Throughout this flight, he had been replaying Underwood's face of terror, seeing a jackal head rising from the flames. Unreal also. Dreams within a dream.
He had no memory of the pursuit, though at times it had been close and pressing. The hum of a search sphere, a strange chemical scent carried on the wind: that was all he knew of it, until, shortly before dawn, they had stumbled down into an area of narrow, redbrick houses and back alleys, and found the boarded—up building.
Here, for the moment, he was safe. He had time to think, work out what to do…
But Mrs. Underwood was—
"Cold, isn't it?" said a voice.
Nathaniel turned away from the window. A little way off across the ruined room, the boy that was not a boy was watching him with shiny eyes. It had given itself the semblance of thick winter gear—a down jacket, new blue jeans, strong brown boots, a woolly hat. It looked very warm.
"You're shivering," said the boy. "But then you're hardly dressed for a winter's expedition. What have you got under that jersey? Just a shirt, I expect. And look at those flimsy shoes. They must be soaked right through."
Nathaniel hardly heard him. His mind was far away.
"This isn't the place to be half naked," the boy went on. "Look at it! Cracks in the walls, a hole in the ceiling… We're open to the elements here. Brrrrrr! Chilly."
They were on the upper floor of what had evidently been a public building. The room was cavernous, bare and empty, with whitewashed walls stained yellow and green with mold. All along each wall stretched row upon row of empty shelves, covered in dust, dirt, and bird droppings. Disconsolate piles of wood that might once have been tables or chairs were tucked into a couple of corners. Tall windows looked out over the street and wide marbled steps led downstairs. The place smelled of damp and decay.
"Do you want me to help you with the cold?" the boy said, looking sideways at him. "You have only to ask."
Nathaniel did not respond. His breath frosted in front of his face.
The djinni came a bit closer. "I could make a fire," it said. "A nice hot one. I've got plenty of control over that element. Look!" A tiny flame flickered in the center of its palm. "All this wood in here, going to waste… What was this place, do you think? A library? I think so. Don't suppose the commoners are allowed to read much anymore, are they? That's usually the way it goes." The flame grew a little. "You have only to ask, O my master. I'd do it as a favor. That's what friends are for."
Nathaniel's teeth were chattering in his head. More than anything else—more even than the hunger that was gnawing in his belly like a dog—he needed warmth. The little flame danced and spun.
"Yes," he said huskily. "Make me a fire."
The flame instantly died out. The boy's brow furrowed. "Now that wasn't very polite."
Nathaniel closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Please."
"Much better." A small spark leaped and ignited a pile of wood nearby. Nathaniel shuffled over and huddled beside it, his hands inches from the flames.
For a few minutes the djinni remained silent, pacing here and there about the room. The feeling slowly returned to Nathaniel's fingers, though his face stayed numb. At length he became aware that the djinni had come close again, and was sitting on its haunches, idly stirring a long sliver of wood in the fire.
"How does that feel?" it asked. "Melting nicely, I hope." It waited politely for an answer, but Nathaniel said nothing. "I'll tell you one thing," the djinni went on, in a conversational tone, "you're an interesting specimen. I've known a fair few magicians in my time, and there aren't many who are quite as suicidal as you. Most would think that popping in to tell a powerful enemy you'd pinched his treasure wasn't a terribly bright idea. Especially when you're utterly defenseless. But you? All in a day's work."
"I had to," Nathaniel said shortly. He did not want to talk.
"Mmm. No doubt you had a brilliant plan, which I—and Lovelace, for that matter—completely missed. Mind telling me what it was?"
"Be silent!"
The djinni wrinkled its nose. "That was your plan? It's a simple one, I'll say that much. Still, don't forget it was my life you were risking too back there, acting out your strange convulsion of conscience." It reached into the fire suddenly and removed a burning ember, which it held musingly between finger and thumb. "I had another master like you once. He had the same mulish obstinacy, seldom acted in his own best interests. Didn't live long." It sighed, tossed the ember back into the flames. "Never mind—all's well that ends well."
Nathaniel looked at the djinni for the first time. "All's well?"
"You're alive. Does that count as good?"
For an instant, Nathaniel saw Mrs. Underwood's face watching him from the fire. He rubbed his eyes.
"I hate to say this," the djinni said, "but Lovelace was right. You were totally out of your depth last night. Magicians don't act the way you do. It was a good thing I was there to rescue you. So—where are you going now? Prague?"
"What?"
"Well, Lovelace knows you've escaped. He'll be looking out for you—and you've seen what he'll do to keep you quiet. Your only hope is to vanish from the scene and leave London for good. Abroad will be safest. Prague."
"Why should I go to Prague?"
"Magicians there might help you. Nice beer, too, I'm told."
Nathaniel's lip curled. "I'm no traitor."
The boy shrugged. "If that's no good, then you're left with getting a quiet new life here. There are plenty of possibilities. Let's see… looking at you, I'd say heavy lifting's out—you're too spindly. That rules out being a laborer."
Nathaniel frowned with indignation. "I have no intention—"
The djinni ignored him. "But you could turn your runtlike size to your advantage. Yes! A sweep's lad, that's the answer. They always need fresh urchins to climb the flues."
"Wait! I'm not—"
"Or you could become apprentice to a sewer rat. You get a bristle brush, a hook and a rubber plunger, then wriggle up the tightest tunnels looking for blockages."
"I won't—"
"There's a world of opportunities out there! And all of them better than being a dead magician."
"Shut up!" The effort of raising his voice made Nathaniel feel his head was about to split in two. "I don't need your suggestions!" He stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing with anger. The djinni's jibes had cut through his weariness and grief to ignite a pent—up fury that suddenly consumed him. It rose up from his guilt, his shock, and his mortal anguish and used them for its fuel. Lovelace had said that there was no such thing as honor, that every magician acted only for himself. Very well. Nathaniel would take him at his word. He would not make such a mistake again.
But Lovelace had made an error of his own. He had underestimated his enemy. He had called Nathaniel weak, then tried to kill him. And Nathaniel had survived.
"You want me to slink away?" he cried. "I cannot! Lovelace has murdered the only person who ever cared for me—" He halted: there was a catch in his voice, but still his eyes were dry.
"Underwood? You must be joking! He loathed you! He was a man of sense!"