The false boy surveyed the bare floorboards and piles of junk. "Who's been a naughty little magician, then?" it said dryly. "Underwood's cottoned on to you at last, I see. He took his time."
Nathaniel ignored him. "So it was you at the window," he began. "How did you—?"
"Down a chimney, how d'you think? And before you say it, I know you didn't summon me, but things have been moving far too fast for me to wait. The Amulet—"
Nathaniel was struck by a sudden horrified realization. "You—you've brought Lovelace here!"
The boy seemed surprised. "What?"
"Don't lie to me, demon! You've betrayed me! You've led him here."
"Lovelace?" It looked genuinely taken aback. "Where is he?"
"Downstairs. He's just arrived."
"Nothing to do with me if he has. Have you been blabbing?"
"Me? It was you—"
"I've said nothing. I've got a tobacco tin to think of…" It frowned and appeared to be thinking. "It is a slight coincidence, I must admit."
"Slight?" Nathaniel was practically hopping with agitation. "You've led him here, you fool! Now, quickly—get the Amulet! Get it away from the study, before Lovelace finds it!"
The boy laughed harshly. "Not a chance. If Lovelace is here, he'll have stationed a dozen spheres outside. They'll home in on its aura and be on me the moment I leave the building."
Nathaniel drew himself up. With his servant returned, he was not as helpless as before. There was still a chance to avoid disaster, providing the demon did as it was told. "I command you to obey!" he began. "Go to the study—"
"Oh, can it, Nat." The boy waved a weary and dismissive hand. "You're not in the pentacle now. You can't force me to obey each new order. Running off with the Amulet will be fatal, take it from me. How strong is Underwood?"
"What?" Nathaniel was nonplussed.
"How strong? What level? I assume from the size of that beard he's no great shakes, but I might be wrong. How good is he? Could he beat Lovelace? That's the point."
"Oh. No. No, I don't think so…" Nathaniel had little actual evidence either way, but his master's past display of servility to Lovelace left him in little doubt. "You think…"
"Your one chance is that if Lovelace finds the Amulet, he might want to keep the whole thing quiet. He may try to do a deal with Underwood. If he doesn't—"
Nathaniel went cold. "You don't think he'll—?"
"Whoops! In all this excitement I nearly forgot to tell you what I came for!" The boy put on a deep and plangent voice: "Know ye that I have devotedly carried out my charge. I have spied on Lovelace. I have sought the secrets of the Amulet. I have risked all for you, O my master. And the results are"—here it adopted a more normal, sardonic tone—"you're an idiot. You've no idea what you've done. The Amulet is so powerful it's been in government keeping for decades—until Lovelace had it stolen, that is. His assassin murdered a senior magician for it. In those circumstances, I don't think it's likely that he'll worry about killing Underwood to retrieve it, do you?"
To Nathaniel, the room seemed to spin. He felt quite faint. This was worse than anything he had imagined. "We can't just stand here," he stammered. "We've got to do something—"
"True. I'll go and watch developments. Meanwhile, you'd better stay here like a good little boy, and be ready for a quick exit if things get nasty."
"I'm not running anywhere." He said it in a small, small voice. His head was reeling with the implications. "Mrs. Underwood…"
"I'll give you a tip born of long experience. Running's good if your skin needs saving. Better get used to the idea, bud." The boy turned to the box room door and set the palm of one hand against it. With a despairing crack, the door split around the lock and swung open. "Go up to your room and wait. I'll tell you what happens soon enough. And be prepared to move fast."
With that, the djinni was gone. When Nathaniel followed, the landing was already empty.
28
Bartimaeus
"My apologies for the intrusion, Arthur," Simon Lovelace said.
Underwood had only just entered his long, dark dining room when I caught up with him—he'd spent a few minutes beside the lower landing mirror smoothing down his hair and adjusting his tie. It didn't make any difference: he still looked disheveled and moth—eaten beside the younger magician, who was standing beside the mantelpiece, examining his nails, as cold and tense as a coiled spring.
Underwood waved his hand in an airy attempt at magnanimity. "My house is yours, I'm sure. I am sorry for the delay, Lovelace. Won't you take a seat?"
Lovelace did not do so. He wore a slim, dark suit with a dark—green tie. His glasses caught the lamp light from the ceiling and flashed with every movement of his head. His eyes were invisible, but the skin below the glasses was gray, heavy, bagged. "You seem flustered, Underwood," he said.
"No, no. I was engaged at the top of the house. I am somewhat out of breath."
I had entered the door as a spider and had crawled my way discreetly over the lintel and up the wall, until I reached the secluded gloom of the darkest corner. Here I spun several hasty threads across, obscuring me as fully as possible. I did so because I could see that the magician had his second—plane imp with him, prying into every nook and cranny with it's hot little eyes.
Quite how Lovelace had come to suspect that the Amulet was in the house, I did not like to guess. For all my denials to the boy, it was certainly an unpleasant coincidence that he had arrived at the exact same time as I had. But working that out could wait: the boy's future—and consequently, mine—depended on my reacting quickly to whatever happened now.
Underwood sat himself in his customary chair and put on a forced smile. "So," he said. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, at least tell that imp of yours to quit its jiggling. It's making me feel quite ill." He spoke with sudden waspish asperity. Simon Lovelace made a clicking sound with his tongue. The imp hovering behind his head instantly became rigid, holding its face in a deliberately unfortunate posture, midway between a gawp and a grin.
Underwood did his best to ignore it. "I do have a few other matters to take care of today," he said. "Perhaps you might tell me what I can do for you?"
Simon Lovelace inclined his head gravely. "A few nights ago," he said, "I suffered a theft. An item, a small piece of some power, was stolen from my house while I was absent."
Underwood made a consoling sound. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you. It is a piece that I hold especially dear. Naturally, I am eager for its return."
"Naturally. You think the Resistance—?"
"And it is in connection with this that I have called on you today, Underwood…" He spoke slowly, carefully, skirting round the issue. Perhaps even now he hoped he would not have to make the accusation directly. Magicians are always circumspect with words; hasty ones, even in a crisis, can lead to misfortune. But the older man was oblivious to the hint.
"You can count on my support, of course," Underwood said equably. "These thefts are an abomination. We have known for some time that a black market for stolen artifacts exists and I for one believe that their sale helps to fund resistance to our rule. We saw yesterday what outrages this can lead to." Underwood's eyebrows lifted with something like amusement. "I must say," he went on, "I am surprised to hear that you have fallen victim. Most recent thefts were perpetrated on—may I be frank? —relatively minor magicians. The thieves are often thought to be youths, even children. I would have thought your defenses might have coped with them."