Sitting by himself in the insulated comfort of the car, a glow of self—satisfaction began to steal over Nathaniel. He was part of things now; he was an insider on his way to Parliament at last. He was important, set apart from the rest—and it felt good. For the first time in his life he knew the lazy exhilaration of easy power.
Presently the car entered Parliament Square and they turned left through some wrought—iron gates. Mr. Underwood flashed a pass, someone signaled them to go on, then the car was crossing a cobbled yard and descending a ramp into an underground car—park lit by neon striplights. Mr. Underwood pulled into a free bay and switched off the ignition.
In the back, Nathaniel's fingers dug into the leather seat. He was shaking with suppressed excitement.
They had arrived.
19
They walked beside an endless row of glittering black cars toward a pair of metal doors. By this time, Nathaniel's anticipation was such that he could hardly focus on anything at all. He was so distracted that he scarcely took in the two slim guards who stopped them beside the doors, or noticed his master produce three plastic passes, which were inspected and returned. He barely registered the oak—paneled lift that they entered, or the tiny red sphere observing them from the ceiling. And it was only when the lift doors opened and they stepped out into the splendor of Westminster Hall that, with a rush, his senses returned to him.
It was a vast space, wide and open under a steeply pitched ceiling of age—blackened beams. The walls and floors were made of giant smoothed blocks of stone; the windows were ornate arches filled with intricate stained glass. At the far end a multitude of doors and windows opened on to a terrace overlooking the river. Yellow lanterns hung from the roof and projected from the walls on metal braziers. Perhaps two hundred people already stood or strolled about the hall, but they were so engulfed by the great expanse it seemed the place was almost empty. Nathaniel swallowed hard. He felt himself reduced to sudden insignificance.
He stood beside Mr. and Mrs. Underwood at the top of a flight of steps that swept down into the hall. A black—suited servant glided forward and retreated with his master's coat. Another gestured politely and they set off down the stairs.
An object to the side caught his eye. A dull—gray statue—a crouching boy dressed in strange clothes, looking up with wide eyes and holding a boot scraper in his hands. Although age had long since worn away the finer details of the face, it still had a curiously imploring look that made Nathaniel's skin crawl. He hurried onward, careful not to get too close to his master's heels.
At the foot of the steps they paused. Servants approached bearing glasses of champagne (which Nathaniel wanted), and lime cordial (which he didn't, but received). Mr. Underwood took a long swig from his glass and flicked his eyes anxiously to and fro. Mrs. Underwood gazed about her with a vague, dreamy smile. Nathaniel drank some cordial and looked around.
Magicians of every age milled about, talking and laughing. The hall was a blur of black suits and elegant dresses, of white teeth flashing and jewels sparkling under the lantern light. A few hard—faced men wearing identical gray jackets lounged near each exit. Nathaniel guessed they were police, or magicians on security duty, ready to call up djinn at the slightest hint of trouble—but even through his lenses, he could spot no magical entities currently present in the room.
He did, however, notice several strutting youths and straight—backed girls who were evidently apprentices like himself. Without exception they were chatting confidently to other guests, all very much at ease. Nathaniel suddenly became acutely conscious of how awkwardly his master and Mrs. Underwood were standing, isolated and alone.
"Oughtn't we to talk to someone?" he ventured.
Mr. Underwood flashed him a venomous look. "I thought I told you—" He broke off and hailed a fat man who had just come down the steps. "Grigori!"
Grigori didn't seem particularly thrilled. "Oh. Hello, Underwood."
"How delightful to see you!" Mr. Underwood stepped across to the man, practically pouncing on him in his eagerness to start a conversation. Mrs. Underwood and Nathaniel were left on their own.
"Isn't he going to introduce us?" Nathaniel asked peevishly.
"Don't worry, dear. It's important for your master to talk to the top people. We don't need to talk to anyone, do we? But we can still watch, which is always a pleasure…" She tutted a little. "I must say the styles this year are so conservative."
"Is the Prime Minister here, Mrs. Underwood?"
She craned her neck. "I don't think so, dear, no. Not yet. But that's Mr. Duvall, the Chief of Police…" A short distance away a burly man in gray uniform stood listening patiently to two young women, who both seemed to be talking animatedly to him at the same time. "I met him once—such a charming gentleman. And very powerful, of course. Let me see, who else? Goodness, yes… you see that lady there?" Nathaniel did. She was startlingly thin, with cropped white hair; her fingers clasped the stem of her glass like the clenched talons of a bird. "Jessica Whitwell. She's something to do with Security: a very celebrated magician. She was the one who caught the Czech infiltrators ten years ago. They raised a marid and set it on her, but she created a Void and sucked it in. All on her own she did that, and with minimum loss of life. So—don't cross her when you're older, John."
She laughed and drained her glass. Instantly, a servant appeared at her shoulder and refilled it almost to the brim. Nathaniel laughed too. As often happened in her company, he found some of Mrs. Underwood's serenity rubbing off on him. He relaxed a little.
"Excuse me, excuse me! The Duke and Duchess of Westminster." A pair of liveried servants hustled past. Nathaniel was pushed unceremoniously to one side. A small, shrewish woman wearing a frumpy black dress, a gold anklet, and an imperious expression elbowed her way through the throng. An exhausted—looking man followed in her wake. Mrs. Underwood looked after them, marveling.
"What a hideous woman she is; I can't think what the Duke sees in her." She took another sip of champagne. "And that there—good heavens! What has befallen him? —is the merchant Sholto Pinn." Nathaniel observed a great, fat man wearing a white linen suit come hobbling down the steps, supporting himself on a pair of crutches. He moved as if it gave him great pain to do so. His face was covered with bruises; one eye was black and closed. Two menservants hovered about him, clearing his way toward some chairs set against the wall.
"He doesn't look too well," Nathaniel said.
"No indeed. Some dreadful accident. Perhaps some artifact went wrong, poor man…" Bolstered by her champagne, Mrs. Underwood continued to give Nathaniel a running guide to many of the great men and women arriving in the hall. It was the cream of government and society; the most influential people in London (and that of course meant the world). As she expanded on their most famous feats, Nathaniel became ever more glumly aware how peripheral he was to all this glamour and power. The self—satisfied feeling that had warmed him briefly in the car was now forgotten, replaced instead by a gnawing frustration. He caught sight of his master again several times, always standing on the fringes of a group, always barely tolerated or ignored. Ever since the Lovelace incident he had known how ineffectual Underwood was. Here was yet more proof. All his colleagues knew the man was weak. Nathaniel ground his teeth with anger. To be the despised apprentice of a despised magician! This wasn't the start in life that he wanted or deserved…
Mrs. Underwood jerked his arm urgently. "There! John—do you see him? That's him! That's him!"