At this, an expression appeared on his master's face that Nathaniel had never seen before. It was not the familiar look of impatient disdain that had long characterized Underwood's tutelage. It was not even the fury he had witnessed that morning, following the discovery in his room. Instead, it was first a look of extreme shock, and then a sudden explosion of such malice that Nathaniel's knees gave way. The disc fell from his hands; he slumped against the wall; he tried to speak, but could not.
The ghostly head stared at him from the center of the floor. Nathaniel stared back; unable to tear his eyes away. Then—very muffled and distant, perhaps because it was uttered by the physical body in the study far below—Underwood's voice came sounding from inside the upturned disc.
"Traitor…"
Nathaniel's mouth opened, but let forth only a strangled croak.
The voice spoke again. "Traitor! You have betrayed me. I shall discover who is guiding you to spy on me."
"No one—there's no one…" Nathaniel could only manage the barest whisper.
"Prepare yourself! I shall come for you."
The voice faded. Underwood's head descended, spiraling into the floor. The phosphorescent glow vanished with it from the room. With trembling fingers, Nathaniel picked up the disc and peered into it. After a few seconds the view of the study grew misty as his master's spirit form passed back through the imp; it drifted away across the carpet to where the body waited. Coming alongside, it adopted the exact same posture and merged in with itself. A moment later, Underwood was himself again and the shadowy apparition had reappeared in the other circle. With a clap of the hands, Underwood dismissed the djinni; it bowed and vanished. He stepped out of the pentacle, eyes blazing, and strode out of shot toward his study door.
At this, the spell on the imp was lifted and the baby's face returned to fill the disc. It blew out its cheeks with relief.
"Whoof! I don't mind telling you, that was bad for my system," it said. "Having that horrible old geezer drifting straight through me and right up my cord… it gives me the willies just to think about it, it really does!"
"Shut up! Shut up!" Beside himself with terror, Nathaniel was trying to think.
"Look, do us a favor," the imp said. "You haven't got much time left. Couldn't you just free me now, before you die? Life gets so dreary in this disc; you don't know how lonely it gets. Go on, boss. I'd really appreciate it." The baby's attempt at a winning smile was interrupted as the disc was hurled against the wall. "Ow! Well, I hope you enjoy what's coming to you, then!"
Nathaniel ran to the attic door and rattled desperately at the handle. Somewhere below he heard his master's footsteps hastening up the stairs.
"He's really angry," the imp called. "Even his astral form practically pickled my essence as it went by. I wish I wasn't facing the floor—I'd love to watch what happens when he gets in here."
Nathaniel sprang at the wardrobe, pushed at it frantically; he planned to push it in front of the door, to block the way in. Too heavy, he hadn't the strength. His breathing came in fits and gasps.
"What's the matter?" the imp asked. "You're a big magician now. Call something up to save your skin. An afrit maybe—that should do the job. Or what about that Bartimaeus you're so obsessed with? Where's he when you need him?"
With a sob, Nathaniel stumbled back into the center of the room and turned slowly to face the door.
"Nasty, ain't it?" The imp's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Being at someone else's mercy. Now you know what it feels like. Face it, kid—you're on your own. You've got no one there to help you."
Something tapped on the skylight window.
After an instant in which his heart nearly stopped, Nathaniel looked: a disheveled pigeon was sitting beyond the glass, gesticulating urgently with both wings. In doubt, Nathaniel stepped closer.
"Bartimaeus…?"
The pigeon rapped its beak several times against the pane. Nathaniel raised his hand to undo the catch—
A key rattled in a lock. With a bang, the bedroom door burst open. Underwood stood there, his face pink with exertion and framed by a furious white mane of hair and beard. Nathaniel's arm dropped to his side; he turned to his master. The pigeon had vanished from the window.
It took Underwood a moment to regain his breath. "Miserable boy! Who is controlling you? Which of my enemies?"
Nathaniel could feel his whole body trembling, but he forced himself to stand stock—still and look his master in the eyes.
"No one, sir. I—"
"Is it Duvall? Or Mortensen? Or Lovelace?"
Nathaniel's lip curled at the last name. "None of those, sir."
"Who taught you to make the glass? Who told you to spy on me?"
Despite his fear, anger flared in Nathaniel's heart. He spoke with contempt. "Will you not take my word? I have already said. There is no one."
"Even now you continue your lies! Very well! Take a last look at this room. You will not be returning here. We will go to my study, where you will enjoy the company of my imps until your tongue is loosened. Come!"
Nathaniel hesitated, but there was no help for it. His master's hand descended on his shoulder and clamped it like a vise. Almost bodily, he was propelled out of the door and down the attic stairs.
On the first landing, Mrs. Underwood met them, in haste and out of breath. When she saw Nathaniel's hapless posture and the fury on her husband's face, her eyes widened with distress, but she did not comment.
"Arthur," she panted, "there is a visitor to see you."
"I haven't time. This boy—"
"It's a matter of the greatest urgency, he says."
"Who? Who says?"
"Simon Lovelace, Arthur. He practically showed himself in."
27
Underwood's brows lowered. "Lovelace?" he growled. "What does he want? Typical of him to turn up at the worst moment. Very well, I will see him. As for you—stop your wriggling!" Nathaniel was making sudden feverish movements, as if attempting to escape his grip. "You, boy, can wait in the box room until I'm ready to deal with you."
"Sir—"
"Not a word!" Underwood began to manhandle Nathaniel across the landing. "Martha, put on the kettle for our visitor. I shall be down in a few minutes. I need to tidy myself up."
"Yes, Arthur."
"Sir—please listen! It's important! In the study—"
"Silence!" Underwood opened a narrow door and shoved Nathaniel through, into a small, cold room filled with old files and stacks of government papers. Without a backward glance, his master shut the door and turned the key. Nathaniel knocked on the wood and frantically called out after him.
"Sir! Sir!" No one answered. "Sir!"
"You're too kind." A large beetle with huge mandibles squeezed itself under the door. "I actually find sir a bit formal for my taste, but it's better than 'recreant demon. »
"Bartimaeus!" Nathaniel stepped back in shock; before his eyes, the beetle grew, distorted… the dark—skinned boy was standing in the room with him, hands on hips and head slightly to one side. As always, the form was a perfect replica: its hair shifted as it moved, the light glistened on the pores of its skin—it could not have been singled out as false from among a thousand true humans. Yet something about it—perhaps the soft, dark eyes that gazed at him—screamed out its alien otherness. Nathaniel blinked; he struggled to control himself. He felt the same disorientation he had experienced during their previous meeting.