I gave a light, rather maidenly sigh. Things really didn't seem too promising.
Still, I wasn't beaten yet. Judging by the impressive scale of the prison, I was probably in the hands of the Government, but it was best to be sure. The first thing to do was grill my warders for as much information as they had.[60]
I gave a slightly insolent whistle. The nearest utukku (the eagle—headed one) looked across, jerking his spear in my direction.
I smiled winsomely. "Hello there."
The utukku hissed like a serpent, showing his sharp, red—bird's tongue. He approached, still feinting toughly with the spear.
"Steady with that thing," I said. "It's always more impressive to hold a weapon still. You look as if you're trying to skewer a marshmallow with a toasting fork."
Eagle—beak came close. His feet were on the ground, two meters below me, but even so he was easily tall enough to look me in the eye. He was careful not to get too near to the glowing wall of my sphere.
"Speak out of turn again," the utukku said, "and I'll prick you full of holes." He pointed to the tip of his spear. "Silver, this is. It can pass through your sphere easy and prick you good, if you don't shut up."
"Point already taken." I brushed a loop of hair back from my brow. "I can see I'm at your mercy."
"That's right." The utukku made to go off, but a lonely thought had somehow made it into the wasteland of his mind. "Here," he added, "my colleague,"—he indicated Bull—head, who was watching us from a distance with his little red eyes—"he says he's seen you somewhere before."
"I don't think so."
"Long time ago. Only you looked different. He says he's smelled you certain. Only he can't think when."
"He may be right. I've been around a fair time. I have a bad memory for faces, I'm afraid. Can't help him. Where are we now, exactly?" I was trying to change the subject here, uncomfortably aware that the conversation might shortly get round to the battle of Al—Arish. If Bull—head was a survivor, and he learned my name…
The utukku's crest tipped back a little as he considered my question. "No harm your knowing that," he said at last. "We're in the Tower. The Tower of London." He spoke this with considerable relish, banging the base of his spear on the flagstones to emphasize each word.
"Oh. That's good, is it?"
"Not for you."
Several flippant remarks were lining up to be spoken here, but I forced them back with difficulty and remained silent. I didn't want to be pricked. The utukku marched away to resume his patrol, but now I spied Bull—head coming closer, snuffling and sniffling all the while with his vile wet nose.
When he was so close to the edge of my sphere that the gouts of froth he breathed out fizzed and foamed against the charged white threads, he let out a tormented growl. "I know you," he said. "I know your scent. Long ago, yes, but I never forget. I know your name."
"A friend of a friend, perhaps?" I eyed his spear—tip nervously. Unlike Eagle—beak, he didn't wave it about at all.
"No… an enemy…"
"Terrible when you can't remember something that's right on the tip of your tongue," I observed. "Isn't it, though? And you try so hard to recall it, but often as not you can't because some fool's interrupting you, prattling away so you can't concentrate, and—"
Bull—head gave a bellow of rage. "Shut up! I almost had it then!"
A tremor ran through the room, vibrating along the floor and up the pillar. Instantly, Bull—head spun on his heels and trotted across to take up a sentry position against a nondescript bit of wall. A few meters away, Eagle—beak did the same. Between them an oval seam appeared in the air; it widened at the base, becoming a broad arch. Within the arch was a blackness, and from this two figures emerged, slowly gathering color and dimension as they forced their way out of the treacly nothingness of the portal. Both were human, though their shapes were so different that this was hard to believe.
One of them was Sholto.
He was as round as ever, but hobbling nicely, as if every muscle pained him. I was pleased to see too that his plasm—firing walking stick had been swapped for a pair of very ordinary crutches. His face looked as though an elephant had just got up from it, and I swear his monocle had sticky tape on its rim. One eye was black and closed. I allowed myself a smile. Despite my predicament, there were still a few things left in life to enjoy.
Sholto's bruised immensity made the woman alongside him seem even thinner than she actually was. A stooping heron of a creature, she was dressed in a gray top and a long black skirt, with straight white hair chopped short abruptly behind her ears. Her face was all cheekbones and eyes, and entirely colorless—even her eyes were washed out, two dull marbles the color of rainwater sitting in her head. Long—nailed fingers like scalpels jutted from her frilly sleeves. She carried the odor of authority and danger: the utukku clicked their heels and saluted as she passed, and with a snap of her too—sharp nails, the portal behind her closed into nothing.
Trapped in my sphere I watched them approach—thin and fat, stooped and limping. All the while, behind its monocle, Sholto's good eye was fixed on me.
They stopped a few meters off. The woman snapped her fingers again, and to my slight surprise, the flagstones on which they stood rose slowly into the air. The captive imps beneath the stones gave occasional grunts as they shouldered the burden, but otherwise it was a pretty smooth move. Hardly any wobbling. Soon the stones stopped rising and the two magicians stood regarding me at my level. I stared back, impassive.
"Woken up, have you?" the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.[61] "Good. Then perhaps you can help us. First, your name. I won't waste time calling you Bodmin; the records have been checked and we know that's a false identity. The only djinni with that name perished in the Thirty Years War."
I shrugged, said nothing.
"We want your name, your purpose in coming to Mr. Pinn's shop and everything you know about the Amulet of Samarkand. Above all, we want to know the identity of your master."
I brushed my hair out of my eye and smoothed it back. My gaze wandered round the room in a bored sort of way.
The woman did not become angry or impatient; her tone remained level.
"Are you going to be sensible?" she said. "You can tell us straightaway or tell us later on. It is entirely up to you. Mr. Pinn, by the way, does not think you will be sensible. That is why he has come. He wishes to see your pain."
I gave the battered Sholto a wink. "Go on," I prompted him (with rather more cheer than I actually felt), "give me a wink back. It's good exercise for a bruised eye." The magician bared his teeth, but did not speak.
The woman made a motion and her flagstone slid forward. "You are not in a position to be impudent, demon. Let me clarify the situation for you. This is the Tower of London, where all enemies of the Government are brought for punishment. Perhaps you have heard of this place? For one hundred fifty years magicians and spirits of all kinds have found their way here; none have left it, save at our pleasure. This chamber is protected by three layers of hex—locks. Between each layer are vigilant battalions of horlas and utukku, patrolling constantly. But even to reach them you would have to leave your sphere, which is impossible. You are in a Mournful Orb. It will tear your essence if you touch it. At a word of my command"—she uttered a word and the force—lines on the sphere seemed to shudder and grow—"the orb will shrink a little. You can shrink too, I'm sure, so to start with you will be able to avoid being burned and blistered. But the orb can shrink to nothing—and that you cannot do."
60
Which was unlikely to be much. As a rough rule of thumb, you can gauge a djinni's intelligence by the number of guises he or she likes to wear. Sprightly entities such as me have no limit to the forms we take. The more the merrier, in fact; it makes our existence slightly less wearisome. Conversely, the true dullards (viz. Jabor, utukku, etc.) favor only one, and it's usually one that is millennia out of date. The forms these utukku wore were fashionable in the streets of Nineveh back in 700 B.C. Who goes round as a bull—headed spirit nowadays? Exactly. It's so passe.
61
Unexpectedly sharp. And cold. No one can say I don't work hard describing things for you.