I peered through the arch. Dozens of white—clothed under—cooks, 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 pate 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 creamybrown 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
Nathaniel
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—storied silver platter.
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 be—fore—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.
"Hello, there." He spoke in an extra—friendly fashion; as he did so, he ran his eyes up and down the boy. Perfect. Just the right size.
The lad couldn't help but notice this interest. "Er, do you want something?"
"Yes. Is there a cloakroom near here? I've had a long journey and… you know how it is."
At the foot of a broad staircase, the boy halted. He pointed along a side passage. "Down there."
"Can you show me? I'm afraid of getting the wrong door."
"I'm late as it is, pal."
"Please."
With a groan of reluctance, the boy turned aside and led Nathaniel along the corridor. He walked so fast that the dish on his head began to wobble precariously. He paused, straightened it, and continued on his way. Nathaniel followed behind, pausing only to draw from his uppermost basket the hefty rolling pin that he had stolen from the kitchen. At the fourth door, the boy stopped.
"There."
"Are you sure it's the right one? I don't want to barge in on anyone."
"I'm telling you it is. Look." The boy kicked out with a foot. The door swung open. Nathaniel swung the rolling pin. Boy and silver platter went crashing forward onto the washroom floor. They hit the tiles with a sound like a rifle crack; a rainstorm of cream cheese—and—prawn canapes fell all around. Nathaniel stepped in smartly after them and closed and locked the door.