Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (16 page)

the imp had told a foliot and the foliot had told a djinni and the djinni had told an afrit.

And three years later, when Werner had been crossing Wenceslas Square to buy a smoked

sausage, a whirlwind had swept him into the air.

For several hours his howls from above had deafened the townspeople going

about their business, until the disruption had finished with pieces of the magician raining down upon on the weathervanes and chimneys. And this fate was hardly the most horrible that had befallen careless magicians. There was Paulo of Turin, Septimus Manning,

Johann Faust....

A sob broke from Nathaniel's mouth, and the small, pathetic sound shocked him

out of his despair and self-pity. Enough of this. He wasn't dead yet, and the demon was still under his command. Or it would be, once he had disposed of the tobacco tin

properly. He would pull himself together.

Nathaniel struggled to his feet, his limbs awash with weakness. With a great

effort, he drove his fears to the back of his mind and began his preparations. He redrew the pentacle and changed the incense. He lit new candles. He stole down to his master's library and double-checked the incantations. Then he added more rosemary to the tobacco tin, placed it in the center of its circle, and began the spell of Indefinite Confinement.

After five long minutes, his mouth was dry and his voice cracked, but a steel-gray aura began to gleam across the surface of the tin. It flared and faded.

Nathaniel uttered the name of Bartimaeus, added an astrological date on which

the confinement would begin, and finished. The tin was as before. Nathaniel put it in the pocket of his jacket, snuffed out the candles, and drew the rug over the markings on the floor. Then he collapsed upon the bed.

When Mrs. Underwood brought her husband his lunch an hour later, she confided

an anxiety with him.

"I'm worried about the boy," she said. "He's barely touched his sandwich. He's flopped himself down at the table, white as a sheet. Like he's been up all night.

Something's scared him, or he's sickening for something." She paused. "Dear?"

Mr. Underwood was inspecting the array of food upon his plate. "No mango

chutney, Martha?

You know I like it with my ham and salad."

"We've run out, dear. So what do you think we should do?"

"Buy some more. That's obvious, isn't it? Heavens above, woman—"

"About the boy."

"Mmm? Oh,
he's
all right. The brat's just nervous about the Naming. And about summoning his first impling. I remember how terrified I got—my master practically had

to whip me into the circle."

Mr. Underwood shoveled a forkful of ham into his mouth. "Tell him to meet me in

the library in an hour and a half's time and not to forget the Almanac. No—make it an

hour. I'll need to ring Duvall about those thefts afterward, curse him."

In the kitchen, Nathaniel had still only managed half a sandwich. Mrs.

Underwood ruffled his hair.

"Buck up," she said. "Is it the Naming that's unsettled you? You mustn't worry about it at all.

Nathaniel's nice, but there are lots of other good names out there. Just think, you

can choose
whatever
name you like, within reason. As long as no other current magician has it. Commoners don't have that privilege, you know. They have to stick with what

they're given." She bustled about, filling the teapot and finding the milk and all the while talking, talking, talking. Nathaniel felt the tin weighing down his pocket.

"I'd like to go out for a bit, Mrs. Underwood," he said. "I need some fresh air."

She looked at him blankly. "But you can't, dear, can you? Not before your

Naming. Your master wants you in the library in an hour. And don't forget the Nominative Almanac, he says. Though having said that, you
do
look rather peaky. Fresh air would do you good, I suppose.... I'm sure he won't notice if you nip out for five minutes."

"It's all right, Mrs. Underwood. I'll stay in." Five minutes? He needed two hours, maybe more.

He would have to dispose of the tin later, and hope Bartimaeus didn't try anything

beforehand.

She poured a cup of tea and plonked it on the table before him. "That'll put color in your cheeks.

It's a big day for you, Nathaniel. When I see you again, you'll be someone else.

This will probably be the last time I call you by your old name. I suppose I shall have to start forgetting it now."

Why couldn't you have started forgetting it this morning? he thought. A small,

malicious part of him wished to blame her for her careless affection, but he knew that this was totally unjust. It was his fault the demon had been on hand to hear her.
Safe, secret,
strong.
He was none of these things now. He took a gulp of tea and burned his mouth.

"Come in, boy, come in." His master, seated in a tall upright chair beside the library desk, seemed almost genial. He eyed Nathaniel as he approached and indicated a stool beside him. "Sit, sit.

Well, you're looking smarter than usual. Even wearing a jacket, eh? I'm pleased to

see that you register the importance of the occasion."

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Where's the Almanac? Good, let's have it...." The book was bound in shiny green leather, with an ox-hair ribbon bookmark. It had been delivered by Jaroslav's only the day before and had not yet been read. Mr. Underwood opened the cover delicately

and glanced at the tide page.

"Loew's Nominative Almanac, three hundred ninety-fifth edition... How time

flies. I chose my name from the three hundred fiftieth, would you believe? I remember it as if it were yesterday."

"Yes, sir." Nathaniel stifled a yawn. His exertions of the morning were catching up with him, but he had to concentrate on the task in hand. He watched as his master

flipped the pages, talking all the while.

"The Almanac, boy, lists all official names used by magicians between Prague's

golden age and the present. Many have been used more than once. Beside each is a

register that indicates whether the name is currently being occupied. If not, the name is free to be taken. Or you can invent one of your own. See here—'Underwood, Arthur;

London'... I am the second of that name, boy. The first was a prominent Jacobean; a close associate of King James the first, I believe. Now, I have been giving the matter some

consideration, and I think you would do well to follow in the footsteps of one of the great magicians."

"Yes, sir."

"I thought Theophilus Throckmorton, perhaps—he was a notable alchemist.

And... yes, I see that combination
is
free. No? That doesn't appeal? What about Balthazar Jones? You're not convinced? Well, perhaps he
is
a hard act to follow. Yes, boy? You have a suggestion?"

"Is William Gladstone free, sir? I admire him."

"Gladstone!" His master's eyes bulged. "The very idea... There are some names, boy, that are too great and too recent to touch. No one would dare! It would be the height of arrogance to assume his mantle." The eyebrows bristled. "If you aren't capable of a sensible suggestion, I shall do the choosing for you."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't think."

"Ambition is all very well, my lad, but you must cloak it. If it is too obvious, you will find yourself brought down in flames before you reach your twenties. A magician

must not draw attention to himself too soon; certainly not before he has summoned his

first mouler. Well, we shall browse together from the beginning...."

It took an hour and twenty-five minutes for the choice to be made, and a

harrowing time Nathaniel had of it. His master seemed to have a great deal of affection for obscure magicians with obscurer names, and Fitzgibbon, Treacle, Hooms, and

Gallimaufry were avoided only with difficulty.

Likewise, Nathaniel's preferences always seemed too arrogant or ostentatious to

Mr. Underwood.

But in the end the choice was made. Wearily, Mr. Underwood brought out the

official form and entered in the new name and signed it. Nathaniel had to sign too, in a large box at the bottom of the page. His signature was spiky and ill-formed, but then it was the first time he had used it. He read it back to himself under his breath: John

Mandrake. He was the third magician of that name. Neither of his predecessors had

achieved much of significance, but by this time Nathaniel didn't care. Anything was

better than Treacle. It would do.

His master folded the paper, placed it into a brown envelope, and sat back in his

chair.

"Well, John," he said. "It is done. I shall get that stamped at the ministry directly and you will then officially exist. However, don't go getting above yourself. You still know almost nothing, as you will see when you attempt to summon the natterjack

impling tomorrow. Still, the first stage of your education is completed, thanks to me."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Heaven knows, it has been six long and tedious years. I often doubted you would

get this far.

Most masters would have turned you out on to the streets after that little affair last year. But I persevered.... No matter. From now on you may wear your lenses."

"Thank you, sir." Nathaniel couldn't help blinking. He was already wearing them.

Mr. Underwood's voice took on a complacent tone. "All being well, in a few years

we will have you in a worthy job: perhaps as an under-secretary in one of the lesser

ministries. It won't be glamorous, but it will suit your modest capabilities perfectly. Not every magician can aspire to become an important minister like me, John, but that

shouldn't stop you making a contribution of your own, however meager. In the meantime, as my apprentice, you will be able to assist me in trivial conjurations, and pay me back a little for all the effort I have spent on you."

"It would be an honor, sir."

His master waved a hand of dismissal, allowing Nathaniel to turn away and

assume a sour expression. He was halfway to the door when his master remembered

something.

"One thing more," he said. "Your Naming has happened just in time. In three days, I shall be attending Parliament to hear the state address given by the Prime Minister to all senior members of his government. It is a largely ceremonial occasion, but he will be outlining his intended policies at home and abroad. Named apprentices are invited too, along with spouses. Providing you do not displease me beforehand, I shall take you with me. It will be an eye-opening experience for you to see us master magicians all together!"

"Yes, sir; thank you very much, sir!" For almost the first time in living memory when talking to his master, Nathaniel's enthusiasm was actually genuine. Parliament! The Prime Minister! He left the library and ran up the staircase to his room and the skylight, through which the distant Houses of Parliament were barely visible beneath the gray

November sky. To Nathaniel, the matchstick tower seemed bathed in sunshine.

A little later, he remembered the tobacco tin in his pocket.

There were still two hours till dinner. Mrs. Underwood was in the kitchen, while

his master was on the telephone in his study. Stealthily, Nathaniel left the house by the front door, taking five pounds from the tradesmen's jar that Mrs. Underwood kept on a

shelf in the hall. At the main road, he caught a bus heading south.

Magicians were not known for catching public transport. He sat on the backseat,

as far away from the other passengers as possible, watching them get on and off out of the corner of his eye. Men, women, old, young; youths dressed in drab colors, girls with flashes of jewelry at their throats. They bickered, laughed or sat quietly, read newspapers, books, and glossy magazines. Human, yes, but it was easy to see they had no power. To

Nathaniel, whose experience of people was very limited, this made them oddly two-

dimensional. Their conversations seemed about nothing; the books they read looked

trivial. Aside from feeling that most of them were faintly vulgar, he could make nothing of them.

After half an hour the bus arrived at Blackfriars Bridge and the river Thames.

Nathaniel alighted and walked to the very center of the bridge, where he leaned

out over the wrought-iron balustrade. The river was at high tide; its fast gray waters raced beneath him, its uneven surface swirling ceaselessly. Along both sides, blank-eyed office towers clustered above the Embankment roads, where car lights and street lamps were

just beginning to come on. The Houses of Parliament, Nathaniel knew, stood just around a bend in the river. He had never been so close to them before. The very thought made his heart quicken.

Time enough for that another day. First he had a vital task to accomplish. From

one pocket he drew a plastic bag and a half-brick found in his master's garden. From

another he took the tobacco tin. Brick and tin went into the bag, the head of which he tied with a double knot.

Nathaniel gave a quick glance both ways along the bridge. Other pedestrians

hurried past him, heads down, shoulders hunched. No one glanced in his direction.

Without any more ado, he tossed the package over the balustrade and watched it fall.

Down... down... By the end it was nothing but a white speck. He could barely see

the splash.

Gone. Sunk like a stone.

Nathaniel pulled up the collar of his jacket, shielding his neck from the wind

gusting along the river. He was safe. Well, safe as he could be for the moment. He had carried out his threat. If Bartimaeus dared betray him now...

It began to rain as he made his way back along the bridge to the bus stop. He

walked slowly, lost in thought, almost colliding with several hurrying commuters coming in the opposite direction.

They cursed him as they passed, but he barely noticed. Safe... That was all that