The Amulet of Samarkand

Nathaniel

Beyond the broken glass, the sky lightened. The persistent rain that had been falling since dawn drizzled to a halt. Nathaniel sneezed.

London was waking up. For the first time, traffic appeared on the road below: grimy red buses with snarling engines carrying the first commuters toward the center of the city; a few sporadic cars, honking their horns at anyone scurrying across their path; bicycles too, with riders hunched and laboring inside their heavy greatcoats.

Slowly, the shops opposite began to open. The owners emerged and with harsh rattling raised the metal night—grilles from their windows. Displays were adjusted: the butcher slapped down pink slabs of meat on his enamel shelving; the tobacconist hung a rack of magazines above his counter. Next door, the bakery's ovens had been hot for hours; warm air that smelled of loaves and sugared doughnuts drifted across the street and reached Nathaniel, shivering and hungry in the empty room.

A street market was starting up in a side road close by. Shouts rang out, some cheery, others hoarse and guttural. Boys tramped past, rolling metal casks or wheeling barrows piled high with vegetables. A police car cruised north along the road, slowing as it passed the market, then revving ostentatiously and speeding away.

The sun hung low over the rooftops, a pale egg—yellow disc clouded by haze.

On any other morning, Mrs. Underwood would have been busy cooking breakfast.

He could see her there in front of him: small, busy, resolutely cheerful, bustling round the kitchen clanging pans down on the cooker, chopping tomatoes, slinging toast into the toaster… Waiting for him to come down.

On any other morning that would have been so. But now the kitchen was gone. The house was gone. And Mrs. Underwood, Mrs. Underwood was—

He wanted to weep; his face was heavy with the desire for it. It was as if a floodtide of emotion lay dammed there, ready to pour forth. But his eyes remained dry. There was no release. He stared out over the gathering activity of the street below, seeing none of it, numb to the chill that bit into his bones. Whenever he closed his eyes, a flickering white shadow danced against the dark—the memory of flames.

Mrs. Underwood was—

Nathaniel took a deep, shuddering breath. He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and felt the touch of the bronze disc there, smooth against his fingers. It made him start and pull his hand away. His whole body shook with cold. His brain seemed frozen too.

His master—he had tried his best for him. But Mrs. Underwood—he should have warned her, got her out of the house before it happened. Instead of which, he…

He had to think. This was no time to… He had to think what to do, or he was lost.

For half the night, he had run like a madman through the gardens and back—streets of north London, eyes vacant, mouth agape. He remembered it only as a series of rushes in the dark, of scrambles over walls and dashes under street lamps, of whispered commands that he had automatically obeyed. He had a sensation of pressing up against cold brick walls, then squeezing through hedges, cut and bruised and soaked to the skin. Once, before the all—clear was given, he had hidden for what seemed like hours at the base of a compost heap, his face pressed against the moldering slime. It seemed no more real than a dream.

Throughout this flight, he had been replaying Underwood's face of terror, seeing a jackal head rising from the flames. Unreal also. Dreams within a dream.

He had no memory of the pursuit, though at times it had been close and pressing. The hum of a search sphere, a strange chemical scent carried on the wind: that was all he knew of it, until, shortly before dawn, they had stumbled down into an area of narrow, redbrick houses and back alleys, and found the boarded—up building.

Here, for the moment, he was safe. He had time to think, work out what to do…

But Mrs. Underwood was—

"Cold, isn't it?" said a voice.

Nathaniel turned away from the window. A little way off across the ruined room, the boy that was not a boy was watching him with shiny eyes. It had given itself the semblance of thick winter gear—a down jacket, new blue jeans, strong brown boots, a woolly hat. It looked very warm.

"You're shivering," said the boy. "But then you're hardly dressed for a winter's expedition. What have you got under that jersey? Just a shirt, I expect. And look at those flimsy shoes. They must be soaked right through."

Nathaniel hardly heard him. His mind was far away.

"This isn't the place to be half naked," the boy went on. "Look at it! Cracks in the walls, a hole in the ceiling… We're open to the elements here. Brrrrrr! Chilly."

They were on the upper floor of what had evidently been a public building. The room was cavernous, bare and empty, with whitewashed walls stained yellow and green with mold. All along each wall stretched row upon row of empty shelves, covered in dust, dirt, and bird droppings. Disconsolate piles of wood that might once have been tables or chairs were tucked into a couple of corners. Tall windows looked out over the street and wide marbled steps led downstairs. The place smelled of damp and decay.

"Do you want me to help you with the cold?" the boy said, looking sideways at him. "You have only to ask."

Nathaniel did not respond. His breath frosted in front of his face.

The djinni came a bit closer. "I could make a fire," it said. "A nice hot one. I've got plenty of control over that element. Look!" A tiny flame flickered in the center of its palm. "All this wood in here, going to waste… What was this place, do you think? A library? I think so. Don't suppose the commoners are allowed to read much anymore, are they? That's usually the way it goes." The flame grew a little. "You have only to ask, O my master. I'd do it as a favor. That's what friends are for."

Nathaniel's teeth were chattering in his head. More than anything else—more even than the hunger that was gnawing in his belly like a dog—he needed warmth. The little flame danced and spun.

"Yes," he said huskily. "Make me a fire."

The flame instantly died out. The boy's brow furrowed. "Now that wasn't very polite."

Nathaniel closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Please."

"Much better." A small spark leaped and ignited a pile of wood nearby. Nathaniel shuffled over and huddled beside it, his hands inches from the flames.

For a few minutes the djinni remained silent, pacing here and there about the room. The feeling slowly returned to Nathaniel's fingers, though his face stayed numb. At length he became aware that the djinni had come close again, and was sitting on its haunches, idly stirring a long sliver of wood in the fire.

"How does that feel?" it asked. "Melting nicely, I hope." It waited politely for an answer, but Nathaniel said nothing. "I'll tell you one thing," the djinni went on, in a conversational tone, "you're an interesting specimen. I've known a fair few magicians in my time, and there aren't many who are quite as suicidal as you. Most would think that popping in to tell a powerful enemy you'd pinched his treasure wasn't a terribly bright idea. Especially when you're utterly defenseless. But you? All in a day's work."

"I had to," Nathaniel said shortly. He did not want to talk.

"Mmm. No doubt you had a brilliant plan, which I—and Lovelace, for that matter—completely missed. Mind telling me what it was?"

"Be silent!"

The djinni wrinkled its nose. "That was your plan? It's a simple one, I'll say that much. Still, don't forget it was my life you were risking too back there, acting out your strange convulsion of conscience." It reached into the fire suddenly and removed a burning ember, which it held musingly between finger and thumb. "I had another master like you once. He had the same mulish obstinacy, seldom acted in his own best interests. Didn't live long." It sighed, tossed the ember back into the flames. "Never mind—all's well that ends well."

Nathaniel looked at the djinni for the first time. "All's well?"

"You're alive. Does that count as good?"

For an instant, Nathaniel saw Mrs. Underwood's face watching him from the fire. He rubbed his eyes.

"I hate to say this," the djinni said, "but Lovelace was right. You were totally out of your depth last night. Magicians don't act the way you do. It was a good thing I was there to rescue you. So—where are you going now? Prague?"

"What?"

"Well, Lovelace knows you've escaped. He'll be looking out for you—and you've seen what he'll do to keep you quiet. Your only hope is to vanish from the scene and leave London for good. Abroad will be safest. Prague."

"Why should I go to Prague?"

"Magicians there might help you. Nice beer, too, I'm told."

Nathaniel's lip curled. "I'm no traitor."

The boy shrugged. "If that's no good, then you're left with getting a quiet new life here. There are plenty of possibilities. Let's see… looking at you, I'd say heavy lifting's out—you're too spindly. That rules out being a laborer."

Nathaniel frowned with indignation. "I have no intention—"

The djinni ignored him. "But you could turn your runtlike size to your advantage. Yes! A sweep's lad, that's the answer. They always need fresh urchins to climb the flues."

"Wait! I'm not—"

"Or you could become apprentice to a sewer rat. You get a bristle brush, a hook and a rubber plunger, then wriggle up the tightest tunnels looking for blockages."

"I won't—"

"There's a world of opportunities out there! And all of them better than being a dead magician."

"Shut up!" The effort of raising his voice made Nathaniel feel his head was about to split in two. "I don't need your suggestions!" He stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing with anger. The djinni's jibes had cut through his weariness and grief to ignite a pent—up fury that suddenly consumed him. It rose up from his guilt, his shock, and his mortal anguish and used them for its fuel. Lovelace had said that there was no such thing as honor, that every magician acted only for himself. Very well. Nathaniel would take him at his word. He would not make such a mistake again.

But Lovelace had made an error of his own. He had underestimated his enemy. He had called Nathaniel weak, then tried to kill him. And Nathaniel had survived.

"You want me to slink away?" he cried. "I cannot! Lovelace has murdered the only person who ever cared for me—" He halted: there was a catch in his voice, but still his eyes were dry.

"Underwood? You must be joking! He loathed you! He was a man of sense!"

"His wife, I mean. I want justice for her. Vengeance for what he has done."

The effect of these ringing words was slightly spoiled by the djinni's blowing a loud raspberry. It rose, shaking its head sadly, as if weighed down by great wisdom. "It isn't justice you're after, boy. It's oblivion. Everything you had went up in flames last night. So now you've got nothing to lose. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own: you want to go out in a blaze of glory against Lovelace."

"No. I want justice."

The djinni laughed. "It'll be so easy, following your master and his wife into the darkness—so much easier than starting life afresh. Your pride is ruling your head, leading you to your death. Didn't last night teach you anything? You're no match for him, Nat. Give it up."

"Never."

"It's not even as if you're really a magician any more." It gestured at the crumbling walls. "Look around you. Where are we? This isn't some cushy townhouse, filled with books and papers. Where are the candles? Where's all the incense? Where's the comfort? Like it or not, Nathaniel, you've lost everything a magician needs. Wealth, security, self—respect, a master… Let's face it, you've got nothing."

"I have my scrying glass," Nathaniel said. "And I have you." Hurriedly, he sat himself back beside the fire. The cold of the room still pierced him through.

"Ah yes, I was coming to that." The djinni began clearing a space among the debris of the floor with the side of its boot. "When you've calmed down a bit, I shall bring you some chalk. Then you can draw me a circle here and set me free."

Nathaniel stared at him.

"I've completed my charge," the boy continued. "And more, much more. I spied on Lovelace for you. I found out about the Amulet. I saved your life."

Nathaniel's head felt oddly light and woozy, as if it were stuffed with cloth.

"Please! Don't rush to thank me!" the boy went on. "I'll only get embarrassed. All I want is to see you drawing that pentacle. That's all I need."

"No," Nathaniel said. "Not yet."

"Sorry?" the boy replied. "My hearing must be going, on account of that dramatic rescue I pulled off last night. I thought you just said no."

"I did. I'm not setting you free. Not yet."

A heavy silence fell. As Nathaniel watched, his little fire began to dwindle, as if it were being sucked down through the floor. It vanished altogether. With little cracking noises, ice began to crust onto the scraps of wood that a moment before had been burning nicely. Cold blistered his skin. His breath became harsh and painful.

He staggered upright. "Stop that!" he gasped. "Bring back the fire."

The djinni's eyes glittered. "It's for your own good," it said. "I've just realized how inconsiderate I was being. You don't want to see another fire—not after the one you caused last night. Your conscience would hurt you too much."

Flickering images rose before Nathaniel's eyes: flames erupting from the ruined kitchen. "I didn't start the fire," he whispered. "It wasn't my fault."

"No? You hid the Amulet. You framed Underwood."

"No! I didn't intend Lovelace to come. It was for security—"

The boy sneered. "Sure it was—your security."

"If Underwood had been any good he'd have survived! He'd have fought Love—lace off—raised the alarm!"

"You don't believe that. Let's face it, you killed them both."

Nathaniel's face twisted in fury. "I was going to expose Lovelace! I was going to trap him with the Amulet—show the authorities!"

"Who cares? You were too late. You failed."

"Thanks to you, demon! If you hadn't led them to the house none of this would have happened!" Nathaniel seized on this idea like a drowning man. "It's all your fault and I'm going to pay you back! Think you're ever going to be freed? Think again! You're staying permanently. It's Perpetual Confinement for you!"

"Is that so? In that case—" the counterfeit boy stepped forward and was suddenly very close—"I might as well kill you myself right now. What have I got to lose? I'll be in the tin either way, but I'll have the satisfaction of breaking your neck first." Its hand descended gently on Nathaniel's shoulder.

Nathaniel's skin crawled. He resisted the overpowering temptation to shy away and run, and instead stared back into the dark, blank eyes.

For a long moment, neither said anything.

At last Nathaniel licked his dry lips. "That won't be necessary," he said thickly. "I'll free you before the month is up."

The djinni pulled him closer. "Free me now!"

"No." Nathaniel swallowed. "We have work to do first."

"Work?" It frowned; its hand stroked his shoulder. "What work? What is there to do?"

Nathaniel forced himself to remain quite still. "My master and his wife are dead. I must avenge them. Lovelace must pay for what he did."

The whispering mouth was very near now, but Nathaniel could feel no breath against his face. "But I've told you. Lovelace is too powerful. You haven't a hope of besting him. Forget the matter, as I do. Release me and forget your troubles."

"I cannot."

"Why so?"

"I—I owe it to my master. He was a good man—"

"No, he wasn't. That's not the reason at all." The djinni whispered directly into his ear. "It isn't justice or honor that drives you now, boy, but guilt. You can't take the consequences of your actions. You seek to drown out what you've done to your master and his wife. Well, if that's the way you humans choose to suffer, so be it. But leave me out of the equation."

Nathaniel spoke with a firmness he did not feel. "Until your month is up you'll obey me if you ever want your freedom."

"Going after Lovelace practically amounts to suicide in any case—yours and mine." The boy smiled nastily. "That being so, I still don't see why I shouldn't kill you now…"

"There will be ways to expose him!" Nathaniel could not help himself; he was speaking far too fast. "We just need to think it through carefully. I'll make a bargain with you. Help me avenge myself on Lovelace and I'll set you free immediately afterward. Then there can be no doubt about our positions. It's in both our interests to succeed."

The djinni's eyes glittered. "As always, a laudably fair arrangement, dictated from a one—sided position of power. Very well. I have no choice. But if at any time you place either of us at undue risk, be warned—I shall get my revenge first."

"Agreed."

The boy stepped back and released Nathaniel's shoulder. Nathaniel retreated, eyes wide, breathing hard. Humming gently, the djinni wandered to the window, reigniting the fire casually as it passed. Nathaniel struggled to calm himself, to regain control. Another wave of misery washed through him, but he did not succumb. No time for that. He must appear strong in front of his slave.

"Well then, master," the djinni said. "Enlighten me. Tell me what we do."

Nathaniel kept his voice as level as he could. "First, I need food, and perhaps new clothes. Then we must pool our information on Lovelace and the Amulet. We also need to know what the authorities think about… about what happened last night."

"That last one's easy," Bartimaeus said, pointing out of the window. "Look out there."

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—"

"A girl? What girl?"

"But even so I smashed my head open and fell in a puddle, and then, when they'd gone, I couldn't find the way back and it was after curfew and the search spheres were out and I had to keep hiding as they passed. In the end, I found a stream under a bridge and lay there in the mud for ages while the lights patrolled up and down the road above. And then, when they'd gone, I still had to find my way back. It took me hours! And I hurt my knee."

Well, it wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but it was the best bedtime story I'd heard in a long time. It quite cheered me up.

"They're part of the Resistance," he went on, staring into the fire. "I'm sure of it. They're going to sell my disc—give it to the same people who attacked Parliament! Ahh!" He clenched his fists. "Why weren't you there to help me? I could have caught them—forced them to tell me about their leader."

"If you recall," I remarked, coldly, "I was off on a mission you gave me. Who was this girl you mentioned?"

"I don't know. I only saw her for a second. She was in charge of them. One day, though, I'll find her and make her pay!"

"I thought you said she stopped them from killing you?"

"She still took my disc! She's a thief and a traitor."

Whatever else the girl was, she sounded very familiar. A thought struck me. "How did they know you had the disc? Did you show it to them?"

"No. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"That's beside the point. Are you sure you didn't bring it out when you were fumbling for change?"

"No. The paperboy just knew, somehow. Like he was a djinni or an imp."

"Interesting…" It sounded exactly like the same bunch who jumped me the night I had the Amulet of Samarkand. My girl and her cronies hadn't needed to see the Amulet to know I had it on me, either. And they'd later found me hidden behind my Concealment spell. Useful abilities, which were evidently being put to good use. If they were part of this Resistance movement, it sounded like opposition to the magicians was more developed—and potentially formidable—than I'd thought. Times were moving on in London…

I didn't share these thoughts with the boy. He was the enemy, after all, and the last thing magicians need are any clever insights. "Leaving your misfortunes to one side for a moment," I said, "perhaps you wish to hear my report?"

He grunted. "You found Heddleham Hall?"

"I did—and if you choose I can get you there. Beside the Thames is a railway heading south, over the river and out of London. But first I should tell you about the defenses Lovelace has rigged up around his girlfriend's house. They are formidable. Airborne foliots patrol the surrounding countryside, while higher—ranking entities materialize at random on the ground. There are at least two protective domes over the estate itself, which also change position. I was unable to get beyond the boundary on my foray, and it will be even harder to succeed with a deadbeat like you in tow."

He didn't rise to the bait. He was too tired. "However," I continued, "I can feel in my essence that they are hiding something at the Hall. These defenses are in place two days too early, which involves a colossal expenditure of power. That implies mischief going on."

"How long will it take to get there?"

"We can reach the edge of the estate by nightfall—if we catch an early morning train. There's a long walk at the other end. But we'll need to get going now."

"Very well." He began to get up, squelching and oozing as he did so.

"Are you sure about this plan?" I said. "I could take you to the docks instead. There's bound to be vacancies for cabin boys there. It's a hard life, but a good one. Think of all that salty air."

There was no answer. He was on his way out. I gave a sigh, snuffed out the fire, and followed him.

The route I selected was a strip of wasteland that ran south and east between the factories and warehouses, following a narrow tributary of the Thames. Although the stream itself was meager, it meandered excessively across its mini flood plain, creating a maze of hummocks, marshes, and little pools that took us the rest of the night to negotiate. Our shoes sank into mud and water, sharp reeds spiked our legs and hands, and mosquitoes whined occasionally about our heads. The boy, by contrast, whined pretty much continually. After his adventures with the Resistance, he was in a very bad temper.

"It's worse for me than it is for you," I snapped, after a particularly petulant outburst. "I could have flown this in five minutes, but oh, no—I have to keep you company. Writhing about in mud and slime is your birthright, human, not mine."

"I can't see where I'm putting my feet," he said. "Create some light, can't you?"

"Yes, if you want to attract the attention of night—flying djinn. The streets are well watched—as you've already discovered—and don't forget Lovelace may still be seeking us too. The only reason I've chosen this way is because it's so dark and unpleasant."

He did not seem greatly comforted by this; nevertheless, his protests ceased.[85]

As we stumbled on, I considered our situation with my usual impeccable logic. It had been six days since the kid had summoned me. Six days of discomfort building up inside my essence. And no immediate end in sight.

The kid. Where did he rate in my list of all—time human lows? He wasn't the worst master I had endured,[86] but he presented some peculiar problems of his own. All sensible magicians, well versed in clever cruelty, know when the time is right to fight. They risk themselves (and their servants) comparatively rarely. But the kid hadn't a clue. He had been overwhelmed by a disaster brought about by his own meddling, and his reaction was to lunge back at his enemy like a wounded snake. Whatever his original grudge against Lovelace, his previous discretion had now been replaced by a desperation powered by grief. Simple things like self—preservation were disregarded in his pride and fury. He was going to his death. Which would have been fine, except he was taking me along for the ride.

I had no solution to this. I was bound to my master. All I could do was try to keep him alive.

By dawn, we had followed the waste strip down from north London almost to the Thames. Here the stream widened briefly before sluicing over a series of weirs into the main river. It was time to rejoin the roads. We climbed a bank to a wire fence (in which I burned a discreet hole), stepped through it and came out on a cobbled street. The political heart of the city was on our right, the Tower district on our left; the Thames stretched ahead. Curfew was safely over, but there was no one yet about.

"Right," I said, halting. "The station is close by. Before we go there, we need to solve a problem."

"Which is?"

"To stop you looking—and smelling—like a swineherd." The various fluids of the wasteland adhered to him in a complex splatter—pattern. He could have been framed and hung up on a fashionable wall.

He frowned. "Yes. Clean me up first. There must be a way."

"There is."

Perhaps I shouldn't have seized him and dunked him in the river. The Thames isn't that much cleaner than the quagmire we'd waded through. Still, it washed off the worst of the muck. After a minute of vigorous dousing, I allowed him to come up, water spouting through his nostrils. He made a gurgling sound that was hard to identify. I had a stab, though.

"Again? You are thorough."

Another good rinsing made him look as good as new. I propped him up in the shadows of a concrete embankment and dried his clothes out with discreet use of a Flame. Oddly, his temper had not improved with his smell, but you can't have everything.

With this matter resolved, we set off and arrived at the railway station in time to catch the first train of the morning south. I stole two tickets from the kiosk, and while sundry attendants were busy combing the platforms for a red—faced clergywoman with a plausible manner, settled back into my seat just as the train got underway. Nathaniel sat in a different part of the carriage—rather pointedly, I thought. His improvised makeover still seemed to rankle with him.

The first part of the journey out of the city was thus the quietest and least troublesome half—hour I had enjoyed since first being summoned. The train pottered along at an arthritic pace through the never—ending outskirts of London, a dispiriting jumbled wilderness of brick that looked like moraine left by a giant glacier. We passed a succession of rundown factories and concrete lots run to waste; beyond them stretched narrow terraced streets, with chimney smoke rising here and there. Once, high up against the bright, colorless cloud that hid the sun, I saw a troop of djinn heading west. Even at that distance, it was possible to pick out the light glinting on their breastplates.

Few people got on or off the train. I relaxed. Djinn don't doze, but I did the equivalent, drifting back through the centuries and contemplating some of my happier moments—magicians' errors, my choice acts of revenge…

This reverie was finally shattered by the boy throwing himself down on the seat opposite me. "I suppose we'd better plan something," he said sulkily. "How can we get through the defenses?"

"With randomly shifting domes and sentries in place," I said, "there's no way we can break in unmolested. We'll need some kind of Trojan horse." He looked blank. "You know—something which seems to be innocent, which they allow in past the gates. In which we're hiding. Honestly—what do they teach you magicians nowadays?"[87]

"So, we need to conceal ourselves in something," he grunted. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

Scowling, he mulled it over. You could almost hear the fleshy innards of his brain straining. "The guests will arrive tomorrow," he mused. "They have to let them in, so there's bound to be a steady stream of traffic getting through the gates. Perhaps we can hitch a ride in someone's car."

"Perhaps," I said. "But all the magicians will be cloaked to the eyeballs with protective Shields and bug—eyed imps. We'd be hard pushed to sneak anywhere near them without being spotted."

"What about servants?" he said. "They must get in somehow."

Give him credit—he'd had an idea. "Most of them will be on site already," I said, "but you're right—some may arrive on the day. Also there are bound to be deliveries of fresh food; and maybe entertainers will come, musicians or jugglers—"

He looked scornful. "Jugglers?"

"Who's got more experience of magicians—you or me? There are always jugglers.[88] But the point is that there will be some nonmagical outsiders entering the manor. So if we get ourselves into position early enough, we might well get a chance to sneak a ride with someone. It's worth a try. Now… in the meantime, you should sleep. There's a long walk ahead of us when we get to the station."

His eyelids looked as if they were made of lead. For once he didn't argue.

I've seen glaciers cover ground more quickly than that train, so in the end he got a pretty decent kip. But finally we arrived at the station closest to Heddleham Hall. I shook my master awake and we tumbled out of the carriage onto a platform that was being speedily reclaimed by the forces of nature. Several varieties of grass grew up through the concrete, while an enterprising bindweed had colonized the walls and roof of the ramshackle waiting room. Birds nested under the rusty lamps. There was no ticket office and no sign of human life.

The train limped off as if it were going to die under a hedge. Across the track a white gate led straight onto an unpaved road. Fields stretched away on all sides. I perked up: it felt good to be free of the city's malignant clutches and surrounded by the natural contours of the trees and crops.[89]

"We follow the road," I said. "The hall is at least nine miles away, so we don't have to be on our guard yet. I—what's the matter now?"

The boy was looking quite pale and unsettled. "It's nothing. Just… I'm not used to so much… space. I can't see any houses."

"No houses is good. It means no people. No magicians."

"It makes me feel strange. It's so quiet."

Made sense. He'd never been out of the city before now. Never even been in a big park, most likely. The emptiness terrified him.

I crossed the track and opened the gate. "There's a village beyond those trees. You can get food there and cuddle up to some buildings."

It took my master some time to lose his jitters. It was almost as if he expected the empty fields or winter bushes to rise like enemies and fall on him, and his head turned constantly against surprise attack. He quaked at every bird call.

Conversely, I stayed relaxed for this first part of the journey, precisely because the countryside seemed wholly deserted. There was no magical activity of any description, even in the distant skies.

When we reached the village, we raided its solitary grocery store and pinched sufficient supplies to keep the boy's stomach happy for the rest of the day. It was a smallish place, a few cottages clustered around a ruined church, not nearly large enough to have its own resident magician. The few humans we saw ambled around quietly without so much as an imp in tow. My master was very dismissive of them.

"Don't they realize how vulnerable they are?" he sniffed, as we passed the final cottage. "They've got no defenses. Any magical attack and they'd be helpless."

"Perhaps that's not high on their list of priorities," I suggested. "There are other things to worry about: making a living, for example. Not that you'll have been taught anything about that."[90]

"Oh no?" he said. "To be a magician is the greatest calling. Our skills and sacrifices hold the country together, and those fools should be grateful we're there."

"Grateful for people like Lovelace, you mean?"

He frowned at this, but did not answer.

It was mid—afternoon before we ran into danger. The first thing my master knew about it was my throwing myself upon him and bundling us into a shallow ditch beside the road. I pressed him low against the earth, a little harder than necessary.

He had a mouthful of mud. "Whop you doing?"

"Keep your voice down. A patrol's flying up ahead. North—south."

I indicated a gap in the hedge. A small flock of starlings could be seen drifting far off across the clouds.

He spat his mouth empty. "I can't make them out."

"On planes five onward they're foliots.[91] Trust me. We have to go carefully from now on."

The starlings vanished to the south. Cautiously, I got to my feet and scanned the horizon. A little way ahead a straggling band of trees marked the beginning of an area of woodland. "We'd better get off the road," I said. "It's too exposed here. After nightfall we can get closer to the house." With infinite caution, we squeezed through a gap in the hedge and, after rounding the perimeter of the field beyond, gained the relative safety of the trees. Nothing threatened on any plane.

The wood was negotiated without incident; soon afterward, we crouched on its far fringes, surveying the land ahead. Before us, the ground fell away slightly, and we had a clear view over the autumn fields, heavily plowed and purple—brown. About a mile distant, the fields ran themselves out against an old brick boundary wall, much weathered and tumbledown. This, and a low, dark bunching of pine trees behind it, marked the edge of the Heddleham estate. A red dome was visible (on the fifth plane) soaring up from the pines. As I watched, it disappeared; a moment later another, bluish, dome materialized on the sixth plane, somewhat farther off.

Hunched within the trees was the suggestion of a tall arch—perhaps the official entrance to the manor's grounds. From this arch a road extended, straight as a javelin thrust between the fields, until it reached a crossroads next to a clump of oak trees, half a mile from where we stood. The lane that we had recently been following also terminated at this crossroads. Two other routes led away from it elsewhere.

The sun had not quite disappeared behind the trees and the boy squinted against its glare. "Is that a sentry?" He pointed to a distant stump halfway to the crossroads. Something unclear rested upon it: perhaps a motionless, black figure.

"Yes," I said. "Another's just materialized at the edge of that triangular field."

"Oh! The first one's gone."

"I told you—they're randomly materializing. We can't predict where they'll appear. Do you see that dome?"

"No."

"Your lenses are worse than useless."

The boy cursed. "What do you expect? I don't have your sight, demon. Where is it?"

"Coarse language will get you nowhere. I'm not telling."

"Don't be ridiculous! I need to know."

"This demon's not saying."

"Where is it?"

"Careful where you stamp your feet. You've trodden in something." "Just tell me!" "I've been meaning to mention this for some time. I don't like being called a demon. Got that?"

He took a deep breath. "Fine."

"Just so you know."

"All right."

"I'm a djinni."

"Yes, all right. Where's the dome?"

"It's in the wood. On the sixth plane now, but it'll shift position soon."

"They've made it difficult for us."

"Yes. That's what defenses do."

His face was gray with weariness, but still set and determined. "Well, the objective's clear. The gateway is bound to mark the official entrance to the estate—the only hole in the protective domes. That's where they'll check people's identities and passes. If we can get beyond it, we'll have got inside."

"Ready to be trussed up and killed," I said. "Hurrah."

"The question," he continued, "is how we get in…"

He sat for a long time, shading his eyes with his hand, watching as the sun sank behind the trees and the fields were swathed in cold green shadow. At irregular intervals, sentries came and went without trace (we were too far away to smell the sulfur).

A distant sound drew our attention back to the roads. Along the one that led to the horizon, something that from a mile away looked like a black matchbox came roaring: a magician's car, speeding between the hedges, honking its horn imperiously at every corner. It reached the crossroads, slowed to a halt and—safely assured that nothing was coming—turned right along the road to Heddleham. As it neared the gateway, two of the sentries bounded toward it at great speed across the darkened fields, robes fluttering behind them like tattered rags. Once they reached the hedges bordering the road they went no further, but kept pace beside the car, which presently drew close to the gateway in the trees. The shadows here were very thick, and it was hard to glimpse what happened. The car pulled up in front of the gate. Something approached it. The sentries hung back at the lip of the trees. Presently, the car proceeded on its way, through the arch and out of sight. Its drone faded on the evening air. The sentries flitted back into the fields.

The boy sat back and stretched his arms. "Well," he said, "that tells us what we need to do."

Nathaniel

As he set the basket of eggs down on the nearest surface, Nathaniel looked around the kitchen for his intended victim. There were so many people bustling about that at first he could see no sign of the small boy with the dark blue uniform, and he feared that he had already gone. But then, in the shadow of a large lady pastry chef, he saw him. He was transferring a mountain of bite—sized canapes to a two—storied silver platter.

It was clear that the boy planned to take this dish elsewhere in the house. Nathaniel intended to be there when he did.

He skulked around the kitchen, pretending to be emptying out his baskets and crates, biding his time, and growing ever more impatient as the boy painstakingly placed each cream cheese—and—prawn pastry on the dish.

Something hard and heavy tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

The head cook stood there, pink—faced and glistening from the heat of the roasting spit. Two bright black eyes looked down on him. The chef was holding a meat cleaver in his pudgy hand; it was with the blunt edge of this that he had tapped Nathaniel.

"And what," asked the chef, in a gentle voice, "are you doing in my kitchen?"

Nothing about the man, on any of the planes to which Nathaniel had access, remotely suggested he was inhuman. Nevertheless, with Bartimaeus's warning in mind, he took no chances. "Just collecting up a couple of my father's baskets," he said politely. "We don't have many, you see. I'm sorry if I've got in the way."

The chef pointed his cleaver at the door. "Leave."

"Yes, sir. Just going." But only as far as the passage directly outside the door, where Nathaniel propped himself against the wall and waited. Whenever someone came out of the kitchen, he ducked down as if he were doing up his shoes. It was an edgy business and he dreaded the appearance of the chef, but otherwise he felt a strange exhilaration. After the first shock of seeing the mercenary at the gate, his fear had fallen away and been replaced with a thrill he had rarely experienced be—fore—the thrill of action. Whatever happened, there would be no more helpless standing by while his enemies acted with impunity. He was taking control of events now. He was doing the hunting. He was closing in.

Light, tripping footsteps. The pageboy appeared through the arch, balancing the double dish of canapes on his head. Steadying it with one hand, he turned right, heading up the passage. Nathaniel fell in alongside him.

"Hello, there." He spoke in an extra—friendly fashion; as he did so, he ran his eyes up and down the boy. Perfect. Just the right size.

The lad couldn't help but notice this interest. "Er, do you want something?"

"Yes. Is there a cloakroom near here? I've had a long journey and… you know how it is."

At the foot of a broad staircase, the boy halted. He pointed along a side passage. "Down there."

"Can you show me? I'm afraid of getting the wrong door."

"I'm late as it is, pal."

"Please."

With a groan of reluctance, the boy turned aside and led Nathaniel along the corridor. He walked so fast that the dish on his head began to wobble precariously. He paused, straightened it, and continued on his way. Nathaniel followed behind, pausing only to draw from his uppermost basket the hefty rolling pin that he had stolen from the kitchen. At the fourth door, the boy stopped.

"There."

"Are you sure it's the right one? I don't want to barge in on anyone."

"I'm telling you it is. Look." The boy kicked out with a foot. The door swung open. Nathaniel swung the rolling pin. Boy and silver platter went crashing forward onto the washroom floor. They hit the tiles with a sound like a rifle crack; a rainstorm of cream cheese—and—prawn canapes fell all around. Nathaniel stepped in smartly after them and closed and locked the door.

The boy was out cold, so Nathaniel met no resistance when he took his clothes. He had infinitely more difficulty in gathering up the canapes, which had scattered and smeared themselves in every crack and cranny of the washroom. The cheese was soft and could often be shoveled back onto the pastry, but it was not always possible to resurrect the prawns.

When he had arranged the platters as best he could, he tore his grocer's shirt into strips and bound and gagged the boy. Then he pulled him into one of the cubicles, locked the door on the inside, and clambered out over the top by balancing on the toilet tank.

With the evidence safely hidden, Nathaniel straightened his uniform in the mirror, balanced the platter upon his head, and left the washroom. Reasoning that anything worth discovering was unlikely to be in the servants' quarters, he retraced his steps and set off up the staircase.

Various servants hurried past in both directions, carrying trays and crates of bottles, but no one challenged him.

At the top of the stairs, a door opened onto a hallway, lit by a row of high, arched windows. The flooring was polished marble, covered at intervals by richly woven carpets from Persia and the East. Alabaster busts, depicting great leaders of past ages, sat in special niches along the whitewashed walls. The whole effect, even in the weak winter sunlight, was one of dazzling brightness.

Nathaniel passed along the hall, keeping his eyes peeled.

Ahead he heard loud, laughing voices raised in greeting. He thought it wisest to avoid them. An open side door showed a flash of books. He stepped through into a beautiful circular library, which rose through two full stories to a glass dome in the roof. A spiral staircase wound up to a metal walkway circling the wall far above his head. On one side, great glass doors with windows above them looked out onto the lawns and a distant ornamental lake. Every other inch of wall was covered with books: large, expensive, ancient, collected from cities all over the world. Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat in wonder. One day he too would have a library like this…

"What do you think you're doing?" A panel of books had swung to one side, revealing a door opposite him. A young woman stood there, dark—haired and frowning. For some reason, she reminded him of Ms. Lutyens; his initiative failed him: he opened and shut his mouth aimlessly.

The woman strode forward. She wore an elegant dress, jewels flashed at her slender throat. Nathaniel collected himself. "Erm… would you like a prawn thing?"

"Who are you? I've not seen you before." Her voice was hard as flint.

He cudgeled his brain into action. "I'm John Squalls, ma'am. I helped my father deliver some supplies to you this morning. Only the pageboy's been taken ill, just now, ma'am, and they asked if I could help out. Didn't want you to be short—staffed on an important day like this. Looks as if I took a wrong turning, not being familiar—"

"That'll do." She was still hostile; her narrowed eyes scanned the platter. "Look at the state of these! How dare you bring such—"

"Amanda!" A young man had followed her into the library. "There you are—and thank goodness, food! Let me at it!" He plunged past her and seized three or four of the most forlorn canapes from Nathaniel's silver dish.

"Absolute lifesaver! Famishing journey from London. Mmm, there's a prawn on this one." He chewed heartily. "Interesting flavor. Very fresh. So tell me, Amanda… is it true about you and Lovelace? Everyone's been talking…"

Amanda Cathcart began a tinkling little laugh, then gestured curtly at Nathaniel. "You—get out and serve those in the entrance hall. And prepare the next ones better."

"Yes, ma'am." Nathaniel bowed slightly, as he had seen the parliamentary servants do, and exited the library.

It had been a close shave, and his heart was beating fast, but his mind was calm. The guilt that had beset him after the fire had now hardened into a cold acceptance of his situation. Mrs. Underwood had died because he had stolen the Amulet. She had died; Nathaniel had survived. So be it. Now he would destroy Lovelace in his turn. He knew the likelihood was that he would not survive the day. This did not worry him. The odds were stacked in his enemy's favor, but that was the way it should be. He would succeed, or die trying.

A certain heroism in this equation appealed to him. It was clear and simple; it helped block out the messiness of his conscience.

He followed the hubbub to the entrance hall. The guests were arriving in droves now; the marbled pillars echoed with the noise of their chattering. Ministers of State shuffled through the open door, taking off gloves and unwinding long silk scarves, their breath hanging in the cold air of the hall. The men wore dinner jackets, the women elegant dresses. Servants stood on the fringes, accepting coats and proffering champagne. Nathaniel hung back for a moment, then, with his platter held high, dived into the throng.

"Sir, madam, would you like…?"

"Cheese—and—prawn things, madam…?"

"Can I interest you in…?"

He wheeled about, buffeted this way and that by a battery of outstretched hands that preyed on his dish like seagulls swooping on a catch. No one spoke to him or even seemed to see him: several times his head was struck by an arm or hand blindly reaching out toward the platter, or raising a canape to an open mouth. In seconds, the uppermost dish was empty save for a few crumbs and only a few desultory morsels remained on the lower. Nathaniel found himself expelled from the group, out of breath and with collar awry.

A tall, lugubrious—looking servant was standing near him, filling glasses from a bottle. "Like animals, ain't they?" he mouthed under his breath. "Bloody magicians."

"Yes." Nathaniel was barely listening. He watched the crowd of ministers, his lenses allowing him to see the full extent of activity in the hall. Almost every man and woman present had an imp hovering behind them, and while their masters engaged in smiling social chatter, talking over one another and fingering their jewels, the servants conducted a discourse of their own. Each imp postured and preened and swelled itself to ridiculous degrees, often attempting to deflate its rivals by surreptitiously prodding them in delicate places with a spiny tail. Some changed color, going through a rainbow selection before ending with warning scarlet or bright yellow. Others contented themselves with pulling faces, imitating the expressions or gestures of their rivals' masters. If the magicians noticed all this, they made a good show of ignoring it, but the combination of the guests' false grins and the antics of their imps made Nathaniel's head spin.

"Are you serving those, or taking them for a walk?"

A scowling woman, broad of hip and waist, with an even broader imp floating behind her. And at her side… Nathaniel's heart fluttered—he recognized the watery eyes, the fishlike face. Mr. Lime, Lovelace's companion, with the smallest, most maladroit imp imaginable skulking behind his ear. Nathaniel remained expressionless and bowed his head, offering up the dish. "I'm sorry, madam."

She took two pastries, Lime took one. Nathaniel was staring at the floor meekly, but he felt the man's gaze upon him.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" the clammy man said.

The woman plucked at her companion's sleeve. "Come, Rufus; why address a commoner, when there are so many real people to talk to? Look—there's Amanda!" The magician shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled away. Glancing uneasily after them, Nathaniel noticed Rufus Lime's imp still staring back at him, its head turned at ninety degrees, until it was lost in the crowd.

The servant beside him was oblivious to it all; the imps were invisible to him. "You've finished that lot," he said. "Take this tray of drinks round. They're as thirsty as camels. With worse manners, most of them."

Some guests were drifting off down the hall toward an inner gallery, and Nathaniel was pleased to have an excuse to drift off with them. He needed to get away from the crowds to explore other regions of the house. So far, he had seen no sign of Lovelace, the Amulet, or any possible trap. But nothing would happen yet, since the Prime Minister had not arrived.

Halfway along the hall, the woman from the library was standing in the midst of a small group, holding court. Nathaniel loitered nearby, allowing guests to swap empty glasses for the full ones on his tray.

"You'll see it in a few minutes," she said. "It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. Simon had it brought from Persia especially for this afternoon."

"He's treating you very well," a man said dryly, sipping his drink.

Amanda Cathcart blushed. "He is," she said. "He's very good to me. Oh—but it's simply the cleverest thing! I'm sure it'll set an instant trend. Mind you, it wasn't easy to install—his men have been working on it all week. I saw the room for the first time only this morning. Simon said it would take my breath away and he was right."

"The P.M.'s here," someone shouted. With little cries of excitement, the guests rushed back toward the doors, Amanda Cathcart at their head. Nathaniel copied the other servants and positioned himself respectfully beside a pillar, ready to be called.

Rupert Devereaux entered, slapping his gloves together in one hand and smiling his half smile. He stood out from the adoring throng not just for his elegant attire and personal grace (which were just as striking as Nathaniel remembered), but for his companions: a bodyguard of four sullen, gray—suited magicians and—more startlingly—a hulking two—meter—tall afrit with luminous black—green skin. The afrit stood directly behind its master, casting baleful red eyes upon the company.

All the imps chittered with fear. The guests bowed their heads respectfully.

Nathaniel realized that the Prime Minister was making a blatant show of his power to all his assembled ministers, some of whom perhaps aspired to his position. It was certainly enough to impress Nathaniel. How could Lovelace expect to overcome something as strong as that afrit? Surely the very idea was madness.

But here was Lovelace himself, bounding down the hall to greet his leader. Nathaniel's face remained impassive; his whole body tensed with hatred.

"Welcome, Rupert!" Much hand—shaking. Lovelace seemed oblivious of the afrit's presence at his shoulder. He turned to address the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! With our beloved Prime Minister here, the conference can officially begin. On behalf of Lady Amanda, may I welcome you to Heddleham Hall. Please treat the house as your own!" His eyes glanced in Nathaniel's direction. Nathaniel shrank back deeper into the shadow of the pillar. Lovelace's eyes moved on. "In a short while, we will hear the first speeches in the grand salon, which Lady Amanda has refurbished especially for today. In the meantime, please make your way to the annex, where further refreshments will be available."

He waved his hand. The guests began to move off.

Lovelace leaned forward to speak to Devereaux. From behind the pillar, Nathaniel picked out the words. "I must just collect some props for my opening speech, sir. Would you excuse me? I'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Of course, of course, Lovelace. Take your time."

Devereaux's entourage left the hall, the afrit glowering at the rear. Lovelace watched them for a moment, then set off alone in the opposite direction. Nathaniel remained where he was, making a big show of collecting used glasses that had been discarded on the antique furniture and marble pedestals lining the hall. Then, when the final servant had departed, he set his tray down quietly on a table and, like a ghost in the night, padded off on Lovelace's trail.

Bartimaeus

I hoped the boy could keep out of trouble long enough for me to reach him. Getting in was taking longer than I thought.

Up and down the wall the lizard scuttled; round cornices, over arches, across pilasters, its progress ever more speedy and erratic. Each window it came to—and there were plenty of them in the mansion—was firmly shut, causing it to flick its tongue in frustration. Hadn't Lovelace and Co. ever heard of the benefits of fresh air?

Many minutes went by. Still no luck. Truth was, I was loath to break in, except as a last resort. It was impossible to tell whether the rooms beyond had watchers who might respond to the slightest untoward noise. If I could only find a crack, a cranny to sneak through… But the place was too well sealed.

There was nothing for it: I would have to try a chimney.

With this in mind I headed roofward, only to have my attention caught by a very tall and ornate set of windows a little way off on a projecting wing of the house. They suggested a sizeable room beyond. Not only that, but a powerful network of magical bars crisscrossed the windows on the seventh plane. None of the Hall's other windows had such defenses. My curiosity was piqued.

The lizard sped across to take a look, scales scuffling on the stones. It gripped a column and poked its head toward the window, being careful to keep well back from the glowing bars. What it saw inside was interesting, all right. The windows looked onto a vast circular hall or auditorium, brightly lit by a dozen chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. At the center was a small raised podium draped with red cloth, around which a hundred chairs had been arranged in a neat semicircle. A speaker's stand stood on the podium, complete with glass and jug of water. Evidently this was the venue for the conference.

Everything about the auditorium's decor—from the crystal chandeliers to the rich gold trimmings on the walls—was designed to appeal to the magicians' (vulgar) sense of wealth and status. But the really extraordinary thing about the room was the floor, which seemed to be entirely made of glass. From wall to wall it glinted and gleamed, refracting the light of the chandeliers in a dozen unusual tints and shades. If this wasn't unusual enough, beneath the glass stretched an immense and very beautiful carpet. It was Persian made, displaying—amid a wealth of dragons, chimeras, manticores, and birds—a fantastically detailed hunting scene. A life—size prince and his court rode into a forest, surrounded by dogs, leopards, kestrels, and other trained beasts; ahead of them, among the bushes, a host of fleet—footed deer skipped away. Horns blew, pennants waved. It was an idealized Eastern fairy—tale court and I would have been quite impressed, had I not glanced at a couple of the faces of the courtiers. That rather spoiled the effect. One of them sported Lovelace's horrid mug; another looked like Sholto Pinn. Elsewhere, I spied my erstwhile captor, Jessica Whitwell, riding a white mare. Trust Lovelace to spoil a perfectly good work of art with such an ingratiating fancy.[103] No doubt the prince was Devereaux, the Prime Minister, and every important magician was pictured among his fawning throng.

This curious floor was not the only odd thing about the circular hall. All the other windows that looked onto it had shimmering defenses similar to the one through which I spied. Reasonable enough: soon most of the Government would be inside—the room had to be safe from attack. But hidden in the stonework of my window frame were things that looked like embedded metal rods, and their purpose was not at all clear.

I was just pondering this when a door at the far end of the auditorium opened and a magician walked swiftly in. It was the oily man I had seen passing in the car: Lime, the boy had called him, one of Lovelace's confederates. He carried an object in his hand, shrouded under a cloth. With hasty steps and eyes flicking nervously back and forth, he crossed to the podium, mounted it and approached the speaker's stand. There was a shelf inside the stand, hidden from the floor below, and the man placed the object inside it.

Before he did so, he removed the cloth and a shiver ran down my scales.

It was the summoning horn I'd seen in Lovelace's study on the night I stole the Amulet of Samarkand. The ivory was yellow with age and had been reinforced with slender metal bands, but the blackened fingerprints on its side[104] were still quite visible.

A summoning horn…

I began to see daylight. The magical bars at the windows, the metal ones embedded in the stonework, ready to spring shut. The auditorium's defenses weren't to keep anything out—they were to keep everyone in.

It was definitely time I got inside.

With scant regard for any overflying sentries, I scampered up the wall and over the red—tiled roof of the mansion to the nearest chimney. I darted to the rim of the pot and was about to duck inside, when I drew back, all of a quiver. A net of sparkling threads was suspended below me across the hole. Blocked.

I ran to the next. Same again.

In considerable agitation, I crossed and recrossed the roof of Heddleham Hall, checking every chimney. Each one was sealed. More than one magician had gone to great lengths to protect the place from spies.

I halted at last, wondering what to do.

All this time, at the front of the house below, a steady stream of chauffeured cars[105] had drawn up, disgorged their occupants and headed off to a parking lot at the side. Most of the guests were here now; the conference was about to begin.

I looked across the lawns. A few late arrivals were speeding toward the house.

And they weren't the only ones.

In the middle of the lawn was a lake adorned with an ornamental fountain, depicting an amorous Greek god trying to kiss a dolphin.[106] Beyond the lake, the drive curled into the trees toward the entrance gateway. And along it three figures came striding, two going fast, the third faster. For a man who had recently been knocked about by a field mouse, Mr. Squalls was racing along at a fair pace. Son was doing even better: presumably his lack of clothes encouraged him on his way (at this distance he looked like one big goosebump.) But neither of them matched the pace of the bearded mercenary, whose cloak swirled out behind him as he strode off the drive onto the lawn.

Ah. This might spell trouble.

I perched on the lip of the chimney pot, cursing my restraint with Squalls and Son[107] and debating whether I could ignore the distant trio. But another look decided me. The bearded man was coming along faster than ever. Strange—his paces seemed ordinary ones, but they ate up the ground at blinding speed. He had almost halved the distance to the lake already. In another minute he would be at the house, ready to raise the alarm.

Getting into the house would have to wait. There wasn't time to be discreet. I became a blackbird and flew purposefully from the mansion roof.

The man in black strode nearer. I noted a flicker in the air about his legs, an odd discrepancy, as if their movement was not properly contained within any of the planes. Then I understood: he wore seven—league boots.[108] After a few more paces, his trajectory would be too swift to follow—he might travel a mile with each step. I speeded up my flight.

The lakeside was a pretty spot (if you didn't count the statue of the disreputable old god and the dolphin). A young gardener was weeding the margins of the shore. A few innocent ducks floated dreamily on the surface of the water. Bulrushes waved in the breeze. Someone had planted a small bower of honeysuckle by the lake: its leaves shone a pleasant, peaceful green in the afternoon sun.

That was just for the record. My first Detonation missed the mercenary (it being difficult to judge the speed of someone wearing seven—league boots), but hit the bower, which vaporized instantly. The gardener yelped and jumped into the lake, carrying the ducks off on a small tidal wave. The bulrushes caught fire. The mercenary looked up. He hadn't noticed me before, probably being intent on keeping his boots under control, so it wasn't strictly sporting, but hey—I was late for a conference. My second Detonation caught him directly in the chest. He disappeared in a mass of emerald flames.

Why can't all problems be as easy to resolve?

I did a quick circuit, eyeing the horizon, but there were no watchers and nothing dangerous in sight, unless you count the underwear of Squalls's son as he and his dad turned tail and raced for the park gateway. Fine. I was just about to head off back to the house, when the smoke from my Detonation cleared away, revealing the mercenary sitting in a muddy depression three feet deep, mucky, blinking, but very much alive.

Hmm. That was something I hadn't counted on.

I screeched to a halt in midair, turned, and delivered another, more concentrated blast. It was the kind that would have made even Jabor's knees tremble a bit; certainly it should have turned most humans into a wisp of smoke blowing in the wind.

But not Beardy. As the flames died down again, he was just getting to his feet, as casual as you like! He looked as if he'd been having a catnap. Admittedly, much of his cloak had burned away, but the body beneath was still hale and hearty.

I didn't bother trying again. I can take a hint.

The man reached inside his cloak and from a hidden pocket withdrew a silver disc. With unexpected speed he reached back and threw—it missed my beak by a feather's breadth and returned spinning to his hand in a lazy arc.

That did it. I'd gone through a lot in the last few days. Everyone I met seemed to want a piece of me: djinn, magicians, humans… it made no difference. I'd been summoned, manhandled, shot at, captured, constricted, bossed about, and generally taken for granted. And now, to cap it all, this bloke was joining in too, when all I'd been doing was quietly trying to kill him.

I lost my temper.

The angriest blackbird you've ever seen made a dive for the statue in the middle of the lake. It landed at the base of the dolphin's tail, stretched its wings around the stone and, as it heaved, took a gargoyle's form once more. Dolphin and god[109] were ripped from their foundations. With a brittle cracking and the rasp of ripping lead, the statue came away. A jet of water spurted from the ruptured pipes inside. The gargoyle raised the statue above its head, gave a bound, and landed on the lake—side bank, not far from where the mercenary was standing.

He didn't seem as fazed as I'd have liked. He threw the disc again. It bit into my arm, poisoning me with silver.

Ignoring the pain, I tossed the statue like a Highland caber. It did a couple of stylish flips and landed on the mercenary with a soft thump.

He looked winded, I'll give him that. But even so, he wasn't anything like the flatness I required. I could see him struggling under the prone god, trying to get a grip so he could shove it away. This was getting tedious. Well, if I couldn't stop him, I could certainly slow him down. While he was still floundering around, I jumped over, unlaced his seven—league boots and plucked them off his feet. Then I threw them as hard as I could into the middle of the lake, where the ducks were busily regrouping. The boots splashed down in their midst and instantly sank out of sight.

"You'll pay for that," the man said. He was still struggling with the statue, moving it slowly off his chest.

"You don't know when to give up, do you?" I said, scratching a horn irritably. I was wondering what more to do, when I felt my insides being sucked out through my back. My essence squirmed and writhed. I gasped. The mercenary looked on as my form grew vaporous and weak.

He gave a heave and shoved the statue off. Through my pain, I saw him getting to his feet. "Stop, coward!" he cried. "You must stand and fight!"

I shook a dissolving claw at him. "Consider yourself lucky," I groaned. "I'm letting you off. I had you on the ropes and don't you forg—"

Then I was gone, and my rebuke with me.

Nathaniel

The bolt of jet—black plasm hit the nearest display table. The shaman's headdress, the pots and pipes, the table itself, and a section of the floor all vanished with a noise like something being sucked sharply down a drain. Foul steam rose from the wound in the floor.

A few feet away, Nathaniel rolled head over heels and got straight to his feet. His head felt woozy from the roll, but he did not hesitate. He ran for the next display table, the one with the metal cubes. As the old magician raised his hand once more, he scooped up as many cubes as he could and disappeared behind a neighboring bookcase. The second plasm bolt struck just behind him.

He paused for a moment. Beyond the bookshelves, the old magician made a clucking noise with his tongue. "What are you doing? Do you plan to toss more mites at me?"

Nathaniel glanced at the objects in his hand. Not mites, but scarcely any better. Prague Cubes: minor conjuror's tricks peddled by low—caste magicians. Each cube was little more than a mite bottled up inside a metal shell with a variety of mineral powders. When released with a simple command, mite and powders combusted in an amusing way. Silly diversions, nothing more. Certainly not weapons.

Each cube had a paper wrap stamped with the famous distilling—glass logo of the alchemists of Golden Lane. They were old, probably nineteenth century. Perhaps they would not work at all.

Nathaniel picked one and tossed it, wrapping and all, over the top of the shelves.

He shouted the Release Command.

With a brilliant shower of silver sparkles and a tinny melody the imp inside the cube combusted. A faint but unmistakable fragrance of lavender filled the gallery.

He heard the old magician burst into a hearty chuckle. "How charming! Please—some more! I wish to smell my best when we take over the country! Do you have rowan flavor? That would be my favorite!"

Nathaniel selected another cube. Party gimmicks or not, they were the only things he had.

He could hear the squeaking of the old man's shoes as he shuffled down the gallery toward the end of his aisle. What could he do? On either side, bookcases blocked his way out.

Or did they? Each shelf was open—backed: on every row, he could see above the tops of the books into the next aisle. If he pushed himself through…

He tossed the next cube and ran at the shelf.

Maurice Schyler rounded the corner, his hand invisible inside its wavering bulb of force.

Nathaniel hit the second shelf of books like a high jumper clearing a bar. He muttered the Release Command.

The cube exploded in the old man's face. A starburst of purple sparks zipped and spun, high as the ceiling; a nineteenth—century Czech marching song rang out briefly in accompaniment.

In the next aisle along, fifty books crashed down like a falling wall. Nathaniel sprawled on top of them.

He felt, rather than saw, the third bolt of plasm destroy the aisle behind him.

The magician's voice now carried a slight note of irritation. "Little boy—time is short! Stand still, please." But Nathaniel was already on his feet and hurtling toward the next shelf. He was moving too fast to think, never allowing himself a moment's pause, lest his terror rose up to overwhelm him. His one aim was to reach the door at the far end of the gallery. The old man had said there was a pentacle there.

"John—listen!" He landed on his back in the next aisle, amid a shower of books. "I admire your resolve." A leather—bound dictionary fell against the side of his head, making bright lights twinkle across his vision. He struggled upright. "But it is foolish to seek revenge on your master's behalf." Another burst of magical force: another section of shelving vanished. The room was filled with thick, acrid smoke. "Foolish and unnatural. I myself killed my own master, long ago. Now, if your Underwood had been a worthy man, I would understand it." Nathaniel threw the third cube behind him; it bounced harmlessly against a table and did not go off. He had forgotten to say the command. "But he was not a worthy man—was he, John? He was a driveling idiot. Now you will lose your life for him. You should have stayed away."

Nathaniel had reached the final aisle. He was not far from the door at the end of the room—it was a few strides off. But here, for the first time, he stopped dead. A great anger swelled inside him and damped down his fear.

Shoes squeaked softly. The old man shuffled back up the gallery, following the trail of scattered books, checking each side—aisle as he went. He saw no sign of the boy. Drawing near the door, he turned into the final aisle, hand raised at the ready—

He clicked his tongue in exasperation. The aisle was empty.

Nathaniel, who had silently clambered back through the shelves to the previous aisle and had now crept up behind him, thus had the element of surprise.

Three cubes hit the magician at once and exploded together at a single command. They were a lime—green Catherine Wheel, a ricocheting Viennese Cannon, and an Ultramarine Bonfire, and although the effect of each one individually would have been modest, taken together they became quite potent. A medley of cheap popular ballads sounded and the air instantly became heavy with the flavors of rowan, edelweiss, and camphor. The combined explosion blew the old man off his feet and straight into the door at the end of the gallery. He hit it hard, head first. The door caved in; he slumped across it, his neck twisted oddly. The black energy pulsing on his hand was instantly snuffed out.

Nathaniel walked slowly toward him through the smoke, cupping a final cube loosely in his palm.

The magician did not move.

Perhaps he was faking it: in a moment he would spring up, ready to fight. This was possible. He had to be ready for him.

Closer. Still no movement. Now he was adjacent to the old man's splayed leather shoes…

Another half—step… surely he would get up now.

Maurice Schyler did not get up. His neck was broken. His face sagged against a panel of the door, his lips slightly apart. Nathaniel was close enough to count all the lines and creases on his cheek; he could see little red veins running across the nose and under the eye.

The eye was open, but glazed, unseeing. It looked like that of a fish on a slab. A trace of limp white hair fell across it.

Nathaniel's shoulders began to shake. For a moment, he thought he was going to cry.

Instead he forced himself to remain motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the shaking to die down. When his emotion was safely contained, he stepped over the body of the old man. "You made a mistake," he said softly. "It is not my master that I'm doing this for."

The room beyond was small and windowless. It had perhaps once been a storeroom. A pentacle had been drawn in the center of the floor, with candles and incense pots carefully arranged around. Two of the candles had been knocked over by the impact of the falling door, and these Nathaniel carefully set upright, in position.

On one of the walls was a gold picture frame, hanging from a nail by a string. There was neither painting nor canvas inside the frame; instead it was filled with a beautiful image of a large, circular, sunny room, in which many small figures moved. Nathaniel knew instantly what the frame was: a scrying glass far sharper and more powerful than his lost bronze disc. He stepped close to inspect it. It showed a vast auditorium, filled with chairs, whose carpeted floor shone strangely. The ministers were entering it from one side, laughing and chatting, still holding their glasses, accepting glossy black pens and folders from a line of servants by the door. The Prime Minister was there, at the center of a milling throng, the grim afrit still attentively in tow. Lovelace had not yet arrived.

But any moment now, he would enter the hall and set his plan in motion.

Nathaniel noted a box of matches lying on the floor. Hurriedly, he lit the candles, double—checked the incense and stepped into the pentacle—admiring, despite his haste, the elegance with which it had been drawn. Then he closed his eyes, composed himself, and searched his memory for the incantation.

After a few seconds, he had it ready. His throat was a little dry because of the smoke; he coughed twice and spoke the words.

The effect was instantaneous. It had been so long since Nathaniel had completed a summons that he gave a little start when the djinni appeared. It was in its gargoyle form and wore a peeved expression.

"You really have got perfect timing, haven't you?" it said. "I'd just got the assassin where I wanted him, and all of a sudden you remember how to call me!"

"It's about to start!" The effort of calling Bartimaeus had made Nathaniel light—headed. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. "Look—there in the glass! They're gathering. Lovelace is on his way now, and he'll be wearing the Amulet, so he won't feel the effects of whatever happens. I—I think it's a summons."

"You don't say? I'd worked that one out already. Well, come on then—surrender to my tender claws." It flexed them experimentally; they let off a creaking sound.

Nathaniel went white. The gargoyle rolled its eyes. "I'm going to have to carry you," it said. "We'll have to hurry if we want to stop him entering the room. Once he's in, the place will be sealed—you can bet on that."

Gingerly, Nathaniel stepped forward. The gargoyle tapped a foot impatiently. "Don't worry on my account," it snapped, "I won't strain my back or anything. I'm feeling angry and my strength's returned." With this, it made a grab, snatched Nathaniel around the waist and turned to leave, only to trip over the body lying in the doorway.

"Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that." With a bound it had cleared the debris and was leaping through the gallery, spurring itself on with great beats of its stony wings.

Nathaniel's stomach lurched horribly with every stride. "Slow down!" he gasped. "You'll make me sick!"

"You won't like this then." Bartimaeus leaped through the arch at the end of the gallery, ignored the landing and staircase completely and plummeted directly to the hall thirty feet below. Nathaniel's wail made the rafters echo.

Half flying, half leaping, the gargoyle negotiated the next corridor. "So," it said agreeably, "you've made your first direct kill. How does it feel? Much more manly, I'm sure. Does it help blot out the death of Underwood's wife?"

Nathaniel was too nauseous to listen, let alone answer.

A minute later, the ride came to an end so abruptly that Nathaniel's limbs swung about like a rag doll's. The gargoyle had halted at the corner of a long corridor; it dropped him to the floor and pointed silently up ahead. Nathaniel shook his head to stop his vision spinning, and stared.

At the other end of the corridor was the open door to the auditorium. Three people stood there: a haughty servant, who held the door ajar; the fish—faced magician Rufus Lime; and Simon Lovelace, who was buttoning up his collar. A brief flash of gold showed at his throat, then the collar was adjusted and his tie wrapped in place. Lovelace clapped his companion on the shoulder and strode through the door.

"We're too late!" Nathaniel hissed. "Can't you—?" He looked to his side in surprise—the gargoyle was gone.

A tiny voice whispered in his ear. "Smooth your hair down and get to the door. You can enter as a servant. Hurry it up!" Nathaniel ignored the strong desire to scratch his earlobe; he could feel something small and ticklish hanging there. He squared his shoulders, swept back his hair, and trotted along the corridor.

Lime had departed elsewhere. The servant was swinging the door to.

"Wait!" Nathaniel wished his voice were deeper and more commanding. He approached the servant at speed. "Let me in too! They want someone extra to serve the drinks!"

"I don't recognize you," the man said, frowning. "Where's young William?"

"Erm, he had a headache. I was called in. At the last minute."

Footsteps along the corridor; a voice of command. "Wait!"

Nathaniel turned. He heard Bartimaeus swearing on the cusp of his earlobe. The black—bearded mercenary was approaching fast, barefoot ragged cape swinging, blue eyes afire.

"Quick!" The djinni's voice was urgent. "The door's open a crack—slip inside!"

The mercenary quickened his pace. "Stop that boy!"

But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant's shoe. The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.

The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. "Shut it on them!"

He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight on the other side. The door began to swing open.

Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.

"Don't bother," it said. "Let him go in. He deserves his fate."

The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.

The small voice spoke against his ear. "Now, that was ominous," it said.

Bartimaeus

From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed, events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.

First, where were we? By the locked door, on the very edge of the circular glass floor. This glass had been given a slightly rough surface, so that shoes gripped it, but it was still clear enough for the carpet below to be beautifully displayed. The boy was standing right above the edge of the carpet—a border depicting interlocking vines. Nearby, and at intervals around the whole hall, stood impassive servants, each one beside a trolley heavily laden with cakes and beverages. Within this was the semicircle of chairs that I had seen from the window, now groaning under the assembled bottoms of the magicians. They were sipping their drinks and half listening to the woman, Amanda Cathcart, who was standing on the podium in the center of the hall, welcoming them all there. At her shoulder, his face expressionless, was Simon Lovelace, waiting.

The woman was wrapping up her speech. "Last, I hope you will not mind my drawing your attention to the carpet on display below. We commissioned it from Persia, and I believe it is the biggest in England. I think you will find yourselves all included if you look carefully." (Murmured approval, a few cheers.) "This after—noon's discussion will last until six. We will then break for dinner in the heated tents on the lawn outside, where you will be entertained by some Latvian sword jugglers." (Enthusiastic cheering.) "Thank you. May I now hand you over to your true host, Mr. Simon Lovelace!" (Strained and ragged clapping.)

While she droned on, I was busy whispering in the boy's ear.[110] I was a head louse at this point, which is pretty much as small as I can go. Why? Because I didn't want the afrit to notice me until it couldn't be avoided. She was the only otherworld being currently in evidence (for politeness' sake, all the magicians' imps had been dismissed for the duration of the meeting) but she was bound to see me as a threat.

"This is our last chance," I said. "Whatever Lovelace is going to do, take it from me he'll do it now, before the afrit picks up the Amulet's aura. He's got it round his neck. Can you creep up behind him and pull it into view? That'll rouse the magicians."

The boy nodded. He began to sidle around the edge of the crowd. On the podium, Lovelace began an obsequious address: "Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, may I say how honored we are…"

We were now at the edge of the audience, with a clear run down the edge of the magicians' chairs toward the podium. The boy started forward at a canter, with me urging him on like a jockey does a willing (if stupid) horse.

But as he passed the first delegate, a bony hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of the neck.

"And where do you think you're going, servant?"

I knew that voice. For me it brought back displeasing memories of her Mournful Orb. It was Jessica Whitwell, all cadaverous cheeks and cropped white hair. Nathaniel struggled in her grip. I wasted no time, but motored over the top of his ear and down the soft white skin behind it, making for the grasping hand.

Nathaniel wriggled. "Let—me—go!"

"…it is a delight and a privilege…" As yet, Lovelace had heard nothing.

"How dare you seek to disrupt this meeting?" Her sharp nails dug cruelly into the boy's neck. The head louse approached her pale, thin wrist.

"You don't—understand—" Nathaniel choked. "Lovelace has—"

"Silence, brat!"

"…glad to see you here. Sholto Pinn sends his apologies, he is indisposed…"

"Put him in a Stricture, Jessica." This was a magician at the next chair along.

"Deal with him after."

I was at her wrist now. Its underside ran with blue veins.

Head lice aren't big enough for what I had in mind. I became a scarab beetle, with extra—sharp pincers. I bit with gusto.

The woman's shriek made the chandeliers jangle. She let go of Nathaniel, who stumbled forward, nearly jolting me from the back of his neck. Lovelace was interrupted—he spun round, eyes wide. All heads turned.

Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed. "Watch out!" he croaked (the grip on his neck had nearly throttled him). "Lovelace has got the Am—"

A web of white threads rose up around us and closed over Nathaniel's head. The woman lowered her hand and sucked on her bleeding wrist.

"—ulet of Samarkand! He's going to kill you all! I don't know how, but it's going to be horrible and—"

Wearily, the scarab beetle tapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Don't bother," I said. "No one can hear you. She's sealed us off."[111] He looked blank. "Not been in one before? Your lot do it to others all the time."

I was watching Lovelace. His eyes were locked on Nathaniel, and I caught doubt and anger flashing across them before he slowly turned back to his speech. He coughed, waiting for the magicians' chattering to die down. Meanwhile, one hand edged toward the hidden shelf in the lectern.

The boy was panicking now; he lashed out weakly at the rubbery walls of the Stricture.

"Keep calm," I said. "Let me check it: most Strictures have weak links. If I can find one I should be able to break us out." I became a fly and, starting at its top, began to circle carefully across the Stricture's membranes, looking for a flaw.

"But we haven't time…"

I spoke gently to quieten him. "Just watch and listen."

I didn't show it, but I was worried myself now. The boy was right: we really had no time.

Nathaniel

"But we haven't time—" Nathaniel began.

"Just shut up and watch!" The fly was buzzing frantically around their prison. It sounded decidedly panicked.

Nathaniel had barely enough room to move his hands, and nowhere near enough to do anything with his legs or feet. It was like being inside a mummy's case or an iron maiden. As he had this thought, the terror of all constricted things bubbled up within him. He suppressed a mounting urge to scream, took a deep breath and, to help distract himself, focused on events around him.

After the unfortunate interruption, the magicians had turned their attention back to the speaker, who was acting as if nothing had happened: "In turn, I would like to thank Lady Amanda for the use of this wonderful hall. Incidentally, may I draw your attention to the remarkable ceiling, with its collection of priceless chandeliers? They were taken from the ruins of Versailles after the French Wars, and are made of adamantine crystal. Their designer…"

Lovelace had a lot to say about the chandeliers. All the delegates craned their necks upward, making noises of approval. The opulence of the hall ceiling interested them greatly.

Nathaniel addressed the fly. "Have you found a weak point yet?"

"No. It's been well put together." It buzzed angrily. "Why did you have to get yourself caught? We're helpless in here."

Helpless, yet again. Nathaniel bit his lip. "I assume Lovelace is going to summon something," he said.

"Of course. He's got a horn for that purpose, so he doesn't have to speak the incantation. Saves him time."

"What will it be?"

"Who knows? Something big enough to deal with that afrit, presumably."

Again, panic struggled in Nathaniel's throat, wrestling to be loosened in a cry. Outside, Lovelace was still describing the intricacies of the ceiling. Nathaniel's eyes flicked back and forth, trying to catch the gaze of one of the magicians, but they were still absorbed in the marvelous chandeliers. He hung his head in despair.

And noticed something odd out of the corner of his eye.

The floor… It was difficult to be sure with the lights glaring in the glass, but he thought he could see a movement on the floor, like a white wave rapidly traveling across it from the far wall. He frowned; the Stricture's membranes were getting in the way of his vision—he couldn't be sure what he was actually seeing. But it was almost as if something was covering the carpet.

The fly was wheeling about near the side of his head. "One crumb of comfort," it said. "It can't be anything too powerful, or Lovelace would have to use a pentacle. The Amulet's all very well for personal protection, but the really strong entities need to be carefully contained. You can't afford to let them go running loose, or risk total devastation. Look what happened to Atlantis."

Nathaniel had no idea what had happened to Atlantis. He was still watching the floor. He had suddenly become aware that there was a sense of movement all across the hall—the whole flooring seemed to be shifting, though the glass itself remained solid and firm. He looked between his feet and saw the smiling face of a young female magician move quickly past beneath the glass, closely followed by a stallion's head and the leaves of a decorative tree.

It was then that he realized the truth. The carpet was not being covered. It was being drawn back, quickly and stealthily. And no one else had noticed. While the magicians gazed gawping at the ceiling, the floor below them changed.

"Erm, Bartimaeus—" he said.

"What? I'm trying to concentrate."

"The floor…"

"Oh." The fly settled on his shoulder. "That's bad."

As Nathaniel watched, the ornately twining border passed below him, then the carpet's tasseled edge itself. It moved off, revealing a gleaming surface below—perhaps made of whitewashed plaster—on which great runes were inscribed in shining black ink. Nathaniel knew immediately what they were standing on, and one glance across the room confirmed it. He saw sections of perfectly drawn circles, two straight lines converging at the apex of a star, the elegant curving lines of runic characters, both red and black.

"A giant pentacle," he whispered. "And we're all inside."

"Nathaniel," said the fly. "You know I told you to keep calm and not bother waving or shouting?"

"Yes."

"Cancel that. Make as much movement as you can. Perhaps we can attract the attention of one of these idiots."

Nathaniel jiggled about, waved his hands and jerked his head from side to side. He shouted until his throat was sore. Around him whirled the fly, its body flashing in a hundred bright warning colors. But the magicians nearby noticed nothing. Even Jessica Whitwell, who was closest, still gazed at the ceiling with starry eyes.

The terrible helplessness that Nathaniel had felt on the night of the fire flooded over him again. He could feel his energy and resolution draining away.

"Why won't they look?" he wailed.

"Pure greed," the fly said. "They're fixated with the trappings of wealth. This is no good. I'd try a Detonation, but it would kill you at this range."

"No, don't do that," Nathaniel said.

"If only you'd already freed me from the Indefinite Confinement spell," the fly mused. "Then I could break out and tackle Lovelace. You'd be dead, of course, but I'd save everyone else, honest, and tell them all about your sacrifice. It would—Look! It's happening!"

Nathaniel's eyes had already been drawn to Lovelace, who had made a sudden movement. From pointing at the ceiling, his hands now descended to the back of the lectern with feverish haste. He drew something out, hurled its covering cloth to the floor and raised the object to his lips: a horn, old, stained, and cracked. Sweat beaded his forehead; it glistened in the light from the chandeliers.

Something in the crowd gave an inhuman roar of anger. The magicians lowered their heads in shock.

Lovelace blew.

Bartimaeus

When the carpet drew back and the giant summoning pentacle was revealed, I knew we were in for something nasty. Lovelace had it all worked out. All of us, him included, were trapped inside the circle with whatever he was calling from the Other Place. There were barriers on the windows and no doubt in the walls as well, so there was no chance any of us would escape. Lovelace had the Amulet of Samarkand—and with its power, he was immune—but the rest of us would be at the mercy of the being he had summoned.

I hadn't lied to the boy. Without the constraining pentacle, there was a limit to what any magician would willingly summon. The greatest beings run amok if they're given any freedom,[112] and Lovelace's hidden design meant that the only freedom this one was going to get would be inside this single room.

But that was all the magician needed. When his slave departed, he alone of the great ones of the Government would be left alive, ready to assume control.

He blew the horn. It made no sound on any of the seven planes, but in the Other Place it would have rung loud.

As was to be expected, the afrit acted fastest. Even as the summoning horn came into view, she let out a great bellow, seized Rupert Devereaux by the shoulders and flew at the nearest set of windows, picking up speed as she went. She crashed into the glass; the magical barriers across it flared electric blue, and with an impact like thunder, she was propelled back into the room, head over heels, with Devereaux spinning limply in her grip.

Lovelace took the horn away from his lips, smiling slightly.

The cleverer magicians had understood the situation the instant the horn was blown. With a flurry of colored flashes, imps appeared at several shoulders. Others summoned greater assistance—the woman by our side was muttering an incantation, calling up her djinni.

Lovelace stepped down carefully from the podium, his eyes trained somewhere high above. Light danced on the surface of his spectacles. His suit was elegant, unruffled. He took no notice of the consternation all around.

I saw a flicker in the air.

Desperately, I threw myself at the edges of the web that surrounded us, searching for a weakness and finding none.

Another flicker. My essence shivered.

Nathaniel

Many of the magicians were on their feet now, their voices raised in alarm, heads turning from side to side in bewilderment, as thick iron and silver bars slid into position across every door and window. Nathaniel had long since stopped bothering to move: it was clear that no one would take any notice of him. He could only watch as a magician some way in front slung his chair to one side, raised a hand and shot a ball of yellow flame at Lovelace from a distance of only a couple of meters. To the surprise of the magician, the flame altered its course slightly in midair and disappeared into the center of Lovelace's chest. Lovelace, who was staring intently up toward the ceiling, appeared to have noticed nothing.

The fly buzzed back and forth, butting its head against the wall of the Stricture. "That's the Amulet's work," it said. "It'll take whatever they throw."

Jessica Whitwell had finished her incantation: a short, stumpy djinni hovered in the air beside her; it had taken the form of a black bear. She pointed, yelled an order. The bear moved forward through the air, paddling its limbs as if swimming.

Other magicians sent attacks in Lovelace's direction: for perhaps a minute, he was the center of a lightning storm of furious, crackling energy. The Amulet of Samarkand absorbed it all. Lovelace was unaffected. He carefully smoothed back his hair.

The afrit had picked itself up from where it had fallen and, having set the dazed Prime Minister lolling on a chair, leaped into the fray. It flew on speedy, shining wings, but Nathaniel noticed that it approached Lovelace on a peculiar circular course, avoiding the air directly above the podium.

Several magicians had by now reached the door of the hall, and were vainly straining at the handles.

The afrit sent a powerful magic toward Lovelace. Either it went too fast, or it was primarily on a plane he could not see, but Nathaniel only saw it as the suggestion of a jet of smoke that crossed to the magician in an instant. Nothing happened. The afrit cocked its head, as if bemused.

On Lovelace's other side, the black bear djinni was closing fast. From each paw, it unsheathed two scimitar—like claws.

Magicians were running helter—skelter, making for the windows, the door, for anywhere at all, accompanied by their host of shrieking imps.

Then something happened to the afrit. To Nathaniel, it was as if he was looking at the afrit's reflection in a pond and the water surface was suddenly disturbed. The afrit seemed to shatter, its form splitting into a thousand quavering shards that were sucked toward a section of air above the podium. A moment later they were gone.

The black bear djinni stopped paddling forward. Its claws were drawn back out of sight. Very subtly, it went into reverse.

The fly buzzed loudly against Nathaniel's ear, shouting in pure panic. "It's happening!" it cried. "Can't you see it?"

But Nathaniel saw nothing.

A woman ran past, mouth open in panic. Her hair was a pale shade of blue.

Bartimaeus

The first thing most of them noticed was the afrit. That was the spectacular one, the real curtain raiser, but in fact plenty had been going on in the previous seconds. The afrit was unlucky, that was all; in her haste to destroy the threat to her master, she got too close to the rift.

The split in the air was about four meters in length and only visible on the seventh plane. Perhaps a few of the imps glimpsed it, but none of the humans could have done so.[113] It wasn't a nice, clean, vertical sort of rift, but diagonal, with jagged edges, as if the air had been torn like thick, fibrous cloth. From my prison, I had watched it form: after the first flicker above the podium, the air had vibrated, distorted wildly, and finally snapped along that line.[114]

As soon as the rift appeared, the changes had begun.

The lectern on the podium altered: its substance turned from wood to clay, then to an odd, orange metal, then to something that looked suspiciously like candle wax. It sagged a little, as if melting along one side.

A few blades of grass grew up from the surface of the podium.

The crystal drops of the chandelier directly above it turned to water droplets, which hung suspended for a second in position, shimmering in many colors, then fell to the floor as rain.

A magician was running toward a window. Each line of the pinstripe on his jacket undulated like a sidewinder.

No one noticed these first minor changes or a dozen similar others. It would take the afrit's fate for them to cotton on.

Pandemonium filled the room, with humans and imps squeaking and gibbering in all directions. As if oblivious to this, Lovelace and I watched the rift. We waited for something to come through.

Bartimaeus

Then it happened. The planes close to the rift suddenly went out of sync, as if they were being pulled sideways at varying speeds. It was as though my focus had gone haywire, as it does after a blow to the head—I suddenly saw the windows beyond seven times over, all in slightly different positions. It was most disconcerting.

If whatever Lovelace had summoned was strong enough to disrupt the planes like this, it boded ill for all of us inside the pentacle. It must be very close now. I kept my eye on the rift in the air…

Amanda Cathcart passed us, screaming, her bob a fetching blue. A few more changes had been noticed by all and sundry: two magicians, who had strayed too near the podium in a vain attempt to attack Lovelace, found their bodies elongating unpleasantly; one man's nose also grew to a ridiculous length, while the other's vanished altogether.

"What's happening?" the boy whispered.

I did not answer. The rift was opening.

All seven planes distorted like stirred syrup. The rift widened and something like an arm thrust through. It was quite transparent, as if it were made of the most perfect glass; in fact, it would have been wholly invisible were it not for the twisting, swirling convulsions of the planes around it. The arm moved back and forth experimentally: it seemed to be testing the odd sensations of the physical world. I glimpsed four thin protuberances or fingers at the end of the arm: they, like it, had no substance of their own, and were only given form by the rippling disturbances in the air about them.

Down below, Lovelace stepped back, his fingers nervously feeling between his shirt buttons for the Amulet's reassuring touch.

With the distortion of the planes, the other magicians began to see the arm for the first time.[115] They emitted assorted cries of woe that, from the biggest, hairiest man to the smallest, shrillest woman, covered a range of several octaves. Several of the bravest ran into the center of the room and coerced their attendant djinn into sending Detonations and other magics galore in the direction of the rift. This turned out to be a mistake. Not one single bolt or blast made it anywhere near the arm; all either screamed off at angles to smash into the walls and ceiling, or dribbled to the floor like water from a dripping hose, the energy taken out of them.

The boy's mouth hung so low and loosely, a rodent could have used it as a swing. "That th—thing," he stammered. "What is it?"

A fair enough question. What was it, this thing that distorted the planes and disrupted the most powerful magic, when only one arm had actually come through? I could have said something dramatic and eerie like, "The death of us all!" but it wouldn't have got us very far. Besides, he'd only have asked again.

"I don't know exactly," I said. "Judging by its caution in coming through, it has rarely been summoned before. It is probably surprised and angry, but its strength is clear enough. Look around! Inside the pentacle, magic is going wrong, things are beginning to change form. All normal laws are being warped, suspended. The greatest of us always bring the chaos of the Other Place with them. No wonder Lovelace needed the Amulet of Samarkand to protect himself."[116]

As we watched, the giant, translucent arm was followed by a brawny, translucent shoulder, more than a meter long. And now something like a head began to emerge through the rift. Once more it was only an outline: seen through it, the windows and the distant trees showed perfectly; around its edge, the planes shuddered in a new frenzy.

"Lovelace can't have summoned this on his own," I said. "He must have had help. And I don't just mean that old scarecrow you killed, or the clammy one at the door. Someone with real power must have had a hand."[117]

The great being pulled itself through the gap. Now another arm appeared, and the suggestion of a torso. Most of the magicians were clustering against the periphery of the room, but a few near the windows were caught in a ripple running through the planes. Their faces changed—a man's became a woman's; a woman's a child's. Maddened by his transformation, one magician ran blindly toward the podium—in an instant, his body seemed to become liquid: it slewed in a corkscrew motion up into the rift and vanished from sight. My master gasped in horror.

Now a great, translucent leg emerged, with almost feline stealth and poise. Things were really desperate. Nevertheless, I'm an optimist at heart. I noticed that the ripples emanating from the being changed the nature of every spell they hit. And that gave me hope.

"Nathaniel," I said. "Listen to me."

He didn't answer at first. He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens. After all the events of the previous few days, I had almost forgotten how young he was. Right at that moment, he did not look like a magician at all, but just a terrified small boy.

"Nathaniel."

A faint voice. "Yes?"

"Listen. If we get out of this Stricture, do you know what we have to do?"

"But how can we get out?"

"Don't bother about that. If we escape, what must we do?"

He shrugged.

"I'll tell you, then. We need to accomplish two things. First—get the Amulet off Lovelace. That's your job."

"Why?"

"Because I can't touch the Amulet now that he's wearing it: it's absorbing everything magical that comes near him—and I don't wish to be included accidentally. It's got to be you. But I'll try to distract him while you get close."

"That's kind."

"The second thing," I said, "is that we must reverse the summons to drive our big friend away. That's your job."

"My job again?"

"Yes—I'll help by stealing the summoning horn from Lovelace. It needs to be broken if we're to do the job. But you'll have to round up some of the other magicians to speak the Dismissal Spell. Some of the stronger ones are bound to know enough, providing they're still conscious. Don't worry—you won't have to do it yourself."

The boy frowned. "Lovelace intends to dismiss it on his own." He said this with a touch of his normal vigor.

"Yes, and he's a master magician, highly skilled and powerful. Right—that's settled. We go for the Amulet. If we get it, you head off and seek help from the others, while I deal with Lovelace."

How the boy would have answered, I'll never know, because at that moment, the great entity stepped clear of the rift and a particularly strong ripple ran out through the planes. It swept through the discarded chairs, turning some to liquid, setting others on fire, and finally reaching the shimmering white Stricture where all this time we had been imprisoned. At its touch, the membrane that enclosed us exploded with a cacophonous bang that sent me flying one way and the boy another. He landed heavily, cutting his face.

Not far away, the great translucent head was slowly turning.

"Nathaniel!" I shouted. "Get up!"

Nathaniel

His head rang with the force of the explosion and he felt something wet against his mouth. Close by, amid the strident clamor of the hall, a voice called out his birth name. He stumbled to his feet.

The being was fully present now: Nathaniel sensed its shape, towering high against the ceiling. Beyond it, in the distance, a crowd of magicians huddled helplessly with their imps. And there in front of him stood Simon Lovelace, shouting orders to his slave. One hand was pressed against his chest; the other was outstretched, still holding the summoning horn.

"See, Ramuthra?" he cried. "I hold the Amulet of Samarkand, and I am thus beyond your power. Every other living thing in this room, be it human or spirit, is yours! I command you to destroy them!"

The great being inclined its head in acceptance; it turned toward the nearest group of magicians, sending shock waves out across the room. Nathaniel began to run toward Lovelace. A little way off, he saw an ugly fly buzzing low along the ground.

Lovelace noticed the fly; he frowned and watched its weaving, darting progress through the air—first it came close to him, then it drew back, then it came close again—and all the while, Nathaniel was sneaking up behind.

Closer, closer…

The fly made an aggressive dart at Lovelace's face, the magician flinched—and at that moment, Nathaniel pounced. He gave a spring and leaped on the magician's back, his fingers wrenching at his collar. As he did so, the fly became a marmoset that snatched at the horn with clever, greedy fingers. Lovelace cried out and gave the marmoset a buffet that sent it spinning, tail over snout; then, bending his back, he tossed Nathaniel over his head to land heavily on the floor.

Nathaniel and the marmoset sprawled side by side, with Lovelace standing over them. The magicians glasses hung crookedly from one ear. Nathaniel's departing hands had ripped his collar half away. The gold chain of the Amulet of Samarkand was exposed around his neck.

"So," Lovelace said, adjusting his spectacles and addressing Nathaniel, "you rejected my offer. A pity. How did you elude Maurice? With the help of this thing?" He indicated the marmoset. "Presumably that is Bartimaeus."

Nathaniel was winded; it pained him when he tried to rise. The marmoset was on its feet and growing, altering in outline. "Come on," it hissed to Nathaniel. "Before he has a chance to—"

Lovelace made a sign and spoke a syllable. A hulking shape materialized at his shoulder; it had a jackal's head. "I hadn't meant to summon you," the magician said. "Good slaves are so hard to find, and, man or djinni, I suspect I shall be the only one walking out of this room alive. But seeing as Bartimaeus is here, it seems wrong to deny you the chance of finishing him off." Lovelace made an easy gesture toward the gargoyle that now crouched low and ready at Nathaniel's side. "This time, Jabor," he said, "do not fail me."

The jackal—headed demon stepped forward. The gargoyle gave a curse and darted into the air. Two red—veined wings sprouted from Jabor's back; they flapped once, making a cracking noise like breaking bones, and carried him off in pursuit.

Nathaniel and Lovelace were left regarding each other. The pain in Nathaniel's midriff had subsided a little, and he was able to get to his feet. He kept his eyes fixed on the glint of gold at the magician's throat.

"You know, John," Lovelace said, tapping the horn casually against the palm of one hand, "if you'd had the luck to be apprenticed to me from the start, we might have done great things together. I recognize something in you; it is like looking into a mirror of my younger days—we share the same will to power." He smiled, showing his white teeth. "But you were corrupted by Underwood's softness, his mediocrity."

He broke off at this point, as a howling magician stumbled between them, his skin shining with tiny iridescent blue scales. From all across the room came the confused, unsettling sounds of magic distorting and going wrong, as it met the shock waves emanating from Ramuthra. Most of the magicians and their imps were piled up against the far wall, almost one on top of the other in their effort to escape. The great being moved toward them with lazy steps, leaving a trail of altered debris in its wake: transformed chairs, scattered bags, and belongings—all stretched, twisted, glimmering with unnatural tones and colors. Nathaniel tried to blot it from his mind; he gazed at the Amulet's chain, readying himself for another try.

Lovelace smiled. "Even now you haven't given up," he said. "And that's exactly what I'm talking about—that's your iron will in action. It's very good. But if you'd been my apprentice, I'd have trained you to keep it in check until you had the ability to follow through. If he is to survive, a true magician must be patient."

"Yes," Nathaniel said huskily, "I've been told that before."

"You should have listened. Well, it's too late to save you now; you've done me too much harm, and even were I so disposed, there's nothing I could do for you in here. The Amulet can't be shared."

For a moment, he considered Ramuthra: the demon had cornered an outlying pocket of magicians and was reaching down toward them with grasping fingers. A shrill screaming was suddenly cut off.

Nathaniel made a tiny movement. Instantly, Lovelace's eyes snapped back to him. "Still fighting?" he said. "If I can't trust you to lie down and die with all those other fools and cowards, I shall have to dispose of you first. Take it as a compliment, John."

He set the horn to his lips and blew briefly. Nathaniel's skin crawled; he sensed a change behind him.

Ramuthra had halted at the sound from the horn. The disturbance in the planes that marked its edges intensified, as if it radiated a strong emotion, perhaps anger.

Nathaniel watched it turn; it appeared to be regarding Lovelace across the breadth of the hall.

"Do not hesitate, slave!" Lovelace cried. "You shall do my bidding! This boy must die first."

Nathaniel felt an alien gaze upon him. With a strange detached clarity, he noticed a beautiful golden tapestry hanging on the wall beyond the giant head; it seemed larger than it should be, in crystal—clear focus, as if the demon's essence magnified it.

"Come!" Lovelace's voice sounded cracked and dry. A great wave rippled out from the demon, turning a nearby chandelier into a host of tiny yellow birds that broke away and flew across the rafters of the hall before dissolving. Ponderously turning its back on the remaining magicians, it set off in Nathaniel's direction.

Nathaniel's bowels turned to water. He backed away.

Beside him, he heard Lovelace chuckle.

Bartimaeus

So here we were again, Jabor and I, like partners in a dance—I retreating, he pursuing, step by synchronized step. Across the chaotic hall we flew, avoiding the scurrying humans, the explosions of misdirected magic, the shock waves radiating from the great being stalking in its midst. Jabor wore a grimace that might have been annoyance or uncertainty, since even his extreme resilience would be tested in this new environment. I decided to undermine his morale.

"How does it feel to be inferior to Faquarl?" I called, as I ducked behind one of the few remaining chandeliers. "I don't see Lovelace risking his life by summoning him here today."

From the other side of the chandelier, Jabor tried to lob a Pestilence at me, but a ripple of energy disrupted it and it became a cloud of pretty flowers drifting to the floor.

"Charming," I said. "Next, you need to learn to arrange them properly. I'll lend you a nice vase, if you like."

I don't think Jabor's grasp of insults extended far enough to take that quite on board, but he understood the tone, and it actually roused him to verbal response.

"He summoned me because I'm stronger!" he bellowed, wrenching the chandelier from the ceiling and hurling it at me. I dodged balletically and it shattered against the wall, to rain down in little lumps of crystal on the magicians' cowering heads.

Jabor did not seem impressed by this graceful maneuver. "Coward!" he cried. "Always, you sneak and crawl and run and hide."

"It's called intelligence," I said, pirouetting in midair, seizing a splintered beam from the ceiling rafters and hurling it at him like a javelin. He didn't bother to move, but let it crack against his shoulders and fall away. Then he came closer. Despite my fine words, none of my sneaking, crawling, running or hiding was having much effect right now, and looking down across the hall, I saw that the situation was in fact deteriorating rapidly. Ramuthra[118] had turned and was proceeding back across the room toward where the magician and my master were standing. It wasn't hard to see what Lovelace intended: the boy had become too much of an irritant to let him live a moment longer. I understood his point of view.

And still Lovelace held the horn; still he wore the Amulet. So far we had gained nothing. Somehow he had to be distracted, before Ramuthra got near enough to destroy the boy. An idea came into my mind unbidden. Interesting… But first, I needed to shake Jabor off for a while.

Easier said than done, Jabor being a persistent sort of fellow.

Avoiding his outstretched fingers, I ducked down through the air, in the vague direction of the center of the room. The podium had long since been reduced to a blancmangey sort of substance by the proximity of the rift. Scattered shoes and chairs were strewn all around, but there was no one left living in this area.

I dropped at speed. Behind, I heard Jabor rushing through the air in hot pursuit.

The nearer I got to the rift, the greater the strain on my essence—I could feel a suction starting to pull me forward; the effect was unpleasantly similar to being summoned. When I had reached the limit of my endurance, I stopped in midair, did a quick somersault, and faced the oncoming Jabor. There he was, whistling down, arms out and angry, with not a thought for the danger just beyond me. He just wanted to get his claws on my essence, to rend me like one of his victims from old Ombos[119] or Phoenicia.

But I was no mere human, cowering and quailing in the temple dark. I am Bartimaeus, and no coward either. I stood my ground.[120]

Down came Jabor. I hunched into a wrestling pose.

He opened his mouth to give that jackal cry—

I flapped my wings once and rose up a fraction. As he shot under me, I swiveled and booted his backside with all my strength. He was going too fast to stop quickly, especially with my friendly assistance. His wings jammed forward in an effort to stop. He slowed, and began to turn, snarling.

The rift exerted its pull on him. An expression of sudden doubt appeared on his face. He tried to beat his wings, but they didn't move properly. It was as if they were immersed in fast—flowing treacle; traces of a black—gray substance were pulled off the fringes of his wings and sucked away. That was his essence beginning to go. He made a tremendous effort, and actually succeeded in advancing a little toward me. I gave him a thumbs—up sign.

"Well done," I said. "I reckon you made about five centimeters there. Keep going." He made another Herculean effort. "Another centimeter! Good try! You'll get your hands on me soon." To encourage him, I stuck a cheeky foot in his direction and waved it in front of his face, just out of reach. He snarled and tried to swipe, but now the essence was curling away from the surface of his limbs and being drawn into the rift; his muscular tone was visibly changing, growing thinner by the instant. As his strength ebbed, the pull of the rift became stronger and he began to move backward, slowly first, then faster.

If Jabor had had half a brain he might have changed into a gnat or something: perhaps with less bulk he might have fought free from the rift's gravitational pull. A word of friendly advice could have saved him, but dear me, I was too busy watching him unravel to think of it until it was far too late. Now his rear limbs and wings were sloughing off into liquid streams of greasy gray—black stuff that spiraled through the rift and away from Earth. It can't have been pleasant for him, especially with Lovelace's charge still binding him here, but his face showed no pain, only hatred. So it was, right to the end. Even as the back of his head lost its form, his blazing red eyes were still locked on mine. Then they were gone, away into the rift, and I was alone, waving him a fond adieu.

I didn't waste too much time on my good—byes. I had other matters to attend to.

Nathaniel

"An amazing thing, the Amulet of Samarkand." Whether from fear, or from a cruel delight in reasserting his control, Lovelace persisted in keeping up a one—sided conversation with Nathaniel even as Ramuthra stalked remorselessly toward them. It seemed he could not bring himself to shut up. Nathaniel was retreating slowly, hopelessly, knowing there was nothing he could do.

"Ramuthra disrupts the elements, you see." Lovelace continued. "Wherever it treads, the elements rebel. And that ruins the careful order on which all magic depends. Nothing any of you might try can stop it: every magical effort will misfire—you cannot hurt me, you cannot escape. Ramuthra will have you all. But the Amulet contains an equal and opposite force to Ramuthra's; thus I am secure. It might even lift me to its mouth, so that chaos raged upon me, and I would feel nothing."

The demon had halved the distance to Nathaniel and was picking up pace. One of its great transparent arms was outstretched. Perhaps it was eager to taste him.

"My dear master suggested this plan," Lovelace said, "and, as always, he was inspired. He will be watching us at this moment."

"You mean Schyler?" Even on the threshold of death, Nathaniel couldn't restrain a savage satisfaction. "I doubt it. He's lying dead upstairs."

Lovelace's self—possession faltered for the first time. His smile flickered.

"That's right," Nathaniel said. "I didn't just escape. I killed him."

The magician laughed. "Don't lie to me, child—"

A voice behind Lovelace: a woman's, soft and plaintive. "Simon!"

The magician looked back; Amanda Cathcart stood there, close at hand, her gown torn and muddied, her hair disheveled and now slightly maroon. She limped as she approached him, her arms out, bafflement and terror etched upon her face. "Oh, Simon" she said. "What have you done?"

Lovelace blanched; he turned to face the woman. "Stay back!" he cried. There was a note of panic in his voice. "Get away!"

Tears welled in Amanda Cathcart's eyes. "How could you do this, Simon? Am I to die too?"

She lurched forward. Discomforted, the magician raised his hands to ward her off. "Amanda—I—I'm sorry. It… it had to be."

"No, Simon—you promised me so much."

Sideways on, Nathaniel stole closer.

Lovelace's confusion turned to anger. "Get away from me, woman, or I will call on the demon to tear you to shreds! Look—it is almost upon you!" Amanda Cathcart made no move. She seemed past caring.

"How could you use me in this way, Simon? After everything you said. You have no honor."

Nathaniel took another shuffling step. Ramuthra's outline towered above him now.

"Amanda, I'm warning you—"

Nathaniel leaped forward and snatched. His fingers rasped against the skin on Lovelace's neck, then closed about something cold, hard, and flexible. The Amulet's chain. He pulled at it with all his strength. For an instant the magician's head was jerked toward him, then a link somewhere along the chain snapped and it came away free in his hand.

Lovelace gave a great cry.

Nathaniel fell back from him and rolled onto the floor, the chain's links colliding against his face. He scrabbled at it with both hands, clasping the small, thin oval thing that hung from the middle of the broken chain. As he did so, he was conscious of a weight being removed from him, as if a remorseless gaze had suddenly shifted elsewhere.

Lovelace had reeled in the first shock of the assault, then made to pounce upon Nathaniel—but two slender arms pulled him back. "Wait, Simon—would you hurt a poor, sweet boy?"

"You're mad, Amanda! Get off me! The Amulet—I must—" For an instant he fought to extricate himself from the woman's desperate grip, and then the towering presence directly above him caught his horrified eye. His legs sagged. Ramuthra was very close to all three of them now: in the full power of its proximity, the fabric of their clothes flapped wildly, their hair blew about their faces. The air around them shivered, as if with electricity.

Lovelace squirmed backward. He nearly fell. "Ramuthra! I order you—take the boy! He has stolen the Amulet! He is not truly protected!" His voice carried no conviction. A great translucent hand reached out. Lovelace redoubled his entreaties. "Then forget the boy—take the woman! Take the woman first!"

For a moment, the hand paused. Lovelace made a great effort and ripped himself from the woman's grasp. "Yes! See? There she is! Take her first!"

From everywhere and nowhere, came a voice like a great crowd speaking in unison. "I see no woman. Only a grinning djinni."

Lovelace's face froze; he turned to Amanda Cathcart, who had been gazing at him with a look of agonized entreaty. As he watched, her features slowly altered. A smile of triumphant wickedness spread across her face from ear to ear. Then, in a flash, one of her arms snaked out, plucked the summoning horn from Lovelace's slackening grip and snatched it away. With a bound, Amanda Cathcart was gone, and a marmoset hung by its tail from a light fixture several meters away. It waved the horn merrily at the aghast magician.

"Don't mind if I have this?" it called. "You won't need it where you're going."

All energy seemed to depart from the magician; his skin hung loose and ashen on his bones. His shoulders slumped; he took a pace toward Nathaniel, as if halfheartedly trying to reclaim the Amulet. Then a great hand reached down and engulfed him, and Lovelace was plucked into the air. High, high, higher he went, his body shifting and altering as it did so. Ramuthra's head bent to meet him. Something that might have been a mouth was seen to open.

An instant later, Simon Lovelace was gone.

The demon paused to look for the cackling marmoset, but for the moment it had vanished. Ignoring Nathaniel, who was still sprawled on the floor, it turned back heavily toward the magicians at the other end of the hall.

A familiar voice spoke at Nathaniel's side.

"Two down, one to go," it said.

Bartimaeus

I was so elated at the success of my fine trick that I risked changing into Ptolemy's form the moment Ramuthra's attention was elsewhere. Jabor and Love—lace were gone, and now only the great entity remained to be dealt with. I nudged my master with a boot. He was lying on his back, cradling the Amulet of Samarkand in his grubby mitts as a mother would her baby. I set the summoning horn down by his side.

He struggled to a sitting position. "Lovelace… did you see?"

"Yep, and it wasn't pretty."

As he rose stiffly to his feet, his eyes shone with a strange brilliance—half horror, half exaltation. "I've got it," he whispered. "I've got the Amulet."

"Yes," I replied, hastily. "Well done. But Ramuthra is still with us, and if we want to get help, we're running out of time."

I looked across at the far side of the auditorium. My elation dwindled. The assembled ministers of State were a lamentable heap by now, either cowering in dumb stupefaction, banging on the doors, or fighting viciously with each other for a position as far away as possible from the oncoming Ramuthra. It was an unedifying spectacle, like watching a crowd of plague rats scrapping in a sewer. It was also highly worrying: since not one of them looked in a fit state to recite a complex dismissal spell.

"Come on," I said. "While Ramuthra takes some, we can rouse the others. Who's most likely to remember the counter—summons?

His lip curled. "None of them, by the looks of things."

"Even so, we've got to try." I tugged at his sleeve. "Come on. Neither of us knows the incantation."[121]

"Speak for yourself," he said, slowly. "I know it."

"You?" I was a little taken aback. "Are you sure?"

He scowled at me. Physically, he was pretty ropy—white of skin, bruised and bleeding, swaying where he stood. But a bright fire of determination burned in his eyes. "That possibility hadn't even occurred to you, had it?" he said. "Yes—I've learned it."

There was more than a hint of doubt in the voice, and in the eyes too—I glimpsed it wrestling with his resolve. I tried not to sound skeptical. "It's high level," I said. "And complex; and you'll need to break the horn at exactly the right moment. This is no time for false pride, boy. You could still—"

"Ask for help? I don't think so." Whether through pride or practicality, he was quite right. Ramuthra was almost upon the magicians now; we had no chance of getting help from them. "Stand away," he said. "I need space to think."

I hesitated for an instant. Admirable though his strength of character was, I could see all too clearly where it led. Amulet or no Amulet, the consequences of a fluffed dismissal are always disastrous, and this time I would suffer right along with him. But I could think of no alternative.

Helplessly, I stood back. My master picked up the summoning horn and closed his eyes.

Nathaniel

He closed his eyes to the chaos in the hall and breathed as slowly and deeply as he could. Sounds of suffering and terror still came to him, but he shoved them from his mind with a force of will.

That much was relatively easy. But a host of inner voices were speaking at him, and he could not shut their clamor out. This was his moment! This was the moment when a thousand insults and deprivations would be cast aside and forgotten! He knew the incantation—he had learned it long ago. He would speak it and everyone would see that he could not be overlooked again. Always, always he had been underestimated! Underwood had thought him an imbecile, a fool with barely the strength to draw a circle. He had refused to believe his apprentice could summon a djinni of any kind. Lovelace had thought him weak, childishly softhearted, yet likely to be tempted by the first cursory offer of power and status. He had refused to accept that Nathaniel had killed Schyler too: he had gone to his death denying it. And now, even Bartimaeus, his own servant, doubted that he knew the dismissal spell! Always, always, they cast him down.

Now was the moment when everything was in his hands. Too often before he had been rendered powerless—locked in his room, carried from the fire, robbed by the commoners, trapped in the Stricture… The memories of these indignities burned hot inside him. But now he would act—he would show them!

The outcry of his wounded pride almost overwhelmed him. It pounded on the inside of his skull. But at the deeper core of his being, beneath this desperation to succeed for his own sake, another desire struggled for expression. Far off, he heard someone cry out in fear and a shudder of pity ran through him. Unless he could bring the spell to mind, the hapless magicians were going to die. Their lives depended on him. And he had the knowledge to help. The counter—summons, the dismissal. How had it gone? He'd read the incantation, he knew he had—he'd committed it to memory months before. But he couldn't concentrate now, he couldn't bring it to mind.

It was no good. They were all going to die, just as Mrs. Underwood had died, and again he was about to fail. How badly Nathaniel wanted to help them! But desire alone was not enough. More than anything else he had wanted to save Mrs. Underwood, bring her from the flames. He would have given his life for hers, if he could. But he had not saved her. He had been carried away and she had gone forever. His love had counted for nothing.

For a moment, his past loss and the urgency of his present desire mingled and welled within him. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Patience, Nathaniel.

Patience…

He breathed in slowly. His sorrow receded. And across a great gulf came the remembered peace of his master's garden—he saw again the rhododendron bushes, their leaves glinting dark green in the sun. He saw the apple trees shedding their white blossom; a cat lying on a red—brick wall. He felt the lichen under his fingers; saw the moss on the statue; he felt himself protected again from the wider world. He imagined Ms. Lutyens sitting quietly, sketching by his side. A feeling of peace stole over him.

His mind cleared, his memory blossomed.

The necessary words came to him, as he had learned them sitting on the stone seat a year or more ago.

He opened his eyes and spoke them, his voice loud and clear and strong. At the end of the fifteenth syllable, he split the summoning horn in two across his knee.

As the ivory cracked and the words rang out, Ramuthra stopped dead. The shimmering ripples in the air that defined its outlines quivered, first gently and then with greater force. The rift in the center of the room opened a little. Then, with astonishing suddenness, the outlines of the demon crumpled and shrank, were drawn back into the rift and vanished.

The rift closed up: a scar healing at blinding speed.

With it gone, the hall seemed cavernous and empty. One chandelier and several small wall lights came on again, casting a weak radiance here and there. Outside, the late afternoon sky was gray, darkening to deep blue. The wind could be heard rushing through the trees in the wood.

There was absolute silence in the hall. The crowd of magicians and one or two bruised and battered imps remained quite still. Only one thing moved: a boy limping forward across the center of the room, with the Amulet of Samarkand dangling from his fingers. The jade stone at its center gleamed faintly in the half light.

In utter silence, Nathaniel crossed to where Rupert Devereaux sprawled half buried under the Foreign Minister, and placed the Amulet carefully in his hands.

Bartimaeus

Typical of the kid, that was. Having carried out the most important act of his grubby little life, you'd expect him to sink to the ground in exhaustion and relief. But did he? No. This was his big chance, and he seized it in the most theatrical fashion possible. With all eyes on him, he hobbled across the ruined auditorium like a wounded bird, frail as you like, straight for the center of power. What was he going to do? No one knew; no one dared to guess (I saw the Prime Minister flinch when the boy held out his hand). And then, in the climactic moment of this little charade, all was revealed: the legendary Amulet of Samarkand—held up high so all could see—handed back to the bosom of the Government. The kid even remembered to bow his head deferentially as he did so.

Sensation in the hall!

What a performance, eh? In fact, almost more than his ability to bully djinn, this instinctive pandering to the crowd suggested to me that the boy was probably destined for worldly success.[122] Certainly, his actions here had the desired effect: in moments, he was the center of an admiring throng.

Unnoticed in all this fuss, I abandoned Ptolemy's form and took on the semblance of a minor imp, which presently (when the crowd drew back) hovered over to the boy's side in a humble sort of way. I had no desire for my true capabilities to be noticed. Someone might have drawn a connection with the swashbuckling djinni who had lately escaped from the government prison.

Nathaniel's shoulder was the ideal vantage point for me to observe the aftermath of the attempted coup, since for a few hours at least the boy was the center of attention. Wherever the Prime Minister and his senior colleagues went, my master went too, answering urgent questions and stuffing his face with the reviving sweetmeats that underlings brought him.

When a systematic headcount was made, the list of missing was found to include four ministers (all fortunately from fairly junior posts) and a single undersecretary.[123] In addition, several magicians had suffered major facial and bodily distortions, or been otherwise inconvenienced.

The general relief quickly turned to anger. With Ramuthra gone, the magicians were able to set their slaves against the magical barriers on the doors and walls and quickly burst out into the house. A thorough search was made of Heddleham Hall, but apart from assorted servants, the dead body of the old man and an angry boy locked in a lavatory, no one was discovered. Unsurprisingly, the fish—faced magician Rufus Lime had gone; nor was there any sign of the tall, black—bearded man who had manned the gatehouse. Both seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Nathaniel also directed the investigators to the kitchen, where a compressed group of under—cooks was found trembling in a pantry. They reported that about half an hour previously,[124] the head chef had given a great cry, burst into blue flame, and swelled to a great and terrifying size before vanishing in a gust of brimstone. Upon inspection, a meat cleaver was found deeply embedded in the stonework of the fireplace, the last memento of Faquarl's bondage.[125]

With the main conspirators dead or vanished, the magicians set to interrogating the servants of the Hall. However, they proved ignorant of the conspiracy. They reported that during the previous few weeks Simon Lovelace had organized the extensive refurbishment of the auditorium, keeping it out of bounds for long periods. Unseen workers, accompanied by many oddly colored lights and sounds, had constructed the glass floor and inserted the new carpet,[126] supervised by a certain well—dressed gentleman with a round face and reddish beard.

This was a new clue. My master eagerly reported sighting such a person leaving the Hall that very morning, and messengers were immediately sent out with his description to alert the police in London and the home counties.

When all was done that could be done, Devereaux and his senior ministers refreshed themselves with champagne, cold meats, and jellied fruits and listened properly to my master's story. And what a story it was. What an outrageous yarn he told. Even I, with my long experience of human duplicity, was flabbergasted by the whoppers that boy came up with. To be frank, he did have a lot of things to hide: his own theft of the Amulet, for example, and my little encounter with Sholto Pinn. But a lot of his fibs were quite unnecessary. I had to sit quietly on his shoulder and hear myself referred to as a "minor imp" (five times), a "sort of foliot" (twice), and even (once) as a "homunculus."[127] I ask you—how insulting is that?

But that wasn't the half of it. He recounted (with big, mournful eyes) how his dear master, Arthur Underwood, had long been suspicious of Simon Lovelace, but had never had proof of any wrongdoing. Until, that was, the fateful day when Underwood had by chanced perceived the Amulet of Samarkand in Lovelace's possession. Before he could tell the authorities, Lovelace and his djinn had arrived at the house intent on murder. Underwood, together with John Mandrake, his faithful apprentice, had put up strong resistance, while even Mrs. Underwood had pitched in, heroically trying to tackle Lovelace herself. All in vain. Mr. and Mrs. Underwood had been killed and Nathaniel had fled for his life, with only a minor imp to help him. There were actually tears in his eyes when he recounted all this; it was almost as if he believed the rubbish he was spouting.

That was the bulk of his lie. Having no way of proving Lovelace's guilt, Nathaniel had then traveled to Heddleham Hall in the hope of somehow preventing his terrible crime. Now he was only happy he had managed to save the lives of his country's noble rulers, etc., etc.; honestly, it was enough to make an imp weep.

But they bought it. Didn't doubt a single word. He had another hurried snack, a swig of champagne, and then my master was whisked away in a ministerial limousine, back to London and further debriefing.

I went along too, of course. I wasn't letting him out of my sights for anything. He had a promise to keep.