But the birds displayed no desire to halt; fear still carried them onward in a whirling course across the fortifications of the Tower. Several times they seemed to be heading for an outer wall; on each occasion they banked and turned back. Once I was tempted to make a break for it alone, but was discouraged by the appearance on the battlements of an odd blue—black sentry with four spider—like legs. I didn't like its look, and was too weary after my captivity and forced changes of form to risk its unknown power.
At last, we came to yet another courtyard, surrounded on three sides by castle buildings and on the other by a steep bank of green grass rising up to a high wall. The ravens alighted on the bank and began to mill about, pecking at the ground aimlessly.
Faquarl hopped over to me, one wing hanging away from his breast. It was still bleeding.
"These birds are never going to leave the grounds," I said. "They get fed here."
The raven nodded. "They've got us as far as they can, but it'll do. This is an outer wall. Over that and we're away."
"Then let's go."
"In a minute. I need to rest. And perhaps Jabor—"
"Jabor's dead."
"You know him better than that, Bartimaeus." Faquarl pecked at his wounded wing, pulling a feather away from the clotting blood. "Just give me a moment. That utukku! I wouldn't have guessed he had it in him."
"Imps coming," I hissed. A battalion had scurried through an arch into the far corner of the yard and were fanning out to begin a meticulous survey of every brick and stone. We were still concealed within the flock of ravens, but not for long.
Faquarl spat another feather onto the grass, where it briefly changed into a writhing strip of jelly before melting away. "Very well. Up, over, and out. Don't stop for anything."
I gestured politely with a wing. "After you."
"No, no, Bartimaeus—after you!" The raven flexed one large, clawed foot. "I shall be right behind you all the time, so please be original and don't try to escape."
"You have a horrid, suspicious mind." The imps were creeping nearer, sniffing the ground like dogs. I took off and shot up toward the battlements at speed. As I drew level with them, I perceived a sentry patroling the walkway. It was a small foliot, with a battered bronze horn strapped to the side of his head. Unfortunately, he perceived me too. Before I could react, he had swiveled his lips to the mouthpiece of the horn and blown a short, sharp blast, which instantly triggered a wave of answering signals from along the wall, high and low, loud and soft, away into the distance. That did it: our cover was well and truly blown. I weaved at the sentry, talons grasping; he gave a squeak, lost his balance and tumbled backward over the edge of the wall. I shot across the battlements, over a steep bank of tumbled black rocks and earth, and away from the Tower into the city.
No time to lose, no time to look back. I flapped onward, fast as I could. Beneath me passed a broad gray thoroughfare, heavy with traffic, then a block of flat—roofed garages, a narrow street, a slab of shingle, a curve of the Thames, a wharf and steelyard, another street… Hey! This wasn't too bad—with my customary panache, I was getting away! The Tower of London must already be a mile back. Pretty soon, I could…
I looked up and blinked in shock. What was this? The Tower of London loomed ahead of me. Groups of flying figures were massing over the central keep. I was flying back toward it! Something had gone seriously wrong with my directions. In great perplexity I did a U—turn round a chimney and shot off again in the opposite direction. Faquarl's voice sounded behind me.
"Bartimaeus, stop!"
"Didn't you see them?" I yelled back over my wing. "They'll be on us in moments!" I redoubled my speed, ignoring Faquarl's urgent calls. Rooftops flashed below me, then the mucky expanse of the Thames, which I crossed in record time, then—
The Tower of London, just as before. The flying figures were now shooting out in all directions, each group following a search sphere. One lot was heading my way. Every instinct told me to turn tail and flee, but I was too confused. I alighted upon a rooftop. A few moments later, Faquarl appeared beside me, panting and swearing fit to burst.
"You fool! Now we're back where we started!"
A penny dropped. "You mean—"
"The first Tower you saw was a mirror illusion. We should have gone straight through it.[70] Lovelace warned me of it—and you wouldn't wait to listen! Curse my injured wing and curse you, Bartimaeus!"
The battalion of flying djinn was crossing the outer walls. Barely a street's distance separated us. Faquarl hunched dismally behind a chimney. "We'll never out—fly them."
Inspiration came. "Then we won't fly. We passed some traffic lights back there."
"So what?" Faquarl's normal urbanity was wearing a little thin.
"So we hitch a ride." Keeping the building between me and the searchers, I swooped off the roof and down to an intersection, where a line of cars was halted up at a red light. I landed on the pavement, near the back of the queue, with Faquarl close on my heels.
"Right," I said. "Time to change."
"What to?"
"Something with strong claws. Hurry up, the lights are turning green." Before Faquarl could object, I hopped off the pavement and under the nearest car, trying to ignore the repellent stench of oil and petrol fumes and the sickening vibrations that intensified as the unseen driver revved the engine. With no regret, I bade farewell to the raven and took on the form of a stygian implet, which is little more than a series of barbs on a tangle of muscle. Barbs and prongs shot out and embedded themselves in the filthy metal of the undercarriage, securing me fast as the car began to inch forward and away. I had hoped Faquarl would be too slow to follow, but no such luck: another implet was right beside me, grimly hanging on between the wheels and keeping his eyes fixed on me the whole time.
We didn't talk much during the journey. The engine was too loud. Besides, stygian implets go in for teeth, not tongues.
An endless time later, the car drew to a halt. Its driver got out and moved away. Silence. With a groan, I loosened my various intricate holds and dropped heavily to the tarmac, groggy with motion sickness and the smell of technology.[71] Faquarl was no better off. Without speaking, we became a pair of elderly, slightly manky cats, which hobbled out from under the car and away across a stretch of lawn toward a thick clump of bushes. Once there, we finally relaxed into our preferred forms.
The cook sank down upon a tree stump. "I'll pay you back for that, Bartimaeus," he gasped. "I've never had such torture."
The Egyptian boy grinned. "It got us away, didn't it? We're safe."
"One of my prongs punctured the petrol tank. I'm covered with the stuff. I'll come up in a rash—"
"Quit complaining." I squinted through the foliage: a residential street, big semis, lots of trees. There was no one in sight, except for a small girl playing with a tennis ball in a nearby drive. "We're in some suburb," I said. "Outskirts of London, or beyond." Faquarl only grunted. I cast a sly side glance. He was re—examining the wound Baztuk had given him. Looked bad. He'd be weakened.
"Even with this gash I'm more than a match for you, Bartimaeus, so come and sit down." The cook gestured impatiently. "I've something important to tell you."
With my usual obedience, I sat on the ground, cross—legged, the way Ptolemy used to do. I didn't get too close. Faquarl reeked of petrol.
70
71
Many modern products—synthetic plastics, metal alloys, the inner workings of machines—carry so much of the human about them that they afflict our essence if we get too close for too long. It's probably some sort of allergy.