The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."
"I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."
"I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."
"Well, then…"
Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air and landed on the mahogany top of the dining—room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.
"Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."
The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a laden tray.
"Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr. Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"
Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large porcelain teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display—rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.
Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.
"Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."
Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the display—rack. The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.
"That's right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs. Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.
The door closed.
As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.
With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.
There was a brief silence.
Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.
"What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.
Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance. "That was my best teapot."
He gave three whistles, shrill, high—pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin—imp, blue—faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin—imp sprang, turning in midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong. The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin—imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.
Underwood turned back to Lovelace, who had watched all this tight—lipped.
I confess the old man surprised me—he was putting up a better show than I'd expected. Nevertheless the strain of raising that tame imp was taking its toll. The back of his neck was sweaty.
Lovelace knew this too. "One last chance," he snapped. "Give me my property or I'll raise the stakes. Lead me to your study."
"Never!" Underwood was beside himself with strain and rage. He did not heed the promptings of common sense.
"Watch then." Lovelace smoothed back his oiled hair. He spoke a few words under his breath. There was a frisson in the dining room; everything in it flickered. The wall at the far end of the room became insubstantial. It receded, moving farther and farther back until it could no longer be seen. In its place a corridor of uncertain dimensions stretched away. As Underwood watched, a figure appeared far off along the corridor. It began to move toward us, growing larger at great speed, but floating, for its legs were still.
Underwood gasped and stumbled back. He knocked against his chair.
He was right to gasp. I knew that figure, the bulky frame, the jackal's head.
"Stop!" Underwood's face was waxen; he gripped his chair for support.
"What was that?" Simon Lovelace held his fingers to his ear. "I can't hear you."[78]
"Stop! All right, you win! I'll take you to my study now! Call it off!"
The figure grew in size. Underwood was cowering. The goblin—imp made a rueful face and withdrew hastily back through the tiles. I shifted in my corner, wondering quite what I was going to do when Jabor finally entered the room.[79]
All at once Lovelace gave a sign. The infinite corridor and the approaching figure vanished. The wall was there again as before, a yellowed photograph of Underwood's smiling grandmother hanging in its center.
Underwood was on his knees beside the ruins of his tea service. He shook so hard he could barely stand.
"Which way to your study, Arthur?" Simon Lovelace said.
29
Nathaniel
Nathaniel stood alone on the landing, gripping the banister as if he feared to fall. A murmur of voices came from the dining room below; it rose and fell, but he hardly registered it. The panic rushing in his head drowned out all other sounds. The only bad magician is an incompetent one. And what was incompetence? Loss of control. Slowly, steadily, over the last few days, everything had spiraled out of Nathaniel's control. First, Bartimaeus had learned his birth name. He had remedied that all right with the tobacco tin, but the respite had not lasted long. Instead, disaster after disaster had struck in quick succession. Bartimaeus had been captured by the Government, Underwood had discovered his activities and his career had been ruined before it had begun. Now the demon refused to obey his orders and Love—lace himself was at the door. And all he could do was stand and watch, helpless to react. He was at the mercy of the events he had set in motion. Helpless…
A small noise sliced through his self—pity and jolted him upright. It was the gentle humming made by Mrs. Underwood as she padded along the hall from the kitchen toward the dining room. She was bringing tea: Nathaniel heard the clinking of the china on the tray she carried. A knock upon the door followed; more clinking as she entered, then silence.
In that moment, Nathaniel quite forgot his own predicament. Mrs. Underwood was in danger. The enemy was in the house. In a few moments, he would doubtless force or persuade Underwood to open his study for inspection. The Amulet would be found. And then… what might Lovelace do—to Mr. Underwood or his wife?
Bartimaeus had told him to wait upstairs and be ready for the worst. But Nathaniel had had enough of helpless loitering. He was not done yet. The situation was desperate, but he could still act. The magicians were in the dining room. Underwood's study was empty. If he could slip inside and retrieve the Amulet, perhaps he could hide it somewhere, whatever Bartimaeus might say.
Quietly, quickly, he stole downstairs to the landing below, to the level of his master's study and workrooms. The muffled voices from the ground floor were raised now: he thought he could hear Underwood shouting. Time was short. Nathaniel hastened through the rooms to the door leading to the study stairs. Here he paused. He had not gone that way since he was six years old. Distant memories assailed him and made him shiver, but he shrugged them off. He passed onward, down the steps…
79
So Faquarl had been right A small army of horlas and utukku had been unable to stop Jabor. This didn't bode too well.