“I remember,” I said. “You were talking about Lovelace.”
“True, but not only he. Well, it so happens that I was right. Our chance has come. First, Lovelace overreached himself. His coup failed, he died, and I was—”
“Freed!” I cried. “Yes! Thanks to me, that was. You owe me one there, surely.”
“—submerged in an offshore safe, thanks to a stringent after-death clause in my summoning. I spent my time cursing whoever killed Lovelace.”
“Ah, that would be my master. I told him it was a hasty act, but did he listen—?”
“Luckily I was released soon afterward by one of Lovelace’s friends, who knew of me and my talents. I have since been working with him.”
“This would be Hopkins,” I said.
“Well, as a matter of fact, no. Which reminds me”—Faquarl looked at his watch—“I cannot stand gossiping with you all evening. Tonight the revolution begins, and I must be there to witness it. You and your idiot friends have delayed me far too long.”
The crow looked hopeful. “Does this mean you won’t have time for that painful long-drawn-out death you promised me?”
“I won’t, Bartimaeus, but you’ll have all the time in the world.” His hands reached out, grasped me around the neck and plucked the cleaver from my wing. Hopkins’s form rose into the air and turned to face the darkened dining room. “Let’s see,” Faquarl murmured. “Yes … that looks promising.” We drifted out above the tables, toward the opposite wall. A trolley stood there, just as the waiters had left it. On the center of the trolley was a large tureen with a domed lid. It was made of silver.
The crow wriggled and fidgeted desperately in its captor’s grip. “Come on, Faquarl,” I implored. “Don’t do anything you might regret.”
“I most certainly won’t.” He descended beside the trolley, held me above the tureen; the cold radiation of the fatal metal tickled against my ragged essence. “A healthy djinni might linger for weeks in a silver tomb like this,” Faquarl said. “The state you’re in, I don’t think you’ll survive longer than a couple of hours. Now then, I wonder what we’ve got in here….” With a hasty flick of the fingers he flipped open the lid. “Hmm. Fish soup. Delightful. Well, good-bye, Bartimaeus. While you die, take consolation from the knowledge that the enslavement of the djinn is almost over. As of tonight, we take revenge.” The fingers parted; with a delicate plop, the crow fell into the soup. Faquarl waved good-bye and closed the lid. I floated in darkness. Silver all around me: my essence shrank and blistered.
I had one chance—one chance only: wait a little for Faquarl to depart, then summon up my last gasps of energy and try to burst open the lid. It would be tough, but feasible—provided he didn’t wedge it shut with a block or anything.
Faquarl didn’t bother with a block. He went for the whole wall. There was a great roar and crash, a fearsome impact; the tureen collapsed around me, smashed into a crumpled mess by the weight of masonry above. Silver pressed on all sides; the crow writhed, wriggled, but had no space to move. My head swam, my essence began to boil; almost gratefully I fell into unconsciousness.
Burned and squashed to death in a silver vat of soup. There must be worse ways to go. But not many.
21
Nathaniel looked out of the window of the limousine at the night, the lights, the houses, and the people. They went by in a kind of blur, a mass of color and movement that changed endlessly, beguilingly, and yet meant nothing. For a while he let his tired gaze drift among the shifting forms, then—as the car slowed to approach a junction—he focused on the glass itself and on the reflection in it. He saw himself again.
It was not a wholly reassuring sight. His face was etched with weariness, his hair damp, his collar limply sagging. But in his eyes a spark still burned.
Earlier that day it had not been so. Successive crises—his humiliation at Richmond, the threats to his career, and the discovery of his earlier betrayal by Bartimaeus—had hit him hard. His carefully constructed persona of John Mandrake, Information Minister and blithely assured member of the Council, had begun to crack around him. But it had been his rejection by Ms. Lutyens that morning that had dealt the decisive blow. In a few moments of sustained contempt she had shattered the armor of his status and laid bare the boy beneath. The shock had been almost too much for Nathaniel; with the loss of self-esteem came chaos—he had spent the rest of the day locked in his rooms, alternately raging and subsiding into silence.
But two things had combined to draw him back, to prevent him drowning in self-pity. First, on a practical level, Bartimaeus’s delayed report had given him a lifeline. News of Hopkins’s whereabouts offered Nathaniel a final chance to act before the next day’s trial. By capturing the traitor he might yet outmaneuver Farrar, Mortensen, and the rest of his enemies: Devereaux would forget his displeasure and restore Nathaniel to a position of prestige.
Such success was not guaranteed, but he was confident in the power of the djinn that he had sent to the hotel. And already he felt revived by the mere act of sending them. A warm feeling ran across his back, making him shudder a little in the confines of the car. At last he was being decisive once again, playing for the highest stakes, shrugging off the inertia of the last few years. He felt almost as he had done as a child, thrilling in the audacity of his actions. That was how it had often been, before politics and the stultifying role of John Mandrake had closed in on him.
And he no longer wished to play that part. True, if fate were kind, he would first ensure his political survival. But he had long been tired of the other ministers, and sickened by their moral corruption, by their self-preserving greed. It had taken until today, with the disdain in the eyes of Ms. Lutyens and of Kitty Jones, to recognize that sickness in himself. Well, he would not sink back into the routines of the Council! Decisive action was needed to save the country from their mismanagement. He peered through the window at the smudged outlines of people on the streets. The commoners needed to be led; they needed a new leader. Someone who could impose a little peace and security. He thought of the Staff of Gladstone lying redundant in the vaults of Whitehall.
Not that he should use force, of course—at least, not on the commoners. Kitty Jones had been right about that. He glanced across to where—agreeably close to him—the girl sat, gazing with remarkable serenity out into the night.
She had been the second reason that his energies had revived, his spark rekindled, and he was very glad that he had found her. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but her tongue was as sharp as ever. In their argument outside the inn she had cut through his pretensions like a knife, shaming him repeatedly with her passionate assurance. Yet—and this was the strange part—he found he eagerly wanted to continue their talk.
Not least—his brow darkened—because of that suggestion that she knew more about Bartimaeus’s earlier career than he would have thought possible. It was very odd … but that could be explored at leisure, after the play, and after—with luck—his djinn had returned triumphant. Bartimaeus might throw some light on it himself. What he would do with her then he honestly didn’t know.
The chauffeur’s voice roused Nathaniel from his reverie. “Almost at the theater, sir.”
“Good. How long’s it taken?”
“Twelve minutes, sir. I had to come the long way around. The center of town’s still barricaded off. There are demonstrations in the parks. A lot of police activity.”
“Well, with luck we’ll miss the beginning of the performance.”
Kitty Jones spoke for the first time on the journey. As before, he was impressed by her poise. “So what is this play I must endure?”
Nathaniel sighed. “A Makepeace premiere.”
“Not the one who did Swans of Araby?”
“I’m afraid so. The Prime Minister is a fan, therefore every magician in the government, from Council down to third secretary, must attend the show on pain of his absolute displeasure. It is of the first importance.”
She sco
wled. “What, with a war going on, and people rioting in the street?”
“Even so. I have vital work of my own tonight, but I must put it aside until the curtain falls. I just hope it’s got a lot of intervals.” He felt the shape of his scrying glass inside his coat—between acts, he would check on the progress of his djinn.
They entered Shaftesbury Avenue—a cluttered curve of restaurants, bars, and theaters, many recently rebuilt in finest concrete under the government’s slum clearance measures. Glowing neon lights, a new invention from Japan, spelled out the names of each establishment in pinks, yellows, mauve, vermilion; throngs of lesser magicians and high-caste commoners milled upon the streets, accompanied by watchful Night Police. Nathaniel looked for evidence of social disorder, but the crowds seemed calm.
The limousine slowed, pulled into a roped-off area beneath a golden awning. Police and black-coated Security magicians stood behind the barricades; a few photographers knelt below them, cameras set on tripods. The front of the theater was a blaze of light; a smart red carpet ran between the street and its open doors.
A short, round gentleman stood upon the carpet, hands frantically waving. As the car drew to a halt, Quentin Makepeace bobbed forward and thrust open the nearest side door.
“Mandrake! At last you’re here! We haven’t a moment to lose.”
“I’m sorry, Quentin. Trouble on the streets …” Since witnessing the playwright’s unsavory experiment with the commoner, Nathaniel regarded him with extreme dislike. The man was a pestilence and needed to be removed. All in good time.
“I know, I know. Come on, out with you! In three minutes I must be on stage! The hall doors are shut, but I have space for you in my personal box. Yes, yes—your girlfriend too. She is far prettier than you or I; we can bask in her radiance! Come on, chop-chop! Two minutes and counting!”
With a series of prods, tugs, and encouraging gestures, Mr. Makepeace ushered Nathaniel and Kitty out of the car, along the carpet and through the theater doors. The harsh light of the foyer made them blink; they fended off bowing attendants, proffered cushions, trays of sparkling wine. The walls were covered with posters advertising the play: most featured Quentin Makepeace, grinning, winking or looking profound from a variety of angles. The man himself stopped at a narrow staircase.
“Up there! My private box. I will join you presently. Wish me luck!” Then he was gone, a diminutive whirlwind of oiled hair, gleaming teeth, bright and sparkling eyes.
Nathaniel and Kitty ascended the stairs. At the top was a drawn curtain. They pushed it aside and ducked through into a small enclosure hung with satin drapes. Three ornamental chairs faced a low balustrade; beyond and below lay the stage—half concealed behind thick curtains—the orchestra pit and a sea of stalls, filled with minutely moving heads. The lights had been turned low; the crowd murmured like the wind in a forest; in the depths the orchestra emitted discordant sounds.
They sat, Kitty in the farthest chair, Nathaniel beside her. He leaned over, whispered in her ear. “This is quite an honor for you, Ms. Jones. You are without doubt the only commoner present. See in that box opposite? That fellow leaning forward with the uncouth eagerness of a schoolboy? That is our Prime Minister. Beside him sits Mr. Mortensen, the beloved War Minister. The one with the paunch is Collins, of the Home Office. In the box below, with a scowl upon his face, sits Sholto Pinn, the famous retailer. To the left, yawning like a cat, is Whitwell, of Security. Ms. Farrar, of the Police, is in the box beyond—”
He broke off—as if sensing his scrutiny, Jane Farrar had glanced at him across the great dark gulf. Nathaniel gave her an ironic salute, a little wave. His feeling of reckless excitement had grown with the passing minutes—if all went well, Ascobol and the others would soon have Hopkins under guard. He would see how dear Ms. Farrar handled that tomorrow. With a certain ostentation, he bent his head close to Kitty Jones’s again. “What a pity your Resistance is no longer active,” he whispered. “A well-directed bomb here would decapitate the government.”
It was true. The stalls below were filled with all the secondary ministers, their wives, their assistants, deputies, and special advisers. He saw the obsessive craning of heads as each person compared their position with those of their rivals; he saw the flash of binoculars, heard the rustling of sweetmeat wrappers, sensed the excitement radiating from the crowd. On the second and third planes a number of small imps were visible hopping and jigging upon the shoulders of their masters, busily inflating their chests and biceps to improbable sizes and exchanging insults with their neighbors.
The noises from the orchestra dwindled. A violin shrieked once; all was still.
Lights faded in the auditorium. A spotlight illuminated the curtains at the center of the stage.
Silence.
A drumroll; an ecstatic fanfare from the trumpet section. The curtain twitched and was flung aside.
Out strode Makepeace, resplendent in a frock coat of crushed green velvet. He spread his arms like a mother to her babes and welcomed the audience’s applause. Two bows to the balconies, one to the stalls. He raised his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind, too kind. Please!” The cheering died away. “Thank you. Before the show begins, a special announcement. It is a privilege—nay, an honor!—to present my latest little trifle to such a distinguished audience. I see we have a full complement of the great, led by our wonderful arbiter of good taste, Mr. Rupert Devereaux.” A judicious pause for enthusiastic cheering. “Quite so. And it is because of the affection that we all feel for dear Rupert that I have penned From Wapping to Westminster, a small diversion based on his inspiring life. As you will see from the program notes, only the scene in the nuns’ dormitory is fictitious; the rest of the marvels, sensations, wonderments, and prodigies are firmly based on fact. I hope you are educated and entertained!” A brief bow, a broad smile. “As usual with my productions, may I request that no flash photography takes place. It can put off the performers. In addition, several of the special effects used onstage tonight are magical in origin, created by a crew of willing demons. These illusions will be most satisfactory if you watch without your lenses in. There is nothing more likely to ruin the enjoyment of a wedding scene than seeing a couple of round-bottomed imps emitting the fireworks in the background.” Laughter. “Thank you. Can I also request that all personal demons are dismissed for the duration of the show lest they prove distracting. Enjoy the evening. May it be one you never forget!”
A step backward; a swish of the curtain. The spotlight went out. All across the auditorium came a faint rustling and popping—the sounds of lens cases being removed from bags and jacket pockets, opened, filled, shut fast again. The magicians uttered terse commands: their imps shimmered, dwindled, and vanished.
As he removed his lenses, Nathaniel glanced at Kitty Jones, who sat impassively watching the stage. She didn’t seem likely to try anything foolish; nevertheless, he knew he was taking a risk. Fritang had been dismissed and all his other active demons were off pursuing Hopkins. He had no servants readily at hand. What if she reverted to her former type?
A roll of drums, a rush of violins in the darkness below. Horns blared in the distance: a militaristic fanfare, which swiftly became a jaunty music-hall theme. The curtains swept aside, revealing a beautifully painted depiction of a London street scene forty years before. Tall town houses, market stalls, a flat blue sky behind, Nelson’s Column in the background, fluffy pigeons on strings flying to and fro. A procession of barrow boys wheeled carts on stage from either side; as they met in the middle they exchanged loud Cockney pleasantries and began slapping their thighs to the music-hall beat. With a sinking heart, Nathaniel knew that the first song was already upon them. He sat back in his chair, thinking despairingly of the scrying glass in his pocket. Perhaps he could just slip off and check what was going on—
“Not a bad beginning, eh, John?” As if he had sprung up from a hidden trapdoor, Mr. Makepeace was at his side, settling into his seat, wiping
perspiration from his forehead. “A nice little number. Sets the scene admirably.” He chuckled. “Already Mr. Devereaux is transfixed. See how he laughs and claps his hands together!”
Nathaniel peered into the darkness. “You have better eyesight than I. I cannot make him out.”
“That is because you have taken out your lenses, like a good obedient boy. Put them back in again and see.”
“But—”
“Put them back in again, my boy. Here in my box different rules apply. You’re exempt from the general direction.”
“But what about the illusions?”
“Oh, you’ll see enough to keep you entertained. Trust me.” A hearty chuckle.
The man was a capricious fool! With a mixture of annoyance and bemusement, Nathaniel returned his lenses to his eyes. By viewing the second and third planes, he was instantly able to reduce the darkness in the auditorium and make out the magicians on the far side. As Makepeace had said, Devereaux was craning forward, eyes riveted on the stage; his head nodded to the music. The other ministers, in various attitudes of dejection and dismay, had given themselves up to the inevitable.
On stage the Cockney barrow boys skipped off, leaving the way clear for the appearance of the young Prime Minister-to-be. The pale thin youth that Nathaniel had met at Richmond now dawdled from the wings. He wore a school blazer, shirt and tie, and a pair of short trousers from which his hairy legs plunged a disconcerting distance. His cheeks had been heavily rouged to give him the appearance of childish vigor, but his movements were oddly listless. He flopped to a standstill beside a cardboard postbox and began a quavering oration. In the darkness at Nathaniel’s side Makepeace gave a cluck of dissatisfaction.
“Bobby has proved such a trial,” he breathed. “During rehearsals he developed a most dreary cough, and became quite wan. It is my belief he is consumptive. I had to give him a mighty slug of brandy just to get him on.”