The Prime Minister was already gone. Even as the sphere crashed onto the stones three meters from the stage, a dark—green afrit had stepped from the air and swathed him in a Hermetic Mantle, which it promptly carried into the air and out through a skylight in the roof.
Half dazed by his impact with the door, Nathaniel was struggling to rise when he saw two of the men in gray jackets running toward him at frightening speed. He fell back; they leaped over him, out of the door and onto the terrace. As the second one passed above with a prodigious bound, he let out a peculiarly guttural snarl that raised the hairs on Nathaniel's neck. He heard scuffling on the river terrace, a scrabbling noise like claws on stone, two distant splashes.
He raised his head cautiously. The terrace was empty. In the hall the pent—up energy of the released elementals had run its course. Water sluiced along cracks between the flagstones; clods of earth and mud were spattered across the walls and the faces of the guests; a few flames still licked at the edges of the purple drape upon the stage. Many of the magicians were stirring now, levering themselves to their feet, or helping others to rise. A few remained sprawled upon the floor. Servants were running down the staircase and in from adjoining rooms. Slowly people began to find their voices; there was shouting, weeping, a few belated and rather redundant screams.
Nathaniel got to his feet, ignoring a sharp pain in his shoulder where he had collided with the wall, and set off in anxious search of Mrs. Underwood. His boots slipped in the mess on the floor.
The fat man in the white suit was leaning on his crutches, talking to Simon Lovelace and the old, wrinkled magician. None of them seemed to have suffered much in the attack, although Lovelace's forehead was bruised and his glasses slightly cracked. As Nathaniel passed them, they turned together and evidently muttered a joint spell of summoning, for six tall, slender djinn wearing silver cloaks suddenly materialized in front of them. Orders were given. The demons rose into the air and floated at speed onto the terrace and away.
Mrs. Underwood sat on her backside with a bewildered look on her face. Nathaniel crouched at her side. "Are you all right?"
Her chin was caked in mud and the hair around one ear was slightly singed; otherwise she seemed unharmed. Nathaniel felt a little teary with relief. "Yes, yes, I think so, John. You don't need to hug me so. I am glad you are not hurt. Where is Arthur?"
"I don't know." Nathaniel scanned the bedraggled crowd. "Oh, there he is."
His master had evidently not had time to mount an effective defense—if his beard, which now resembled the split halves of a lightning—struck tree, was anything to go by. His smart shirt and jacket front had been blown away, leaving only a blackened vest and a slightly smoking tie. His trousers had not escaped either; they now started too late and ended too soon. Mr. Underwood stood near a group of others in a similar predicament, with a look of goggling outrage on his red and soot—stained face.
"I think he'll live," Nathaniel said.
"Go and help him, John. Go on. I'm fine, really I am. I just need to sit down a little."
Nathaniel approached his master with some caution. He would not have put it past Underwood to blame him somehow for the disaster.
"Sir? Are you—"
His master did not seem to register his presence. A bright light of fury shone beneath his blackened eyebrows. With a magisterial effort, he drew the tattered remnants of his jacket together and joined them at the one remaining button. He flattened down his tie, wincing a little at the heat. Then he strode over toward the nearest straggling group of guests. Unsure what to do, Nathaniel trailed along behind.
"Who was it? Did you see?" Underwood spoke abruptly.
A woman whose evening gown hung like damp tissue from her shoulders shook her head. "It happened too fast." Several of the others nodded.
"Some object, came from behind…"
"Through a portal, perhaps, a renegade magician—"
A white—haired man with a whining voice cut in. "They say someone entered by the terrace…"
"Surely not—what about security?"
"Excuse me, sir…"
"This Resistance, do you think they—?"
"Lovelace, Schyler, and Pinn have sent tracker demons downriver."
"Sir—"
"The villain must have jumped into the Thames and been swept away."
"Sir! I saw him!"
Underwood turned to Nathaniel at last. "What? What did you say?"
"I saw him, sir. The boy on the terrace—"
"By heaven, if you're lying…"
"No, sir, it was just before he threw it, sir. He had a blue orb in his hand. He ran in through the doors and chucked it, sir. He was dark—haired, a boy, a little older than me, sir. Thin, with dark clothes on; he had a coat, I think; I didn't see what happened to him after he threw it. It was an elemental sphere, I'm sure, sir, a small one; so he didn't need to be a magician to break it…"
Nathaniel paused for breath, suddenly conscious that in his enthusiasm he had revealed a far greater knowledge of magic than was appropriate in an apprentice who had yet to summon his first mouler. But neither Underwood nor any of the other magicians seemed to notice this. They took a moment to absorb his words, then turned away from him and began chattering away at breakneck speed, each talking over the others in their eagerness to proclaim their theories.
"It has to be the Resistance—but are they magicians or not? I've always said—"
"Underwood, Internal Affairs is your department. Have any elemental spheres
been registered stolen? If so, what the hell's being done about it?"
"I can't say; confidential information…"
"Don't mutter into what's left of your beard, man. We've a right to know!"
"Ladies, gentlemen…" The voice was soft, but its effect was immediate. The clamor ceased, all heads turned. Simon Lovelace had appeared on the fringes of the group. His hair was back in place. Despite his broken glasses and bruised forehead, he was as elegant as ever. Nathaniel's mouth felt dry.
Lovelace looked around the group with his quick, dark eyes. "Don't bully poor Arthur, please," he said. For an instant, the smile flicked across the face. "He isn't responsible for this outrage, poor fellow. The assailant appears to have entered from the river."
A black—bearded man indicated Nathaniel. "That's what the boy said."
The dark eyes fixed on Nathaniel and widened slightly with recognition. "Young Underwood. You saw him, did you?"
Nathaniel nodded dumbly.
"So. Sharp as ever, I see. Does he have a name yet, Underwood?"
"Erm, yes—John Mandrake. I've filed it officially."
"Well, John." The dark eyes fastened upon him. "You're to be congratulated; no one else I've spoken to so far got much of a look at him. The police may want a statement from you in due course."
Nathaniel prised his tongue free. "Yes, sir."
Lovelace turned back to the others. "The assailant left a boat below the terrace, then climbed up the river wall and cut the throat of the guard. There's no body, but a fair bit of blood, so he presumably lowered the corpse into the Thames. He too seems to have jumped into the water after the attack and allowed himself to be swept away. He may have drowned."
The black—bearded man tutted. "It's unheard of! What was Duvall thinking? The police should have prevented this."
Lovelace held up a hand. "I quite agree. However, two officers are speedily on the trail; they may find something, though water won't help the scent. I've sent djinn out along the banks too. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more at this point. We must all be grateful that the Prime Minister is safe and that no one important was killed. Might I humbly suggest that you all head home to recuperate—and perhaps treat yourselves to a change of clothes? More information will no doubt come your way at a later time. Now, if you'll forgive me…"