"Quite." Simon Lovelace spoke through his teeth.
"Do you think it has any connection with the attack on Parliament?"
"A moment, please." Lovelace held up his hand. "I have reason to suspect that the theft of the—of my item, was not the work of the so—called Resistance, but that of a fellow magician."
Underwood frowned. "You think so? How can you be sure?"
"Because I know what carried out the raid. It goes by the unseemly name of Bartimaeus. A middle—ranking djinni of great impudence and small intelligence.[74] It is nothing special. Any half—wit might have summoned it. A half—wit magician, that is, not a commoner."
"Nevertheless," Underwood said mildly, "this Bartimaeus got away with your item."[75]
"It was a bungler! It allowed itself to be identified!" Lovelace controlled himself with difficulty. "No, no—you are quite right. It got away."
"And as to who summoned it…"
The glasses flashed. "Well, Arthur, that is why I am here. To see you."
There was a momentary pause while Underwood's brain cells struggled to make the connection. Finally, success. Several emotions competed for control of his face, then all were swept away by a kind of glacial smoothness. The temperature in the room grew cold.
"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "What did you say?"
Simon Lovelace leaned forward and rested his two hands on the dining table. He had very well manicured nails. "Arthur," he said, "Bartimaeus has not been keeping a low profile lately. As of this morning, it was imprisoned within the Tower of London, following its attack on Pinn's of Piccadilly."
Underwood reeled with astonishment. "That djinni? How—how do you know this? They were unable to learn its name… And—and it escaped, this very afternoon…"
"It did indeed." Lovelace did not explain how. "After its escape, my agents… spotted it. They followed Bartimaeus across London—and back here."[76]
Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"
"Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I am inside…" Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."
"But…"
"I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."
The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different expression, then reverted to the original. Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.
"I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite within my rights. But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well aware—is rather… contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get out, now would we? So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some… arrangement that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff. "I'm waiting."
If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he might have saved himself.[77] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.
"You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How dare you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should I take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I would—n't bother robbing you. Everyone knows your star has waned. You're not worth harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably, they lie. Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my house!"
As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.
"Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."
The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."
"I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."
"I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."
"Well, then…"
Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air and landed on the mahogany top of the dining—room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.
"Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."
The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a laden tray.
"Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr. Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"
Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large porcelain teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display—rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.
Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.
"Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."
Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the display—rack. The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.
"That's right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs. Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.
The door closed.
As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.
With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.
There was a brief silence.
Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.
"What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.
Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance. "That was my best teapot."
He gave three whistles, shrill, high—pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin—imp, blue—faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin—imp sprang, turning in midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong. The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin—imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.
74
At this point someone with excellent hearing might have heard a spurt of webbing being shot furiously into the ceiling in the corner of the room Fortunately, the imp was busy trying to intimidate Underwood by changing its frozen expression very, very slowly. It didn't hear a thing.
75
I felt a sudden surge of affection for the old fool. Didn't last long. Just thought I'd mention it.
76
Oops. It looked as if Lovelace had guessed I might escape from Faquarl He must have set spies watching the Tower to trail us once we broke free And I'd led them straight back to the Amulet in double—quick time How embarrassing.
77
He could have produced the Amulet, agreed to terms, and seen Lovelace head off satisfied into the night. Of course, now that he knew a little of Lovelace's crimes, he would certainly have been bumped off soon afterward, but that breathing space might have given him time to shave his beard, put on a flowery shirt, fly off somewhere hot and sandy and so survive.