Of Auras and Oracles
Prologue: The Chase
By Conception.Creation
Disclaimer: The Bartimaeus Trilogy is property of Jonathan Stroud
Harold Button's heart pounded thunderously in his ears. Hot sweat ran down his forehead, plastering wispy strands of white hair to his skin. His breaths came in painful wheezes as his lungs strained to sustain his lurching gait over the steaming asphalt. His wooden leg made a muffled thump each time it hit the ground. Far overhead the Egyptian sun sizzled, sucking the life from every living thing foolish enough to be out at high noon in the streets of Marsa Matruh. Mr. Button's vision spun and stretched as the heat and exertion sent him reeling.
He did not dare slow down.
From behind him he heard the steady footfalls of his pursuers. His stomach plunged as he realized that the noon sun had not slackened their pace in the least. He stumbled across a busy roadway, heedless of the screeching tires and colorful curses of local drivers who were stunned by the sight of the tiny British magician flailing through the busy traffic, his tie flapping behind him. Mr. Button dashed on, leaning heavily on his cane. He swooped around a corner, skinny arms swinging, and smacked into a local boy carrying a load of vegetables home from the market. Mr. Button murmured a hasty apology to the boy, who was already on the trail of the onions rolling down the pavement. Then he was off again, bouncing down the street. His glasses slipped down his nose as he ran blindly. Sweat poured down his brow and stung his eyes. His lungs burned, yet he continued without any regard to his aching body. His muscles twitched and quivered, threatening to give out.
Up ahead, between two plain-faced apartment buildings was a narrow alleyway. In a last act of desperation, Mr. Button squeezed out his remaining strength and staggered inside. Finally out of sight, he let his screaming body collapse into the dust like melted jell-o. His limbs felt like leaden weights. He was unable to even lift an arm to wipe the sweat from his face. Gradually, his gasping breaths slowed. In the silence that ensued he could hear the distant approach of his enemies.
He had to keep moving. He dragged himself to his feet. His muscles protested against every moment. His feet shuffled across the pathway, raising clouds of dust. He could manage no more then a miserable slog.
His weary ears barely managed to register the clattering sound that rose from overhead before a figure dropped from the balconies above, and landed with a light thump not three feet from where Mr. Button stood. Mr. Button's painful advance ground to a halt. The newcomer rose, towering over him. His seven-foot silhouette cut off the light at the end of the alleyway, yet he did not move, or even speak a word.
Mr. Button took a timid step back. He slowly turned himself around towards the entrance to the alley. It was as he feared. His pursuers had arrived. The narrow space was slowly filling with people, about thirty or forty altogether. They were plainly dressed. They could have been anyone on the street. Yet they moved in perfect silence. The only sound was the soft patter of their feet as they tread towards him. Every dark gaze fixated on his face.
Harold Button backed up instinctively. He collided with the tree trunk like chest of the enormous man blocking the path behind him and instantly froze, overcome with terror. He finally realized the truth. He had been caught.
The white-clothed people were close now. They had stopped their advance and were standing, waiting. The hairs on the back of Harold Button's neck prickled. In his time as a magician in the British government he had seen his share of disturbing sights, but nothing compared to the eerie expectant silence of this mass of people before him. Demons, after all, were rarely silent.
There was a shuffling in their ranks. The sea of people parted to admit a single man. He was a foreigner, and at least sixty years old. He was dressed in a shabby brown suit and scuffed dress shoes. In his wiry arms he carried a small calico cat, which purred as he stroked it thoughtfully. He looked, strangely enough, as though he could have been someone's grandfather. The old man smiled politely.
"Good afternoon." He said, extending his free hand in greeting. Mr. Button's arms remained glued to his sides. He was probably too fatigued to have moved them, had he even had wanted to.
"Who are you?" Mr. Button's voice quivered with fear and exhaustion.
The old man's grin extended, but his eyes were ice cold. "That, Mr. Button, is a question you will have ample time to answer for yourself in these next coming days."
Mr. Button watched helplessly as the old man's frosty eyes turned towards the huge man, who still stood unmoving and silent, blocking the exit.
"If you will, Samir," He said, gesturing absently with one hand.
Without blinking, the large man, Samir, raised a beefy fist, and brought it crashing down on the back of Mr. Button's poor balding head.