The servant beside him was oblivious to it all; the imps were invisible to him. "You've finished that lot," he said. "Take this tray of drinks round. They're as thirsty as camels. With worse manners, most of them."
Some guests were drifting off down the hall toward an inner gallery, and Nathaniel was pleased to have an excuse to drift off with them. He needed to get away from the crowds to explore other regions of the house. So far, he had seen no sign of Lovelace, the Amulet, or any possible trap. But nothing would happen yet, since the Prime Minister had not arrived.
Halfway along the hall, the woman from the library was standing in the midst of a small group, holding court. Nathaniel loitered nearby, allowing guests to swap empty glasses for the full ones on his tray.
"You'll see it in a few minutes," she said. "It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. Simon had it brought from Persia especially for this afternoon."
"He's treating you very well," a man said dryly, sipping his drink.
Amanda Cathcart blushed. "He is," she said. "He's very good to me. Oh—but it's simply the cleverest thing! I'm sure it'll set an instant trend. Mind you, it wasn't easy to install—his men have been working on it all week. I saw the room for the first time only this morning. Simon said it would take my breath away and he was right."
"The P.M.'s here," someone shouted. With little cries of excitement, the guests rushed back toward the doors, Amanda Cathcart at their head. Nathaniel copied the other servants and positioned himself respectfully beside a pillar, ready to be called.
Rupert Devereaux entered, slapping his gloves together in one hand and smiling his half smile. He stood out from the adoring throng not just for his elegant attire and personal grace (which were just as striking as Nathaniel remembered), but for his companions: a bodyguard of four sullen, gray—suited magicians and—more startlingly—a hulking two—meter—tall afrit with luminous black—green skin. The afrit stood directly behind its master, casting baleful red eyes upon the company.
All the imps chittered with fear. The guests bowed their heads respectfully.
Nathaniel realized that the Prime Minister was making a blatant show of his power to all his assembled ministers, some of whom perhaps aspired to his position. It was certainly enough to impress Nathaniel. How could Lovelace expect to overcome something as strong as that afrit? Surely the very idea was madness.
But here was Lovelace himself, bounding down the hall to greet his leader. Nathaniel's face remained impassive; his whole body tensed with hatred.
"Welcome, Rupert!" Much hand—shaking. Lovelace seemed oblivious of the afrit's presence at his shoulder. He turned to address the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! With our beloved Prime Minister here, the conference can officially begin. On behalf of Lady Amanda, may I welcome you to Heddleham Hall. Please treat the house as your own!" His eyes glanced in Nathaniel's direction. Nathaniel shrank back deeper into the shadow of the pillar. Lovelace's eyes moved on. "In a short while, we will hear the first speeches in the grand salon, which Lady Amanda has refurbished especially for today. In the meantime, please make your way to the annex, where further refreshments will be available."
He waved his hand. The guests began to move off.
Lovelace leaned forward to speak to Devereaux. From behind the pillar, Nathaniel picked out the words. "I must just collect some props for my opening speech, sir. Would you excuse me? I'll be with you in a few minutes."
"Of course, of course, Lovelace. Take your time."
Devereaux's entourage left the hall, the afrit glowering at the rear. Lovelace watched them for a moment, then set off alone in the opposite direction. Nathaniel remained where he was, making a big show of collecting used glasses that had been discarded on the antique furniture and marble pedestals lining the hall. Then, when the final servant had departed, he set his tray down quietly on a table and, like a ghost in the night, padded off on Lovelace's trail.
38
Simon Lovelace strode alone through the corridors and galleries of the great house. His head was bowed as he walked, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He paid no heed to the rows of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and other artifacts he passed; he never looked behind him.
Nathaniel flitted from pillar to pedestal, from bookcase to writing desk, concealing himself behind each one until he was satisfied the magician was far enough ahead for him to continue. His heart pounded; he had a rushing noise in his ears—it reminded him of a time when had been ill in bed with fever. He didn't feel ill now, but very much alive.
The moment was fast approaching when Lovelace would strike. He knew it as if he had planned it all himself. He didn't yet know what form the attack would take, but he could see its imminence in the tense outline of the magician's shoulders, in his stiff, distracted way of walking.
He wished Bartimaeus would find him. The djinni was his only weapon.
Lovelace ascended a narrow staircase and disappeared through an open arch. Nathaniel climbed after him, placing his feet noiselessly on the slippery marble steps.
At the arch, he peered round. It was a small library or gallery of some kind, dimly lit by windows in the roof. Lovelace was making his way along a central aisle between several rows of projecting bookcases. Here and there sat low display tables, supporting a variety of oddly shaped objects. Nathaniel took another peek, decided that his quarry was almost at the opposite door, and tiptoed into the room.
Suddenly, Lovelace spoke. "Maurice!"
Nathaniel shot behind the nearest bookshelf. He flattened himself against it, forcing himself to breathe quietly. He heard the far door open. Stealthily, careful not to make the slightest noise, he turned his head inch by inch, until he could look over the top of the nearest books. Other bookcases separated him from the opposite side of the gallery, but framed in a gap between two shelves he could just make out the red, wrinkled face of Schyler, the old magician. Lovelace himself was hidden from view.
"Simon—what is wrong? Why have you come?"
"I've brought you a present." Lovelace's voice was casual, amused. "The boy."
Nathaniel nearly fainted with shock. His muscles tensed, ready to run.
Lovelace stepped out from behind the end of the bookshelf. "Don't bother. You'll be dead before you can leave the room."
Nathaniel froze. Teetering on the edge of panic, he kept quite still.
"Come round here to Maurice." Lovelace motioned with ostentatious courtesy. Nathaniel shuffled forward. "There's a good boy. And stop trembling like an invalid. Another lesson for you: a magician never shows his fear."
Nathaniel entered the main aisle and halted, facing the old magician. His body was shaking with rage, not fear. He cast his eyes left and right, looking for avenues of escape, but saw none. Lovelace's hand patted him on the back; he recoiled from the touch.
"I'm afraid I haven't got time to talk," Lovelace said. "I will leave you in Maurice's tender care. He has an offer to make you. Pardon—was that a mumble?"
"How did you know I was here?"
"Rufus Lime recognized you. I doubted that you would try anything too hasty downstairs, given that the police are hunting you in connection with that… unfortunate fire. So I thought it best simply to lead you away from the crowds, before you could make trouble. Now forgive me, I have a pressing engagement. Maurice—it's time."
Schyler's face crinkled with satisfaction. "Rupert's arrived, has he?"
"He's arrived, and his men have conjured a formidable afrit. Do you think he suspects?"
"Tcha! No. It is the normal paranoia, sharpened by that cursed attack on Parliament. The Resistance has a lot to answer for—they have not made today's task any easier. Once in power, Simon, we must root them out, these stupid children, and hang them up in chains on Tower Hill."