Lovelace did not do so. He wore a slim, dark suit with a dark—green tie. His glasses caught the lamp light from the ceiling and flashed with every movement of his head. His eyes were invisible, but the skin below the glasses was gray, heavy, bagged. "You seem flustered, Underwood," he said.
"No, no. I was engaged at the top of the house. I am somewhat out of breath."
I had entered the door as a spider and had crawled my way discreetly over the lintel and up the wall, until I reached the secluded gloom of the darkest corner. Here I spun several hasty threads across, obscuring me as fully as possible. I did so because I could see that the magician had his second—plane imp with him, prying into every nook and cranny with it's hot little eyes.
Quite how Lovelace had come to suspect that the Amulet was in the house, I did not like to guess. For all my denials to the boy, it was certainly an unpleasant coincidence that he had arrived at the exact same time as I had. But working that out could wait: the boy's future—and consequently, mine—depended on my reacting quickly to whatever happened now.
Underwood sat himself in his customary chair and put on a forced smile. "So," he said. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, at least tell that imp of yours to quit its jiggling. It's making me feel quite ill." He spoke with sudden waspish asperity. Simon Lovelace made a clicking sound with his tongue. The imp hovering behind his head instantly became rigid, holding its face in a deliberately unfortunate posture, midway between a gawp and a grin.
Underwood did his best to ignore it. "I do have a few other matters to take care of today," he said. "Perhaps you might tell me what I can do for you?"
Simon Lovelace inclined his head gravely. "A few nights ago," he said, "I suffered a theft. An item, a small piece of some power, was stolen from my house while I was absent."
Underwood made a consoling sound. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you. It is a piece that I hold especially dear. Naturally, I am eager for its return."
"Naturally. You think the Resistance—?"
"And it is in connection with this that I have called on you today, Underwood…" He spoke slowly, carefully, skirting round the issue. Perhaps even now he hoped he would not have to make the accusation directly. Magicians are always circumspect with words; hasty ones, even in a crisis, can lead to misfortune. But the older man was oblivious to the hint.
"You can count on my support, of course," Underwood said equably. "These thefts are an abomination. We have known for some time that a black market for stolen artifacts exists and I for one believe that their sale helps to fund resistance to our rule. We saw yesterday what outrages this can lead to." Underwood's eyebrows lifted with something like amusement. "I must say," he went on, "I am surprised to hear that you have fallen victim. Most recent thefts were perpetrated on—may I be frank? —relatively minor magicians. The thieves are often thought to be youths, even children. I would have thought your defenses might have coped with them."
"Quite." Simon Lovelace spoke through his teeth.
"Do you think it has any connection with the attack on Parliament?"
"A moment, please." Lovelace held up his hand. "I have reason to suspect that the theft of the—of my item, was not the work of the so—called Resistance, but that of a fellow magician."
Underwood frowned. "You think so? How can you be sure?"
"Because I know what carried out the raid. It goes by the unseemly name of Bartimaeus. A middle—ranking djinni of great impudence and small intelligence.[74] It is nothing special. Any half—wit might have summoned it. A half—wit magician, that is, not a commoner."
"Nevertheless," Underwood said mildly, "this Bartimaeus got away with your item."[75]
"It was a bungler! It allowed itself to be identified!" Lovelace controlled himself with difficulty. "No, no—you are quite right. It got away."
"And as to who summoned it…"
The glasses flashed. "Well, Arthur, that is why I am here. To see you."
There was a momentary pause while Underwood's brain cells struggled to make the connection. Finally, success. Several emotions competed for control of his face, then all were swept away by a kind of glacial smoothness. The temperature in the room grew cold.
"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "What did you say?"
Simon Lovelace leaned forward and rested his two hands on the dining table. He had very well manicured nails. "Arthur," he said, "Bartimaeus has not been keeping a low profile lately. As of this morning, it was imprisoned within the Tower of London, following its attack on Pinn's of Piccadilly."
Underwood reeled with astonishment. "That djinni? How—how do you know this? They were unable to learn its name… And—and it escaped, this very afternoon…"
"It did indeed." Lovelace did not explain how. "After its escape, my agents… spotted it. They followed Bartimaeus across London—and back here."[76]
Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"
"Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I am inside…" Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."
"But…"
"I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."
The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different expression, then reverted to the original. Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.
"I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite within my rights. But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well aware—is rather… contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get out, now would we? So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some… arrangement that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff. "I'm waiting."
If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he might have saved himself.[77] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.
"You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How dare you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should I take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I would—n't bother robbing you. Everyone knows your star has waned. You're not worth harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably, they lie. Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my house!"
As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.
"Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."
74
At this point someone with excellent hearing might have heard a spurt of webbing being shot furiously into the ceiling in the corner of the room Fortunately, the imp was busy trying to intimidate Underwood by changing its frozen expression very, very slowly. It didn't hear a thing.
75
I felt a sudden surge of affection for the old fool. Didn't last long. Just thought I'd mention it.
76
Oops. It looked as if Lovelace had guessed I might escape from Faquarl He must have set spies watching the Tower to trail us once we broke free And I'd led them straight back to the Amulet in double—quick time How embarrassing.
77
He could have produced the Amulet, agreed to terms, and seen Lovelace head off satisfied into the night. Of course, now that he knew a little of Lovelace's crimes, he would certainly have been bumped off soon afterward, but that breathing space might have given him time to shave his beard, put on a flowery shirt, fly off somewhere hot and sandy and so survive.