Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (47 page)

approached the servant at speed. "Let me in too! They want someone extra to serve the drinks!"

"I don't recognize you," the man said, frowning. "Where's young William?"

"Erm, he had a headache. I was called in. At the last minute."

Footsteps along the corridor; a voice of command. "Wait!"

Nathaniel turned. He heard Bartimaeus swearing on the cusp of his earlobe. The

black-bearded mercenary was approaching fast, barefoot ragged cape swinging, blue eyes afire.

"Quick!" The djinni's voice was urgent. "The door's open a crack—slip inside!"

The mercenary quickened his pace. "Stop that boy!"

But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant's shoe.

The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a

squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.

The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. "Shut it on them!"

He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight

on the other side. The door began to swing open.

Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.

"Don't bother," it said. "Let him go in. He deserves his fate."

The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked

into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.

The small voice spoke against his ear. "Now,
that
was ominous," it said.

41

Bartimaeus

From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed,

events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.

First, where were we? By the locked door, on the very edge of the circular glass

floor. This glass had been given a slightly rough surface, so that shoes gripped it, but it was still clear enough for the carpet below to be beautifully displayed. The boy was

standing right above the edge of the carpet—a border depicting interlocking vines.

Nearby, and at intervals around the whole hall, stood impassive servants, each one beside a trolley heavily laden with cakes and beverages. Within this was the semicircle of chairs that I had seen from the window, now groaning under the assembled bottoms of the

magicians. They were sipping their drinks and half listening to the woman, Amanda

Cathcart, who was standing on the podium in the center of the hall, welcoming them all there. At her shoulder, his face expressionless, was Simon Lovelace, waiting.

The woman was wrapping up her speech. "Last, I hope you will not mind my

drawing your attention to the carpet on display below. We commissioned it from Persia, and I believe it is the biggest in England. I think you will find yourselves all included if you look carefully." (Murmured approval, a few cheers.) "This afternoon's discussion will last until six. We will then break for dinner in the heated tents on the lawn outside, where you will be entertained by some Latvian sword jugglers."

(Enthusiastic cheering.) "Thank you. May I now hand you over to your true host,

Mr. Simon Lovelace!" (Strained and ragged clapping.)

While she droned on, I was busy whispering in the boy's ear.[1] I was a head

louse at this point, which is pretty much as small as I can go. Why? Because I didn't want the afrit to notice me until it couldn't be avoided. She was the only otherworld being currently in evidence (for politeness' sake, all the magicians' imps had been dismissed for the duration of the meeting) but she was bound to see me as a threat.

[1] In both senses. And I can tell you I've been in some sticky places in my time,

but for sheer waxy unpleasantness, his earlobe would be hard to beat.

"This is our last chance," I said. "Whatever Lovelace is going to do, take it from me he'll do it now, before the afrit picks up the Amulet's aura. He's got it round his neck.

Can you creep up behind him and pull it into view? That'll rouse the magicians."

The boy nodded. He began to sidle around the edge of the crowd. On the podium,

Lovelace began an obsequious address: "Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, may I say how
honored
we are...."

We were now at the edge of the audience, with a clear run down the edge of the

magicians'

chairs toward the podium. The boy started forward at a canter, with me urging

him on like a jockey does a willing (if stupid) horse.

But as he passed the first delegate, a bony hand shot out and caught him by the

scruff of the neck.

"And where do you think
you're
going, servant?"

I knew that voice. For me it brought back displeasing memories of her Mournful

Orb. It was Jessica Whitwell, all cadaverous cheeks and cropped white hair. Nathaniel

struggled in her grip. I wasted no time, but motored over the top of his ear and down the soft white skin behind it, making for the grasping hand.

Nathaniel wriggled. "Let—me—go!"

"...it is a delight and a privilege...." As yet, Lovelace had heard nothing.

"How
dare
you seek to disrupt this meeting?" Her sharp nails dug cruelly into the boy's neck.

The head louse approached her pale, thin wrist.

"You don't—understand—" Nathaniel choked. "Lovelace has—"

"Silence, brat!"

"...glad to see you here. Sholto Pinn sends his apologies, he is indisposed...."

"Put him in a Stricture, Jessica." This was a magician at the next chair along.

"Deal with him after."

I was at her wrist now. Its underside ran with blue veins.

Head lice aren't big enough for what I had in mind. I became a scarab beetle, with

extra-sharp pincers. I bit with gusto.

The woman's shriek made the chandeliers jangle. She let go of Nathaniel, who

stumbled forward, nearly jolting me from the back of his neck. Lovelace was interrupted

—he spun round, eyes wide. All heads turned.

Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed. "Watch out!" he croaked (the grip on his neck had nearly throttled him). "Lovelace has got the Am—"

A web of white threads rose up around us and closed over Nathaniel's head. The

woman lowered her hand and sucked on her bleeding wrist.

"—ulet of Samarkand! He's going to kill you all! I don't know how, but it's going to be horrible and—"

Wearily, the scarab beetle tapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Don't bother," I said.

"No one can hear you. She's sealed us off."[2] He looked blank. "Not been in one before?

Your lot do it to others all the time."

[2] The threads of a Stricture act as a seal. They allow no object (or sound) to

escape their cocoon It's a kind of temporary prison, more usually employed on

unfortunate humans than on djinn.

I was watching Lovelace. His eyes were locked on Nathaniel, and I caught doubt

and anger flashing across them before he slowly turned back to his speech. He coughed, waiting for the magicians' chattering to die down. Meanwhile, one hand edged toward the hidden shelf in the lectern.

The boy was panicking now; he lashed out weakly at the rubbery walls of the

Stricture.

"Keep calm," I said. "Let me check it: most Strictures have weak links. If I can find one I should be able to break us out." I became a fly and, starting at its top, began to circle carefully across the Stricture's membranes, looking for a flaw.

"But we haven't time...."

I spoke gently to quieten him. "Just watch and listen."

I didn't show it, but I was worried myself now. The boy was right: we really had

no time.

Nathaniel

"But we haven't time—" Nathaniel began.

"Just shut up and watch!" The fly was buzzing frantically around their prison. It sounded decidedly panicked.

Nathaniel had barely enough room to move his hands, and nowhere near enough

to do anything with his legs or feet. It was like being inside a mummy's case or an iron maiden. As he had this thought, the terror of all constricted things bubbled up within him.

He suppressed a mounting urge to scream, took a deep breath and, to help distract

himself, focused on events around him.

After the unfortunate interruption, the magicians had turned their attention back to

the speaker, who was acting as if nothing had happened: "In turn, I would like to thank Lady Amanda for the use of this wonderful hall. Incidentally, may I draw your attention to the remarkable ceiling, with its collection of priceless chandeliers? They were taken from the ruins of Versailles after the French Wars, and are made of adamantine crystal.

Their designer..."

Lovelace had a lot to say about the chandeliers. All the delegates craned their

necks upward, making noises of approval. The opulence of the hall ceiling interested

them greatly.

Nathaniel addressed the fly. "Have you found a weak point yet?"

"No. It's been well put together." It buzzed angrily. "Why did you have to get yourself caught?

We're helpless in here."

Helpless, yet again. Nathaniel bit his lip. "I assume Lovelace is going to summon something," he said.

"Of course. He's got a horn for that purpose, so he doesn't have to speak the

incantation. Saves him time."

"What will it be?"

"Who knows? Something big enough to deal with that afrit, presumably."

Again, panic struggled in Nathaniel's throat, wrestling to be loosened in a cry.

Outside, Lovelace was still describing the intricacies of the ceiling. Nathaniel's eyes flicked back and forth, trying to catch the gaze of one of the magicians, but they were still absorbed in the marvelous chandeliers. He hung his head in despair.

And noticed something odd out of the corner of his eye.

The floor... It was difficult to be sure with the lights glaring in the glass, but he

thought he could see a movement on the floor, like a white wave rapidly traveling across it from the far wall. He frowned; the Stricture's membranes were getting in the way of his vision—he couldn't be sure what he was actually seeing. But it was almost as if

something was covering the carpet.

The fly was wheeling about near the side of his head. "One crumb of comfort," it said. "It can't be anything
too
powerful, or Lovelace would have to use a pentacle. The Amulet's all very well for personal protection, but the
really
strong entities need to be carefully contained. You can't afford to let them go running loose, or risk total

devastation. Look what happened to Atlantis."

Nathaniel had no idea what had happened to Atlantis. He was still watching the

floor. He had suddenly become aware that there was a sense of movement all across the

hall—the whole flooring seemed to be shifting, though the glass itself remained solid and firm. He looked between his feet and saw the smiling face of a young female magician

move quickly past beneath the glass, closely followed by a stallion's head and the leaves of a decorative tree.

It was then that he realized the truth. The carpet was not being covered. It was

being
drawn
back,
quickly and stealthily. And no one else had noticed. While the magicians gazed gawping at the ceiling, the floor below them changed.

"Erm, Bartimaeus—" he said.

"What?
I'm trying to concentrate."

"The floor..."

"Oh." The fly settled on his shoulder. "That's
bad."

As Nathaniel watched, the ornately twining border passed below him, then the

carpet's tasseled edge itself. It moved off, revealing a gleaming surface below—perhaps made of whitewashed plaster—on which great runes were inscribed in shining black ink.

Nathaniel knew immediately what they were standing on, and one glance across the room

confirmed it. He saw sections of perfectly drawn circles, two straight lines converging at the apex of a star, the elegant curving lines of runic characters, both red and black.

"A giant pentacle," he whispered. "And we're all inside."

"Nathaniel," said the fly. "You know I told you to keep calm and not bother waving or shouting?"

"Yes."

"Cancel that. Make as much movement as you can. Perhaps we can attract the

attention of one of these idiots."

Nathaniel jiggled about, waved his hands and jerked his head from side to side.

He shouted until his throat was sore. Around him whirled the fly, its body flashing in a hundred bright warning colors.

But the magicians nearby noticed nothing. Even Jessica Whitwell, who was

closest, still gazed at the ceiling with starry eyes.

The terrible helplessness that Nathaniel had felt on the night of the fire flooded

over him again.

He could feel his energy and resolution draining away.

"Why won't they
look?"
he wailed.

"Pure greed," the fly said. "They're fixated with the trappings of wealth. This is no good. I'd try a Detonation, but it would kill you at this range."

"No, don't do that," Nathaniel said.

"If
only
you'd already freed me from the Indefinite Confinement spell," the fly mused. "Then I could break out and tackle Lovelace. You'd be dead, of course, but I'd save everyone else, honest, and tell them all about your sacrifice. It would—Look! It's happening!"

Nathaniel's eyes had already been drawn to Lovelace, who had made a sudden

movement.

From pointing at the ceiling, his hands now descended to the back of the lectern

with feverish haste.

He drew something out, hurled its covering cloth to the floor and raised the object

to his lips: a horn, old, stained, and cracked. Sweat beaded his forehead; it glistened in the light from the chandeliers.

Something in the crowd gave an inhuman roar of anger. The magicians lowered