Finally, an update. I wrote two chapters to another fic (12000 words, by the way) before I wrote Chapter 4 of this, which turned out great. But anyway...
I'm going to be posting stuff on my livejournal, which is under the homepage link on my Author Profile, about my fics, such as sneak peeks and stuff. I'm planning on posting a preview of chapter four today, too, so check it out!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Bartiamaeus Trilogy or any characters in it, just my characters and the plot of this.
Chapter Three
Surrounded by Fools
"Keep your friends close– hold your enemies closer." -Arabian Proverb
Nathaniel tapped his pencil against his desk thoughtfully. If they could find the murderer, they would most likely be able to extract quite a lot of information about the Resistance from him. Of course, if he was anything like that Kitty girl, he'd be prideful and hard-headed. But even the most idiotic of people could be broken with a little patience and perseverance.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Nathaniel looked up. It was Ffoukes.
"Yes, George, I did," Nathaniel said, sitting up in his chair. He held up a file folder. "In here is the address and other miscellaneous information about the store, Grimons'. I want you and someone of your choice to go to this store, and to get information concerning the employees. Get a full list of all of them and interview whoever is currently there, and find out who is missing."
Ffoukes nodded.
"Yes, sir," he replied, heading out of the room. Nathaniel didn't notice his brief smile as he walked through the oak doorway.
-
"Hey, John?" Nathaniel looked up.
"Yes, Morris?" he replied. Morris looked around the office uncomfortably.
"Is it alright if I sit down?" he asked. Nathaniel shrugged.
"Sure, why not," he said, motioning to the fine mahogany chair seated in front of his desk. Morris smiled gratefully and pulled the chair out, falling into it as gently as he could. "Anyway, what's the matter?"
Morris shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
"Well, I was kind of wondering if I could become a more prominent figure in the whole investigation thing." Nathaniel looked at him blankly. "You know, like maybe become a, er, well, you know."
"What?" Nathaniel asked simply. Morris sighed.
"I was wondering if I could become a CSI," he said. Nathaniel's blank expression remained plastered on his face. "You know, CSI: a crime scene investigator. It's an acronym, I think-"
"I know what a CSI is, thank you, Morris," interrupted Nathaniel tiredly. He glanced at the paperwork on his desk and shuffled it nervously. "Have you talked to Atkins?"
"Yep," Morris replied brightly. "I turned in the application two weeks ago."
"Oh, really?" Morris's face fell.
"I just wanted to make sure I'd gotten accepted first," he explained. Nathaniel's eyes widened.
"You got accepted?" he said, shocked. Morris frowned.
"Of course, why wouldn't I?" Nathaniel smiled bleakly.
"Well, first of all, you're our main lab technician," he stated. Morris held up his hand.
"Not any more, I found a new one. Well, it wasn't me so much as Atkins had a niece who had just graduated from Oxford with a Ph.D. or something of the sort. And, according to Atkins, she's pretty good at this whole 'identify the crap investigators bring in' business."
Nathaniel looked at the clock anxiously.
"Not to be rude or anything, but exactly why are you telling me this?" he inquired hastily. Morris bit his lip.
"Well, it's standard procedure, really," he replied. "A CSI must be trained byeither another CSI or his supervisor, and, by golly, you fit both those requirements, Johnny. And then the CSI-in-training is brought before the board where his trainer gives a full report to those fat oldies who run this place and they interview the CSI hopeful. And that's it, I think."
"First of all, don't call me Johnny," Nathaniel said briskly.
"Point taken."
"Second of all, don't call the heads of the Security and Police departments 'fat oldies.' It upsets them, you see."
"Ah. Good point," remarked Morris.
"And finally," continued Nathaniel, "what makes you think I am going to train you as a CSI, particularly at such an inopportune time?"
Morris shrugged.
"Oh, you know, it's just government policy," he said, waving his hand breezily. He looked at Nathaniel imposingly. "And Atkins would grab the first chance he could get to go to Devereaux saying you'd broken some long-standing and prestigious law. And then the whole department would grab the chance to insult and degrade you until Devereaux fires you. But besides that, it's no big deal. Do whatever the hell you want, I say."
Nathaniel sighed and nodded.
"Ah. Point taken." Morris brightened up considerably.
"So, when can you take me out into the field?"
Nathaniel was about to respond when a clerk stuck her head into the room.
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Ms. Norice is back with her report on Grimons'." Nathaniel smirked.
"Oh, so George chose Bella, eh?" he laughed. "I always did think he fancied her. Wait; where is that idiot Ffoukes?" The clerk shrugged.
"Ask Ms. Norice," she suggested, peeking back out of the room. "She's waiting at the front desk."
Nathaniel stood up, buttoning his collar, and nodded to the clerical worker.
"Thank you, I'll be right out." He glanced back to Morris. "You, come. Hurry, now, we don't want to keep anyone waiting, do we?" Morris raised an eyebrow.
"Why am I coming?" he asked, bemused. Nathaniel resisted the urge to kick him in annoyance.
"Well, if you want to see what a field agent and Internal Affairs Minister- youngest ever, may I add- does, then you'd better shadow one, as they like to call it," he said sensibly. Morris nodded, acting impressed.
"Wow, I think you went a little too fast for me there, Johnny." Nathaniel resisted that very same urge once again, this time accompanied by the want to strangle the scientist.
"Do not call me Johnny!" he hissed through gritted teeth, walking out of the door. Morris shrugged as he followed behind him.
"Fine, it's your loss," he said apathetically. He ducked as an imp went flying over his head. "I mean, the name John is so tight, so strict. Johnny, on the other hand, is loose and cool, laid back. Just think about it. If you went up to someone random on the street and said, 'Hey, I'm John,' they'd think, 'Wow, I could stick a lump of coal in this guy's arse and have a diamond in a week.' But on the other hand, if you went up to someone and said, 'Hey, what's up, I'm Johnny,' they'd think 'Man, this guy is cool. Really, his name's Johnny. This guy is probably the coolest guy in the whole damn government.' It's just common sense, Johnny- I mean, John."
Nathaniel shook his head regretfully.
"Why did I ever hire you?" he thought bitterly out loud. Morris shrugged.
"I don't know, why did you hire me?" Nathaniel felt his hand slip to grab the nearest pen and stab Morris with it, but he stopped himself in time. A murder would not look good on his résumé at all.
"Hello, Mr. Mandrake," said a woman in a green Italian suit politely. Nathaniel nodded back in response.
"Hello, Ms. Norice," he greeted neutrally. He glanced around the room. "Ffoukes is not here, I see. Where exactly is my assistant?"
Norice shook her head.
"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Mandrake. I do not have a clue where he went." Nathaniel breathed deeply. He would kill Ffoukes as soon as he killed Morris. He would drown them both in the Thames, or, better yet, push them under a moving train. No, he wanted them to suffer. Maybe he'd cut off their fingers and choke them with them…
Ugh, what morbid thoughts.
Anyway, those murders could wait until this case was resolved.
"No worries. Could you please explain the details of your visit to Grimons'?" Norice nodded obediently.
"Well, we went straight to the store, like you told us to," she recalled, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Then, we asked the manager, Griffith, if I remember correctly, for a list of the employees. He gave it to us and we looked it over quickly and I put it in my pocket. Then, we went and interviewed the employees that had shown up for work that day in the back. Pretty boring folks, if I may say so myself, sir. Just commoners. Anyway, a lot of them didn't like this Dylan fellow, which we thought was pretty interesting."
"I don't pay you to be interested," Nathaniel said bluntly. She winced.
"I know, sir. As I was saying, a lot of the employees didn't like this Dylan. He was a bit too loud for their tastes and a bit too radical in his distaste towards magicians."
"Oh, really?" Nathaniel asked, intrigued.
"Really, sir. So then, after we're done interviewing them, we ask the manager for the name of the employees who hadn't shown up for work, and, wouldn't you know it, we got one name. Any guesses?"
"Simon Lovelace?" Morris suggested. Norice rolled her eyes.
"Yes, Simon Lovelace," she said sarcastically. "Of course it wasn't Simon Lovelace, you dolt. They gave us the name of one Dylan Haliben, a sprightly young lad who was an assistant carver. It seems young Dylan had a very public hatred of magicians, and he often left work mysteriously, citing visits to obscure relatives."
Nathaniel stroked his chin thoughtfully in what he hoped was a dignified manner.
"It seems that this Dylan was not only our killer, from the looks of it, he was also a member of the Resistance," he stated. "That would explain how he killed the imp, too. It was just as I had theorized. He has a magical resilience, much like some of the members of the first Resistance."
"Just wondering, sir, how do we know this second Resistance has resilience?" Norice asked. Nathaniel shook his head.
"You underestimate me, Ms. Norice," he chuckled. "I have seen some of them in action, under their appropriate disguises, of course. Never could quite catch them because of some mishap or a foolish young magician. And word also spread around the town of the Resistance, as much as we tried to stop it."
Norice nodded.
"Of course, sir."
"Anyway, it seems that we shall have to find this-"
"Sir?" Nathaniel sighed irritably, turning to the same clerk that had interrupted his previous discussion with Morris.
"Yes, what is it?" he snapped. The clerk flinched slightly.
"Well, sir, it seems that one Dylan Haliben's body was found floating down the Thames around fifteen minutes, sir." Nathaniel scowled angrily.
"What the hell?" he growled. The clerk shrugged.
"I don't know, sir." He sighed, looking to Morris, who was playing interestedly with a bouncy ball he had found on the floor. His co-workers were idiots.
"That was rhetorical," he said, patting the clerk's shoulder and rubbing his face with his hand. "Any information on the crime?" She shook her head.
"Not at the moment, sir," she replied. His eye twitched angrily.
"Back to the office, then," he said, turning to Morris. Morris didn't appear to hear him, enamored with his ball. Nathaniel swiped it from the air and tossed it into the trash bin.
"Hey, what was that for?"
"Back to the office!" Nathaniel repeated, heading back towards his working area. "We need to re-think our plan of attack."
Morris made no reply, still fuming over the loss of his bouncy ball.
Nathaniel was about to say something else when an elegant, feminine form blocked his way.
"Hello, John."
"Hello, Jane," he said coolly, not letting any emotion show. Ever since the Duvall incident, he had been intensely alert around the werewolf's former apprentice. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, nothing," she said, smiling slightly. Her eyes gleamed. "I just heard about the tragedy that occurred in your investigation. What a shame."
He smiled back forcibly.
"Yes, it is, but we'll get them yet," he replied. She nodded and smirked thinly.
"I've been wanting to ask you something for quite a while, John," she said dramatically, her voice becoming louder. "Why don't you have a servant? I mean, Whitwell does, I do; all great magicians are supposed to have one, no? Let me tell you, having little Ethel here is quite handy. Hard to think he's five thousand years old!"
Nathaniel's eyes slipped to the young chick resting on Farrar's shoulder.
"Funny, he doesn't look a day over one," he stated. The chick hissed.
He glanced back to Morris and then to his watch in a rather bored manner.
"And besides, must I remind you that the truly great magicians had multiple servants instead of just one?" he rebuked icily. Farrar's eyes narrowed angrily. "Gladstone and Solomon certainly didn't just have one servant."
"Maybe so," she said irritably. He sighed.
"Anyway, I must be off-"
"Sir!"
He swiveled on his heel.
"Ffoukes!" he cried angrily. He strode up towards his assistant angrily. "Where were you?"
Ffoukes grinned.
"I took care of a little problem, so to speak," he whispered. Nathaniel's eyes widened fearfully.
"That was you?" Ffoukes ecstatic look didn't lessen.
"The one and only," he replied happily. Nathaniel groaned.
"You idiot!" he seethed, making sure no one could hear him. "Why would you do such a thing?"
Ffoukes's triumphant expression dimmed a bit.
"Er, I thought we might as well get rid of him." Nathaniel restrained himself from killing his assistant. Right after he killed Morris, of course.
"We could've gotten information out of him, you fool!" he growled. Ffoukes looked as though this concept had just dawned on him. Nathaniel sighed. The shock of his assistant murdering their biggest connection to the Resistance was beginning to settle in. "No matter, we'll worry about it later. If you mind my asking, how exactly did you do it?"
Ffoukes's face lightened considerably.
"With my new slave, of course," he said, gesturing to a small African boy behind him. Nathaniel tried to control his shock at who he'd just seen. "May I introduce the honorable, the distinguished, the one and only-"
"Bartimaeus!"
-To Be Continued-
Author's Notes: Good little cliff-hanger at the end, eh? I really like this chapter, because not only does it have a few surprises, it has the reappearance of Farrar, a rather despicable character. Hooray!
Next Chapter: In Civil Disobedience, Bartimaeus and Nathaniel have a long, long talk, and Ffoukes get a-talkin'-to, also. Of course, all from Bartimaeus's point of view.