I shrugged. "I think we've had this conversation before. Great Zimbabwe, was—n't it?"
Faquarl's rage subsided. He nodded. "Maybe so. But I sense change coming and if you had any sense you'd feel it too. The waning of an empire always brings unstable times: trouble rising from the streets, magicians squabbling heedlessly, their brains softened by luxury and power… We've both seen this often enough, you and
I. Such occasions give us greater opportunities to act. Our masters get lazy, Bartimaeus—they give us more leverage."
"Hardly."
"Lovelace is one of those. Yes, he's strong, all right, but he's reckless. Ever since he first summoned me, he has been frustrated by the limitations of his ministerial role. He aches to emulate the great magicians of the past, to daunt the world with his achievements. As a result, he worries away at the strings of power like a dog with a moldy bone. He spends all his time in intrigue and plotting, in ceaseless attempts to gain advantage over his rivals… he never rests. And he's not alone, either. There are others like him in the Government, some even more reckless than he. You know the type: when magicians play for the highest stakes, they rarely last long. Sooner or later they'll make mistakes and give us our chance. Sooner or later, we'll have our day."
The cook gazed up at the sky. "Well, time's getting on," he said. "Here's my final offer. Guide me to the Amulet and I promise that, whatever penalty you suffer, Lovelace will subsequently take you on. Your master, whoever it is, won't be able to stand in his way. So then we'll be partners, Bartimaeus, not enemies. That'll make a nice change, won't it?"
"Lovely," I said.
"Or…" Faquarl placed his hands in readiness on his knees. "You can die here and now in this patch of undistinguished suburban scrub. You know you've never beaten me before; chance has always saved your bacon.[72] It won't this time."
As I was considering this rather weighty statement and debating how best to run, we were interrupted. With a small leafy crashing, something came down through the branches and bounced gently at our feet. A tennis ball. Faquarl leaped off the stump and I sprang to my feet—but it was too late to hide. Someone was already pushing her way into the center of the copse.
It was the little girl I had seen playing in her drive: about six years old, freckle—faced, tousle—haired, a baggy T—shirt stretching down to her grubby knees. She stared at us, half fascinated, half alarmed.
For a couple of seconds, not one of us moved. The girl looked at us. Faquarl and I stared at the girl. Then she spoke.
"You smell of petrol," said the girl.
We did not answer her. Faquarl moved his hand, beginning a gesture. I sensed his regretful intention.
Why did I act then? Pure self—interest. Because with Faquarl momentarily distracted, it was the perfect opportunity to escape. And if I happened to save the girl too… well, it was only fair. It was she who gave me the idea.
I lit a small Spark on the end of one finger and tossed it at the cook.
A soft noise, like a gas fire being ignited, and Faquarl was an orange—yellow ball of flame. As he blundered about, roaring with discomfort, setting fire to the leaves about him, the little girl squealed and ran. It was good thinking: I did the same.[73]
And in a few moments I was in the air and far away, hurtling at top speed toward Highgate and my stupid, misbegotten master.
26
Nathaniel
As evening drew on, the clenching agonies of dread closed in upon Nathaniel. Pacing about his room like a panther in a cage, he felt as if he were trapped in a dozen different ways. Yes, the door was locked so he could not physically escape, but this was the least of his problems.
At that very moment, his servant Bartimaeus was imprisoned in the Tower, being subjected to whatever tortures the high magicians could devise. If it really had caused carnage in central London this was exactly what the demon deserved. But Nathaniel was its master. He was responsible for its crimes.
And that meant the magicians would be looking for him too.
Under torture, the threat of Perpetual Confinement would be forgotten. Bartimaeus would tell them Nathaniel's name and the police would come to call. And then…
With a shiver of fear, Nathaniel remembered the injuries Sholto Pinn had displayed the evening before. The consequences would not be pleasant.
Even if, by some miracle, Bartimaeus kept quiet, there was Underwood to deal with too. Already Nathaniel's master had promised to disown him—and perhaps worse. Now he only had to read the scribbled notes he had removed from Nathaniel's room to discover precisely what his apprentice had summoned. Then he would demand the full story. Nathaniel shuddered to guess what methods of persuasion he might use.
What could he do? Mrs. Underwood had suggested a way out. She had advised him simply to tell the truth. But the thought of revealing his secrets to his master's spite and sarcasm made Nathaniel feel physically sick.
Thrusting the dilemma aside, Nathaniel summoned the weary imp and, ignoring its protests, sent it out to spy on the Tower of London once more. From a safe distance, he watched in awe as an angry horde of green—winged demons spiraled like locusts above the parapets, then suddenly dispersed in all directions across the darkening sky.
"Impressive, that is," the scrying glass commented. "Real class. You don't mess with them high—level djinn. Who knows?" it added. "Maybe some of them are coming for you!"
"Find Underwood," Nathaniel snarled. "Where is he and what is he doing?"
"My, aren't we in a bate? Let's see, Arthur Underwood… Nope, sorry. He's in the Tower too. Can't get access. But we can speculate, can't we?" The imp chuckled. "He's probably talking to your Bartimaeus pal right now."
Further observation of the Tower was obviously useless. Nathaniel tossed the disc under the bed. It was no good. He would have to come clean about everything. He would have to tell his master—someone he had no respect for, who had failed to protect him, who had cowered and sniveled before Lovelace. Nathaniel could well imagine how Underwood's fury would be expressed—in sneers and jibes and fears for his own petty reputation… And as for what would happen then…
Perhaps an hour later, he caught the echo of a door slamming somewhere below. He froze, listening for his master's dreaded footsteps on the stair, but for a long while no one came. And when the key did turn in the lock, he knew already, from the gentle wheezing, that it was Mrs. Underwood outside. She carried a small tea tray, with a glass of milk and a rather curled tomato—and—cucumber sandwich.
"I'm sorry this is late, John," she said. "Your food's been ready for ages, but your master came home before I could bring it up." She took a deep breath. "I mustn't stop. Things are a little hectic downstairs."
"What… what's happening, Mrs. Underwood?"
"Eat your sandwich, there's a good boy. It looks like you need it—you're quite pale. It won't be long before your master calls you, I'm sure."
"But did he say anything—?"
"Heavens, John! Will you never stop asking questions? He said a great deal, but nothing that I'm going to share with you now. There's a pan of water on downstairs and I have to make him something quickly. Eat your sandwich, dear."
"Is my master—?"
"He's locked himself in his study, with orders not to be disturbed. Apart from his food, of course. There's quite an emergency on."
An emergency… In that instant Nathaniel came to a sudden decision. Mrs. Underwood was the only person he could trust, the only person who truly cared. He would tell her everything: about the Amulet, about Lovelace. She would help him with Underwood, even with the police, if necessary; he didn't know how, but she would make everything all right.
72
Chance or, as I prefer to think of it, my own quick—wittedness. But it was true that somehow I'd always managed to avoid a full—on fight.