"A girl? What girl?"
"But even so I smashed my head open and fell in a puddle, and then, when they'd gone, I couldn't find the way back and it was after curfew and the search spheres were out and I had to keep hiding as they passed. In the end, I found a stream under a bridge and lay there in the mud for ages while the lights patrolled up and down the road above. And then, when they'd gone, I still had to find my way back. It took me hours! And I hurt my knee."
Well, it wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but it was the best bedtime story I'd heard in a long time. It quite cheered me up.
"They're part of the Resistance," he went on, staring into the fire. "I'm sure of it. They're going to sell my disc—give it to the same people who attacked Parliament! Ahh!" He clenched his fists. "Why weren't you there to help me? I could have caught them—forced them to tell me about their leader."
"If you recall," I remarked, coldly, "I was off on a mission you gave me. Who was this girl you mentioned?"
"I don't know. I only saw her for a second. She was in charge of them. One day, though, I'll find her and make her pay!"
"I thought you said she stopped them from killing you?"
"She still took my disc! She's a thief and a traitor."
Whatever else the girl was, she sounded very familiar. A thought struck me. "How did they know you had the disc? Did you show it to them?"
"No. Do you think I'm stupid?"
"That's beside the point. Are you sure you didn't bring it out when you were fumbling for change?"
"No. The paperboy just knew, somehow. Like he was a djinni or an imp."
"Interesting…" It sounded exactly like the same bunch who jumped me the night I had the Amulet of Samarkand. My girl and her cronies hadn't needed to see the Amulet to know I had it on me, either. And they'd later found me hidden behind my Concealment spell. Useful abilities, which were evidently being put to good use. If they were part of this Resistance movement, it sounded like opposition to the magicians was more developed—and potentially formidable—than I'd thought. Times were moving on in London…
I didn't share these thoughts with the boy. He was the enemy, after all, and the last thing magicians need are any clever insights. "Leaving your misfortunes to one side for a moment," I said, "perhaps you wish to hear my report?"
He grunted. "You found Heddleham Hall?"
"I did—and if you choose I can get you there. Beside the Thames is a railway heading south, over the river and out of London. But first I should tell you about the defenses Lovelace has rigged up around his girlfriend's house. They are formidable. Airborne foliots patrol the surrounding countryside, while higher—ranking entities materialize at random on the ground. There are at least two protective domes over the estate itself, which also change position. I was unable to get beyond the boundary on my foray, and it will be even harder to succeed with a deadbeat like you in tow."
He didn't rise to the bait. He was too tired. "However," I continued, "I can feel in my essence that they are hiding something at the Hall. These defenses are in place two days too early, which involves a colossal expenditure of power. That implies mischief going on."
"How long will it take to get there?"
"We can reach the edge of the estate by nightfall—if we catch an early morning train. There's a long walk at the other end. But we'll need to get going now."
"Very well." He began to get up, squelching and oozing as he did so.
"Are you sure about this plan?" I said. "I could take you to the docks instead. There's bound to be vacancies for cabin boys there. It's a hard life, but a good one. Think of all that salty air."
There was no answer. He was on his way out. I gave a sigh, snuffed out the fire, and followed him.
The route I selected was a strip of wasteland that ran south and east between the factories and warehouses, following a narrow tributary of the Thames. Although the stream itself was meager, it meandered excessively across its mini flood plain, creating a maze of hummocks, marshes, and little pools that took us the rest of the night to negotiate. Our shoes sank into mud and water, sharp reeds spiked our legs and hands, and mosquitoes whined occasionally about our heads. The boy, by contrast, whined pretty much continually. After his adventures with the Resistance, he was in a very bad temper.
"It's worse for me than it is for you," I snapped, after a particularly petulant outburst. "I could have flown this in five minutes, but oh, no—I have to keep you company. Writhing about in mud and slime is your birthright, human, not mine."
"I can't see where I'm putting my feet," he said. "Create some light, can't you?"
"Yes, if you want to attract the attention of night—flying djinn. The streets are well watched—as you've already discovered—and don't forget Lovelace may still be seeking us too. The only reason I've chosen this way is because it's so dark and unpleasant."
He did not seem greatly comforted by this; nevertheless, his protests ceased.[85]
As we stumbled on, I considered our situation with my usual impeccable logic. It had been six days since the kid had summoned me. Six days of discomfort building up inside my essence. And no immediate end in sight.
The kid. Where did he rate in my list of all—time human lows? He wasn't the worst master I had endured,[86] but he presented some peculiar problems of his own. All sensible magicians, well versed in clever cruelty, know when the time is right to fight. They risk themselves (and their servants) comparatively rarely. But the kid hadn't a clue. He had been overwhelmed by a disaster brought about by his own meddling, and his reaction was to lunge back at his enemy like a wounded snake. Whatever his original grudge against Lovelace, his previous discretion had now been replaced by a desperation powered by grief. Simple things like self—preservation were disregarded in his pride and fury. He was going to his death. Which would have been fine, except he was taking me along for the ride.
I had no solution to this. I was bound to my master. All I could do was try to keep him alive.
By dawn, we had followed the waste strip down from north London almost to the Thames. Here the stream widened briefly before sluicing over a series of weirs into the main river. It was time to rejoin the roads. We climbed a bank to a wire fence (in which I burned a discreet hole), stepped through it and came out on a cobbled street. The political heart of the city was on our right, the Tower district on our left; the Thames stretched ahead. Curfew was safely over, but there was no one yet about.
"Right," I said, halting. "The station is close by. Before we go there, we need to solve a problem."
"Which is?"
"To stop you looking—and smelling—like a swineherd." The various fluids of the wasteland adhered to him in a complex splatter—pattern. He could have been framed and hung up on a fashionable wall.
He frowned. "Yes. Clean me up first. There must be a way."
"There is."
Perhaps I shouldn't have seized him and dunked him in the river. The Thames isn't that much cleaner than the quagmire we'd waded through. Still, it washed off the worst of the muck. After a minute of vigorous dousing, I allowed him to come up, water spouting through his nostrils. He made a gurgling sound that was hard to identify. I had a stab, though.
85
One side—benefit of this route was that its difficulties eventually took his mind off the loss of his precious scrying glass. Honestly, the way he went on about it, you'd think that imp was his blood brother, rather than a vulgar baby impersonator trapped against its will. He did seem to have taken his misfortune personally. But after the loss of his beloved Mrs. Underwood, I suppose the disc was his only friend in the world, poor thing.
86
A "good master" is a contradiction in terms, of course. Even Solomon would have been insufferable, he was so prissy in his early years, but fortunately he could command 20,000 spirits with one twist of his magic ring, so with him I got plenty of days off.