The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud
Presently, the boy spoke again. “What am I going to do about the trousers?”
“Nothing.You’ll have to make do with what you’ve got. We’ll be at the gate soon. Your top half’s smart enough, anyway.”
“But—”
“Smooth down your jacket, get rid of any wrinkles you can see. It’ll have to do. Right—I’m Squalls and you’re my son. We’re delivering groceries to Heddleham Hall, fresh for conference day. Which reminds me, we’d better check what it is we’re actually bringing. Can you have a look?”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing odd about you peering in the back.” Between us, in the rear wall of the cab, was a metal hatch. I gestured at it. “Have a quick peek. I would, but I’m driving.”
“Very well.” He kneeled on the seat and, opening the hatch, stuck his head through.
“It’s quite dark … there’s lots of stuff in here….”
“Can you make anything out?” I took a glance at him and nearly lost control of the wheel. The van swerved wildly toward the hedge; I righted it just in time.
“Your trousers! Sit back down! Where are your trousers?”
He sat back in his seat. The view to my left improved markedly. “I took my ones off, didn’t I? You told me not to put the new ones on.”
“I didn’t realize you’d ditched the others! Put them on.”
“But the sentry will see—”
“The sentry’s already seen, believe you me.Just put them on.”
As he fumbled with his shoes against the dashboard, I shook my shiny head. “We’ll just have to hope ghuls aren’t too clever when it comes to the etiquette of human attire. Maybe they’ll think it normal for you to be changing costume now. But the guards at the gate will be more perceptive, you can be sure of that.”
We were nearly at the boundary of the estate. Trees spanned the view through the windscreen. The road ahead curved into them in leisurely fashion; almost immediately the great arch came in sight. Constructed from massive blocks of yellow sandstone, it rose from the bushes at the roadside with the portentous solidity of a hundred thousand similar arches across the world.6 What particular lordling had paid for this one, and why he had done so, I doubted anyone knew. The faces on the caryatids that held up the roof were worn away, the detail on the inscriptions likewise. Eventually, the ivy that clung to it all would destroy the stonework too.
Above and around the arch, the red dome soared into the sky and extended into the woods. Only through the arch was the way clear.
Our accompanying sentries were looking ahead of them expectantly.
A few meters from the arch I slowed the van to a halt, but kept the engine on. It thrummed gently. We sat in the cab waiting.
A wooden door opened in one side of the arch and a man came striding out. At my side, the boy gave a slight shiver. I glanced at him. Pale as he was, he’d just gone paler. His eyes were round as dinner plates.
“What is it?” I hissed.
“It’s him … the one I saw in the disc, the one who brought the Amulet to Lovelace.”
There was no time to answer, no time to act. Strolling casually, smiling a little smile, the murderer approached the van.
36
So here he was—the man who had stolen the Amulet of Samarkand and vanished without a trace, the man who had cut its keeper’s throat and left him lying in his blood. Lovelace’s hireling.
For a human, he was sizeable, a head taller than most men and broad-shouldered. He wore a long buttoned jacket of dark cloth and wide trousers in the Eastern style that were loosely tucked into high leather boots. His beard was jet-black, his nose broad, his eyes a piercing blue beneath his heavy brows. For a big man, he moved gracefully, one hand swinging easily at his side, the other tucked into his belt.
The mercenary walked around the bonnet toward my side window, his eyes on us all the while. As he drew close, he looked away and waved dismissively; I glimpsed our escort ghuls vanishing back toward the fields.
I stuck my head partway out of the window. “Good morning,” I said cheerily, in what I hoped was a suitable London accent. “Ernest Squalls and Son, with a delivery of groceries for the Hall.”
The man stopped and considered us silently for a moment.
“Squalls and Son …” The voice was slow, deep; the blue eyes seemed to look through me as he spoke. It was a disconcerting effect; at my side, the boy gave an involuntary gulp; I hoped he wasn’t going to panic. “Squalls and Son … Yes, you are expected.”
“Yes, guv’nor.”
“What have you brought?”
“Groceries, guv’nor.”
“Namely?”
“Um …” I hadn’t a clue. “All sorts, guv’nor. Would you like to inspect them?”
“A list will suffice.”
Drat. “Very well, guv. Um, we’ve got boxes, we’ve got tins—lots of tins, sir—packets of things, bottles—”
The eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound very specific.”
A high voice sounded at my elbow. Nathaniel leaned across me. “He didn’t take the list, sir. I did. We’ve got Baltic caviar, plovers’eggs, fresh asparagus, cured Bolognese salami, Syrian olives, vanilla stalks from Central America, freshly made pasta, larks’tongues in aspic, giant land snails marinated in their shells, tubes of freshly ground black pepper and rock salt, Wirral oysters, ostrich meat—”
The mercenary held up a hand. “Enough. Now I wish to inspect them.”
“Yes, guv’nor.” Glumly I got down from the cab and led the way to the back of the van, devoutly wishing that the boy hadn’t let his imagination run away with him quite so much. What would happen when some completely different groceries were revealed I did not care to think. But it could not be helped now. With the mercenary looming impassively at my side, I opened the rear door and inched it open.
He surveyed the interior for a few moments. “Very well.You may continue up to the house.”
Almost in disbelief I considered the contents of the van. A crate of bottles in one corner caught my eye: Syrian olives. Half hidden behind them, a small box of larks’tongues, sheets of wrapped pasta … I shut the door and returned to the cab.
“Any directions for us, guv’nor?”
The man rested a hand on the lip of my open window: the back of the hand was crisscrossed with thin white scars. “Follow the drive until it splits, take the right fork to the rear of the house. Someone will meet you there. Carry out your business and return. Before you go, I shall give you a warning: you are now entering the private property of a great magician. Do not stray or trespass if you value your lives. The penalties are severe and would curdle your blood.”
“Yes, sir.” With a nod, he stepped back and signaled us to pass. I revved the engine and we passed slowly under the arch. Soon afterward we crossed beneath the protective domes; both made my essence tingle. Then we were through, and following a sandy, curving driveway between the trees.
I regarded the boy. His face was impassive, but a single bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “How did you know all the items?” I said. “You only had a couple of seconds looking in the back.”
He gave a thin smile. “I’ve been trained. I read fast and remember accurately. So, what did you think of him?”
“Lovelace’s little assassin? Intriguing. He’s not a djinni, and I don’t think he’s a magician either—he doesn’t quite have your scent of corruption.1 But we know he was able to seize the Amulet, so he must have some power…. And he exudes great confidence. Did you notice how the ghuls obeyed him?”
The boy runkled his forehead. “If he’s not a magician or a demon, what sort of power can he have?”
“Don’t deceive yourself,” I said darkly; “there are other kinds.” I was thinking of the Resistance girl and her companions.
I was spared further questioning, as the driveway suddenly straightened and we broke out of the belt of trees. And up ahead we saw Heddleham Hall.
The boy gasped
It didn’t have quite the same effect on me. When you’ve helped construct several of the world’s most majestic buildings, and in some instances given pretty useful tips to the architects concerned,2 a second-rate Victorian mansion in the Gothic style doesn’t exactly wet your whistle. You know the kind of thing: lots of twiddly bits and turrets.3 It was surrounded by a wide expanse of lawn, on which peacocks and wallabies were decoratively scattered.4 A couple of striped tents had been erected on the lawns, to which sundry servants were already carting trays of bottles and wineglasses down from the terrace. In front of the house was a massive, ancient yew; under its spreading limbs the driveway split. The left-hand fork swooped elegantly round to the front of the house; the right-hand fork trundled meekly round the back. As per our orders, we took the tradesmen’s route.
My master was still drinking the whole sight in with a lustful look.
“Forget your pathetic daydreams,” I said. “If you want to end up with one of these, you’ve got to survive today first. So—now we’re inside, we need to formulate our plan. What exactly is it?”
The boy was focused again in an instant. “From what Lovelace told us,” he said, “we guess that he is going to attack the ministers in some way. How, we don’t know. It’ll happen once they’ve arrived, when they’re most relaxed and unawares. The Amulet is vital to his scheme, whatever it is.”
“Yes. Agreed.” I tapped the steering wheel. “But what about our plan?”
“We’ve got two objectives: to find the Amulet and to work out what trap Lovelace is preparing. Lovelace will probably have the Amulet on his person. In any event, it’ll be well guarded. It would be useful to locate it, but we don’t want to take it from him until everyone’s arrived. We’ve got to show them that he has it: prove he’s a traitor. And if we can show them the trap too, so much the better. We’ll have all the evidence we need.”
“You make it sound so simple.” I considered Faquarl, Jabor, and all the other slaves Lovelace was likely to have to hand, and sighed. “Well, first we need to ditch this van and these disguises.”
The driveway came to a sudden end at a circular area of gravel at the back of the house. The florist’s van was parked there. A set of white double doors was open nearby, with a man dressed in a dark uniform standing outside. He indicated for us to pull over. “All right,” the boy said. “We unload the van and seize the first chance we get. Wait for my orders.”
“Hey, do I ever do anything else?” I managed to skid the van to a halt a few millimeters away from the ornamental shrubbery and got out. The flunky approached.
“Mr. Squalls?”
“That’s me, guv’nor. This here’s … my son.”
“You’re late. The cook has need of your items. Please bring them to the kitchen with all speed.”
“Yes, guv’nor.” An uneasy feeling ran through my essence and rippled the bristles on the back of my neck. The cook … No, it wouldn’t be. He’d be elsewhere, surely. I opened the van door. “Son—snap to it, or you’ll feel the back of my hand!”
I took a certain bleak pleasure in loading the boy up with as many jars of Syrian olives and giant land snails as I could, then propelled him on his way. He staggered off under his load, not unlike Simpkin in Pinn’s shop.5 I selected a small tub of larks’tongues and followed him through the doors and into a cool, whitewashed passage. Various servants of every shape, sex, and size were racing about like startled hares, engaged in a hundred tasks; everywhere there was a great clattering and hubbub. A scent of baked bread and roasting meats hung in the air, emanating from a wide arch that led on to the kitchen.
I peered through the arch. Dozens of white-clothed undercooks, chopping, basting, rinsing, slicing … Something turned on the spit in the fireplace. Stacks of vegetables were piled high on tables beside open pastry cases being filled with jellied fruits. It was a hive of activity. Orchestrating it all was a sizeable head chef, who at that moment was shouting at a small boy wearing a blue uniform.
The chef’s sleeves were rolled up. He had a thick white bandage wrapped round one arm.
I checked the seventh plane.
And ducked back out of sight. I knew those tentacles far too well for there to be any doubt.
My master had entered the kitchen, placed his precarious load on a nearby work surface and was coming out again, none the wiser. As he rounded the door I thrust the larks’tongues into his hand.
“Take those too,” I hissed. “I can’t go in.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He had the sense to obey, and quickly, for the servant in the dark uniform had reappeared in the corridor, and was observing us intently.We headed back out again for the next load.
“The head cook,” I whispered, as I pulled a crate of boar pâté to the back of the van, “is the djinni Faquarl. Don’t ask me why he likes that disguise, I’ve no idea. But I can’t go in. He’ll spot me instantly.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You’ll just have to trust me on this one. There—you can manage another sack of ostrich steaks, can’t you? Oops. Perhaps not.” I helped him to his feet. “I’ll unload the van; you take the stuff in. We’ll both think what to do.”
During the course of several round-trips for the boy, we thrashed out a plan of campaign. It took a fair bit of thrashing to reach agreement. He wanted us both to slip past the kitchen to explore the house, but I was extremely reluctant to go anywhere near Faquarl. My idea was to unload, ditch the van in the trees somewhere and creep back to start our investigations, but the kid would have none of this. “It’s all right for you,” he said. “You can cross the lawns like a gust of poisonous wind or something; I can’t—they’ll catch me before I’m halfway. Now that I’m at the house, I’ve got to go in.”
“But you’re a grocer’s boy. How will you explain that when you’re seen?”
He smiled an unpleasant smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t be a grocer’s boy for long.”
“Well, it’s too risky for me to pass the kitchen,” I said. “I was lucky just now. Faquarl can usually sense me a mile off. It’s no good; I’ll have to find another way in.”
“I don’t like it,” he said. “How will we meet up?”
“I’ll find you. Just don’t get caught in the meantime.”
He shrugged. If he was terrified out of his wits, he was doing a good job of hiding it. I piled the last baskets of plovers’eggs into his hands and watched him waddle off into the house. Then I shut the van doors, left the keys on the driver’s seat and considered the position. I soon abandoned my idea of disposing of the van in the trees: that was more likely to attract attention than just quietly leaving it here. No one was worrying about the florist’s van, after all.
There were too many windows in the house. Something could be watching from any of them. I walked toward the door as if I were going inside, checking the planes en route: far off, a sentry patrol passed above the trees, just inside the innermost dome; that was okay—they’d see nothing. The house itself looked clear.
As I neared the door I stepped to one side, out of view from within, and changed. Mr. Squalls became a small lizard that dropped to the ground, scuttled to the nearest patch of wall, and ran up it, making for the first floor. My creamy-brown skin was ideally camouflaged against the stone. The minute bristles on my feet gave me an excellent grip. My swivel-eyes looked up, around, behind. All things considered, it was another perfect choice of form. Up the wall I ran, wondering how my master was getting on with his more cumbersome disguise.
37
As he set the basket of eggs down on the nearest surface, Nathaniel looked around the kitchen for his intended victim. There were so many people bustling about that at first he could see no sign of the small boy with the dark blue uniform, and he feared that he had already gone. But then, in the shadow of a large lady pastry chef, he saw him. He was transferring a mountain of bite-sized canapes to a two
It was clear that the boy planned to take this dish elsewhere in the house. Nathaniel intended to be there when he did.
He skulked around the kitchen, pretending to be emptying out his baskets and crates, biding his time, and growing ever more impatient as the boy painstakingly placed each cream cheese–and-prawn pastry on the dish.
Something hard and heavy tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.
The head cook stood there, pink-faced and glistening from the heat of the roasting spit. Two bright black eyes looked down on him. The chef was holding a meat cleaver in his pudgy hand; it was with the blunt edge of this that he had tapped Nathaniel.
“And what,” asked the chef, in a gentle voice,"are you doing in my kitchen?”
Nothing about the man, on any of the planes to which Nathaniel had access, remotely suggested he was inhuman. Nevertheless, with Bartimaeus’s warning in mind, he took no chances. “Just collecting up a couple of my father’s baskets,” he said politely. “We don’t have many, you see. I’m sorry if I’ve got in the way.”
The chef pointed his cleaver at the door. “Leave.”
“Yes, sir. Just going.” But only as far as the passage directly outside the door, where Nathaniel propped himself against the wall and waited. Whenever someone came out of the kitchen, he ducked down as if he were doing up his shoes. It was an edgy business and he dreaded the appearance of the chef, but otherwise he felt a strange exhilaration. After the first shock of seeing the mercenary at the gate, his fear had fallen away and been replaced with a thrill he had rarely experienced before—the thrill of action. Whatever happened, there would be no more helpless standing by while his enemies acted with impunity. He was taking control of events now. He was doing the hunting. He was closing in.
Light, tripping footsteps. The pageboy appeared through the arch, balancing the double dish of canapes on his head. Steadying it with one hand, he turned right, heading up the passage. Nathaniel fell in alongside him.