His master waved a hand of dismissal, allowing Nathaniel to turn away and assume a sour expression. He was halfway to the door when his master remembered something.
“One thing more,” he said. “Your Naming has happened just in time. In three days, I shall be attending Parliament to hear the state address given by the Prime Minister to all senior members of his government. It is a largely ceremonial occasion, but he will be outlining his intended policies at home and abroad. Named apprentices are invited too, along with spouses. Providing you do not displease me beforehand, I shall take you with me. It will be an eye-opening experience for you to see us master magicians all together!”
“Yes, sir; thank you very much, sir!” For almost the first time in living memory when talking to his master, Nathaniel’s enthusiasm was actually genuine. Parliament! The Prime Minister! He left the library and ran up the staircase to his room and the skylight, through which the distant Houses of Parliament were barely visible beneath the gray November sky. To Nathaniel, the matchstick tower seemed bathed in sunshine.
A little later, he remembered the tobacco tin in his pocket.
There were still two hours till dinner. Mrs. Underwood was in the kitchen, while his master was on the telephone in his study. Stealthily, Nathaniel left the house by the front door, taking five pounds from the tradesmen’s jar that Mrs. Underwood kept on a shelf in the hall. At the main road, he caught a bus heading south.
Magicians were not known for catching public transport. He sat on the backseat, as far away from the other passengers as possible, watching them get on and off out of the corner of his eye. Men, women, old, young; youths dressed in drab colors, girls with flashes of jewelry at their throats. They bickered, laughed or sat quietly, read newspapers, books, and glossy magazines. Human, yes, but it was easy to see they had no power. To Nathaniel, whose experience of people was very limited, this made them oddly two-dimensional. Their conversations seemed about nothing; the books they read looked trivial. Aside from feeling that most of them were faintly vulgar, he could make nothing of them.
After half an hour the bus arrived at Blackfriars Bridge and the river Thames.
Nathaniel alighted and walked to the very center of the bridge, where he leaned out over the wrought-iron balustrade. The river was at high tide; its fast gray waters raced beneath him, its uneven surface swirling ceaselessly. Along both sides, blank-eyed office towers clustered above the Embankment roads, where car lights and street lamps were just beginning to come on. The Houses of Parliament, Nathaniel knew, stood just around a bend in the river. He had never been so close to them before. The very thought made his heart quicken.
Time enough for that another day. First he had a vital task to accomplish. From one pocket he drew a plastic bag and a half-brick found in his master’s garden. From another he took the tobacco tin. Brick and tin went into the bag, the head of which he tied with a double knot.
Nathaniel gave a quick glance both ways along the bridge. Other pedestrians hurried past him, heads down, shoulders hunched. No one glanced in his direction. Without any more ado, he tossed the package over the balustrade and watched it fall.
Down … down … By the end it was nothing but a white speck. He could barely see the splash.
Gone. Sunk like a stone.
Nathaniel pulled up the collar of his jacket, shielding his neck from the wind gusting along the river. He was safe. Well, safe as he could be for the moment. He had carried out his threat. If Bartimaeus dared betray him now …
It began to rain as he made his way back along the bridge to the bus stop. He walked slowly, lost in thought, almost colliding with several hurrying commuters coming in the opposite direction. They cursed him as they passed, but he barely noticed. Safe … That was all that mattered….
A great weariness descended upon him with every step.
16
When I set out from the boy’s attic window, my head was so full of competing plans and complex stratagems that I didn’t look where I was going and flew straight into a chimney.
Something symbolic in that. It’s what fake freedom does for you.
Off I went, flying through the air, one of a million pigeons in the great metropolis. The sun was on my wings, the cold air ruffled my handsome feathers. The endless rows of gray-brown roofs stretched below me and away to the dim horizon like the furrows of a giant autumn field. How that great space called to me. I wanted to fly until I had left the cursed city far behind, never looking back. I could have done so. No one would have stopped me. I would not be summoned back.
But I could not follow this desire. The boy had made quite clear what would happen if I failed to spy on Simon Lovelace and dish the dirt on him. Sure, I could go anywhere I wanted right now. Sure, I could use any methods I chose to acquire my info (bearing in mind that anything I did that harmed Nathaniel would in due course harm me too). Sure, the boy would not summon me for a while at least. (He was weary and needed rest.1) Sure, I had a month to do the job. But I still had to obey his orders to his satisfaction. If not, I had an appointment with Old Chokey, which at that moment was probably settling softly into the thick, dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames.
Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price.
Thinking things through, I decided that I had the meager choice of starting with a known place or with a known fact. The place was Simon Lovelace’s villa in Hampstead, where much of his secret business presumably occurred. I did not wish to enter it again, but perhaps I could mount a watch outside and see who went in and who went out. The fact was that the magician had seemingly come into possession of the Amulet of Samarkand by ill means. Perhaps I could find someone who knew more about the object’s recent history, such as who had owned it last.
Of the two starting points, visiting Hampstead seemed the best way to begin. At least I knew how to get there.
This time I kept as far away as possible. Finding a house on the opposite side of the road that afforded a decent view of the villa’s front drive and gate, I alighted upon it and perched on the gutter. Then I surveyed the terrain. A few changes had been made to Lovelace’s pad since the night before. The defense nexus had been repaired and strengthened with an extra layer, while the most badly scorched trees had been cut up and taken away. More ominously, several tall, thin, reddish creatures were now prowling the lawns on the fourth and fifth planes.
There was no sign of Lovelace, Faquarl, or Jabor, but then I didn’t expect anything right away. I was bound to have to wait for an hour or so. Fluffing up my feathers against the wind, I settled down to my surveillance.
Three days I stayed on that gutter. Three whole days. It did me good to rest myself, I’m sure, but the ache that grew up within my manifestation made me fretful. Moreover, I was very bored. Nothing significant happened.
Each morning, an elderly gardener toddled around the estate scattering fertilizer on the stretches of lawn where Jabor’s Detonations had landed. In the afternoons, he snipped at token stems and raked the drive before pottering in for a cup of tea. He was oblivious to the red things, three of which stalked him at all times, like giant yearning birds of prey. No doubt only the strict terms of their summoning prevented them from devouring him.
Each evening, a flotilla of search spheres emerged to resume their hunt across the city. The magician himself remained inside, doubtless orchestrating other attempts to locate his amulet. I wondered idly whether Faquarl and Jabor had suffered for letting me escape. One could only hope.
On the morning of the third day, a soft coo of approval broke my concentration. A small, well-presented pigeon had appeared on the guttering to my right and was looking at me with a distinctly interested tilt of the head. Something about it made me suspect it was female. I gave what I hoped was a haughty and dismissive coo and looked away. The pigeon gave a coquettish hop along the guttering. Just what I needed: an amorous bird. I edged away. She hopped a little closer. I edged away again. Now I was right at the end of the gutter, perched
above the opening to the drainpipe.
It was tempting to turn into an alley cat and frighten her out of her feathers, but it was too risky to make a change so close to the villa. I was just about to fly elsewhere, when at long last I spotted something leaving Simon Lovelace’s compound.
A small circular hole widened in the shimmering blue nexus and a bottle-green imp with bat’s wings and the snout of a pig issued through it. The hole closed up; the imp beat his wings and flew down the road at streetlamp height.
He carried a pair of letters in one paw.
At that moment, a purring coo sounded directly in my ear. I half turned my head—and looked directly into the beak of that benighted she-pigeon. With devious feminine cunning she’d seized the opportunity to snuggle right up close.
My response was eloquent and brief. She got a wingtip in the eye and a kick in the plumage. And with that I was airborne, following the imp.
It was clear to me that he was a messenger of some kind, probably entrusted with something too dangerous or secret for telephone or mail. I had seen creatures of his kind before.2 Whatever he was carrying now, this was my first opportunity to spy on Lovelace’s doings.
The imp drifted over some gardens, soaring on an updraft. I followed, laboring somewhat on my stubby wings. As I went I considered the situation carefully. The safest and most sensible thing to do was to ignore the envelopes he was carrying and concentrate instead on making friends with him. I could, for instance, adopt the semblance of another messenger imp and start up a conversation, perhaps winning his confidence during the course of several “chance” meetings. If I were patient, friendly and casual enough, he would no doubt eventually spill some beans….
Or I could just beat him up instead. This was a quicker and more direct approach and all in all I favored it. So I followed the imp at a discreet distance and jumped him over Hampstead Heath.
When we were in a remote enough area, I made the change from pigeon to gargoyle; then I swooped down upon the unlucky imp, and bundled us to earth among some scrubby trees. This done, I held him by a foot and gave him a decent shaking.
“Leggo!” he squealed, flailing back and forth with his four clawed paws. “I’ll have you! I’ll cut you to ribbons, I will!”
“Will you, my lad?” I dragged him into a thicket and fixed him nicely under a small boulder. Only his snout and paws protruded.
“Right,” I said, sitting myself cross-legged on top of the stone and plucking the envelopes from a paw. “First I’m going to read these, then we can talk. You can tell me what and all you know about Simon Lovelace.”
Affecting not to notice the frankly shocking curses that sounded up from below, I considered the envelopes. They were very different. One was plain and completely blank: it bore no name or mark and had been sealed with a small blob of red wax. The other was more showy, made of soft yellowish vellum, its seal had been pressed with the shape of the magician’s monogram, SL. It was addressed to someone named R. Devereaux, Esq.
“First question,” I said. “Who’s R. Devereaux?”
The imp’s voice was muffled but insolent. “You’re kidding! You don’t know who Rupert Devereaux is? You stupid or something?”
“A small piece of advice,” I said. “Generally speaking, it isn’t wise to be rude to someone bigger than you, especially when they’ve just trapped you under a boulder.”
“You can stick your advice up—”
* * * * * * * * *3
“I’ll ask again. Who is Rupert Devereaux?”
“He’s the British Prime Minister, O Most Bounteous and Merciful One.”
“Is he?4 Lovelace does move in high circles. Let’s see what he’s got to say to the Prime Minister, then….”
Extending the sharpest of my claws I carefully prised the sealing wax off the envelope with minimum damage and placed it on the boulder beside me for safekeeping. Then I opened the envelope.
It wasn’t the most thrilling letter I’ve ever intercepted.
Dear Rupert,
Please accept my deepest, most humble apologies, but I may be slightly late arriving at Parliament this evening. Something urgent has come up in relation to next week’s big event and I simply must try to resolve it today. I would not wish for any of the preparations to get badly behind schedule. I do hope you will see fit to forgive me if I am delayed.
May I take this opportunity to say again how eternally grateful we are to have the opportunity of hosting the conference? Amanda has already renovated the hall and is now in the process of installing new soft furnishings (in the Nouveau Persian style) in your suite. She has also ordered a large number of your favorite delicacies, including fresh larks’tongues.
Apologies again. I will certainly be present for your address.
Your faithful and unfailingly obedient servant,
Simon
Just your typical groveling magician-speak, the kind of sycophantic twaddle that leaves an oily sensation on the tongue. And isn’t greatly informative either. Still, at least I had no difficulty in guessing what “something extremely urgent” was—that could only be the missing Amulet, surely. Also, it was noticeable that he needed to sort it out before a “big event” next week—a conference of some kind. Perhaps that was worth investigating. As for Amanda: she could only be the woman I had seen with Lovelace on my first trip to the villa. It would be useful to learn more about her.
I replaced the letter carefully in the envelope, took up the sealing wax, and, by judiciously applying a tiny burst of heat, melted its underside. Then I stuck the seal down again and—presto! Good as new.
Next, I opened the second envelope. Inside was a small slip of paper, inscribed with a brief message.
The tickets remain lost. We may have to cancel the performance. Please consider our options. Will see you at P. tonight.
Now, this was more like it! Much more suspicious: no addressee, no signature at the bottom, everything nice and vague. And, like all the best secret messages, its true meaning was concealed. Or at least, it would have been for any human numbskull who’d chanced to read it. I, on the other hand, instantly saw through all the tripe about lost tickets. Lovelace was quietly discussing his missing amulet again. It looked as if the kid was right: perhaps the magician did have something to hide. It was time to ask my friend the imp a few straight questions.
“Right,” I said, “this blank envelope. Where are you taking it?”
“To the residence of Mr. Schyler, O Most Awful One. He lives in Greenwich.”
“And who is Mr. Schyler?”
“I believe, O Light of All Djinn, that he is Mr. Lovelace’s old master. I regularly take correspondence between them. They are both ministers in the Government.”
“I see.” This was something to go on, if not much. What were they up to? What was this “performance” that might have to be canceled? From the clues in both letters, it seemed that Lovelace and Schyler would meet to discuss their affairs this evening at Parliament. It would be well worth being there to hear what they had to say.
In the meantime, I resumed my enquiries. “Simon Lovelace. What do you know about him? What’s this conference he’s organizing?”
The imp gave a forlorn cry. “O Brilliant Ray of Starlight, it grieves me, but I do not know! May I be toasted for my ignorance! I simply carry messages, worthless as I am. I go where I’m directed and bring replies by return, never deviating from my course and never pausing—unless I am so fortunate as to be waylaid by your good grace and squashed under a stone.”
“Indeed.Well, who is Lovelace closest to? Who do you carry messages to most often?”
“O Most Glorious Person of High Repute, perhaps Mr. Schyler is his most frequent correspondent. Otherwise, no one stands out. They are mainly politicians and people of stature in London society. All magicians, of course, but they vary greatly. Only the other day, for instance, I carried messages to Tim Hildick, Minister for the Regions, to Sholto Pinn of Pinn’s Accoutrements and to and from Quentin Make
peace, the theatrical impresario. That is a typical cross-section.”
“Pinn’s Accoutrements—what’s that?”
“If anyone else asked that question, O He Who is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool; in you it is a sign of that disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue. Pinn’s Accoutrements is the most prestigious supplier of magical artifacts in London. It is situated on Piccadilly. Sholto Pinn is the proprietor.”
“Interesting. So if a magician wanted to buy an artifact he would go to Pinn’s?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Miraculous One, it’s difficult to think of new titles for you when you ask short questions.”
“We’ll let it pass this time. So, other than Schyler, no one stands out among all his contacts? You’re sure?”
“Yes, Exalted Being. He has many friends. I cannot single one out.”
“Who’s Amanda?”
“I could not say, O Ace One. Perhaps she is his wife. I have never taken messages to her.”
“‘O Ace One.’ You really are struggling, aren’t you? All right. Two last questions coming up. First: have you ever seen or delivered messages to a tall, dark-bearded man wearing a travel-stained cloak and gloves? Glowering, mysterious. Second: What servants does Simon Lovelace employ? I don’t mean squirts like yourself, but potent ones like me. Look sharp and I might remove this pebble before I go.”
The imp’s voice was doleful. “I wish I could satisfy your every whim, Lord of All You Survey, but first, I fear I have never set eyes on such a bearded person, and second, I do not have access to any of the magician’s inner chambers. There are formidable entities within; I sense their power, but fortunately I have never met them. All I know is that this morning the master installed thirteen ravenous krels in his grounds. Thirteen! One would be bad enough. They always go for my leg when I arrive with a letter.”
I debated for a moment. My biggest lead was the Schyler connection. He and Lovelace were up to something, no doubt about it, and if I eavesdropped at Parliament that evening, I might very well find out what. But that meeting was hours away; in the meantime, I thought I would call in on Pinn’s Accoutrements of Piccadilly. For sure, Lovelace hadn’t got his Amulet there, but I might learn something about the bauble’s recent past if I checked the place out.
Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand Page 12