Part One 6 page

Well, I have come to a decision. Mandrake, you have proved yourself more than capable in the past.

Now do so again. Organize this surveillance and track down the perpetrator. Hunt out the Resistance, too. I want results. If Internal Affairs fails"—here he eyed Nathaniel and Ms. Whitwell meaningfully—"we will have to let other departments take over. I suggest you head off now and pick your demons with due care. For the rest of us—it is Founder's Day, and we should be celebrating.

Let us go to dinner!"

Ms. Whitwell did not speak until the purring car had left Richmond village far behind them. "You have made an enemy in Duvall," she said at last. "And I don't think the others care for you much either. But that is now the least of your worries." She looked out at the dark trees, the rushing countryside at dusk. "I have faith in you, John," she went on. "This idea of yours may bear some fruit.

Talk to Tallow, get your department working, send out your demons." She ran a long, thin hand through her hair. "I cannot concentrate on this problem myself. I have too much to do preparing for the American campaigns. But if you succeed in discovering our enemy, if you bring some pride back to Internal Affairs, you will be well rewarded..." The statement held the implication of its opposite.

She left it hanging; she did not need to say the rest.

Nathaniel felt impelled to respond. "Yes, ma'am," he said huskily. "Thank you."

Ms. Whitwell nodded slowly. She glanced at Nathaniel and despite his admiration and respect for his master, despite his years living in her house, he suddenly felt that she was eyeing him dispassionately, as if from a great distance. It was the look that an airborne hawk might give a scrawny rabbit, while considering whether it was worth the plunge. Nathaniel was suddenly overly conscious of his youth and frailty, of his raw vulnerability beside her power.

"We do not have much time," his master said. "For your sake, I hope you have a competent demon readily to hand."

Bartimaeus

As always, of course, I tried to resist.

I exerted all my energies to counteract the pull, but the wrenching words were just too strong; each syllable was a harpoon spearing my substance, drawing it together, dragging me off. For three short seconds, the gentle gravity of the Other Place helped me hang back... then, all at once, its support weakened and I was torn away like a child from its mother's breast.

With extreme suddenness, my essence was compacted, extended to an infinite length and, a moment later, expelled out into the world and the familiar, hated confinements of a pentacle.

Where, following the immemorial laws, I materialized instantly.

Choices, choices. What should I be? The summons was a powerful one—the unknown magician was certainly experienced, and thus unlikely to be cowed by a roaring buggane or a cobweb-eyed specter. So I decided upon a delicate, fastidious guise to impress upon my captor my formidable sophistication.

It was a snappy piece of work, if I say so myself. A large iridescent bubble, glimmering all over with a pearly sheen, rotated in midair. Soft fragrances of aromatic woods drifted forth, with—faintly, as if borne from a great distance—the ethereal music of harps and violins. Inside the bubble, with little round spectacles perched upon her shapely nose, sat a beautiful maiden.[1] She peered calmly out.

[1] Her face was based on a vestal virgin I'd met in Rome, a woman of admirably independent outlook. Julia used to sneak away from the Sacred Flame by night to bet on the chariots at the Circus Maximus. She didn't really wear spectacles, of course. I added them here to give the face a bit more gravitas. Call it artistic license.

And let off a cry of astonished fury.

"You!"

"Now, hold on, Bartimaeus—"

"You!" The ethereal music cut off with an unpleasant squelch; the soft aromatic fragrances turned rank and sour. The beautiful maiden's face grew crimson, her eyes bulged like a pair of poached eggs, the glass in the spectacles cracked. Her rosebud mouth opened to reveal sharp yellow teeth champing up and down with rage. Flames danced inside the bubble and its surface swelled dangerously, as if about to burst. It spun so fast, the air began to hum.

"Just listen for a minute—"

"We had an agreement! We each made a vow!"

"Now, strictly speaking, that's not quite true—"

"No? Have you forgotten so soon? And it is soon, isn't it? I lose track in the Other Place, but you look barely different from before. You're still a kid!"

He drew himself up. "I am an important member of the government—"

"You're not even shaving. What is it?—two years later, maybe three?"

"Two years, eight months."

"So you're fourteen now. And already you're summoning me again."

"Yes, but wait a minute—I never made a vow back then. I just let you go. I never said—"

"That you'd not call me back? That was the firm implication. I'd forget your true name, you'd forget mine. Deal. But now..." Inside the whirling bubble, the beautiful maiden's face was fast regressing down an evolutionary slope—a prominent beetling brow had appeared, a jagged nose, red feral eyes... the little round glasses were somewhat out of place, and a claw reached up within the bubble, seized the glasses, and shoved them into the mouth, where sharp teeth crunched them into powder.

The boy raised a hand. "Just stop messing around and listen to me for a moment."

"Listen to you? Why should I do that, when the ache from last time has barely gone? I can tell you I was anticipating rather longer than two years—"

"Two years, eight months."

"Two measly human years to get over the trauma of meeting you. Sure, I knew some idiot with a pointy hat would one day call me up again, but I hardly thought it would be the same idiot as last time!"

He pursed his lips. "I don't have a pointy hat."

"You're a fool! I know your birth name and you bring me back into the world against my will.

Well, that's fine, because I'm going to crow it from the rooftops before I'm done!"

"No—you vowed—"

"My vow is over, finished, void, annulled, returned to sender marked unopened. Two can play at your game, boy." The maiden's face was gone. Instead, a bestial shape, all teeth and spiny hair, snapped at the bubble's surface as if trying to break free.

"If you'll just give me a minute to explain! I'm doing you a favor!"

"A favor? Oh boy, this is going to be priceless! This I've got to hear."

"In that case keep quiet for half a second and let me speak."

"All right! Fine! I'll be quiet."

"Good."

"I'll be silent as the grave. Your grave, incidentally."

"In that case—"

"And we'll see if you can even remotely come up with an excuse worth hearing, because I doubt—"

"Will you shut up!" The magician raised a sudden hand and I felt a corresponding pressure on the outside of the bubble. I stopped ranting sharpish.

He took a deep breath, smoothed back his hair and adjusted his cuffs unnecessarily. "Right," he said. "I'm two years older, as you so correctly guessed. But I'm two years wiser as well. And I should warn you I won't be using the Systemic Vise, if you misbehave. No. Have you ever experienced the Inverted Skin? Or the Essence Rack? Of course you have. With a personality like yours, it's guaranteed.[2] Well, then. Don't try my patience now."

[2] He was right, sadly. I'd suffered both in my time. The Inverted Skin is particularly vexing. It makes motion difficult and conversation almost impossible. Plays hell with your soft furnishings, too.

"We've been through all this before," I said. "Remember? You know my name, I know yours.

You fire a punishment at me, I fire it right back. Nobody wins. We both get hurt."

The boy sighed, nodded. "True. Perhaps we should both calm down." He crossed his arms and gave himself over to a few moments' grim contemplation of my bubble.[3]

[3] Which now hung dead still a few feet off the floor. The surface was opaque, the monster inside having vanished in a huff.

I regarded him bleakly in my turn. His face still had the old pale and hungry look, or at least the bit I could see did, since half of it was curtained by a veritable mane of hair. I swear he hadn't been within a mile of a pair of scissors since I'd last set eyes on him; his locks cascaded around his neck like a greasy black Niagra.

As for the rest, he was less weedy than before, true, but he hadn't so much gotten bulkier as been clumsily stretched. He looked as if some giant had grabbed his head and feet, yanked once, then gone off in disgust: his torso was narrow as a spindle, his arms and legs gangly and ill-fitting, his feet and hands quietly reminiscent of an ape's.

The gangly effect was heightened by his choice of clothes: a swanky suit, so tight it looked as if it had been painted on, a ridiculous long black coat, dagger-sharp shoes, and a flouncy handkerchief the size of a small tent hanging from his breast pocket. You could tell he thought he looked terribly dashing.

There were some cast-iron insult opportunities here, but I bided my time. I took a quick look around the room, which appeared to be some formal summoning chamber, probably in a government building. The floor was laid with a kind of artificial wood, entirely smooth, without knots or defects, evidently perfect for pentacle construction. A glass-fronted cupboard in one corner held an array of chalks, rulers, compasses, and papers. Another beside it was filled with jars and bottles of several dozen incenses. Aside from these, the chamber was completely bare. The walls were painted white.

A square window high in one wall looked onto a black night sky; a drab cluster of bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling illuminated the room. The only door was made of iron and was bolted on the inside.

The boy came to the end of his musing, adjusted his cuffs again, and furrowed his brow. He put on a slightly pained expression: he was either attempting to be solemn or had bad indigestion—exactly which was hard to say. "Bartimaeus," he said ponderously, "listen well. Believe me, I profoundly regret summoning you again, but I had little choice. Circumstances have changed here, and we will both benefit from renewing our acquaintance."

He paused, seeming to think I might have a constructive remark to make. Not a chance. The bubble remained dull and motionless.

"In essentials, the situation is simple," he went on. "The government, of which I am now a part,[4]

is planning a major land offensive in the American colonies this winter. The fighting is likely to be costly to both sides, but since the colonies are refusing to bow to London's will, there sadly seems little choice but to authorize bloodshed. The rebels are well organized and have magicians of their own, some with power. To defeat them, we are sending out a large force of magician warriors, with their djinn and lesser demons in tow."

[4] Here he smoothed back his hair once more. This act of pompous preening reminded me vaguely of someone, but I couldn't quite think who.

I stirred at this. A mouth opened in the side of the bubble. "You will lose the war. Have you been to America? I dwelled there, off and on, for two hundred years. The whole continent is a wilderness—it goes on seemingly forever. The rebels will retreat, draw you into an endless guerrilla campaign, and bleed you dry."

"We will not lose, but you are right that it will be difficult. Many men and many djinn will perish."

"Many men, certainly."

"The djinn fall just as fast. Has it not always been so? You've been in enough battles in your time. You know how it goes. And this is why I'm doing you a favor.

"The Senior Archivist has been through the records and has tabulated a list of demons that might be useful for the American campaign. Your name is among them."

A great campaign? Lists of demons? Sounded unlikely to me. But I trod carefully, tried to draw more out of him. The bubble twitched, an action not unlike a shrug. "Good," it said. "I liked America.

Better than this hog-pit of London you call home. No foul urban mess—just great tracts of sky and grassland, with white-peaked mountains rising up forever..." To emphasize my satisfaction, I made a happy buffalo face appear inside the bubble.

The boy gave that old familiar thin-lipped smile that I'd known and disliked so heartily two years before. "Ah. You've not been to America for a while, have you?"

The buffalo eyed him askance. "Why?"

"There are cities there too now, ranged along the eastern seaboard. A couple even approach London in size. That's where the trouble is. Beyond the cultivated strip is the wilderness you refer to, but we're not interested in that. You'll be fighting in the cities."

The buffalo studied a hoof with feigned indifference. "Doesn't bother me none."

"No? Wouldn't you rather work here for me? I can get you off the war list. It would be a fixed term, just a few weeks. Bit of surveillance duty. Far less dangerous than open warfare."

"Surveillance?" I was scathing. "Ask an imp."

"The Americans have afrits, you know."

This had gone far enough. "Oh please," I said. "I can handle myself. I managed to get through the battle of Al-Arish and the Siege of Prague without you there to hold my hand. Let's face it, you must be in big trouble, or you'd never have brought me back. Especially given what I know—eh, Nat?"

It seemed for an instant as if the boy was going to explode with fury, but he mastered himself in time. He blew wearily through his cheeks. "All right," he said. "I admit it. I haven't summoned you here just to do you a favor."

The buffalo rolled its eyes. "Well now, there's a shock."

"I'm under pressure here at home," the boy went on. "I need results fast. If not"—he clenched his teeth hard together—"I may be... disposed of. Believe me, I'd love to have summoned a de—a djinni with better manners than you, but there's no time for me to research one properly."

"Now, that has the ring of truth," I said. "That American story is complete cobblers, isn't it?

Trying to earn my gratitude in advance. Well, tough. I'm not falling for it. I've got your birth name and I intend to use it. If you've got half a brain, you'll dismiss me pronto. Our conversation is at an end."

To emphasize this, the buffalo head raised its muzzle skyward and swiveled haughtily inside the bubble.

The boy was hopping with agitation. "Oh, come on, Bartimaeus..."

"No! Beg all you like, this buffalo's not listening."

"I'll never beg you!" Now his anger was unleashed in all its fury. Boy, it was an awesome torrent of petulance. "Listen closely," he snarled. "If I don't get help, I'll not survive. That may not mean anything to you—"

The buffalo looked over its shoulder, eyes wide. "Such powers! You read my mind!"

"But this just might. The American campaign does exist. There's no list, I admit, but if you don't help me and I lose my life, I'll make sure before I go that your name is recommended to the troops out there. Then you can blab my birth name far and wide for all the good it'll do you. I won't be around to suffer. So those are your options," he concluded, folding his arms once more, "a simple bit of surveillance or exposure to battle. Up to you."

"Is that so?" I said.

He was breathing hard; his hair had flopped down in front of his face. "Yes. You betray me at your peril."

The buffalo turned around and gave him a long, hard stare. In truth, a bit of surveillance was infinitely preferable to joining a war—battles have a nasty habit of getting out of control. And furious though I was with the youth, I had always found him a marginally more sympathetic master than most of them. Whether he was so still was far from clear. As little time had passed, it was possible he had not been wholly corrupted. I unzipped the front of the bubble and leaned out of it, hoof on chin.

"Well, seems like you've won again," I said quietly. "Seems like I've got no choice."

He shrugged. "Not much, no."

"In that case," I went on, "the least you can do is fill me in a little. I can see you've gone up in the world. What's your posting?"

"I work for Internal Affairs."

"Internal Affairs? Wasn't that Underwood's department?" The buffalo raised an eyebrow.

"Aha.... Someone's following in his old master's footsteps."

The boy bit his lip. "I'm not. That's got nothing to do with it."

"Maybe someone's still a little bit guilty about his death...."[5]

[5] Owing to a complex series of thefts and deceptions, Nathaniel had (more or less) inadvertently brought about his master's demise two years before. At the time, it had preyed on his conscience. I was intrigued to see whether it did so still.

The boy flushed. "Rubbish! It's a complete coincidence. My new master suggested I take the job."

"Ah yes, of course. The fragrant Ms. Whitwell. A delightful creature."[6] I appraised him closely, warming to my task. "Did she advise you on your fashion sense as well? What's with those comical skin-tight trousers, anyway? I can read the label on your underpants right through them. As for those cuffs—"

[6] This is called irony. Whitwell was in fact a thoroughly unpleasant specimen. Tall and bone-thin, her limbs were like long dry sticks. I was surprised she didn't catch fire when she crossed her legs.

He bristled. "This shirt was very expensive. Milanese silk. Big cuffs are the latest fashion."

"They look like lacy toilet plungers. It's a wonder you don't get blown backward in a draft. Why don't you cut them off and make them into a second suit? It couldn't be worse than the one you're wearing. Or they'd make a pretty Alice band for your hair."

It was notable that these jibes about his clothes seemed to annoy him more than the Underwood one. His priorities had certainly shifted over the years. He struggled to master his fury, picking restlessly at his cuffs, repeatedly smoothing back his hair.

"Look at you," I said. "So many new little habits. I bet you're copying them off one of your precious magicians."

His hand shot down from his hair. "No, I'm not."

"You probably pick your nose the way Ms. Whitwell does, you're so desperate to be like her."

Bad though it was to be back, it was nice to see him writhe with fury once again. I let him hop about inside his pentacle for a moment or two. "Surely you hadn't forgotten," I said cheerily. "You summon me, the backchat comes free. It's part of the package."

He groaned into his hands. "Suddenly death doesn't seem quite so terrifying."

I felt a bit better now. At least our ground rules were firmly reestablished. "So tell me about this surveillance job," I said. "You say it's simple?"

He composed himself. "Yes."

"And yet your job, your very life, hangs in the balance over it."

"That's right."

"So there's nothing remotely dangerous or complex about it?"

"No. Well..." He paused. "Not much."

The buffalo tapped its hoof grimly. "Go on..."

The boy sighed. "There's something out there in London that's highly destructive. Not a marid, not an afrit, not a djinni. It leaves no magical traces. It tore up half of Piccadilly last night, causing terrible devastation. Pinn's Accoutrements was destroyed."

"Really? What happened to Simpkin?"

"The foliot? Oh, he perished."

"Tsk. That's a shame."[7]

[7] I meant this wholeheartedly. I'd been robbed of my revenge.

The boy shrugged. "I share some responsibility for security in the capital, and blame has come my way. The Prime Minister is furious, and my master refuses to protect me."

"Are you surprised? I warned you about Whitwell."

He looked sullen. "She'll come to regret her disloyalty, Bartimaeus. Anyhow, we're wasting time.

I need you to keep watch and track down the aggressor. I am organizing other magicians to send their djinn out, too. What do you say?"

"Let's get it over with," I said. "What is the charge and what are your terms?"

He glowered at me from between his luscious locks. "I propose a similar contract to last time.

You agree to serve me, without revealing my birth name. If you are zealous and keep abusive remarks to a minimum, your duration of service will be relatively short."

"I want a definite duration. No vagaries."

"All right. Six weeks. That's a mere heartbeat to you."

"And my exact duties?"

"General multipurpose protection of your master (me). Surveillance of certain sites in London.

Pursuit and identification of an unknown enemy of considerable power. How's that?"

"Surveillance, okay. The protection clause is a bit of a drag. Why don't we leave that out?"

"Because then I won't be able to trust you to keep me safe. No magician would ever take a chance on that.[8] You'd stab me in the back first chance you got. So—do you accept?"

[8] He was wrong there: one magician had dispensed with all protective clauses and put his trust in me. That was Ptolemy, of course. But he was unique. Nothing like that would ever happen again.

"I do."

"Then prepare to accept your charge!" He raised his arms and jutted out his chin, a pose that failed to be as impressive as intended because his hair kept falling in front of his eyes. He looked every one of his fourteen years.

"Hold on. Let me help. It's late, you should be tucked up in bed." The buffalo was now wearing the maiden's spectacles perched upon its muzzle. "How about this...?" I intoned it in a bored, official voice: " 'I shall serve you once again for six full weeks. Under sufferance, I promise not to reveal your name during that time—' "

"My birth name."

"Oh, all right—'your birth name during that time to any human who comes my way.' How about that?"

"Not quite enough, Bartimaeus. It's not a question of trust, more one of completeness. I suggest:

'...during that time to any human, imp, djinni, or other sentient spirit, whether in this world or another, on any plane; nor to let slip the syllables of the name in such a way that an echo might be overheard; nor to whisper them into a bottle, cavity, or other secret place where their traces might be detected by magical means; nor to write them down or otherwise inscribe them, in any known language, so that their meaning can be descried.' "

Fair enough. I repeated the words grimly. Six long weeks. At least he'd missed one implication of the phrasing I had chosen: once the weeks were up, I'd be free to talk. And talk I would, if I got the slightest chance.

"Very well," I said. "It is done. Tell me more about this unknown enemy of yours."

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 786