Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
A Note on Pronunciation
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Two
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part Three
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Jonathan Stroud
Praise for Jonathan Stroud
Praise for The Amulet of Samarkand
Copyright
‘A rip-roaring read, hugely inventive, full of mood swings and featuring a fascinating central relationship between apprentice and djinni’ Wendy Cooling
‘You cannot have failed to hear about this new trilogy . . . the djinni’s wonderfully witty asides in the form of footnotes really make this novel something special and will leave readers salivating for the next instalment’ Grainne Cooney, THE BOOKSELLER
‘A complex, fast-paced and witty fantasy that Hollywood lapped up with relish . . . The Amulet of Samarkand has great cross-over potential’ Carl Wilkinson, OBSERVER
‘The action is thrillingly cinematic . . . Not since Gulliver’s Travels has a children’s writer managed to combine a thrilling tale of magic and adventure with such deliciously pointed comedy . . . The ending is perfect in ambiguity. Stroud’s sinister world is imagined in baroque and energetic detail . . .’ Amanda Craig, THE TIMES
‘Drama, humour and hypnotically engaging storytelling’ Nicholas Tucker, INDEPENDENT
‘. . . the truly original touch is the way Stroud alternates Nathaniel’s story with the djinni’s own knowing and irascible first-person narrative’ Diana Wynne Jones, GUARDIAN REVIEW
‘Stroud’s voice is distinct and confident enough to shake off waiting doubters. His cast becomes embroiled in a complex plot to unseat the government, resulting in a glorious set piece which will translate beautifully onto the big screen. But this is essentially an excellent children’s thriller – full of fun, action, tension and magic . . . it could easily be the talk of the playground’ Lindsey Fraser, GLASGOW SUNDAY HERALD
‘Both the djinn and the boy exist in a world described with great imaginative detail . . . The action-packed adventures of Nathaniel and Bartimaeus . . . are sustained over nearly 500 pages by the immensely enjoyable characterisation. The narrative slips skilfully from first person to third and back and Bartimaeus’s voice is laugh-out-loud sassy, while Nathaniel’s story has an engaging poignancy as he tries to prove himself in a world in which he has always been despised’ Nicolette Jones, SUNDAY TIMES
‘Terrific stuff’ MAIL ON SUNDAY
‘This book gripped me like a magnet to metal . . . I don’t have a favourite part of it because it was all brilliant. I can’t wait for the next book. I would recommend the story to anyone aged 9 years and over’ Sam Baker (aged 10) IPSWICH
A note on pronunciation:
‘Djinni’ is pronounced ‘jinnee’, and ‘djinn’ is pronounced ‘jinn’.
‘Bartimaeus’ is pronounced ‘Bart-im-ay-us’.
A young magician’s apprentice, Nathaniel, secretly summons the irascible 5,000-year-old djinni, Bartimaeus, to do his bidding.
Bartimaeus must steal the powerful Amulet of Samarkand from the master magician Simon Lovelace, and before long Nathaniel and Bartimaeus are caught up in a terrifying flood of magical intrigue, rebellion and murder.
The Bartimaeus books are published in 35 languages and have sold 5 million copies worldwide.
The magic continues with:
THE GOLEM’S EYE
PTOLEMY’S GATE
And look out for:
RING OF SOLOMON
THE TEMPERATURE OF the room dropped fast. Ice formed on the curtains and crusted thickly around the lights in the ceiling. The glowing filaments in each bulb shrank and dimmed, while the candles that sprang from every available surface like a colony of toadstools had their wicks snuffed out. The darkened room filled with a yellow, choking cloud of brimstone, in which indistinct black shadows writhed and roiled. From far away came the sound of many voices screaming. A pressure was suddenly applied to the door that led to the landing. It bulged inwards, the timbers groaning. Footsteps from invisible feet came pattering across the floorboards and invisible mouths whispered wicked things from behind the bed and under the desk.
The sulphur cloud contracted into a thick column of smoke that vomited forth thin tendrils; they licked the air like tongues before withdrawing. The column hung above the middle of the pentacle, bubbling ever upwards against the ceiling like the cloud of an erupting volcano. There was a barely perceptible pause. Then two yellow staring eyes materialized in the heart of the smoke.
Hey, it was his first time. I wanted to scare him.
And I did, too. The dark-haired boy stood in a pentacle of his own, smaller, filled with different runes, a metre away from the main one. He was pale as a corpse, shaking like a dead leaf in a high wind. His teeth rattled in his shivering jaw. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow, turning to ice as they fell through the air. They tinkled with the sound of hailstones on the floor.
All well and good, but so what? I mean, he looked about twelve years old. Wide-eyed, hollow-cheeked. There’s not that much satisfaction to be had from scaring the pants off a scrawny kid.fn1
So I floated and waited, hoping he wasn’t going to take too long to get round to the dismissing spell. To keep myself occupied I made blue flames lick up around the inner edges of the pentacle, as if they were seeking a way to get out and nab him. All hokum, of course. I’d already checked and the seal was drawn well enough. No spelling mistakes anywhere, unfortunately.
At last it looked as if the urchin was plucking up the courage to speak. I guessed this by a stammering about his lips that didn’t seem to be induced by pure fear alone. I let the blue fire die away to be replaced by a foul smell.
The kid spoke. Very squeakily.
‘I charge you . . . to . . . to . . .’ Get on with it! ‘. . . t-t-tell me your n-name.’
That’s usually how they start, the young ones. Meaningless waffle. He knew and I knew that he knew my name already; otherwise how could he have summoned me in the first place? You need the right words, the right actions and most of all the right name. I mean, it’s not like hailing a cab – you don’t get just anybody when you call.
I chose a rich, deep, dark chocolatey sort of voice, the kind that resounds from everywhere and nowhere and makes the hairs stand up on the back of inexperienced necks.
‘BARTIMAEUS.’
I saw the kid give a strangled kind of gulp when he heard the word. Good – he wasn’t entirely stupid then: he knew who and what I was. He knew my reputation.
After taking a moment to swallow some accumulated phlegm he spoke again. ‘I-I charge you again to answer. Are you that B-Bartimaeus who in olden times was summoned by the magicians to repair the walls of Prague?’
What a time-waster this kid was. Who else would it be? I upped the volume a bit on this one. The ice on the light bulbs cracked like caramelized sugar. Behind the dirty curtains the window glass shimmered and hummed. The kid rocked back on his heels.
‘I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni, N’gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak and Prague. I have spoken with Solomon. I have run with the buffalo fathers of the plains. I have watched over Old Zimbabwe till the stones fell and the jackals fed on its people. I am Bartimaeus! I recognize no master. So I charge you in your turn, boy. Who are you to summon me?’
Impressive stuff, eh? All true as well, which gives it more power. And I wasn’t just doing it to sound big. I rather hoped the kid would be blustered by it into telling me his name in return, which would give me something to go on when his back was turned.fn2 But no luck there.
‘By the constraints of the circle, the points on the pentacle and the chain of runes, I am your master! You will obey my will!’
There was something particularly obnoxious about hearing this old shtick coming from a weedy stripling, and in such a rubbish high voice too. I bit back the temptation to give him a piece of my mind and intoned the usual response. Anything to get it over with quickly.
‘What is your will?’
I admit I was already surprised. Most tyro magicians look first and ask questions later. They go window-shopping, eyeing up their potential power, but being far too nervous to try it out. You don’t often get small ones like this squirt calling up entities like me in the first place, either.
The kid cleared his throat. This was the moment. This is what he’d been building up to. He’d been dreaming of this for years, when he should have been lying on his bed thinking about racing cars or girls. I waited grimly for the pathetic request. What would it be? Levitating some object was a usual one, or moving it from one side of the room to the other. Perhaps he’d want me to conjure an illusion. That might be fun: there was bound to be a way of misinterpreting his request and upsetting him.fn3
‘I charge you to retrieve the Amulet of Samarkand from the house of Simon Lovelace and bring it to me when I summon you at dawn tomorrow.’
‘You what?’
‘I charge you to retrieve—’
‘Yes, I heard what you said.’ I didn’t mean to sound petulant. It just slipped out, and my sepulchral tones slipped a bit too.
‘Then go!’
‘Wait a minute!’ I felt that queasy sensation in my stomach that you always get when they dismiss you. Like someone sucking out your insides through your back. They have to say it three times to get rid of you, if you’re keen on sticking around. Usually you’re not. But this time I remained where I was, two glowing eyes in an angry fug of boiling smoke.
‘Do you know what you are asking for, boy?’
‘I am neither to converse, discuss nor parley with you; nor to engage in any riddles, bets or games of chance; nor to—’
‘I have no wish to converse with a scrawny adolescent, believe you me, so save your rote-learned rubbish. Someone is taking advantage of you. Who is it – your master, I suppose? A wizened coward hiding behind a boy.’ I let the smoke recede a little, exposed my outlines for the first time, hovering dimly in the shadows. ‘You are playing with fire twice over, if you seek to rob a true magician by summoning me. Where are we? London?’
He nodded. Yes, it was London all right. Some grotty town house. I surveyed the room through the chemical fumes. Low ceiling, peeling wallpaper; a single faded print on the wall. It was a sombre Dutch landscape – a curious choice for a boy. I’d have expected pop chicks, football players . . . Most magicians are conformists, even when young.
‘Ah me . . .’ My voice was emollient and wistful. ‘It is a wicked world and they have taught you very little.’
‘I am not afraid of you! I have given you your charge and I demand you go!’
The second dismissal. My bowels felt as if they were being passed over by a steamroller. I sensed my form waver, flicker. There was power in this child, though he was very young.
‘It is not me you have to fear; not now, anyway. Simon Lovelace will come to you himself when he finds his amulet stolen. He will not spare you for your youth.’
‘You are bound to do my will.’
‘I am.’ I had to hand it to him, he was determined. And very stupid.
His hand moved. I heard the first syllable of the Systematic Vice. He was about to inflict pain.
I went. I didn’t bother with any more special effects.
fn1 Not everyone agrees with me on this. Some find it delightful sport. They refine countless ways of tormenting their summoners by means of subtly hideous apparitions. Usually the best you can hope for is to give them nightmares later, but occasionally these stratagems are so successful that the apprentices actually panic and step out of the protective circle. Then all is well – for us. But it is a risky business. Often they are very well trained. Then they grow up and get their revenge.
fn2 I couldn’t do anything while I was in the circle, of course. But later I’d be able to find out who he was, look for weaknesses of character, things in his past I could exploit. They’ve all got them. You’ve all got them, I should say.
fn3 One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.
WHEN I LANDED on the top of a lamppost in the London dusk it was peeing with rain. This was just my luck. I had taken the form of a blackbird, a sprightly fellow with a bright yellow beak and jet-black plumage. Within seconds I was as bedraggled a fowl as ever hunched its wings in Hampstead. Flicking my head from side to side I spied a large beech tree across the street. Leaves mouldered at its foot – it had already been stripped clean by the November winds – but the thick sprouting of its branches offered some protection from the wet. I flew over to it, passing above a lone car that purred its way along the wide suburban road. Behind high walls and the evergreen foliage of their gardens, the ugly white façades of several sizeable villas shone through the dark like the faces of the dead.
Well, perhaps it was my mood that made it seem like that. Five things were bothering me. For a start the dull ache that comes with every physical manifestation was already beginning. I could feel it in my feathers. Changing form would keep the pain at bay for a time, but might also draw attention to me at a critical stage of the operation. Until I was sure of my surroundings, a bird I had to remain.
The second thing was the weather. Enough said.
Thirdly, I’d forgotten the limitations of material bodies. I had an itch just above my beak, and kept futilely trying to scratch it with a wing. Fourthly, that kid. I had a lot of questions about him. Who was he? Why did he have a death wish? How would I get even with him before he died for subjecting me to this assignment? News travels fast and I was bound to get some stick for scurrying around on behalf of a scrap like him.
Fifthly . . . the Amulet. By all accounts it was a potent charm. What the kid thought he was going to do with it when he got it beat me. He wouldn’t have a clue. Maybe he’d just wear it as some tragic fashion accessory. Maybe nicking amulets was the latest craze, the magician’s version of pinching hubcaps. Even so, I had to get it first and this would not necessarily be easy, even for me.
I closed my blackbird’s eyes and opened my inner ones, one after the other, each on a different plane.fn1 I looked back and forth around me, hopping up and down the branch to get the optimum view. No less than three villas along the road had magical protection, which showed how nobby an area we were in. I didn’t inspect the two further off up the street; it was the one across the road, beyond the streetlight, that interested me. The residence of Simon Lovelace, magician.
The first plane was clear, but he’d rigged up a defence nexus on the second – it shone like blue gossamer all along the high wall. It didn’t finish there either; it extended up into the air, over the top of the low white house and down again on the other side, forming a great shimmering dome.
Not bad, but I could handle it.
There was nothing on the third or fourth planes, but on the fifth I spotted three sentries prowling around in mid-air, just beyond the lip of the garden wall. They were a dull yellow all over, each one formed of three muscular legs that rotated on a hub of gristle. Above the hub was a blobby mass, which sported two mouths and several watchful eyes. The creatures passed at random back and forth around the perimeter of the garden. I shrank back against the trunk of the beech tree instinctively, but I knew they were unlikely to spot me from there. At this distance I should look like a blackbird on all seven planes. It was when I got closer that they might break through my illusion.
The sixth plane was clear. But the seventh . . . that was curious. I couldn’t see anything obvious – the house, the road, the night all looked unchanged – but, call it intuition if you like, I was sure something was present there, lurking.
I rubbed my beak doubtfully against a knot of wood. As expected, there was a good deal of powerful magic at work here. I’d heard of Lovelace. He was considered a formidable magician and a hard taskmaster. I was lucky I had never been called up in his service and I did not much want his enmity or that of his servants.
But I had to obey that kid.
The soggy blackbird took off from the branch and swooped across the road, conveniently avoiding the arc of light from the nearest lamp. It landed on a patch of scrubby grass at the corner of the wall. Four black bin bags had been left out there for collection the next morning. The blackbird hopped behind the bags. A cat that had observed the birdfn2 from some way off waited a few moments for it to emerge, lost patience and scuttled curiously after it. Behind the bags it discovered no bird, black or otherwise. There was nothing there but a freshly turned molehill.
fn1 I have access to seven planes, all co-existent. They overlap each other like layers on a crushed Viennetta. Seven planes is sufficient for anybody. Those who operate on more are just showing off.
fn2 On two planes. Cats have that power.
I HATE THE taste of mud. It is no fit thing for a being of air and fire. The cloying weight of earth oppresses me greatly whenever I come into contact with it. That is why I am choosy about my incarnations. Birds, good. Insects, good. Bats, OK. Things that run fast are fine. Tree-dwellers are even better. Subterranean things, not good. Moles, bad.
But there’s no point being fastidious when you have a protective shield to bypass. I had reasoned correctly that it did not extend underground. The mole dug its way deep, deep down, under the foundations of the wall. No magical alarm sounded, though I did hit my head five times on a pebble.fn1 I burrowed upwards again, reaching the surface after twenty minutes of snuffling, scruffling and turning my beady nose up at the juicy worms I uncovered every couple of scrapes.
The mole poked its head cautiously out of the little pile of earth it had driven through the immaculate surface of Simon Lovelace’s lawn. It looked around, checking out the scene. There were lights on in the house, on the ground floor. The curtains were drawn. The upper floors, from what the mole could see, were dark. The translucent blue span of the magical defence system arched overhead. One yellow sentry trudged its stupid way three metres above the shrubbery. The other two were presumably behind the house.
I tried the seventh plane again. Still nothing, still that uneasy sense of danger. Oh well.
The mole retreated underground and tunnelled below the grass roots towards the house. It reappeared in the flowerbed just below the nearest windows. It was thinking hard. There was no point going further in this guise, tempting though it was to try to break into the cellars. A different method would have to be found.
To the mole’s furry ears came the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. It was surprisingly loud, echoing from very close by. An air vent, cracked with age, was set in the wall not half a metre away. It led indoors.
With some relief, I became a fly.
fn1 Once each on five different pebbles. Not the same pebble five times. Just checking. Sometimes human beings are so dense.
FROM THE SECURITY of the air vent I peered with my multifaceted eyes into a rather traditional drawing room. There was a thick pile carpet, nasty striped wallpaper, a hideous crystal thing pretending to be a chandelier, two oil paintings that were dark with age, a sofa and two easy chairs (also striped), a low coffee table laden with a silver tray and, on the tray, a bottle of red wine and no glasses. The glasses were in the hands of two people.
One of them was a woman. She was youngish (for a human, which means infinitesimally young) and probably quite good-looking in a fleshy sort of way. Big eyes, dark hair, bobbed. I memorized her automatically. I would appear in her guise tomorrow when I went back to visit that kid. Only naked. Let’s see how his very steely but ever-so-adolescent mind responded to that!fn1
However, for the moment I was more concerned with the man this woman was smiling and nodding at. He was tall, thin, handsome in a rather bookish sort of way, with his hair slicked back by some pungent oil. He had small round glasses and a large mouth with good teeth. He had a prominent jaw. Something told me that this was the magician, Simon Lovelace. Was it his indefinable aura of power and authority? Was it the proprietorial way in which he gestured around the room? Or was it the small imp which floated at his shoulder (on the second plane), warily watching out for danger on every side?
I rubbed my front two legs together with irritation. I would have to be very careful. The imp complicated matters.fn2
It was a pity I wasn’t a spider. They can sit still for hours and think nothing of it. Flies are far more jittery. But if I changed here, the magician’s slave would be certain to sense it. I had to force my unwilling body to lurk, and ignore the ache that was building up again, this time inside my chitin.
The magician was talking. He did little else. The woman gazed at him with spaniel eyes so wide and silly with adoration that I wanted to bite her.
‘. . . it will be the most magnificent occasion, Amanda. You will be the toast of London society! Did you know that the Prime Minister himself is looking forward to viewing your estate? Yes, I have that on good authority. My enemies have been hounding him for weeks with their vile insinuations, but he has always remained committed to holding the conference at the Hall. So you see, my love, I can still influence him when it counts. The thing is to know how to play him, how to flatter his vanity . . . Keep it to yourself, but he is actually rather weak. His speciality is Charm, and even that he seldom bothers with now. Why should he? He’s got men in suits to do it for him . . .’
The magician rattled on like this for several minutes, name-dropping with tireless energy. The woman drank her wine, nodded, gasped and exclaimed at the right moments and leaned closer to him along the sofa. I nearly buzzed with boredom.fn3
Suddenly the imp became alert. Its head swivelled 180 degrees and peered at a door at the other end of the room. It tweaked the magician’s ear gently in warning. Seconds later, the door opened and a black-jacketed flunky with a bald head stepped respectfully in.
‘Pardon me, sir, but your car is ready.’
‘Thank you, Carter. We shan’t be a moment.’
The flunky withdrew. The magician replaced his (still full) wineglass back on the coffee table and took hold of the woman’s hand. He kissed it gallantly. Behind his back the imp made faces of extreme disgust.
‘It pains me to have to go, Amanda, but duty calls. I will not be home this evening. May I call you? The theatre, tomorrow night, perhaps?’
‘That would be charming, Simon.’
‘Then that is settled. My good friend Makepeace has a new play out. I shall get tickets presently. For now, Carter will drive you home.’
Man, woman and imp exited, leaving the door ajar. Behind them, a wary fly crept from its hiding place and sped soundlessly across the room to a vantage point that gave a view of the hall. For a few minutes there was activity, coats being brought, orders given, doors slammed. Then the magician departed his house.
I flew out into the hall. It was wide, cold and laid with a flooring of black and white tiles. Bright green ferns grew from gigantic ceramic pots. I circled the chandelier, listening. It was very quiet. The only sounds came from a distant kitchen and they were innocent enough – just the banging of pots and plates and several loud belches, presumably emanating from the cook.
I debated sending out a discreet magical pulse to see if I could detect the whereabouts of the magician’s artefacts, but decided that it was far too risky. The sentry creatures outside might pick it up, for one thing, even if there was no further guard. I, the fly, would have to go hunting myself.
All the planes were clear. I went along the hall, then – following an intuition – up the stairs.
On the landing a thickly carpeted corridor led in two directions, each lined with oil paintings. I was immediately interested in the right-hand passage, for halfway along it was a spy. To human eyes it was a smoke alarm, but on the other planes its true form was revealed – an upside-down toad with unpleasantly bulbous eyes sitting on the ceiling. Every minute or so it hopped on the spot, rotating a little. When the magician returned, it would relate to him anything that had happened.
I sent a small magic the toad’s way. A thick oily vapour issued from the ceiling and wrapped itself around the spy, obscuring its vision. As it hopped and croaked in confusion, I flew rapidly past it down the passage to the door at the end. Alone of the doors in the corridor, this did not have a keyhole; under its white paint, the wood was reinforced with strips of metal. Two good reasons for trying this one first.
There was a minute crack under the door. It was too small for an insect, but I was aching for a change anyway. The fly dissolved into a dribble of smoke, which passed out of sight under the door just as the vapour screen around the toad melted away.
In the room I became a child.
If I had known that apprentice’s name, I would have been malicious and taken his form, just to give Simon Lovelace a head start when he began to piece the theft together. But without his name I had no handle on him. So I became a boy I had known once before, someone I had loved. His dust had long ago floated away along the Nile, so my crime would not hurt him, and anyhow it pleased me to remember him like this. He was brown-skinned, bright-eyed, dressed in a white loincloth. He looked around in that way he had, his head slightly cocked to one side.
The room had no windows. There were several cabinets against the walls, filled with magical paraphernalia. Most of it was quite useless, fit only for stage shows,fn4 but there were a few intriguing items there.
There was a summoning horn that I knew was genuine, because it made me feel ill to look at it. One blast of that and anything in that magician’s power would be at his feet begging for mercy and pleading to do his bidding. It was a cruel instrument and very old and I couldn’t go near it. In another cabinet was an eye made out of clay. I had seen one of them before, in the head of a golem. I wondered if the fool knew the potential of that eye. Almost certainly not – he’d have picked it up as a quaint keepsake on some package holiday in central Europe. Magical tourism . . . I ask you.fn5 Well, with luck it might kill him some day.
And there was the Amulet of Samarkand. It sat in a small case all of its own, protected by glass and its own reputation. I walked over to it, flicking through the planes, seeking danger and finding – well, nothing explicit, but on the seventh plane I had the distinct impression that something was stirring. Not here, but close by. I had better be quick.
The Amulet was small, dull and made of beaten gold. It hung from a short gold chain. In its centre was an oval piece of jade. The gold had been pressed with simple notched designs depicting running steeds. Horses were the prize possessions of the people from central Asia who had made the Amulet three thousand years before and had later buried it in the tomb of one of their princesses. A Russian archaeologist had found it in the 1950s and before long it had been stolen by magicians who recognized its value. How Simon Lovelace had come by it – who exactly he had murdered or swindled to get it – I had no idea.
I cocked my head again, listening. All was quiet in the house.
I raised my hand over the cabinet, smiling at my reflection as it clenched its fist.
Then I brought my hand down and drove it through the glass.
A throb of magical energy resounded through all seven planes. I seized the Amulet and hung it round my neck. I turned swiftly. The room was as before, but I could sense something on the seventh plane, moving swiftly and coming closer.
The time for stealth was over.
As I ran for the door I noticed out of the corner of my eye a portal suddenly open in mid-air. Inside the portal was a blackness that was immediately obscured as something stepped out through it.
I charged at the door and hit it with my small boy’s fist. The door smashed open like a bent playing card. I ran past it without stopping.
In the corridor, the toad turned towards me and opened its mouth. A green gobbet of slime issued forth, which suddenly accelerated down at me, aiming for my head. I dodged and the slime splattered on the wall behind me, destroying a painting and everything down to the bare bricks beneath it.
I threw a bolt of Compression at the toad. With a small croak of regret it imploded into a dense blob of matter the size of a marble and dropped to the floor. I didn’t break stride. As I ran on down the corridor I placed a protective Shield around my physical body in case of further missiles.
Which was a wise move as it happened, because the next instant a Detonation struck the floor directly behind me. The impact was so great that I was sent flying headlong at an angle down the corridor and half into the wall. Green flames licked around me, leaving streaks on the décor like the fingers of a giant hand.
I struggled to my feet amidst the confusion of shattered bricks and turned round.
Standing over the broken door at the end of the corridor was something that had taken the form of a very tall man with bright-red skin and the head of a jackal.
‘BARTIMAEUS!’
Another Detonation shot down the corridor. I somersaulted under it, aiming for the stairs, and as the green explosion vaporized the corner of the wall, rolled head over heels down the steps, through the banisters and two metres down onto the black and white tiled floor, cracking it quite badly.
I got to my feet and took a look at the front door. Through the frosted glass beside it I could see the hulking yellow outline of one of the three sentinels. It was lying in wait, little realizing that it could be seen from inside. I decided to make my exit elsewhere. Thus does superior intelligence win over brute strength any day of the week!
Speaking of which, I had to get out fast. Noises from above indicated pursuit.
I ran through a couple of rooms – a library, a dining room – each time making a break for the window and each time retreating when one or more of the yellow creatures hove into view outside. Their foolishness in making themselves so obvious was only equalled by my caution in avoiding whatever magical weapons they carried.
Behind me, my name was being called in a voice of fury. With growing frustration I opened the next door and found myself in the kitchen. There were no more internal doors, but one led out to what looked like a lean-to greenhouse, filled with herbs and greens. Beyond was the garden – and also the three sentinels, who came motoring round the side of the house at surprising speed on their rotating legs. To gain time, I put a Seal on the door behind me. Then I looked around and saw the cook.
He was sitting far back in his chair with his shoes on the kitchen table, a fat, jovial-looking man with a red face and a meat cleaver in his hand. He was studiously paring his nails with the cleaver, flicking each fragment of nail expertly through the air to land in the fireplace beside him. As he did so he watched me continuously with his dark little eyes.
I felt unease. He didn’t seem at all perturbed to see a small Egyptian boy come running into his kitchen. I checked him out on the different planes. On one to six he was exactly the same, a portly cook in a white apron. But on the seventh . . .
Uh-oh.
‘Bartimaeus.’
‘Faquarl.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Haven’t seen you around.’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Shame, eh?’
‘Yes. Well . . . here I am.’
‘Here you are, indeed.’
While this fascinating conversation was going on, the sounds of a sustained series of Detonations came from the other side of the door. My Seal held firm though. I smiled as urbanely as I could.
‘Jabor seems as excitable as ever.’
‘Yes, he’s just the same. Only I think perhaps slightly more hungry, Bartimaeus. That’s the only change I’ve noticed in him. He never seems satisfied, even when he’s been fed. And that happens all too rarely these days, as you can imagine.’
‘Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, that’s your master’s watchword, is it? Still, he must be fairly potent to be able to have you and Jabor as his slaves.’
The cook gave a thin smile and with a flick of the knife sent a nail paring spinning to the ceiling. It pierced the plaster and lodged there.
‘Now, now, Bartimaeus, we don’t use the s-word in civilized company, do we? Jabor and I are playing the long game.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Speaking of disparities in power, I notice that you choose to avoid addressing me on the seventh plane. This seems a little impolite. Can it be that you are uneasy with my true form?’
‘Queasy, Faquarl, not uneasy.’fn6
‘Well, this is all very pleasant. I admire your choice of form, by the way, Bartimaeus. Very comely. But I see that you are somewhat weighed down by a certain amulet. Perhaps you could be so good as to take it off and put it on the table. Then if you care to tell me which magician you are working for, I might consider ways of ending this meeting in a non-fatal manner.’
‘That’s kind of you, but you know I can’t do that.’fn7
The cook prodded the edge of the table with the tip of his cleaver. ‘Let me be frank. You can and will. It is nothing personal, of course; one day we may work together again. But for now I am bound just as you are. And I too have my charge to fulfil. So it comes, as it always does, to a question of power. Correct me if I am wrong, but I note that you do not have too much confidence in yourself today – otherwise you would have left by the front door, quelling the triloids as you went, rather than allowing them to shepherd you round the house to me.’
‘I was merely following a whim.’
‘Mm. Perhaps you would stop edging towards the window, Bartimaeus. Such a ploy would be pitifully obvious even to a humanfn8 and besides, the triloids wait for you there. Hand over the Amulet or you will discover that your ramshackle Defence Shield will count for nothing.’
He stood up and held out his hand. There was a pause. Behind my Seal, Jabor’s patient (if unimaginative) Detonations still sounded. The door itself must have long since been turned to powder. In the garden the three sentinels hovered, all their eyes trained on me. I looked around the room for inspiration.
‘The Amulet, Bartimaeus.’
I raised my hand and, with a heavy, rather theatrical sigh, took hold of the Amulet. Then I leaped to my left. At the same time, I released the Seal on the door. Faquarl gave a tut of annoyance and began a gesture. As he did so he was hit square on by a particularly powerful Detonation that came shooting through the empty gap where the Seal had been. It sent him backwards into the fireplace and the brickwork collapsed upon him.
I smashed my way into the greenhouse just as Jabor stepped through the gap into the kitchen. As Faquarl emerged from the rubble I was breaking out into the garden. The three sentinels converged on me, eyes wide and legs rotating. Scything claws appeared at the ends of their blobby feet. I cast an Illumination of the brightest kind. The whole garden was lit up as if by an exploding sun. The sentinels’ eyes were dazzled; they chittered with pain. I leaped over them and ran through the garden, dodging bolts of magic from the house that incinerated trees.
At the far end of the garden, between a compost heap and a motorized lawnmower, I vaulted the wall. I tore through the blue latticework of magical nodes, leaving a boy-shaped hole. Instantly alarm bells began ringing all over the grounds.
I hit the pavement outside, the Amulet bouncing and banging off my chest. On the other side of the wall I heard the sound of galloping hooves. It was high time I made a change.
Peregrine falcons are the fastest birds on record. They can attain a speed of two hundred kilometres an hour in diving flight. Rarely has one achieved this horizontally over the roofs of North London. Some would even doubt that this was possible, particularly while carrying a weighty amulet around its neck. Suffice it to say, however, that when Faquarl and Jabor landed in the Hampstead backstreet, creating an invisible obstruction that was immediately hit by a speeding removal van, I was nowhere to be seen.
I was long gone.
fn1 For those who are wondering, I have no difficulty in becoming a woman. Nor for that matter a man. In some ways, I suppose women are trickier, but I won’t go into that now. Woman, man, mole, maggot – they’re all the same, when all’s said and done, except for slight variations in cognitive ability.
fn2 Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t afraid of the imp. I could squish it without a second thought. But it was there for two reasons: for its undying loyalty to its master and for its perceptive eye. It would not be taken in by my cunning fly guise for one fraction of a second.
fn3 A human who listened to the conversation would probably have been slack-jawed with astonishment, for the magician’s account of corruption in the British Government was remarkably detailed. But I for one was not agog. Having seen countless civilizations of far greater panache than this one crumble into dust I could rouse little interest in the matter. I spent the time fruitlessly trying to recall which unearthly powers might have been bound into Simon Lovelace’s service. It was best to be prepared.
fn4 Oh, it was all impressive enough if you were a non-magician. Let me see – there were crystal orbs, scrying glasses, skulls from tombs, saints’ knucklebones, spirit-sticks that had been looted from Siberian shamans, bottles filled with blood of doubtful provenance, witch-doctor masks, stuffed crocodiles, novelty wands, racks of capes for different ceremonies and many, many weighty books on magic that looked as if they had been bound in human skin at the beginning of time but had probably been mass-produced last week by a factory in Catford. Magicians love this kind of thing; they love the hocus-pocus mystery of it all (and half believe it, some of them) and they adore the awe-inspiring effect it has on outsiders. Quite apart from anything else all these knick-knacks distract attention from the real source of their power. Us.
fn5 They were all at it – beetling off in coach parties (or, since many of them were well-heeled, hiring jets) to tour the great magical cities of the past. All cooing and ahhing at the famous sights – the temples, the birthplaces of notable magicians, the places where they came to horrible ends. And all ready to whip bits of statuary or ransack the black-market bazaars in the hope of getting knock-me-down sorcerous bargains. It’s not the cultural vandalism I object to. It’s just so hopelessly vulgar.
fn6 I’m no great looker myself, but Faquarl had too many tentacles for my liking.
fn7 Not strictly correct. I could have given over the Amulet and thus failed in my charge. But then, even if I had managed to escape from Faquarl, I would have had to return empty-handed to the pale-faced boy. My failure would have left me at his tender mercy, doubly in his power, and somehow I knew this was not a good idea.
fn8 Ouch.
‘ABOVE ALL,’ SAID his master, ‘there is one fact that we must drive into your wretched little skull now so that you never afterwards forget. Can you guess what that fact is?’
‘No, sir,’ the boy said.
‘No?’ The bristling eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. Mesmerized, the boy watched them disappear under the hanging white thatch of hair. There, almost coyly, they remained just out of sight for a moment, before suddenly descending with a terrible finality and weight. ‘No. Well then . . .’ The magician bent forward in his chair. ‘I shall tell you.’
With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed his hands together so that the fingertips formed a steepled arch, which he pointed at the boy.
‘Remember this,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Demons are very wicked. They will hurt you if they can. Do you understand this?’
The boy was still watching the eyebrows. He could not wrench his gaze away from them. Now they were furrowed sternly downwards, two sharp arrowheads meeting. They moved with a quite remarkable agility – up, down, tilting, arching, sometimes together, sometimes singly. With their parody of independent life they exerted a strange fascination on the boy. Besides, he found studying them infinitely preferable to meeting his master’s gaze.
The magician coughed dangerously. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Oh – yes, sir.’
‘Well now, you say yes, and I am sure you mean yes – and yet . . .’ One eyebrow inched skywards musingly. ‘And yet I do not feel convinced that you really, truly understand.’
‘Oh, yes, sir; yes I do, sir. Demons are wicked and they are hurtful and they will hurt you if you let them, sir.’ The boy fidgeted anxiously on his cushion. He was eager to prove that he had been listening well. Outside, the summer sun was beating on the grass and the hot pavements; an ice-cream van had passed merrily under the window five minutes before. But only a bright rim of pure daylight skirted the heavy red curtains of the magician’s room; the air within was stuffy and thick. The boy wished for the lesson to be over, to be allowed to go.
‘I have listened very carefully, sir,’ he said.
His master nodded. ‘Have you ever seen a demon?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. I mean, only in books.’
‘Stand up.’
The boy stood quickly, one foot almost slipping on his cushion. He waited awkwardly, hands at his sides. His master indicated a door behind him with a casual finger. ‘You know what’s through there?’
‘Your study, sir.’
‘Good. Go down the steps and cross the room. At the far end you’ll find my desk. On the desk is a box. In the box is a pair of spectacles. Put them on and come back to me. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well then. Off you go.’
Under his master’s watchful eye, the boy crossed to the door, which was made of a dark, unpainted wood with many whorls and grains. He had to struggle to turn the heavy brass knob, but the coolness of its touch pleased him. The door swung open soundlessly on oiled hinges and the boy stepped through to find himself at the top of a carpeted staircase. The walls were elegantly papered with a flowery pattern. A small window halfway down let in a friendly stream of sunlight.
The boy descended carefully, one step at a time. The silence and sunlight reassured him and quelled some of his fears. Never having been beyond this point before, he had nothing but nursery stories to furnish his ideas of what might be waiting in his master’s study. Terrible images of stuffed crocodiles and bottled eyeballs sprang garishly into his mind. Furiously he drove them out again. He would not be afraid.
At the foot of the staircase was another door, similar to the first, but smaller and decorated, in its centre, with a five-sided star painted in red. The boy turned the knob and pushed: the door opened reluctantly, sticking on the thick carpet. When the gap was wide enough the boy passed through into the study.
Subconsciously he had held his breath as he entered; now he let it out again, almost with a sense of disappointment. It was all so ordinary. A long room lined with books on either side. At the far end a great wooden desk with a padded leather chair set behind it. Pens on the table, a few papers, an old computer, a small metal box. The window beyond looked out towards a horse chestnut tree adorned with the full splendour of summer. The light in the room had a sweet greenish tint.
The boy made for the table.
Halfway there, he stopped and looked behind him.
Nothing. Yet he’d had the strangest feeling . . . For some reason the slightly open door, through which he had entered only a moment before, now gave him an unsettled sensation. He wished that he had thought to close it after him.
He shook his head. No need. He was going back through it in a matter of seconds.
Four hasty steps took him to the edge of the table. He looked round again. Surely there had been a noise . . .
The room was empty. The boy listened as intently as a rabbit in a covert. No, there was nothing to hear except faint sounds of distant traffic.
Wide-eyed, breathing hard, the boy turned to the table. The metal box glinted in the sun. He reached for it across the leather surface of the desk. This was not strictly necessary – he could have walked round to the other side of the desk and picked the box up easily – but somehow he wanted to save time, grab what he’d come for and get out. He leaned over the table and stretched out his hand, but the box remained obstinately just out of reach. The boy rocked forwards, swung his fingertips out wildly. They missed the box, but his flailing arm knocked over a small pot of pens. The pens sprayed across the leather.
The boy felt a bead of sweat trickle under his arm. Frantically, he began to collect up the pens and stuff them back into the pot.
There was a throaty chuckle, right behind him, in the room.
He wheeled round, stifling his yell. But there was nothing there.
For a moment the boy remained leaning with his back against the desk, paralysed with fear. Then something reasserted itself in him. ‘Forget the pens,’ it seemed to say. ‘The box is what you came for.’ Slowly, imperceptibly, he began to inch his way round the side of the desk, his back to the window, his eyes on the room.
Something tapped the window, urgently, three times. He spun round. Nothing there; only the horse chestnut beyond the garden, waving gently in the summer breeze.
Nothing there.
At that moment one of the pens he had spilled rolled off the desk onto the carpet. It made no sound, but he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. Another pen began to rock back and forth – first slowly, then faster and faster. Suddenly it spun away, bounced off the base of the computer and dropped over the edge onto the floor. Another did the same. Then another. Suddenly, all the pens were rolling, in several directions at once, accelerating off the edges of the desk, colliding, falling, lying still.
The boy watched. The last one fell.
He did not move.
Something laughed softly, right in his ear.
With a cry he lashed out with his left arm, but made no contact. The momentum of his swing turned him round to face the desk. The box was directly in front of him. He snatched it up and dropped it instantly – the metal had been sitting in the sun and its heat seared his palm. The box struck the desktop and lost its lid. A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles fell out. A moment later, he had them in his hand and was running for the door.
Something came behind him. He heard it hopping at his back.
He was almost at the door; he could see the stairs beyond that led up to his master.
And the door slammed shut.
The boy wrenched at the doorknob, beat at the wood, hammered, called to his master in a choking sob, but all to no avail. Something was whispering in his ear and he could not hear the words. In mortal panic, he kicked at the door, succeeding only in jarring his toe through his small black boot.
He turned then and faced the empty room.
Small rustlings sounded all about him, delicate taps and little flitterings, as if the carpet, the books, the shelves, even the ceiling was being brushed against by invisible, moving things. One of the light shades above his head swung slightly in a non-existent breeze.
Through his tears, through his terror, the boy found words to speak.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Begone!’
The rustling, tapping and flittering stopped dead. The light shade’s swing slowed, diminished and came to a halt.
The room was very still.
Gulping for breath, the boy waited with his back against the door, watching the room. Not a sound came.