No time to lose, no time to look back. I flapped onward, fast as I could. Beneath me passed a broad gray thoroughfare, heavy with traffic, then a block of flat—roofed garages, a narrow street, a slab of shingle, a curve of the Thames, a wharf and steelyard, another street… Hey! This wasn't too bad—with my customary panache, I was getting away! The Tower of London must already be a mile back. Pretty soon, I could…
I looked up and blinked in shock. What was this? The Tower of London loomed ahead of me. Groups of flying figures were massing over the central keep. I was flying back toward it! Something had gone seriously wrong with my directions. In great perplexity I did a U—turn round a chimney and shot off again in the opposite direction. Faquarl's voice sounded behind me.
"Bartimaeus, stop!"
"Didn't you see them?" I yelled back over my wing. "They'll be on us in moments!" I redoubled my speed, ignoring Faquarl's urgent calls. Rooftops flashed below me, then the mucky expanse of the Thames, which I crossed in record time, then—
The Tower of London, just as before. The flying figures were now shooting out in all directions, each group following a search sphere. One lot was heading my way. Every instinct told me to turn tail and flee, but I was too confused. I alighted upon a rooftop. A few moments later, Faquarl appeared beside me, panting and swearing fit to burst.
"You fool! Now we're back where we started!"
A penny dropped. "You mean—"
"The first Tower you saw was a mirror illusion. We should have gone straight through it.[70] Lovelace warned me of it—and you wouldn't wait to listen! Curse my injured wing and curse you, Bartimaeus!"
The battalion of flying djinn was crossing the outer walls. Barely a street's distance separated us. Faquarl hunched dismally behind a chimney. "We'll never out—fly them."
Inspiration came. "Then we won't fly. We passed some traffic lights back there."
"So what?" Faquarl's normal urbanity was wearing a little thin.
"So we hitch a ride." Keeping the building between me and the searchers, I swooped off the roof and down to an intersection, where a line of cars was halted up at a red light. I landed on the pavement, near the back of the queue, with Faquarl close on my heels.
"Right," I said. "Time to change."
"What to?"
"Something with strong claws. Hurry up, the lights are turning green." Before Faquarl could object, I hopped off the pavement and under the nearest car, trying to ignore the repellent stench of oil and petrol fumes and the sickening vibrations that intensified as the unseen driver revved the engine. With no regret, I bade farewell to the raven and took on the form of a stygian implet, which is little more than a series of barbs on a tangle of muscle. Barbs and prongs shot out and embedded themselves in the filthy metal of the undercarriage, securing me fast as the car began to inch forward and away. I had hoped Faquarl would be too slow to follow, but no such luck: another implet was right beside me, grimly hanging on between the wheels and keeping his eyes fixed on me the whole time.
We didn't talk much during the journey. The engine was too loud. Besides, stygian implets go in for teeth, not tongues.
An endless time later, the car drew to a halt. Its driver got out and moved away. Silence. With a groan, I loosened my various intricate holds and dropped heavily to the tarmac, groggy with motion sickness and the smell of technology.[71] Faquarl was no better off. Without speaking, we became a pair of elderly, slightly manky cats, which hobbled out from under the car and away across a stretch of lawn toward a thick clump of bushes. Once there, we finally relaxed into our preferred forms.
The cook sank down upon a tree stump. "I'll pay you back for that, Bartimaeus," he gasped. "I've never had such torture."
The Egyptian boy grinned. "It got us away, didn't it? We're safe."
"One of my prongs punctured the petrol tank. I'm covered with the stuff. I'll come up in a rash—"
"Quit complaining." I squinted through the foliage: a residential street, big semis, lots of trees. There was no one in sight, except for a small girl playing with a tennis ball in a nearby drive. "We're in some suburb," I said. "Outskirts of London, or beyond." Faquarl only grunted. I cast a sly side glance. He was re—examining the wound Baztuk had given him. Looked bad. He'd be weakened.
"Even with this gash I'm more than a match for you, Bartimaeus, so come and sit down." The cook gestured impatiently. "I've something important to tell you."
With my usual obedience, I sat on the ground, cross—legged, the way Ptolemy used to do. I didn't get too close. Faquarl reeked of petrol.
"First," he said, "I've completed my side of the bargain: against my better judgement, I saved your skin. Now for your side. Where is the Amulet of Samarkand?"
I hesitated. Only the existence of that tin at the bottom of the Thames prevented me from giving him Nat's name and number. True, I owed Faquarl for my escape, but self—interest had to come first.
"Look," I said. "Don't think I'm not grateful to you springing for me just now. But it isn't easy for me to comply. My master—"
"Is considerably less powerful than mine." Faquarl leaned forward urgently. "I want you to apply your silly, footling brain and think for a moment, Bartimaeus. Lovelace badly wants the Amulet back, badly enough to command Jabor and me to break into his government's securest prison to save the miserable life of a slave like you."
"That is pretty badly," I admitted.
"Imagine how dangerous that was—for us and for him. He was risking all. That alone should tell you something."
"So what does he need the Amulet for?" I said, cutting to the chase.
"Ah, that I can't tell you." The cook tapped the side of his nose and smiled knowingly. "But what I can say is that you would find it very much in your interests, Bartimaeus, to join up with us on this one. We have a master who is going places, if you know what I mean."
I sneered. "All magicians say that."
"Going places very soon. We're talking days here. And the Amulet is vital to his success."
"Maybe, but will we share his success? I've heard all this type of guff before. The magicians use us to gain more power for themselves and then simply redouble our bondage! What do we get out of it?"
"I have plans, Bartimaeus—"
"Yes, yes, don't we all? Besides, none of this changes the fact that I'm bound to my original charge. There are severe penalties—"
"Penalties can be endured!" Faquarl slapped the side of his head in frustration. "My essence is still recovering from the punishments Lovelace inflicted when you vanished with his Amulet! In fact, our existence—and don't pretend to apologize, Bartimaeus; you don't care in the least—our existence here is nothing but a series of penalties! Only the cursed magicians themselves change, and as soon as one drops into his grave, another springs up, dusts off our names and summons us again! They pass on, we endure."
70
71
Many modern products—synthetic plastics, metal alloys, the inner workings of machines—carry so much of the human about them that they afflict our essence if we get too close for too long. It's probably some sort of allergy.