though.
"Mr. Gladstone's compliments to the Emperor," the young man said. "He requests the pleasure of his company. The rest of you rabble can make yourselves scarce."
That sounded reasonable. I looked at my master beseechingly, but he furiously motioned me forward. I sighed, took a reluctant step toward the afrit.
The young man tsked loudly. "Oh, hop it, small-timer. You haven't a chance."
His derision stoked my fury. I pulled myself up. "Beware," I said coldly. "You underestimate me at your peril."
The afrit batted his eyelashes with an ostentatious lack of concern. "Indeed? Have you a name?"
"A name?" I cried. "I have many names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes!"
I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. "Nope. Never heard of you. Now if you'll just—"
"I have spoken with Solomon—"
"Oh, please!" The afrit made a dismissive gesture. "Haven't we all? Let's face it, he got around."
"I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak, and Prague—"
The young man smirked. "Prague? What, these ones here? The ones it took Gladstone five minutes to break down? Sure you didn't work on Jericho, too?"
"Yes, he did," Queezle put in. "One of his first jobs. He keeps quiet about it, but—"
"Look, Queezle—"
The afrit fingered his scythe. "Last chance, djinni," he said. "Vamoose. You can't win this one."
I shrugged in a resigned sort of way. "We'll see."
And so, sad to say, we did. Very quickly, too. My first four Detonations were deflected by the twirling scythe. The fifth, which I'd made a real humdinger, rebounded directly at me, sending me crashing off the path and down the hill in a shower of essence. I tried to rise, but fell back in pain. My wound was too great; I could not recover in time.
Up on the path, the imps were pouring onto the courtiers. I saw Queezle and a burly djinni spin past, hands at each other's throats.
With insulting nonchalance, the afrit ambled down the slope toward me. He winked and raised the silver scythe.
And at that moment, my master acted.
He'd not been a particularly good one, all told—he'd been too fond of the Stipples for starters—but from my point of view his last deed was the best thing he ever did.
The imps were all around him, vaulting over his head, ducking between his legs, reaching for the Emperor. He gave a cry of fury and from a pocket in his jacket produced a Detonation stick, one of the new ones made by the alchemists of Golden Lane in response to the British threat. They were shoddy, mass-produced rubbish, inclined to explode too fast, or often not at all. Either way, it was best, when using them, to throw them speedily in the general direction of the enemy. But my master was a typical magician. He wasn't used to personal combat. He gabbled the Word of Command all right, but then proceeded to hesitate, holding the stick above his head and feinting at the imps, as if undecided which one to choose.
He hesitated a fraction too long.
The explosion tore half the stairs away. Imps, Emperor, and courtiers were blown into the air like dandelion seeds. My master himself vanished utterly, as if he had never been.
And with his death, the bonds that tethered me withered into nothing.
The afrit brought the scythe blade down, exactly where my head had lain. It drove uselessly into the ground.
Thus, after several hundred years and a dozen masters, my ties to Prague were broken. But as my grateful essence fled in all directions, and I looked down upon the burning city and the marching troops, on the wailing children and the whoop ing imps, on the death throes of one empire and the bloody baptism of the next, I must say I didn't feel particularly triumphant. I had a feeling it was all going to get a whole lot worse.
Part One
1
Nathaniel
London: a great and prosperous capital, two thousand years old, which in the hands of the magicians aspired to be the center of