Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(47)

‘Would you like a beer, sir?’ I asked.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Call me Thomas, please.’

Which was just not going to happen. I handed him a bottle and indicated the chaise longue. He sat carefully and upright at one end. I sat at the other end while Beverley flopped into the middle of the sofa, Lesley sat slightly to attention and poor Molly bobbed a couple of times before perching right on the edge. She kept her eyes resolutely downcast.

‘That’s a very large television,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s a plasma TV,’ I said. Nightingale nodded sagely while out of his sight Beverley rolled her eyes.

‘Is there something wrong with the sound?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I have it on mute.’ I found the remote and we got ten seconds of Beat the Rest before I got the volume under control.

‘That’s very clear,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s like having your own cinema.’

We sat in silence for a moment, everyone, no doubt, appreciating the theatre-quality surround sound.

I offered Nightingale a slice of pizza, but he explained that he’d already eaten. He asked after Beverley’s mother, and was told she was fine. He finished his beer and stood up.

‘I really must be on my way,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the beer.’

We all stood up and I walked him to the door. When he left I heard Lesley sigh and flop back on the sofa. I almost shouted when Molly suddenly slid past me in a rustle of fabric and slipped out the door.

‘Awkward,’ said Beverley.

‘You don’t think she and Nightingale … ?’ asked Lesley.

‘Ew,’ said Beverley. ‘That’s just wrong.’

‘I thought you and her were friends?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, but she’s like a creature of the night,’ said Beverley. ‘And he’s old.’

‘He’s not that old,’ said Lesley.

‘Yes he is,’ said Beverley, but however many hints I dropped that evening, she wouldn’t say any more.





The Puppet Fayre


It began when I started a practice session without taking my phone out of my jacket pocket. I even noticed a little flare in intensity when I formed the werelight, but I’d only been reliably casting for two days so it didn’t register as significant. It was only later, when I tried to call Lesley and found my phone was busted that I opened up the case and saw the same trickle of sand I’d noticed at the vampire house. I took it down to the lab and prised out the microprocessor. As it came loose, the same fine sand streamed out of its plastic casing. The gold pins were intact, as were the contacts, but the silicon bit of the chip had disintegrated. The cupboards in the lab were full of the scent of sandalwood and the most amazing range of antique equipment, including the Charles Perry microscope, all put away with such precision and tidiness that I knew no student had been involved. Under the microscope I found the powder to be mostly silicon with a few impurities which I suspected was germanium or gallium arsenide. The chip that handled RF conversion was superficially intact but had suffered microscopic pitting across its entire surface. The patterns reminded me of Mr Coopertown’s brain. This was my phone on magic, I thought. Obviously I couldn’t do magic and carry a mobile phone, or stand near a computer or an iPod or most of the useful technology invented since I was born. No wonder Nightingale drove a 1967 Jag. The question was how close did the magic have to be? I was formulating some experiments to find out, when Nightingale distracted me with my next form.

We sat down on opposite sides of the lab bench and Nightingale placed an object between us. It was a small apple. ‘Impello,’ he said, and the apple rose into the air. It hung there, rotating slowly, while I checked for wires, rods and anything else I could think of. I poked it with my finger, but it felt like it was embedded in something solid.

‘Seen enough?’

I nodded, and Nightingale brought out a basket of apples – a wicker basket with a handle and a check napkin, no less. He placed a second apple in front of me, and I didn’t need him to explain the next step. He levitated the apple, I listened for the forma, concentrated on my own apple and said, ‘Impello.’

I wasn’t really that surprised when nothing happened.

‘It does get easier,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s just that it gets easier slowly.’

I looked at the basket. ‘Why do we have so many apples?’

‘They have a tendency to explode,’ said Nightingale.


The next morning I went out and bought three sets of eye protectors and a heavy-duty lab apron. Nightingale hadn’t been kidding about the exploding fruit, and I’d spent the afternoon smelling of apple juice and the evening picking pips out of my clothing. I asked Nightingale why we didn’t train with something more durable like ball bearings, but he said that magic required the mastery of fine control right from the start.

‘Young men are always tempted to use brute force,’ Nightingale had said. ‘It’s like learning to shoot a rifle: because it’s inherently dangerous you teach safety, accuracy and speed – in that order.’

We went through a lot of apples in that first session. I was getting them in the air but sooner or later – splat! There was a brief phase when it was fun and then it got boring. After a week of practice, I could levitate an apple without it exploding nine times out of ten. I wasn’t a happy little wizard, though.