"How does it feel to be inferior to Faquarl?" I called, as I ducked behind one of the few remaining chandeliers. "I don't see Lovelace risking his life by summoning him here today."
From the other side of the chandelier, Jabor tried to lob a Pestilence at me, but a ripple of energy disrupted it and it became a cloud of pretty flowers drifting to the floor.
"Charming," I said. "Next, you need to learn to arrange them properly. I'll lend you a nice vase, if you like."
I don't think Jabor's grasp of insults extended far enough to take that quite on board, but he understood the tone, and it actually roused him to verbal response.
"He summoned me because I'm stronger!" he bellowed, wrenching the chandelier from the ceiling and hurling it at me. I dodged balletically and it shattered against the wall, to rain down in little lumps of crystal on the magicians' cowering heads.
Jabor did not seem impressed by this graceful maneuver. "Coward!" he cried. "Always, you sneak and crawl and run and hide."
"It's called intelligence," I said, pirouetting in midair, seizing a splintered beam from the ceiling rafters and hurling it at him like a javelin. He didn't bother to move, but let it crack against his shoulders and fall away. Then he came closer. Despite my fine words, none of my sneaking, crawling, running or hiding was having much effect right now, and looking down across the hall, I saw that the situation was in fact deteriorating rapidly. Ramuthra[118] had turned and was proceeding back across the room toward where the magician and my master were standing. It wasn't hard to see what Lovelace intended: the boy had become too much of an irritant to let him live a moment longer. I understood his point of view.
And still Lovelace held the horn; still he wore the Amulet. So far we had gained nothing. Somehow he had to be distracted, before Ramuthra got near enough to destroy the boy. An idea came into my mind unbidden. Interesting… But first, I needed to shake Jabor off for a while.
Easier said than done, Jabor being a persistent sort of fellow.
Avoiding his outstretched fingers, I ducked down through the air, in the vague direction of the center of the room. The podium had long since been reduced to a blancmangey sort of substance by the proximity of the rift. Scattered shoes and chairs were strewn all around, but there was no one left living in this area.
I dropped at speed. Behind, I heard Jabor rushing through the air in hot pursuit.
The nearer I got to the rift, the greater the strain on my essence—I could feel a suction starting to pull me forward; the effect was unpleasantly similar to being summoned. When I had reached the limit of my endurance, I stopped in midair, did a quick somersault, and faced the oncoming Jabor. There he was, whistling down, arms out and angry, with not a thought for the danger just beyond me. He just wanted to get his claws on my essence, to rend me like one of his victims from old Ombos[119] or Phoenicia.
But I was no mere human, cowering and quailing in the temple dark. I am Bartimaeus, and no coward either. I stood my ground.[120]
Down came Jabor. I hunched into a wrestling pose.
He opened his mouth to give that jackal cry—
I flapped my wings once and rose up a fraction. As he shot under me, I swiveled and booted his backside with all my strength. He was going too fast to stop quickly, especially with my friendly assistance. His wings jammed forward in an effort to stop. He slowed, and began to turn, snarling.
The rift exerted its pull on him. An expression of sudden doubt appeared on his face. He tried to beat his wings, but they didn't move properly. It was as if they were immersed in fast—flowing treacle; traces of a black—gray substance were pulled off the fringes of his wings and sucked away. That was his essence beginning to go. He made a tremendous effort, and actually succeeded in advancing a little toward me. I gave him a thumbs—up sign.
"Well done," I said. "I reckon you made about five centimeters there. Keep going." He made another Herculean effort. "Another centimeter! Good try! You'll get your hands on me soon." To encourage him, I stuck a cheeky foot in his direction and waved it in front of his face, just out of reach. He snarled and tried to swipe, but now the essence was curling away from the surface of his limbs and being drawn into the rift; his muscular tone was visibly changing, growing thinner by the instant. As his strength ebbed, the pull of the rift became stronger and he began to move backward, slowly first, then faster.
If Jabor had had half a brain he might have changed into a gnat or something: perhaps with less bulk he might have fought free from the rift's gravitational pull. A word of friendly advice could have saved him, but dear me, I was too busy watching him unravel to think of it until it was far too late. Now his rear limbs and wings were sloughing off into liquid streams of greasy gray—black stuff that spiraled through the rift and away from Earth. It can't have been pleasant for him, especially with Lovelace's charge still binding him here, but his face showed no pain, only hatred. So it was, right to the end. Even as the back of his head lost its form, his blazing red eyes were still locked on mine. Then they were gone, away into the rift, and I was alone, waving him a fond adieu.
I didn't waste too much time on my good—byes. I had other matters to attend to.
Nathaniel
"An amazing thing, the Amulet of Samarkand." Whether from fear, or from a cruel delight in reasserting his control, Lovelace persisted in keeping up a one—sided conversation with Nathaniel even as Ramuthra stalked remorselessly toward them. It seemed he could not bring himself to shut up. Nathaniel was retreating slowly, hopelessly, knowing there was nothing he could do.
"Ramuthra disrupts the elements, you see." Lovelace continued. "Wherever it treads, the elements rebel. And that ruins the careful order on which all magic depends. Nothing any of you might try can stop it: every magical effort will misfire—you cannot hurt me, you cannot escape. Ramuthra will have you all. But the Amulet contains an equal and opposite force to Ramuthra's; thus I am secure. It might even lift me to its mouth, so that chaos raged upon me, and I would feel nothing."
The demon had halved the distance to Nathaniel and was picking up pace. One of its great transparent arms was outstretched. Perhaps it was eager to taste him.
"My dear master suggested this plan," Lovelace said, "and, as always, he was inspired. He will be watching us at this moment."
"You mean Schyler?" Even on the threshold of death, Nathaniel couldn't restrain a savage satisfaction. "I doubt it. He's lying dead upstairs."
Lovelace's self—possession faltered for the first time. His smile flickered.
"That's right," Nathaniel said. "I didn't just escape. I killed him."
The magician laughed. "Don't lie to me, child—"
A voice behind Lovelace: a woman's, soft and plaintive. "Simon!"
The magician looked back; Amanda Cathcart stood there, close at hand, her gown torn and muddied, her hair disheveled and now slightly maroon. She limped as she approached him, her arms out, bafflement and terror etched upon her face. "Oh, Simon" she said. "What have you done?"
Lovelace blanched; he turned to face the woman. "Stay back!" he cried. There was a note of panic in his voice. "Get away!"
Tears welled in Amanda Cathcart's eyes. "How could you do this, Simon? Am I to die too?"
118
I hadn't heard of this particular being before. Unsurprising really, since though there are many thousands of us that magicians have cruelly summoned—and thus de—fined—there are countless more that merge into the Other Place without any need for names. Perhaps this was the first time Ramuthra had been summoned.
119