The two youths stared at him blankly. "Sorry," Stanley said. "It's not that sort of meeting—and not that sort of someone, neither. What've you got to do that's so important, anyway?"
"I've got to, um, meet my friend." He cursed silently. Mistake.
Fred shifted; his jacket squeaked. "You just said you didn't know where he was."
"Er, yes—I need to find him."
Stanley looked at his watch. "Sorry, John. It's now or never. Your friend can wait. I thought you wanted to sell this thing."
"I do, but not tonight. I'm really interested in what you suggest. I just can't do it now. Listen—I'll meet you here tomorrow. Same time, same place." He was growing desperate now, speaking too fast. He could sense their mounting suspicion and disbelief; all that mattered was getting away from them as fast as possible.
"No can do." The paperboy adjusted his cap squarely on his head. "I don't think we're going to get any joy here, Fred. What say we head off?"
Fred nodded. With disbelief, Nathaniel saw him stow the scrying glass inside his jacket pocket. He let out a shout of rage. "Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"
"You missed your chance, John—if that is your name. Beat it." Stanley reached down for the poles of his handcart. Fred gave Nathaniel a push that sent him sprawling back against the wet stones of the wall.
At this, Nathaniel felt all restraint dissolve; with a strangled cry, he fell upon Fred, pummelling him with his fists and kicking out wildly in all directions.
"Give—me—back—my—disc!"
The toe cap of one boot connected hard with Fred's shin, eliciting a bellow of pain. Fred's fist swung up and caught Nathaniel on the cheek; the next thing he knew he was lying in the muck of the alley floor, head spinning, watching Fred and Stanley disappear hurriedly along the alley with their carts bouncing and leaping behind them.
Fury overwhelmed his dizziness, it took control of his sense of caution. He struggled to his feet and set off unsteadily in pursuit.
He could not go fast. Night hung heavy in the alley; its walls were curtains of gray scarcely lighter than the inky nothingness out in front. Nathaniel felt his way step by fevered step, one hand brushing the bricks on his right, listening hard for the telltale squeaking and scraping of the handcarts up ahead. It seemed that Fred and Stanley had been forced to slow down too—the sounds of their progress never quite faded; he was able to guess their route at every junction.
Once again, his helplessness infuriated him. Curse the djinni! It was never there when he needed it! If he ever caught the thieves, they'd suffer such—Now where? He paused beside a tall, barred window, caked with grime. Distantly he made out the noise of handcart wheels banging hard on stone. The left fork. He set off down it.
A little later he became aware that the sound up ahead had changed. Muttered voices replaced the noise of movement. He went more cautiously now, pressing himself close to the wall, placing each footfall carefully to avoid splashing in the wet.
The alley drew to an end at a narrow, cobbled lane, fringed with mean little workshops, all derelict and boarded up. Shadows choked the doorways like cobwebs. A faint smell of sawdust hung in the air.
He saw the handcarts sitting in the middle of the lane. The pole with Stanley's light had been removed from its cart and could now be seen glowing faintly in a sheltered doorway. Within its wan halo, three figures talked quietly: Fred, Stanley and someone else—a slight figure, wearing black. Nathaniel could not make out his face.
Nathaniel hardly breathed; he strained to hear their words. No good. He was too far away. He could not fight them now, but any scrap of information might be useful in the future. It was worth risking. He edged a little nearer.
Still no luck. He could tell only that Fred and Stanley were largely silent, that the other figure was holding court. He had a high voice, young and sharp.
A little closer…
On the next step his boot knocked against an empty wine bottle that had been placed against the wall. It teetered, clinked faintly against the bricks, righted itself. It didn't fall. But the clink was enough. The light in the doorway jerked; three faces turned toward him: Stanley's, Fred's and—
In the instant Nathaniel was allowed, he only caught a glimpse, but it imprinted itself indelibly upon his mind. A girl's face, pale and young, with straight, dark hair whipping around. Her eyes were wide, startled but not scared, fierce too. He heard her cry a command, saw Fred lunge forward, glimpsed something pale and shiny shoot toward him out of the darkness. Nathaniel ducked frantically and cracked the side of his head against the brickwork of the building. Bile rose to his throat; he saw lights before his eyes. He collapsed in the puddle at the base of the wall.
Neither fully unconscious nor awake, he lay motionless, eyes closed, body relaxed, dimly aware of his surroundings. Pattering footsteps came close, a metal scraping sounded, leather squeaked. He sensed a presence near him, something light brushing his face.
"You missed him. He's out, but alive." A female voice.
"I can cut his throat for you, Kitty." Fred speaking.
The pause that followed might have been of any duration; Nathaniel could not tell. "No… He's only a stupid kid. Let's go."
Silence fell in the darkened alley. Long after his head stopped swimming, long after the water had soaked through his coat to chill his flesh, Nathaniel remained quite still. He dared not move.
34
Bartimaeus
I had been back for almost five hours when a weary scuffling sounded at the loose plank and my sad, bedraggled and extremely smelly master tumbled back into the library. Leaving a trail of what I hoped was mud in his wake, he limped his way like some giant land snail up the stairs to the first—floor room, where he promptly collapsed against a wall. Out of a spirit of scientific curiosity, I lit a small Flame and inspected him closely. It's a good job I've had experience dealing with stygian implets and the like, because he wasn't a pretty sight. He seemed to have been taken bodily and rolled through a particularly pungent mire or stable yard, before being stirred head first into a vat of dirt and grass—cuttings. His hair stuck up like a porcupine's rump. His jeans were torn and bloodied at the knee. He had a large bruise on his cheek and a nasty cut above one ear. Best of all, though, his eyes were furious.
"Had a good evening, sir?" I said.
"A fire," he snarled. "Make me a fire. I'm freezing."
This haughty master mode sounded a little out of place coming from something a jackal would have spurned, but I didn't object. I was finding it all too amusing. So I gathered sundry bits of wood, got a reviving fire going, then settled down (in Ptolemy's form) as close as I could stomach.
"Well," I said cheerily, "this makes a pleasant change. Usually it's the djinni who comes in worn out and covered in muck. I approve of such innovations. What made you leave the library? Did Lovelace's forces find you? Did Jabor break in?"
He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. "I went to get a newspaper."
This was getting better and better! I shook my head regretfully. "You should leave such a dangerous assignment to people better qualified: next time ask an old granny, or a toddler—"
"Shut up!" His eyes blazed. "It was that paperboy! And his friend Fred! Two commoners! They lured me away from here and stole my disc—the one I made. I followed them and they tried to kill me; would have done it too, if it wasn't for the girl—"