Nathaniel still had in his pocket the remnants of the money he had stolen from Mrs. Underwood's jar a few days before. He glanced at the cart: it was piled high with copies of The Times—the Government's official paper. The newspaper boy himself wore a large, checked cloth cap, fingerless gloves, and a long dark coat that reached almost to his ankles. The tips of his fingers were mauve with cold. Every now and then he roared out the same hoarse calclass="underline" "Times! Morning edition!"
Nathaniel had little experience of dealing with commoners. He hailed the boy in his deepest, most assertive voice. "The Times. How much is it?"
"Forty pence, kid." Coldly, Nathaniel handed over the change and received the newspaper in return. The paperboy glanced at him, first incuriously, and then with what seemed a sudden intense interest. Nathaniel made to pass on, but the boy addressed him.
"You look rough, chum," he said cheerily. "Been out all night?"
"No." Nathaniel adopted a stern expression, which he hoped would discourage further curiosity.
It didn't work. "Course you ain't, course you ain't," the paperboy said. "And I wouldn't blame you for not admitting it if you had. But you ought to be careful with the curfew on. The police are sniffing about more than usual."
"What curfew's this?" the djinni asked.
The paperboy's eyes widened. "Where've you been, mate? After that disgraceful attack on Parliament, there's an eight o'clock curfew each night this week. It won't do nothing, but the search spheres are out, and the Night Police too, so you'll want to hole up somewhere before they find you and eat you. Looks to me like you struck lucky so far. Tell you what—I could find you a good place to shelter tonight, if you need it. It's safe, and the spot to go"—he paused, looked up and down the street, and lowered his voice—"if you've got anything you might want to sell."
Nathaniel looked at him blankly. "Thank you. I haven't."
The boy scratched the back of his head. "Suit yourself. Well, can't hang about chatting. Some of us have got work to do. I'm off." He took up the poles of his handcart and moved away, but Nathaniel noticed him look back at them over his shoulder more than once.
"Strange," Bartimaeus said. "What was that about?"
Nathaniel shrugged. He had already dismissed it from his mind. "Go and get me some food and warmer clothes. I'll go back to the library and read this."
"Very well. Do try to keep out of trouble while I'm gone." The djinni turned and headed off into the crowd.
The article was on page two, sandwiched between the Employment Ministry's monthly request for new apprentices and a short report from the Italian campaign. It was three columns in length. It noted with regret the deaths in a severe house fire of the Internal Affairs Minister Arthur Underwood and his wife, Martha. The blaze had started at approximately 10:15 P.M. and had only been fully extinguished by fire crews and emergency service magicians three hours later, by which time the whole building had been gutted. Two neighboring houses had been badly affected, and their occupants evacuated to safety. The cause of the fire was unknown, but police were keen to interview Mr. Underwood's apprentice, John Mandrake, aged twelve, whose body had not been recovered. Some confused reports had him being observed running from the scene. Mandrake was rumored to be of an unstable disposition; he was known to have assaulted several prominent magicians the year before and the public was told to approach him with caution. Mr. Underwood's death, the article concluded, was a sad loss to the Government; he had served his ministry ably all his life and made many significant contributions, none of which the paper had space to describe.
Sitting below the windows, Nathaniel let the paper drop. His head sank against his chest; he closed his eyes. Seeing in cold, clear print the confirmation of what he already knew struck him like a fresh blow. He reeled with it, willing the tears to come, but his grief remained pent up, elusive. It was no good. He was too tired for anything. All he wanted was to sleep…
A boot nudged him, not softly. He started and awoke.
The djinni stood over him, grinning. It carried a paper bag from which steam curled promisingly. Raw hunger overcame Nathaniel's dignity—he snatched the bag, almost spilling the polystyrene cup of coffee on his lap. To his relief, beneath the cup were two neatly wrapped greaseproof paper parcels, each containing a hot steak sandwich. It seemed to Nathaniel that he had never eaten anything half as good in his entire life. In two straight minutes, both sandwiches were gone and he sat nursing the coffee in his chilblained fingers, breathing heavily.
"What an exhibition," the djinni said.
Nathaniel slurped the coffee. "How did you get this?"
"Stole it. Got a delicatessen man to make it all up, then ran off with it while he was at the cash register. Nothing fancy. The police were summoned."
Nathaniel groaned. "That's all we need."
"Don't worry. They'll be looking for a tall blond woman in a fur coat. Speaking of which"—it pointed to a small mound amid the debris of the floor—"you'll find some better clothing there. Coat, trousers, hat, and gloves. I hope they'll fit you. I picked the scrawniest sizes I could find."
A few minutes later, Nathaniel was better fed, better clothed, and partially revived. He sat beside the fire and warmed himself. The djinni crouched nearby, staring into the flames.
"They think I did it." Nathaniel indicated the newspaper.
"Well, what do you expect? Lovelace isn't going to come clean, is he? What magician would do a stupid thing like that?" Bartimaeus eyed him meaningfully. "The whole point of starting the fire was to hide all trace of his visit. And since he couldn't kill you, he's set you up to take the rap."
"The police are after me."
"Yep. The police on one side, Lovelace on the other. He'll have his scouts out trying to track you down. A nice little pincer movement. That's what he wants—to keep you on the run, isolated, out of his hair."
Nathaniel ground his teeth. "We'll see about that. What if I go to the police myself? They could raid Lovelace's house—find the Amulet…"
"Think they'll listen to you? You're a wanted man. I use man in the broadest possible sense there, obviously. Even if you weren't, I'd be cautious about contacting the authorities. Lovelace isn't acting alone. There's his old master, Schyler—"
"Schyler?" Of course—the wizened red—faced old man. "Schyler is his master? Yes… I know him. I overheard them discussing the Amulet at Parliament. There's another one, too, called Lime."
The djinni nodded. "That may just be the tip of the iceberg. A great many search spheres chased me when I stole the Amulet that first night—they were the work of several magicians. If it is a wide conspiracy, and you go to the authorities, you can't trust anyone in a position of power not to tip him off and kill you instead. For example, Sholto Pinn, the artifact merchant, may be in on it. He is one of Lovelace's closest friends, and in fact was having lunch with him only yesterday. I discovered that shortly before I was unavoidably detained at Pinn's shop."
Nathaniel's anger flared. "You were far too reckless! I asked you to investigate Lovelace, not endanger me!"
"Temper, temper. That's precisely what I was doing. It was at Pinn's that I found out about the Amulet. Lovelace had it taken from a government magician named Beecham, whose throat was cut by the thief. The Government badly wants it back. I would have learned more, but an afrit came calling and took me to the Tower."