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Part Four

Nathaniel

Nathaniel's limousine sped through the outer suburbs of South London, a region of heavy industry, of brickworks and alchemists' factories, where a faint red smog hung permanently around the houses and glowed evilly in the waning sun. For greater speed and convenience, the magicians'

highway from the aerodrome had been raised on embankments and viaducts above the maze of polluted slums. The road was little used, and nothing but rooftops stretched around; at times the car appeared to be drifting alone across a sea of dirt-red waves. Nathaniel gazed out across this great expanse, deep in thought.

The chauffeur was of the usual taciturn type, and despite Nathaniel's best efforts, had revealed little of the previous night's disaster. "I don't know much myself, sir," he said. "But there was crowds gathered in the street outside my flat this morning. A lot of panic among the commoners, sir. Very frightened, they were. A disturbance."

Nathaniel leaned forward. "What sort of disturbance?"

"I believe a monster is involved, sir."

"A monster? Can you be specific? Not a big stone man, shrouded in darkness?"

"I don't know, sir. We'll be at the abbey shortly. The ministers are meeting there."

Westminster Abbey? With great dissatisfaction, Nathaniel had settled back in the seat and composed himself to wait. All would be made clear in time. Quite possibly, the golem had struck again, in which case his account of events in Prague would be anxiously awaited. He sorted through everything he knew, trying to make sense of it, setting successes against setbacks in an effort to see whether he came out with credit. On balance, it was a close thing.

On the credit side, he had landed a definite blow against the enemy: with the help of Harlequin, he had discovered the source of the golem parchments and had destroyed it. He had learned of the involvement of the terrible bearded mercenary and, behind him, some other shadowy figure who had, if the mercenary was to be believed, also been involved in the Lovelace conspiracy two years before.

The existence of such a traitor was important news. Set against this, however, Nathaniel had not discovered who the traitor was. Of course, it was hard to see how he could have done so, since even the wretched Kavka hadn't known the name.

Here, Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering his rash promise to the old magician. The Czech spies, Kavka's children, were—apparently—still alive in a British prison. If so, it would be extremely difficult for Nathaniel to secure their release. But what did it matter? Kavka was dead! It didn't matter to him now one way or the other. The promise could quietly be forgotten.

Despite this clear-cut logic, Nathaniel found it hard to dismiss the matter from his mind. He shook his head angrily and returned to more important matters.

The traitor's identity was a mystery, but the mercenary had given Nathaniel one important clue.



His employer knew Nathaniel was coming to Prague and had instructed the mercenary to take action.

But Nathaniel's mission had been almost spontaneous, and kept very quiet. Hardly anyone was aware of it.

Who, in fact, had known? Nathaniel counted them out on the fingers of one hand. Himself; Whitwell, of course—she'd sent him there in the first place; Julius Tallow—he'd been present at the meeting. Then there was the Second Secretary of the Foreign Office, who'd briefed Nathaniel before the flight—Whitwell had asked him to prepare the maps and documents. And that was it. Unless...

hold on... a faint uncertainty nagged at Nathaniel. That encounter with Jane Farrar in the foyer, when she'd used the Charm... Had he let anything slip there? It was so hard to remember; her spell had fogged his mind a little.... No good. He couldn't recall.

Even so, the range of suspects was remarkably small. Nathaniel chewed the edge of a fingernail.

He had to be very careful from now on. The mercenary had said something else, too: his employer had many servants. If the traitor was as close as Nathaniel now guessed, he had to watch his step.

Someone among the powerful was operating the golem in secret, directing it through the watch-eye.

They would not wish Nathaniel to investigate further. Attempts might well be made on his life. He would need Bartimaeus to stick close to him.

Despite these concerns, Nathaniel was feeling fairly pleased with himself by the time the viaducts lowered and the car neared central London. When all was said and done, he had prevented a second golem's being unleashed on the capital, and for that, he would surely receive full praise. Inquiries could be carried out and the traitor discovered. The first thing he would do would be to report to Whitwell and Devereaux. No doubt, they would drop everything and respond.

 

This happy certainty had begun to ebb a little even before the car drew into Westminster Green.

Nearing the Thames, Nathaniel began to notice certain unusual things: pockets of commoners standing in the street, deep in conference; here and there, what looked like debris in the road—smashed chimneys, chunks of masonry and broken glass. Westminster Bridge itself had a Night Police cordon across it, guards checking the driver's pass before allowing him through. As they crossed the river, Nathaniel saw thick smoke rising from an office downstream: a clock-face on the side of the building had been smashed, the hands ripped off and embedded in the walls. Other groups of bystanders loitered on the embankment, in blatant disregard of vagrancy laws.

The car swept past the Houses of Parliament and up to the great gray mass of Westminster Abbey, where the final remnants of Nathaniel's complacency shriveled down to nothing. The grass before the west end was covered with official vehicles—ambulances, Night Police vans, a host of gleaming limousines. Among them was one with Devereaux's gold standard fluttering from the bonnet.

The Prime Minister himself was here.

Nathaniel alighted and, flashing his identity card to the guards on the door, entered the church.

Inside, the activity was intense. Internal Affairs magicians swarmed about the nave with imps in attendance, measuring, recording, combing the stonework for information. Dozens of Security officials and gray-coated Night Police accompanied them; the air hummed with muttered conversations.

A woman from Internal Affairs noticed him, gestured with her thumb. "They're up in the north transept, Mandrake, by the tomb. Whitwell's waiting."

Nathaniel looked at her. "What tomb?"

Her eyes were alive with contempt. "Oh, you'll see. You'll see.

Nathaniel walked up the nave, his black coat dragging limply behind. A great trepidation was upon him. One or two Night Police were standing guard beside a broken walking stick lying on the flagstones; they laughed openly as he passed.

He emerged into the north transept, where statues of the Empire's great magicians clustered in a thicket of marble and alabaster. Nathaniel had been here many times before, to look with contemplation upon the faces of the wise; it was with some shock then that he saw that half the statues were now defaced: heads had been ripped off and replaced back to front, limbs had been removed; one sorcerer wearing a particularly broad hat had even been turned upside down. It was an appalling act of vandalism.

Dark-suited magicians thronged everywhere, carrying out tests and scribbling notes. Nathaniel wandered among them in a daze, until he arrived at an open space, where, sitting in a ring of chairs, Mr. Devereaux and his senior ministers were assembled. They were all present: the burly, brooding Duvall; the diminutive Malbindi; the bland-featured Mortensen; the corpulent Fry. Jessica Whitwell was there, too, scowling into space, arms folded. On a chair a little removed from the others sat Mr.

Devereaux's friend and confidante, the playwright Quentin Makepeace, his cheery face solemn and anxious. All were silent, gazing at a large luminous orb hovering several feet off the floor tiles. It was the viewing globe for a vigilance sphere, Nathaniel could see this at once; currently it depicted what appeared to be an aerial view of part of London. In the distance, and rather out of focus, a small figure was leaping from roof to roof. Small green explosions erupted where it landed. Nathaniel frowned, stepped closer to get a better look—

"So, you're back from chasing shadows, are you?" Yellowed fingers caught his sleeve; Julius Tallow stood beside him, sharp nose jutting, features arranged in an expression of distaste. "About time. All hell's broken loose here."

Nathaniel pulled himself free. "What's going on?"

"Did you discover the mysterious mastermind behind the golem?" Tallow's voice dripped sarcasm.

"Well, no, but—"

"How surprising. It might interest you to know, Mandrake, that while you were gallivanting abroad, the Resistance have struck again. Not some mystery golem, not a mystery traitor wielding forgotten powers, but the same human Resistance that you've been failing to deal with all this time.

Not content with destroying half the British Museum the other night, they've now broken into Gladstone's tomb and unleashed one of his afrits. Which, as you can see, is now happily at large across the city."

Nathaniel blinked, tried to take it all in. "The Resistance did this? How do you know?"

"Because we've found the bodies. No giant clay golem was involved, Mandrake. You can give that idea up right now. And we'll soon be out of our jobs. Duvall—"

He drew back. Nathaniel's master, Jessica Whitwell, had left her seat and was making her thin and stately way toward him. He cleared his throat.

"Ma'am, I need to speak to you urgently. In Prague—"

"I blame you for this, Mandrake." She bore down on him, eyes flashing furiously. "Thanks to your distracting me with your demon's lies, we look more incompetent than ever! I have been made to look a fool and have lost the Prime Minister's favor. Duvall was given control of my Security department this morning. He has also taken charge of anti-Resistance operations."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but listen, please—"

"Sorry? Too late now, Mandrake. The British Museum debacle was bad enough, but this was the last straw. Duvall has gotten just what he wanted. His wolves are everywhere now and he—"

"Ma'am!" Nathaniel could no longer restrain himself. "I located the Czech magician who created the golem's parchment. He was making a second one—for a traitor in our government!" He ignored Tallow's expressions of incredulity.

Ms. Whitwell regarded him. "Who is the traitor?"

"I don't yet know."

"Have you proof of your story? The parchment, for instance?"

"No. It was all destroyed, but I think—"

"Then," Ms. Whitwell said, with crushing finality, "it is no good to me, and neither are you.

London is in an uproar, Mandrake, and a scapegoat needs to be found. I intend to distance myself from you—and if Mr. Tallow has any sense, he will do the same."

She turned on her heel and marched back to her chair. Tallow followed, grinning at Nathaniel over his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, Nathaniel shrugged and drifted closer to the swirling surveillance orb. The demi-afrit relaying the image was attempting to get closer to the bounding figure on the rooftops. The image zoomed in; Nathaniel caught sight of a black suit, white hair, a gold face....

Then, quick as thought, a green light shot from the figure: with an emerald flash, the sphere went dead.

Mr. Devereaux sighed. "A third sphere gone. We'll be running out soon. Right—any comments or reports?"

Mr. Mortensen, the Home Office Minister, stood up and swept a lock of greasy hair over his scalp. "Sir, we must take action against this demon at once. If we don't act, the name of Gladstone will be dragged through the mud! Is he not our greatest leader? The one to whom we owe our prosperity, our dominance, our self-belief? And now what is he? Nothing but a murderous bag of bones dancing across our capital, causing bedlam in its wake! The commoners will not be slow to notice this, you know; nor will our enemies abroad. I say—"

Marmaduke Fry, the Foreign Minister, spoke. "We have had several instances of mass panic, which no amount of strong-arm stuff from Duvall's police has been able to prevent." He cast a sly side glance at the Chief of Police, who grunted angrily.

"The creature is evidently deranged," added the Information Minister, Ms. Malbindi, "and as Mortensen says, that adds to the embarrassment of the situation. We have our Founder's remains capering on rooftops, dangling from flagpoles, dancing down the middle of Whitehall and, if our sources are to be believed, cartwheeling repeatedly through Camberwell Fish Market. Also the thing persists in killing people, apparently at random. Young men and girls, it goes for; mostly commoners, but also people of consequence. It claims it is looking for the 'last two,' whatever that means."

"The last two survivors of the raid," Mr. Fry said. "That's obvious enough. And one of 'em's got the Staff. But our immediate problem is that the commoners know whose corpse they're seeing."

From the edges of the group came Jessica Whitwell's icy voice. "Let me get this clear," she said.

"Those really are Gladstone's bones? It isn't just some guise?"

Ms. Malbindi raised two fastidious eyebrows. "They're his bones all right. We've entered the tomb, and the sarcophagus is empty. There are plenty of bodies down there, believe you me, but our Founder is very much gone."

"Strange, isn't it?" Mr. Makepeace spoke for the first time. "The guardian afrit has encased its own essence within the bones. Why? Who knows?"

"Why is not important." Mr. Devereaux spoke with heavy formality, driving a fist into his cupped palm. "Our first priority must be to get rid of it. Until it is destroyed, the dignity of our State is hopelessly compromised. I want the creature dead and the bones back in the ground. Every senior minister must put a demon on the case from this afternoon. That means all of you. Lesser ministers have conspicuously failed so far. The thing is Gladstone's, after all; it has some power. Meanwhile, there is the issue of the Staff to consider."

"Yes," Mr. Fry said. "In the long run this is much more important. With the American wars coming up—"

"It mustn't be allowed to get into enemy hands. If the Czechs got hold of it—"

"Quite." There was a brief silence.

"Excuse me." Nathaniel had been listening to everything with silent respect, but his frustration now got the better of him. "This is Gladstone's Staff of Office we're talking about? The one he used to destroy Prague?"

Mr. Devereaux looked at him coldly. "I am glad you have finally deigned to join us, Mandrake.

Yes, it is the same Staff."

"So if its Command Words can be mastered, we might harness its energies for new campaigns?"

"We—or our enemies. Presently its whereabouts are unknown."

"Are we sure?" Helen Malbindi asked. "The... skeleton, or afrit, or whatever it is— it doesn't still have the Staff?"

"No. It carries a bag on its back—which we suspect holds most of Gladstone's treasures. But the Staff itself has vanished. One of the grave robbers must have it."

"I've sealed the ports and aerodromes," Mr. Mortensen said. "Spheres are on watch along the coast."

"Pardon me," Nathaniel asked. "But if this Staff has always been in the abbey, why have we not utilized it before?"

Several of the magicians shifted in their seats. Mr. Duvall's eyes flashed. "This is supposed to be a senior meeting of the Council, not a crèche. I suggest, Rupert, that this changeling be removed."

"A moment, Henry." Mr. Devereaux seemed as annoyed as his ministers, but he still spoke civilly. "The boy has a point. The reason, Mandrake," he said, "is for fear of a disaster such as this.

On his deathbed, Gladstone swore vengeance on any who disturbed his tomb, and we all know that his power was not easily transgressed. Exactly what hexes he wrought or demons he employed were not known, but—"

"I have done a little research into the business," Quentin Makepeace said, interrupting with an easy smile. "Gladstone has always interested me. At the funeral, the tomb was sealed with a Pestilence inside—a potent little number, but nothing that could not easily be bypassed. But Gladstone had made preparations for his sarcophagus himself; contemporary sources say the aura of magic emanating from his body killed several imps officiating with the candles. If that was not warning enough, not long after his death several magicians in his government ignored his prohibitions and set out to collect the Staff. They froze the Pestilence, descended into the tomb: and were never seen again. Accomplices waiting outside heard something locking the door from within. No one since has been foolish enough to test the grand old man's defenses. Until last night."

"You believe the Resistance accomplished this?" Nathaniel asked. "If there are bodies remaining, they must furnish some clues. I would like—"

"Pardon me, Mandrake," Duvall said. "That is no longer your job. The police are in charge now.

Suffice it to say that my Graybacks will be carrying out enquiries." The Police Chief turned to the Prime Minister. "I think this is the moment, Rupert, for some harsh words to be said. This boy, Mandrake, was meant to be pursuing the Resistance. Now Westminster Abbey, resting place of the great, has been broached and Gladstone's tomb defiled. The Staff has been stolen. And the boy has been doing nothing."

Mr. Devereaux looked at Nathaniel. "Do you have anything to say?"

For a moment, Nathaniel considered recounting the events in Prague, but he knew it would be hopeless. He had no proof. Besides, it was more than probable that the traitor was sitting right there, watching him. He would bide his time. "No, sir."

"I am disappointed, Mandrake, deeply disappointed." The Prime Minister turned away. "Ladies, gentlemen," he said. "We must track down the remnants of the Resistance and recover the Staff.

Anyone who succeeds will be well rewarded. First, we must destroy the skeleton. Assemble your best magicians in"—he glanced at his watch—"two hours' time. I want everything resolved. Is that clear?" There was a subdued murmur of assent. "Then this Council is adjourned."

 

The gaggle of ministers departed the abbey, Ms. Whitwell and Tallow anxiously taking up the rear. Nathaniel made no move to follow them. Very well, he thought, I shall distance myself from you, too. I'll carry out investigations on my own.

A junior magician was sitting on a pew in the nave, consulting her notebook. Nathaniel squared his shoulders and approached with as much of a swagger as he could muster. "Hello, Fennel," he said, gruffly. "Bad business, this."

The woman looked startled. "Oh, Mr. Mandrake. I didn't know you were still on the case. Yes, a bad business."

He nodded back toward the tomb. "Found out anything about them?"

She shrugged. "For what it's worth. Papers on the old man identify him as one Terence Pennyfeather. Owned an artists' supply shop in Southwark. The others are much younger. They may have worked with him in the shop. Don't yet know their names. I was just going down to Southwark to consult his records."

Nathaniel glanced at his watch. Two hours till the summoning. He had time. "I'll come with you.

One thing, though..." He hesitated, his heart beating a little faster. "Back in the crypt... Was there a girl among them—slim, with dark, straight hair?"

Fennel frowned. "Not the bodies I saw."

"Right. Right. Well then, shall we go?"

 

Burly Night Police were stationed outside Pennyfeather's Art Supplies, and magicians from several departments were busily combing the interior. Nathaniel and Fennel showed their passes and entered. They ignored the hunt for stolen artifacts going on about them, and instead began sifting through a pile of battered account books found behind the counter. Within minutes, Fennel had uncovered a list of names.

"It's a list of payments to employees," she said. "A couple of months back. They might all be Resistance. None of them are here today."

"Let's have a look." Nathaniel scanned it quickly. Anne Stephens, Kathleen Jones, Nicholas Drew... These names meant nothing to him. Wait— Stanley Hake and Frederick Weaver. Fred and Stanley, clear as day. He was on the right track, but there was no sign of a Kitty here. He flipped the page to the next month's payments. Same again. He handed the ledger back to Fennel, tapping his fingers on the glass counter.

"Here's another, sir."

"Don't bother. I've already seen— hold on."

Nathaniel almost snatched the paper from Fennel's hands, peered at it closely, blinked, peered again. There it was, the same list, but with a single difference: Anne Stephens, Kitty Jones, Nicholas Drew... No doubt about it: Kitty Jones, Kathleen Jones, one and the same.

During his many months of hunting, Nathaniel had scoured official records for evidence of Kitty, and found nothing. Now it was clear he had been looking for the wrong name all this time.

"Are you all right, Mr. Mandrake?" Fennel was staring at him anxiously.

Everything snapped back into focus. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. It's just..." He smiled at her, adjusted a cuff. "I think I may have had a good idea."

 

Bartimaeus

It was the biggest joint summoning that I'd been involved in since the great days of Prague. Forty djinn materializing more or less at once, in a vast chamber built for that purpose in the bowels of Whitehall. As with all such things, it was a messy business, despite the best efforts of the magicians.

They were all lined up in tidy rows of identical pentacles, wearing the same dark suits and speaking their incantations quietly, while the officiating clerks scribbled their names down at tables to the sides.

We djinn, of course, were less concerned with regimental decorum: we arrived in forty very different guises, trumpeting our individuality with horns, tails, iridescent flanges, spikes, and tentacles; with colors ranging from obsidian-black to delicate dandelion-yellow; with a menagerie full of hollerings and chitter; with a magnificent range of sulfurous guffs and stenches. Out of sheer boredom, I had reverted to one of my old favorites, a winged serpent with silver feathers arching from behind my head.[1] To my right was a kind of bird thing on stilt legs, to my left an eerie miasma of blue-green smoke. Beyond him was a slavering griffin, and beyond him— more disconcerting than menacing, this one—was a stumpy and immobile footstool. We all faced our masters, waiting for our charges.

[1] That used to bring the house down in the Yucatán, where you'd see the priests tumbling down the pyramid steps or diving into alligator-infested lakes to escape my mesmerizing sway. Didn't have quite the same effect on the boy here. In response to my undulating menace, he yawned, picked his teeth with a finger and began scribbling in a notepad. Is it me, or have kids today simply seen too much?

The boy hardly paid any attention to me; he was too busy writing down some notes.

"Ahem." The serpent of silver plumes gave a polite cough. "A- hem." Still no response. How impolite was this? You call someone up, then take them for granted. I coughed a little louder. "Athaniel."

That got a response. His head jerked up, then swiveled from side to side. "Shut up," he hissed.

"Anyone could have heard that."

"What is all this?" I said. "I thought we had a private thing going. Now every man and his imp are joining in."

"It's top priority. We've got an insane demon on the loose. We need it destroyed."

"It won't be the only mad thing about if you let this lot go." I flicked my tongue in a lefterly direction. "Check out that one at the end. He's taken the form of a footstool. Weird... but somehow I like his style."

"That is a footstool. No one's using that pentacle. Now, listen. Things are moving fast. The Resistance have broken into Gladstone's tomb and freed the guardian of his treasures. It's at large in London, causing merry hell. You'll recognize it by its mildewed bones and general smell of decay. The Prime Minister wants it gone; that's why this group is being assembled."

"All of us? It must be potent. Is it an afrit?"[2]

[2] I'd had a few close encounters with Gladstone's afrits during his war of conquest and it was fair to say I wasn't anxious for another. They were a prickly lot, in general, made restless and aggressive by unpleasant treatment. Of course, even if this afrit had started out with the loving personality of a gentle babe (unlikely), it would not have been improved by a century's inhumation in a tomb.

"We think so, yes. Powerful—and embarrassing. It was last seen gyrating Gladstone's pelvis on Horseguards' Parade. But listen, I want you to do something more. If you find the de—, the afrit, see if you can get any information concerning the Resistance: particularly about a girl called Kitty. I think she may have escaped with a precious Staff. The creature may be able to give a description."

"Kitty..." The serpent's tongue flicked back and forth musingly. A Resistance girl of that name had crossed our paths before. If I remembered correctly, she was a feisty specimen with big trousers.... Well, several years on, her feistiness evidently hadn't failed her.[3] I recalled something else.

"Wasn't she the one who nicked your scrying-glass?"

[3] I had no information on the trousers so far.

He made his patented bulldog-who's-sat-on-a-thistle face. "Possibly."

"And now she's pinched Gladstone's Staff... Talk about going up in the world."

"There was nothing wrong with that scrying glass."

"No, but you'll admit it'd never laid Europe to waste. That Staff's a formidable piece of work.

And you say it's been lying in Gladstone's tomb all this time?"

"Apparently." The boy glanced carefully around him, but all the neighboring magicians were busily delivering their charges to their slaves, shouting over the general caterwauling. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "It's ridiculous!" he whispered. "Everyone's always been too scared to open the tomb. And now some bunch of commoners has made a fool of the whole government. But I intend to find the girl and rectify that."

I shrugged my hood. "You could always just wish her well and leave her alone."

"And let her sell the Staff to the highest bidder? Don't make me laugh!" My master bent closer.

"I think I can track her down. And when I do... well, I've read a lot about that Staff. It's powerful, all right, but its Words of Command were fairly straightforward. It needs a strong magician to control it, but in the right hands—who knows what it could achieve?" He straightened impatiently. "What's the delay here? They should be giving the general order to move off. I've got more important things to do."

"They're waiting for Buttercup there in the corner to finish his incantation."

"Who? Tallow? What's that idiot playing at? Why doesn't he just summon his green monkey thing?"

"Judging by the amount of incense he's employed, and the size of that book he's holding, he's going for something big."

The boy grunted. "Trying to impress everyone with a higher-level demon, I suppose. Typical.

He'd do anything to keep Whitwell's favor."

The winged serpent swayed back violently. "Whoa, there!"

"What's the matter now?"

"It was your face! Just for a moment there, you had a really unpleasant sneer on it. Horrible, it was."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're the one who's a giant snake. Tallow's been on my back too long, that's all." He cursed. "Him and all the rest. I can't trust anyone around here. Which reminds me..." He bent closer once more; the serpent dipped its majestic head to hear him. "I'm going to need your protection more than ever. You heard what that mercenary said. Someone in the British government tipped him off that we were coming to Prague."

The plumed serpent nodded. "Glad you caught up. I figured that out long ago. By the way, have you freed those Czech spies yet?"

His brow darkened. "Give me a chance! I've got more urgent things to consider. Someone near the top's controlling the golem's eye, stirring up trouble here. They might try to silence me."

"Who knew you were coming to Prague? Whitwell? Tallow?"

"Yes, and a minister in the Foreign Office. Oh, and possibly Duvall."

"That hairy Police Chief? But he left the meeting before—"

"I know he did, but his apprentice, Jane Farrar, might have wormed the information out of me."

Was it the light, or had the boy flushed a little?

"Wormed it? How's that, exactly?"

He scowled. "She used a Charm and—"

Rather to my disappointment, this interesting story was suddenly disrupted by an abrupt and, to the assembled magicians, disconcerting occurrence. The stocky, yellow magician, Tallow, who was standing in a pentacle at the end of the next row, had finally finished his long and complex invocation, and with a flex of his pinstriped arms, lowered the book from which he had read. A few seconds passed; the magician waited, breathing hard, for his summons to be heard. All at once, a billowing column of black smoke began to issue from the center of the second pentacle, small yellow forks of lightning crackling in its heart. It was a bit hackneyed, but quite well done in its way.[4]

[4] Several of us hovering nearby had been half-watching with the detached interest of the connoisseur. It's always interesting to study one another's styles when you get the chance, since you never know when you might pick up a new tip on presentation. In my youth, I was always one for the dramatic entrance. Now, in keeping with my character, I gravitate more toward the subtle and refined. Okay, with the occasional feathered serpent thrown in.

The magician went gog-eyed with foreboding; rightly so as it turned out. The smoke coalesced into a muscular black form some seven feet high, complete with four waving arms.[5] It shuffled slowly around the perimeter of the pentacle, testing for weaknesses.

[5] This guise suggested the djinni's career had included a spell in the Hindu Kush. Amazing how these influences stay with you.

And to its evident surprise, found one.[6]

[6] The words of a summons act as crucial reinforcements of the runes and lines drawn upon the floor. They create invisible bands of power that circle the pentacle, knotting and reknotting, and looping in upon themselves, until an impassable boundary is formed. However, just one word a smidgen out of place can leave a fatal weakness in the whole defense. As Tallow was about to discover.

The four arms froze for a moment, as if in doubt. Then a dribble of smoke emerged from the base of the figure and prodded the edge of the pentacle with experimental care. Two such prods was all it took. The weak spot was pinpointed: a little hole in the incantatory barrier. Instantly, the pseudopodium extended forward and began to stream through the breach, narrowing almost to a point as it passed through, expanding again on the other side. Faster and faster streamed the smoke; it swelled and grew and became a bulging tentacle that darted eagerly across the space to the other pentacle, where the magician stood transfixed in horror. The trails of rosemary and rowan that he had placed around its edges were scattered to the winds. The smoke ballooned up about his shoes, rapidly encasing his legs in a thick black column. The magician made a few incoherent noises at this point, but he didn't have time for much; the figure in the first pentacle had now dwindled to nothing; all its essence had passed through the gap and was enveloping its prey. In less than five seconds, the whole magician, pinstriped suit and all, had been swallowed by the smoke. Several triumphalist lightning bolts were emitted near the head of the column, then it sank away into the floor like a solid thing, taking the magician with it.

An instant later, both pentacles were empty, except for a telltale scorch where the magician had once stood, and a charred book lying beside it.

Throughout the summoning chamber, there was stunned silence. The magicians stood dumbfounded, their clerks limp and sagging in their seats.

Then the whole place erupted into noise; those magicians who had already suitably bound their slaves, my master among them, stepped from their pentacles and gathered around the scorch mark, stewy-faced and jabbering. We higher beings began a cheery and approving chatter. I exchanged a few remarks with the green miasma and the stilt-legged bird.

"Nice one."

"Stylishly done."

"That lucky beggar. You could tell she could hardly believe it."

"Well, how often does a chance like that come along?"

"All too rarely. I remember one time, back in Alexandria. There was this young apprentice—"

"The fool must have mispronounced one of the locking injunctions."

"Either that or a printer's error. You saw he was reading straight out of a book? Well, he said exciteris before stringaris; I heard him."

"No! Really? A beginner's mistake."

"Exactly. It was the same with this young apprentice I mentioned; he waited till his master was away, then—now, you're not going to believe this—"

"Bartimaeus—attend to me!" The boy strode back to his pentacle, coat billowing behind him.

The other magicians were doing likewise, all across the hall. There was a sudden sense of businesslike intensity about them. My fellow slaves and I reluctantly faced our masters. "Bartimaeus," the boy said again, and his voice was shaking, "as I bade you, so you must do: go out into the world and hunt down the renegade afrit. I bid you return to me only when it is destroyed."

"All right, steady on." The plumed serpent eyed him with something like amusement. He was getting all uptight and official with me suddenly, lots of "bids" and "bades"—this suggested he was quite upset. "What's the matter with you?" I said. "You're coming over all shocked. I thought you didn't even like the bloke."

His face colored. "Shut up! Not another word! I am your master, as you so regularly forget.

You will do as I command!"

No more conspiratorial confidences for us. The boy was back to his old foot-stamping ways again. Strange what a small jolt of reality will do.

There was no point talking to him when he was in a mood like this. The plumed serpent turned its back, coiled in upon itself and, in company with its fellow slaves, vanished from the room.

 

Bartimaeus

There was plenty of activity above the roofs of London that evening. As well as the forty or so heavy-duty djinn, such as me, who, after leaving the Whitehall chamber, had more or less spontaneously scattered in all directions of the compass, the air was rife with imps and foliots of varying levels of ineptitude. Barely a tower or office block existed that didn't have one or two of them skulking on lookout from its top. Down below, battalions of Night Police were marching, combing the streets with some reluctance for signs of the rogue afrit. In short, the capital was awash with government servants of every type. It was a wonder the afrit wasn't tracked down in the first few seconds.

I spent a little time meandering vaguely around central London in gargoyle form, without any definite plan in mind. As always, my inclination to stay out of harm's way vied with my desire to complete the job and hasten my release as swiftly as possible. Trouble was, afrits are tricky blighters: very difficult to kill.

After a while, lacking anything better to do, I flew across to an unappetizing modern high-rise—a magician's fancy, constructed of concrete and glass—to speak to the sentries on duty there.

The gargoyle alighted with balletic grace. "Here, you two. Has that skeleton passed by here?

Speak up." This was relatively polite, given that they were small blue imps—always a trying sort.

The first imp spoke up promptly. "Yes."

I waited. It saluted and went back to polishing its tail. The gargoyle gave a tired sigh and coughed heavily. "Well, when did you see it? Which way did it go?"

The second imp paused in a detailed examination of its toes. "It came by about two hours ago.

Don't know where it went. We were too busy hiding. It's mad, you know."

"In what way?"

The imp considered. "Well, all you higher spirits are pretty nasty, of course, but most of you are predictable. This one... it says strange things. And one minute it's happy, the next— well, look what it did to Hibbet."

"He seems happy enough."

"That's Tibbet. It didn't catch Tibbet. Or me. It said it'd get us next time."

"Next time?"

"Yeah, it's been past five times so far. Each time it gives us a really boring lecture, then eats one of us. Five down, two to go. I tell you, the combination of fear and tedium takes some beating. Do you think this toenail's ingrowing?"

"I have no opinion on the subject. When is the skeleton due back?"

"In about ten minutes, if it keeps to his current schedule."

"Thank you. At last—some definite information. I shall await it here."

The gargoyle shrank and dwindled, and became a blue imp only moderately less hideous than the other two. I took myself upwind of them and sat cross-legged on a ledge overlooking the London skyline. Chances were, another djinni would have caught up with the afrit before he returned here, but if not, I'd have to have a go. Quite why he was going around and around the city was anyone's guess; possibly his long vigil in the tomb had sapped his wits. Anyhow, there was plenty of backup in the vicinity: I could see several other djinn drifting about within a couple of streets.

As I waited, a few idle thoughts ran through my mind. No question about it, a lot of funny things were happening in London, all at the same time. First: the golem was causing trouble, instigator unknown. Second, the Resistance had broken into a high-security tomb and made off with a valuable item. Third, and as a direct result of the second, we had an unbalanced afrit loose, too, causing additional mayhem. All this was having a result: I'd tasted the fear and confusion among the magicians during the general summoning. Could it be coincidence? I thought it unlikely.

It didn't seem plausible to me that a bunch of commoners could have gained access to Gladstone's tomb all on their lonesome. I guessed instead that someone must have put them up to it, given them a few tips so they got past the first safeguards and down into the vault. Now, either that very helpful person didn't know about the guardian of the tomb, or maybe he (or she) did; either way, I doubted very much that the girl Kitty and her friends had much idea what they were going up against.

Still, she at least had survived. And now, while the magicians tied themselves in knots trying to catch up with Gladstone's roving skeleton, the dreaded Staff was at large in the world.[1] Someone was going to take advantage of this, and I didn't think it would be the girl.

[1] In the 1860s, when Gladstone's own remarkable health and vigor were fading, the old codger had endowed his Staff with considerable power, the better for him to access easily. It ended up containing several entities, whose natural aggression was exaggerated by being cooped up together in a single thimble-sized node within the wood. The resulting weapon was perhaps the most formidable since the glory days of Egypt. I'd glimpsed it from afar during Gladstone's wars of conquest, carving the night with sickle-shaped bursts of light. I'd seen the old man's silhouette, static, high-shouldered, holding the Staff, he and it the single fixed points within the parabolas of fire. Everything within its range—forts, palaces, well-built walls—it pounded into dust; even the afrits cringed before its power. And now this Kitty had pinched it. I wondered if she knew precisely what she'd got herself into.

I recalled the unknown intelligence that I'd sensed watching me through the golem's eye, as the creature tried to kill me at the museum. It was possible, if you looked at the whole affair dispassionately, to imagine a similar shadowy presence behind the abbey job, too. The same one? I thought it more than likely.

As I waited, engaged in lots of clever speculation such as this,[2] I scanned the planes automatically, keeping watch for trouble. And so it chanced that, by and by, upon the seventh plane, I saw an amorphous glow approaching through the evening light. It flitted here and there among the chimney pots, sometimes flaring clearly as it passed into the shadows, sometimes getting lost in the red gleam of the sunlit tiles. On planes two to six the glow was identical; it had no obvious form. It was something's aura, all right—the trail of something's essence—but its material shape was impossible to make out. I tried the first plane, and there, drained of all color by the descending sun, I caught my first glimpse of a leaping man-shaped form.

[2] There were plenty more incredibly intelligent thoughts, which I won't bother troubling your pretty little heads with. Take it from me it was all good, damn good.

It sprang from gable to weathervane with the precision of a mountain goat, teetering on the smallest crest, spinning around like a top, then bounding on. As it drew nearer, I began to hear thin cries, like those of an excited child, erupting from its throat.

My fellow imps were possessed by sudden eleventh-hour anxiety. They left off picking their toenails and polishing their tails and began to skitter to and fro about the roof, attempting to hide behind each other and sucking in their bellies in an attempt to look less obvious. "Uh-oh," they said.

"Uh-oh."

I spied one or two of my fellow djinn following the leaping figure at a cautious distance. Quite why they hadn't yet attacked, I couldn't fathom. Perhaps I would soon find out. It was coming my way.

I got up, tucked my tail over my shoulder for neatness' sake, and waited. The other imps darted around me, squeaking incessantly. Eventually, I stuck out a foot and tripped one up. The other cannoned into him and ended up on top. "Quiet," I snarled. "Try showing a bit of dignity." They looked at me in silence. "That's better."

"Tell you what..." The first imp nudged the other and pointed at me. "He could be next."

"Yeah. It might take him this time. We could be saved!"

"Get behind him. Quick."

"Me first! After me!"

There followed such an undignified display of scuffling and scurrying, as they fought with each other to hide behind my back, that my attention for the next few moments was entirely taken up with administering some well-deserved slaps, the noise of which echoed around the town. In the midst of this performance, I looked up; and there, standing astride a parapet at the edge of the tower-block roof, not two meters away, was the renegade afrit.

I admit his appearance startled me.

I don't mean the golden mask, shaped with the deathly features of the great magician. I don't mean the wispy hair drifting out behind it on the breeze. I don't mean the skeletal hands resting easily on the hips, or the vertebrae peeping out above the necktie, or the dusty burial suit hanging so limply off his frame. None of that was particularly exciting; I've taken on the guise of a skeleton dozens of times—haven't we all? No, what surprised me was the realization that this was not a guise, but real bones, real clothes, and a real golden mask up top. The afrit's own essence was quite invisible, hidden somewhere within the magician's remains. He did not have a form of his own—on this, or any of the other planes. I'd never seen this done before.[3]

[3] It is a simple fact that, upon materializing in the human world, we have to take on some form or other, even if it is just a drift of smoke or a dribble of liquid. Although some of us have the power to be invisible on the lower planes, on the higher, we must reveal a semblance: that is part of the cruel binding wrought by the magicians. Since we have no such definite forms in the Other Place, the strain of doing this is considerable and gives us pain; the longer we remain here, the worse that pain gets, although changing form can alleviate these symptoms temporarily.

What we don't do is "possess" material objects: the less we have to do with earthen things the better, and anyway, this procedure is strictly forbidden by the terms of our summoning.

Whatever the skeleton had been getting up to during the course of the day, it had evidently been quite energetic, since the clothes were looking the worse for wear: there was a trendy slit across the knee,[4] a burn mark on one shoulder, and a ragged cuff that looked as if it had been sliced by claws.

My master would probably have paid good money for that ensemble if he'd seen it in some Milanese boutique, but for an honest afrit it was a pretty shoddy affair. The bones below the cloth seemed complete enough, however, the joints hinging smoothly as if they had been oiled.

[4] Less trendy was the bony patella poking out.

The skeleton regarded the heap of imps with its head cocked to one side. We stood stock still, our mouths agape, frozen in the middle of our scuffle. At last it spoke.

"Are you breeding?"

"No," I said. "Just a bit of rough-and-tumble."

"I mean your numbers. There were two of you last time."

"Reinforcements," I said. "They called me over to hear you speak. And to get eaten, of course."

The skeleton pirouetted on the edge of the parapet. "How charming!" it cried gaily. "What a compliment to my eloquence and clarity! You imps are more intelligent than you look."

I glanced at Tibbet and his friend, who were both standing stock still, mouths wide and dribbling.

Rabbits in headlights would have looked on them with scorn. "I wouldn't count on it," I said.

In response to my searing wit, the skeleton gave a trilling laugh and an impromptu tap dance with arms aloft. About fifty yards beyond, loitering behind a chimney stack like two shifty teenagers, I could see the other djinn, waiting and watching.[5] So I reckoned we pretty much had Gladstone's bones surrounded.

[5] One was my friend from the mass summoning—the bird with stilt legs. The other was shaped like a pot-bellied orangutan. Good honest traditional forms, in other words; no messing about with moldy bones for them.

"You seem in a very upbeat mood," I observed.

"And why shouldn't I be?" The skeleton came to a halt, clicking its fingerbones like castanets in time to its shoes' final climactic tap. "I'm free!" it said. "Free as can be! That rhymes, you know."

"Yes... well done." The imp scratched its head with the tip of its tail. "But you're still in the world," I said slowly. "Or at least you are from where I'm sitting. So you're not really free, are you?

Freedom comes only when you break your bond and return home."

"That's what I used to think," the skeleton said, "while I was in that smelly tomb. But not anymore. Look at me! I can go wherever I want, do whatever I like! If I want to gaze at the stars—I can gaze to my heart's content. If I want to stroll amid the flowers and the trees—I can do that, too. If I want to grab an old man and throw him head over heels into the river—no problem either! The world calls me: Step right on up, Honorius, and do whatsoever you please. Now, imp; I'd call that freedom, wouldn't you?"

It made a menacing sort of scurry toward me as it said this, its fingers making little clutching spasms and a murderous red light suddenly flaring in the blank sockets behind the eyes of the golden mask. I hopped back hurriedly out of range. A moment later, the red light faded a little and the skeleton's advance became a merry dawdle. "Look at that sunset!" it sighed, as if to itself. "Like blood and melted cheese."

"A delightful image," I agreed. No question about it, those imps were right. The afrit was quite insane. But insane or not, a few things still puzzled me. "Excuse me, Sir Skeleton," I said, "as a humble imp of limited understanding, I wonder if you would enlighten me. Are you still acting under a charge?"

A long curved fingernail pointed to the golden mask. "See him?" the skeleton said, and its voice was now saturated with melancholy. "It's all his fault. He bound me into these bones with his last breath. Charged me to protect them forever, and guard his possessions too. Got most of them here—" It swung around to reveal a modern rucksack hanging incongruously on its back. "And also,"

it added, "to destroy all invaders of his tomb. Listen, ten out of twelve's not too bad, is it? I did my best, but the ones that got away keep nagging at me."

The imp was soothing. "It's very good. No one could have done better. And I suppose the other two were tough nuts to crack, eh?"

The red light flared again; I heard teeth grinding behind the mask. "One was a man, I think. I didn't see. He was a coward; he ran while his comrades fought. But the other... Ah, she was a spry little whippet. I'd have loved to get her white neck between my fingers. But—would you credit such guile in one so young? She had purest silver on her person; gave Honorius such a jarring in his poor old bones when he reached out to stroke her."

"Disgraceful." The imp shook its head sadly. "And I bet she never even told you her name."

"She didn't, but I overheard it—oh, and I so nearly caught her, too." The skeleton gave a little dance of rage. "Kitty she is and, when I find her, Kitty she'll die. But I'm in no hurry. There's time enough for me. My master's dead, and I'm still obeying my orders, guarding his old bones. I'm just taking them along with me, that's all. I can go where I want, eat whatever imp I please.

Especially"—the red eyes flared—"the talkative, opinionated ones."

"Mmm." The imp nodded, mouth tight shut.

"And do you want to know the best of it?" The skeleton spun right around (away on the next roof over, I saw the two djinn duck back behind the chimney stack) and bent down close to me.

"There is no pain!"

"Mm- mmm?" I was still being quiet, but I tried to express sufficient interest.

"That's right. None at all. Which is exactly what I'm telling any spirit whom I meet. This pair—"

It pointed at the other imps, who had by now summoned enough gumption to creep off to the opposite end of the roof. "This pair have heard it all several times over. You, no less hideous than they, are privileged to hear it now as well. I wish to share my joy. These bones protect my essence: I have no need to create my own, vulnerable form. I nestle snugly within, like a chick inside my nest.

My master and I are thus united to our mutual advantage. I am obeying his command, but can still do whatever I wish, happily and without pain. I can't think why no one's thought of this before."

The imp broke its vow of silence. "Here's a thought. Possibly because it involves the magician's being dead?" I suggested. "Most magicians aren't going to want to make that sacrifice. They don't mind that our essences shrivel while we serve them; in fact, they probably prefer it, since it concentrates our minds. And they certainly don't want us wandering about doing any old thing we wish, do they?"

The gold mask considered me. "You are a most impertinent imp," it said at last. "I shall consume you next, since my essence requires some stoking.[6] But you speak sense, nevertheless. Truly I am unique. Unlucky as I once was, trapped for long dark years in Gladstone's tomb, I am now the most fortunate of afrits. Henceforward I shall roam the world, taking my leisurely revenge on human and spirit alike. Perhaps one day, when my vengeance is sated, I shall return to the Other Place— but not just yet." It gave a sudden lunge in my direction; I somersaulted backward, just out of reach, landing with my rear end teetering over the edge of the parapet.

[6] You could tell Honorius was far gone by the fact that he evidently hadn't bothered checking through the planes. If he had, he'd have seen that I was an imp only on the first three planes. On the rest, I was Bartimaeus, in all my lustrous glory.

"So it doesn't bother you then that you've lost the Staff?" I said quickly, making frantic signals with my tail to the djinn on the opposite roof. It was time we put an end to Honorius and his megalomania.[7] Out of the corner of my eye I saw the orangutan scratch his armpit. Either this was a subtle signal promising swift aid, or else he hadn't seen me.

[7] I have to say that his ramblings were not without interest, in an odd sort of way. Since time out of mind, every one of us, from the toughest marid to the smallest imp, has been cursed by the twin problems of obedience and pain. We have to obey the magicians, and it hurts us to do it. Through Gladstone's injunction, Honorius seemed to have found a way out of this cruel vise. But he had lost his sanity in the process. Who would rather stay on Earth than return home?

"The Staff..." The skeleton's eyes flashed. "Yes, my conscience pricks me a little. Still, what matter? The girl Kitty will have it. She is in London; and sooner or later I will find her." It brightened.

"Yes... And with the Staff in my hand, who knows what I could do. Now stand still, so that I can devour you."

It reached out a leisurely hand, evidently not expecting further resistance. I suppose the other imps must have sat quietly, accepting their fate, not being a very decisive bunch. But Bartimaeus was made of sterner stuff, as Honorius was about to learn. I gave a little skip between the outstretched arms, jumped up, and bounded over the horrid white head, ripping the death mask off as I did so.[8]

[8] My six imp's fingers came in handy here; each one had a small sucker on the end.

It came away without difficulty, having been held on by only a few tightened strands of the skeleton's dirty white hair. Honorius gave a yelp of surprise and wheeled around, his leering skull fully exposed. "Hand that back!"

For answer, the imp danced away around the rooftop. "You don't want this," I called over my shoulder. "It belonged to your master and he's dead. Euuch, and he didn't have very good teeth, did he? Look at that one hanging by a thread."

"Give me back my face!"

"Your 'face'? That's not healthy talk for an afrit. Ooops, there it goes. Clumsy me." With all my strength, I spun it away like a small gold Frisbee, off the edge of the building and down into the void.

The skeleton roared with rage and sent three Detonations off in rapid succession, singeing the air around me. The imp flipped and sprang, over, under, over, and down below the parapet, where I promptly used my suckers to cling to the nearest window.

From this vantage point, I waved again at the two djinn lurking over by the chimney, and whistled as shrilly as I could. Evidently, Honorius's proficiency with his Detonations had been the reason for their previous caution, but I was relieved now to see the stilt-legged bird shift itself, followed reluctantly by the orangutan.

I could hear the skeleton standing on the verge above, craning its neck out in search of me. Its teeth snapped and ground in anger. I pressed myself as flat as I could to the window. As Honorius now discovered, one definite drawback to his residency in the bones was that he could not change his form. Any honest afrit would by now have grown wings and shot down to find me, but without a nearby ledge or roof to hop to, the skeleton was stymied. Doubtless he was considering his next move.

In the meantime, I, Bartimaeus, made mine. With great stealth, I shimmied sideways along the window, across the wall and around the corner of the building. There, I promptly clambered upward and peered over the top of the parapet. The skeleton was still leaning out in a precarious manner.

From behind it looked rather less threatening than from the front: its trousers were ripped and torn, and sagged so catastrophically that I was treated to an unwanted view of its coccyx.

If it would just hold that position a moment more...

The imp hopped up onto the roof and changed back into the gargoyle, which tiptoed across, palms outstretched.

It was just then that my plan was shattered by the sudden appearance of the bird and the orangutan (now complete with orange wings), who descended in front of the skeleton from the sky.

Each fired off a burst of magic—a Detonation and an Inferno, to be precise; the twin bolts slammed into the skeleton, knocking it backward away from the precipice. With the swift thinking that is my hallmark, I abandoned my idea and joined in likewise, choosing a Convulsion for variety's sake.

Flickering inky bands swarmed over the skeleton, seeking to shake it to pieces, but to no avail. The skeleton uttered a word, stamped its foot, and the remnants of all three attacks spun away from it, shriveling and fading.

Bird, orangutan, and gargoyle fell back a little on all sides. We anticipated trouble.

Gladstone's skull rotated creakily to address me. "Why do you think my master chose me for the honor of inhabiting his bones? I am Honorius, a ninth-level afrit, invulnerable to the magic of mere djinn. Now—leave me be!" Arcs of green force crackled out from the skeleton's fingers; the gargoyle leaped from the roof to avoid them, while the bird and orangutan tumbled unceremoniously out of the sky.

With a bound, the skeleton dropped to a lower roof and made off on its sprightly way. The three djinn held a hurried midair consultation.

"I don't like this game much," the orangutan said.

"Nor me," said the bird. "You heard him. He's invulnerable. I remember one time, back in old Siam. There was this royal afrit, see—"

"He's not invulnerable to silver," the gargoyle interrupted. "He told me so."

"Yep, but nor are we," protested the orangutan. "It'll make my fur fall off."

"We don't have to touch it, do we? Come on."

A swift descent to the thoroughfare below resulted in a minor accident, when the driver of a lorry saw us in passing, and jackknifed off the road. Nasty, but it could have been worse.[9]

[9] The lorry, which was delivering a cargo of melons somewhere, careered into the glass front of a fishmonger's, sending an avalanche of ice and halibut cascading out onto the pavement. The trap at the back of the lorry opened, and the melons bounced out into the street, where, following a natural incline, they gathered pace along the road. Several bicycles were upended, or forced sideways into the gutter, before the melons' descent was halted by a glassware store at the foot of the hill. The few pedestrians who managed to avoid the rolling missiles were subsequently knocked flying by the horde of alley cats converging on the fish shop.

My colleague paused in indignation. "What's the matter with him? Hasn't he ever seen an orangutan before?"

"Not one with wings, possibly. I suggest we become pigeons on the first plane. Now, break me off three of those railings. They're not iron, are they? Good. I'm going to find a jeweler's."

A quick examination of the retail district revealed something even better: a veritable silversmith's, boasting a complex window display of jugs, tankards, golfing trophies, and memorial plates that had evidently been assembled with loving care. Bird and orangutan, who had managed to secure three long rails, held back fearfully from the shop, since the freezing aura of the silver raddled our essences even halfway across the street. But the gargoyle had no time for delay. I seized one of the railings, gritted my teeth, and, hopping over to the window, staved the glass in.[10] With a quick stab of the rail, I lifted a large silver tankard by its handle and backed away from the shop, ignoring plaintive cries from within.

[10] Imagine the discomfort of closely approaching a raging fire: this was the effect so much silver had on me—except that it was cold.

"See this?" I dangled the tankard


Date: 2015-02-28; view: 646


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