metal hatch. I gestured at it. "Have a quick peek. I would, but I'm driving."

"Very well." He kneeled on the seat and, opening the hatch, stuck his head

through.

"It's quite dark... there's lots of stuff in here...."

"Can you make anything out?" I took a glance at him and nearly lost control of the wheel. The van swerved wildly toward the hedge; I righted it just in time.

"Your trousers! Sit back down! Where are your trousers?"

He sat back in his seat. The view to my left improved markedly. "I took my ones

off, didn't I?

You told me not to put the new ones on."

"I didn't realize you'd ditched the others! Put them on."

"But the sentry will see—"

"The sentry's already seen, believe you me. Just put them on."

As he fumbled with his shoes against the dashboard, I shook my shiny head.

"We'll just have to hope ghuls aren't too clever when it comes to the etiquette of human attire. Maybe they'll think it normal for you to be changing costume now. But the guards at the gate will be more perceptive, you can be sure of that."

We were nearly at the boundary of the estate. Trees spanned the view through the

windscreen.

The road ahead curved into them in leisurely fashion; almost immediately the

great arch came in sight.

Constructed from massive blocks of yellow sandstone, it rose from the bushes at

the roadside with the portentous solidity of a hundred thousand similar arches across the world.[6] What particular lordling had paid for this one, and why he had done so, I

doubted anyone knew. The faces on the caryatids that held up the roof were worn away,

the detail on the inscriptions likewise. Eventually, the ivy that clung to it all would destroy the stonework too.

[6] All built to celebrate one insignificant tribe's victory over another. From Rome

to Beijing, Timbuktu to London, triumphal arches crop up wherever there are cities,

heavy with the weight of earth and death. I've never seen one I liked.

Above and around the arch, the red dome soared into the sky and extended into

the woods.

Only through the arch was the way clear.

Our accompanying sentries were looking ahead of them expectantly.

A few meters from the arch I slowed the van to a halt, but kept the engine on. It

thrummed gently. We sat in the cab waiting.

A wooden door opened in one side of the arch and a man came striding out. At my

side, the boy gave a slight shiver. I glanced at him. Pale as he was, he'd just gone paler.

His eyes were round as dinner plates.

"What is it?" I hissed.

"It's
him...
the one I saw in the disc, the one who brought the Amulet to Lovelace."

There was no time to answer, no time to act. Strolling casually, smiling a little

smile, the murderer approached the van.

36

So here he was—the man who had stolen the Amulet of Samarkand and vanished

without a trace, the man who had cut its keepers throat and left him lying in his blood.

Lovelace's hireling.

For a human, he was sizeable, a head taller than most men and broad-shouldered.

He wore a long buttoned jacket of dark cloth and wide trousers in the Eastern style that were loosely tucked into high leather boots. His beard was jet-black, his nose broad, his eyes a piercing blue beneath his heavy brows. For a big man, he moved gracefully, one

hand swinging easily at his side, the other tucked into his belt.

The mercenary walked around the bonnet toward my side window, his eyes on us

all the while.

As he drew close, he looked away and waved dismissively; I glimpsed our escort

ghuls vanishing back toward the fields.

I stuck my head partway out of the window. "Good morning," I said cheerily, in what I hoped was a suitable London accent. "Ernest Squalls and Son, with a delivery of groceries for the Hall."

The man stopped and considered us silently for a moment.

"Squalls and Son..." The voice was slow, deep; the blue eyes seemed to look

through me as he spoke. It was a disconcerting effect; at my side, the boy gave an

involuntary gulp; I hoped he wasn't going to panic. "Squalls and Son... Yes, you are expected."

"Yes, guv'nor."

"What have you brought?"

"Groceries, guv'nor."

"Namely?"

"Um..." I hadn't a clue. "All sorts, guv'nor. Would you like to inspect them?"

"A list will suffice."

Drat. "Very well, guv. Um, we've got boxes, we've got tins—lots of tins, sir—

packets of things, bottles—"

The eyes narrowed. "You don't sound very specific."

A high voice sounded at my elbow. Nathaniel leaned across me. "He didn't take

the list, sir. I did. We've got Baltic caviar, plovers' eggs, fresh asparagus, cured Bolognese salami, Syrian olives, vanilla stalks from Central America, freshly made pasta, larks'

tongues in aspic, giant land snails marinated in their shells, tubes of freshly ground black pepper and rock salt, Wirral oysters, ostrich meat—"

The mercenary held up a hand. "Enough.
Now
I wish to inspect them."

"Yes, guv'nor." Glumly I got down from the cab and led the way to the back of the van, devoutly wishing that the boy hadn't let his imagination run away with him quite so much. What would happen when some completely different groceries were revealed I did

not care to think. But it could not be helped now. With the mercenary looming

impassively at my side, I opened the rear door and inched it open.

He surveyed the interior for a few moments. "Very well. You may continue up to

the house."

Almost in disbelief I considered the contents of the van. A crate of bottles in one

corner caught my eye: Syrian olives. Half hidden behind them, a small box of larks'

tongues, sheets of wrapped pasta... I shut the door and returned to the cab.

"Any directions for us, guv'nor?"

The man rested a hand on the lip of my open window: the back of the hand was

crisscrossed with thin white scars. "Follow the drive until it splits, take the right fork to the rear of the house.

Someone will meet you there. Carry out your business and return. Before you go,

I shall give you a warning: you are now entering the private property of a great magician.

Do not stray or trespass if you value your lives. The penalties are severe and would curdle your blood."

"Yes, sir." With a nod, he stepped back and signaled us to pass. I revved the engine and we passed slowly under the arch. Soon afterward we crossed beneath the

protective domes; both made my essence tingle. Then we were through, and following a

sandy, curving driveway between the trees.

I regarded the boy. His face was impassive, but a single bead of sweat trickled

down his temple.

"How did you know all the items?" I said. "You only had a couple of seconds looking in the back."

He gave a thin smile. "I've been trained. I read fast and remember accurately. So, what did you think of him?"

"Lovelace's little assassin? Intriguing. He's not a djinni, and I don't think he's a magician either—he doesn't quite have your scent of corruption.[1] But we know he was

able to seize the Amulet, so he must have some power.... And he exudes great confidence.

Did you notice how the ghuls obeyed him?"

[1] I wasn't being rude here. Well, all right, I
was,
but it was accurate abuse nevertheless. I may not be a search sphere imp (all nostrils, remember), but I've got an acute sense of smell, and can nearly always identify a magician, even when they're going incognito. All those years of hanging out in smoky rooms summoning powerful entities

gives their skin a distinctive odor, in which incense and the sharp pang of fear feature prominently. If after that you're still unsure, the clincher is to look 'em in the eyes: usually you can see their lenses.

The boy runkled his forehead. "If he's not a magician or a demon, what sort of

power can he have?"

"Don't deceive yourself," I said darkly; "there
are
other kinds." I was thinking of the Resistance girl and her companions.

I was spared further questioning, as the driveway suddenly straightened and we

broke out of the belt of trees. And up ahead we saw Heddleham Hall.

The boy gasped.

It didn't have quite the same effect on me. When you've helped construct several

of the world's most majestic buildings, and in some instances given pretty useful tips to the architects concerned,[2] a second-rate Victorian mansion in the Gothic style doesn't exactly wet your whistle. You know the kind of thing: lots of twiddly bits and turrets.[3]

It was surrounded by a wide expanse of lawn, on which peacocks and wallabies were

decoratively scattered.[4] A couple of striped tents had been erected on the lawns, to which sundry servants were already carting trays of bottles and wineglasses down from

the terrace. In front of the house was a massive, ancient yew; under its spreading limbs the driveway split. The left-hand fork swooped elegantly round to the front of the house; the right-hand fork trundled meekly round the back. As per our orders, we took the

tradesmen's route.

[2] Not that my advice was always taken: check out the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

[3] Not a good enough description for you? Well, I was only trying to move the

story on. Heddleham Hall was a great rectangular pile with stubby north—south wings,

plenty of tall, arched windows, two stories, high sloping gables, a surfeit of brick

chimneys, ornate tracery that amounted to the Baroque, faux-battlements above the main door, high vaulted ceilings (heavily groined), sundry gargoyles (likewise) and all

constructed from a creamy-brown stone that looked attractive in moderation but en masse made everything blur like a big block of melting fudge.

[4]
So
decoratively that I wondered if their feet had been glued in position.

My master was still drinking the whole sight in with a lustful look.

"Forget your pathetic daydreams," I said. "If you want to end up with one of these, you've got to survive today first. So—now we're inside, we need to formulate our plan. What exactly is it?"

The boy was focused again in an instant. "From what Lovelace told us," he said,

"we guess that he is going to attack the ministers in some way. How, we don't know. It'll happen once they've arrived, when they're most relaxed and unawares. The Amulet is

vital to his scheme, whatever it is."

"Yes. Agreed." I tapped the steering wheel. "But what about
our
plan?"

"We've got two objectives: to find the Amulet and to work out what trap Lovelace

is preparing.

Lovelace will probably have the Amulet on his person. In any event, it'll be well

guarded. It would be useful to locate it, but we don't want to take it from him until

everyone's arrived. We've got to show them that he has it: prove he's a traitor. And if we can show them the trap too, so much the better.

We'll have all the evidence we need."

"You make it sound so simple." I considered Faquarl, Jabor, and all the other slaves Lovelace was likely to have to hand, and sighed. "Well, first we need to ditch this van and these disguises."

The driveway came to a sudden end at a circular area of gravel at the back of the

house. The florist's van was parked there. A set of white double doors was open nearby, with a man dressed in a dark uniform standing outside. He indicated for us to pull over.

"All right," the boy said. "We unload the van and seize the first chance we get.

Wait for my orders."

"Hey, do I ever do anything else?" I managed to skid the van to a halt a few millimeters away from the ornamental shrubbery and got out. The flunky approached.

"Mr. Squalls?"

"That's me, guv'nor. This here's... my son."

"You're late. The cook has need of your items. Please bring them to the kitchen

with all speed."

"Yes, guv'nor." An uneasy feeling ran through my essence and rippled the bristles on the back of my neck. The cook... No, it wouldn't be. He'd be elsewhere, surely. I

opened the van door.

"Son—snap to it, or you'll feel the back of my hand!"

I took a certain bleak pleasure in loading the boy up with as many jars of Syrian

olives and giant land snails as I could, then propelled him on his way. He staggered off under his load, not unlike Simpkin in Pinn's shop.[5] I selected a small tub of larks'

tongues and followed him through the doors and into a cool, whitewashed passage.

Various servants of every shape, sex, and size were racing about like startled hares,

engaged in a hundred tasks; everywhere there was a great clattering and hubbub. A scent of baked bread and roasting meats hung in the air, emanating from a wide arch that led on to the kitchen.

[5] Don't think I'd forgotten Simpkin. On the contrary. I have a long memory and

a fertile imagination. I had plans for him.

I peered through the arch. Dozens of white-clothed under-cooks, chopping,

basting, rinsing, slicing... Something turned on the spit in the fireplace. Stacks of

vegetables were piled high on tables beside open pastry cases being filled with jellied fruits. It was a hive of activity. Orchestrating it all was a sizeable head chef, who at that moment was shouting at a small boy wearing a blue uniform.

The chef's sleeves were rolled up. He had a thick white bandage wrapped round

one arm.

I checked the seventh plane.

And ducked back out of sight. I knew those tentacles far too well for there to be

any doubt.

My master had entered the kitchen, placed his precarious load on a nearby work