I scurried back and forth, back and forth, thinking, thinking…
Impossible. I could not escape. Death was closing in steadily on every side. It was hard to see how the situation could possibly get any worse.
A froth of steam, a roar, a mad, red eye lowered to my level.
"Bartimaeus!"
Well, that was one way. Bull—head was no longer squabbling. He had suddenly remembered who I was. "I know you now!" he cried. "Your voice! Yes, it is you—the destroyer of my people! At last! I have waited twenty—seven centuries for this moment!"
When you're faced with a comment like that, it's hard to think of anything to say.
The utukku raised his silver spear and howled out the triumphant battle cry that his kind always deliver with the death stroke.
I settled for whirring my wings. You know, in a forlorn, defiant sort of way.
23
Nathaniel
What was to become the worst day of Nathaniel's life started out much as it meant to go on. Despite returning from Parliament at such a late hour, he had found it almost impossible to get to sleep. His master's final words rang endlessly through his mind, instilling in him a growing unease: "Anyone in possession of stolen property will suffer the severest penalties…" The severest penalties… And what was the Amulet of Samarkand if not stolen property?
True, on the one hand, he was certain Lovelace had already stolen the Amulet: it was to get proof of this that he had sent Bartimaeus on his mission. But on the other hand, he—or, strictly speaking, Underwood—currently had the stolen goods instead. If Lovelace, or the police, or anyone from the Government should find it in the house… indeed, if Underwood himself should discover it in his collection, Nathaniel dreaded to think what catastrophes might occur. What had started out as a personal strike against his enemy now seemed suddenly a far riskier business. It wasn't just Lovelace he was up against now, but the long arm of the Government too. He had heard about the glass prisms, containing the remains of traitors, that hung from the battlements of the Tower of London. They made an eloquent point. It was never wise to risk official wrath.
By the time the ghostly light that precedes the dawn began to glow around the skylight, Nathaniel was sure of one thing only. Whether the djinni had gathered proof or not, he ought to get rid of the Amulet fast. He would return it to Lovelace and alert the authorities in some way. But for that, he needed Bartimaeus.
And Bartimaeus refused to come to him.
Despite his bone—aching weariness, Nathaniel performed the summoning three times that morning, and three times the djinni did not appear. By the third try, he was practically sobbing with panic, gabbling out the words with hardly a care that a mispronounced syllable might endanger him. When he finished, he waited, breathing fast, watching the circle. Come on, come on.
No smoke, no smell, no demon.
With a curse, Nathaniel canceled the summons, kicked a pot of incense across the room and flung himself upon his bed. What was going on? If Bartimaeus had found some way to break free of his charge… But surely that was impossible—no demon had ever managed such a thing as far as Nathaniel knew. He beat his fist uselessly against the blankets. When he got the djinni back again, he'd make it pay for this delay—he'd subject it to the Jagged Pendulum and watch it squirm!
But in the meantime, what to do?
Use the scrying glass? No, that could come later: the three summonings had worn him out, and first he had to rest. Instead, there was his master's library. That was the place to begin. Maybe there were other, more advanced methods of summoning he could try. Perhaps there was information on tricks djinn used to avoid returning.
He got up and kicked the rug over the chalk circles on the floor. No time to clear it up now. In a couple of hours he was due to meet his master, to finally try the long—awaited summoning of the natterjack impling. Nathaniel groaned with frustration—that was the last thing he needed! He could summon the impling in his sleep, but his master would ensure he checked and double—checked every line and phrase until the process took several hours. It was a waste of energy he could well do without. What a fool his master was!
Nathaniel set off for the library. He clattered down the attic stairs.
And ran headlong into his master coming up.
Underwood fell back against the wall, clutching the most expansive part of his waistcoat, which had connected sharply with one of Nathaniel's elbows. He gave a cry of rage and aimed a glancing slap at his apprentice's head.
"You little ruffian! You could have killed me!"
"Sir! I'm sorry, sir. I didn't expect—"
"Careering down stairs like some brainless oik, some commoner! A magician keeps his deportment strictly under control at all times. What are you playing at?"
"I'm dreadfully sorry, sir…" Nathaniel was recovering from the shock; he spoke meekly. "I was just going down to the library, to double—check a few things before our summoning this afternoon. I'm sorry if I was too eager."
His humble manner had its effect. Underwood breathed hard, but his expression relaxed. "Well, if the intention was good, I suppose I can hardly blame you. In fact I was coming to say that unfortunately I shall not be in this afternoon. Something serious has happened and I must—" He stopped; the eyebrows flickered and melted into a frown. "What's that I smell?"
"Sir?"
"That odor… it clings to you, boy." He bent closer and sniffed loudly.
"I—I'm sorry, sir, I forgot to wash this morning. Mrs. Underwood's mentioned this to me before."
"I'm not talking about your own scent, boy, unpleasant though it is. No, it's more like… rosemary… Yes! And laurel… and St. John's wort…" His eyes suddenly widened and flashed in the half—light of the staircase. "This is general summoning incense hanging about your person!"
"No, sir—"
"Don't you dare contradict me, boy! How has it…?" A suspicion dawned in his eyes. "John Mandrake, I wish to see your room! Lead the way."
"I'd rather not, sir—it's a terrible mess; I'd feel embarrassed…"
His master raised himself to his full height, his eyes flashing, his singed beard bristling. He seemed somehow to grow taller than Nathaniel had ever seen him, although the fact that he was standing on the step above probably helped a bit. Nathaniel felt himself shrink back, cowering.
Underwood flourished a finger and pointed up the stairs. "Go!"
Helplessly, Nathaniel obeyed. In silence, he led the way to his chamber, his master's heavy boots treading close behind him. As he opened the door, an unmistakable stench of incense and candle wax gusted up into his face. Nathaniel stood glumly to one side as, stooping under the low ceiling, his master entered the attic room.
For a few seconds, Underwood surveyed the scene. It was an incriminating picture: an upturned pot, with a trail of multicolored incense extending from it across the floor; several dozen summoning candles, still smoldering, arranged against the walls and upon the desk; two heavy books on magic, taken from Underwood's own personal shelves, lying open on the bed. The only things that weren't visible were the summoning circles themselves. They lay hidden under the rug. Nathaniel thought this gave him a possible way out. He cleared his throat.
"If I might explain, sir."
His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug, which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes. Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.