I returned to the boy, still motionless under the bush. "No go," I said. "Magician."
"I've got eyes." He sniffed messily. "I know him, too. That's Lime, one of Lovelace's cronies. Don't know why he's in on the plot; he's not very powerful. I once stung him with some mites. He swelled up like a balloon."
"Did you?" I confess I was impressed. "What happened?"
He shrugged. "They beat me. Is that someone coming?"
A bicycle had appeared around the bend in front of us. Upon it was a short, fat man, his legs whirring round like helicopter blades. Above the bicycle's front wheel was an enormous basket, covered with a weighted white cloth. "Butcher," I said.
The boy shrugged. "Maybe. Do we get him?"
"Could you wear his clothes?"
"No."
"Then we let him pass. There'll be other options."
Red—faced and perspiring freely, the cyclist arrived at the crossroads, skidded to a halt, wiped his brow and proceeded on toward the Hall. We watched him go, the boy's eyes mainly on the basket.
"We should have taken him out," he said, wistfully. "I'm starving."
Time passed and the bicycling butcher returned. He whistled as he pedaled, making light of his journey. His basket was now empty, but no doubt his wallet had been nicely filled. Beyond the hedge, one of the sentries trailed in his wake with great loping bounds, its body and tattered robes almost translucent in the sunlight.
The butcher freewheeled into the distance. The boy suppressed a sneeze. The sentry drifted away. I scuttled up a thorn stem that ran through the bush and peered out at the top. The skies were clear; the winter sun bathed the fields with unseasonal warmth. The roads were empty.
Twice more during the next hour, vehicles approached the crossroads. The first was a florist's van, driven by a slatternly woman smoking a cigarette. I was about to pounce on her, when out of the corner of my mouse's eye I spied a trio of blackbird sentries sailing lazily over the copse at low altitude. Their beady eyes flicked hither and thither. No chance: they would have seen everything. I hid and let the woman drive on her way.
The blackbirds flew off, but the next passerby served me no better: a magi—cian's convertible with the top down, this time coming from the direction of the Hall. The driver's face was mostly obscured under a cap and a pair of driving goggles: I only caught a flash of reddish beard, short and clipped, as he shot by.
"Who's that?" I asked. "Another accomplice?"
"Never seen him before. Maybe he was the one who drove in last night."
"He's not sticking around, whoever he is."
The boy's frustration was getting to him. He beat a fist against the grass. "If we don't get in soon, all the other guests will start arriving. We need time in there to find out what's going on. Ahh! If I only had more power!"
"The eternal cry of all magicians," I said wearily. "Have patience."
He looked up at me savagely. "You need time to have patience," he snarled. "We have no time."
But in fact it was only twenty minutes later that we got our chance.
Once again the sound of a car; once again I crossed to the other side of the copse and took a look from the top of the bank. As soon as I did so, I knew the time had come. It was a dark—green grocer's van, tall and squared, with smart black mudguards and a newly washed look. On its side, in proud black lettering, were painted the words SQUALLS AND SON, GROCERS OF CROYDON, TASTY COMESTIBLES FOR SOCIETY—and to my great delight, it appeared as if Squalls and Son themselves were sitting in the cab. An elderly man with a bald head was at the wheel. At his side sat a chipper youth wearing a green cap. Both looked eager and well spruced up for their big day; the old man's head seemed to have been buffed until it shone.
The field mouse flexed its muscles behind its ambush stone.
The van drew closer, its engine rattling and growling under the bonnet. I checked the skies—no blackbirds or other dangers. All clear.
The van drew abreast of the copse, out of sight of the distant Heddleham gateway.
Both Squalls and Son had wound down their windows to catch the pleasant air. Son was humming a happy tune.
Midway past the copse, Son caught a slight rustling noise from outside the cab. He glanced to his right.
And saw a field mouse whistling through the air in a karate attack position, claws out, hind legs foremost—right at him.
The mouse plopped straight through the open window. Neither Squalls nor Son had time to react. There was a whirl of inexplicable movements from within the cab; it rocked violently to and fro. The van swerved gently and ran up against the dirt bank at the side of the road, where its wheel skidded and slipped. The engine petered and cut out.
A moment's silence. The passenger door opened. A man who looked very like Squalls hopped out, reached back in and drew out the unconscious bodies of Squalls and Son. Son had lost the majority of his clothes.
It was the matter of a moment to drag the pair across the road, up the bank and into the depths of the copse. I hid them there under a bramble thicket and returned to the van.[93]
This was the worst bit for me. Djinn and vehicles just don't mix; it's an alien sensation to be trapped in a tin shroud, surrounded by the smells of petrol, oil, and artificial leather, by the stench of people and their creations. It reminds you how weak and shoddy it must feel to be a human, requiring such decrepit devices to travel far.
Besides, I didn't really know how to drive.[94]
Nevertheless, I got the engine started again and managed to reverse away from the bank into the middle of the road. Then onward to the crossroads. All this had taken scarcely a minute, but I admit I was anxious: a sharp—eyed sentry might well wonder why the van was taking so long to clear the trees. At the crossroads I slowed, took a hasty look around, and leaned toward the passenger window.
"Quick! Get in!"
A nearby bush rustled frantically, there was a wrenching at the cab door and the boy was inside, breathing like a bull elephant. The door slammed shut; an instant later, we were on our way, turning right along the Heddleham road.
"It's you, is it?" he panted, staring at me.
"Of course. Now get changed, quick as you can. The sentries will be on us in moments."
He scrabbled around on the seat, ripping off his coat and reaching for Son's discarded shirt, green jacket, and trousers. How smart this outfit had been five minutes before; now it was all crumpled.
"Hurry up! They're coming."
Across the fields from both sides, the sentries approached, hopping and bounding, black rags flapping. The boy pawed at his shirt.
"The buttons are so tight! I can't undo them!"
"Pull it over your head!"
The sentry to my left was approaching fastest. I could see its eyes—two black ovals with pinpricks of light at their cores. I tried to accelerate, pressed the wrong pedal; the van shuddered and nearly stopped. The boy's head was halfway through the shirt collar at the time. He fell forward against the dashboard.
"Ow! You did that on purpose!"
I pressed the correct pedal. We speeded up once more. "Get that jacket on, or we're done. And the cap."
"What about the trousers?"
"Forget them. No time."
The boy had the jacket on and was just jamming the cap down on his tousled head when the two sentries drew alongside. They remained on the other side of the hedges, surveying us with their shining eyes.
"Remember—we shouldn't be able to see them," I said. "Keep looking straight ahead."
"I am." A thought struck him. "Won't they realize what you are?"
"They're not powerful enough." I devoutly hoped that this was true. I thought they were ghuls,[95] but you can never be sure these days.[96]
For a time, we drove along the road toward the bank of trees. Both of us looked straight ahead. The sentries kept pace beside the van.
Presently, the boy spoke again. "What am I going to do about the trousers?"
"Nothing. You'll have to make d
o with what you've got. We'll be at the gate soon. Your top half's smart enough, anyway."
"But—"
"Smooth down your jacket, get rid of any wrinkles you can see. It'll have to do. Right—I'm Squalls and you're my son. We're delivering groceries to Heddleham Hall, fresh for conference day. Which reminds me, we'd better check what it is we're actually bringing. Can you have a look?"
"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.[97] 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.
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.[98] 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?"
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,[99] 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.[100] It was surrounded by a wide expanse of law
n, on which peacocks and wallabies were decoratively scattered.[101] 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.
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."
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