The Amulet of Samarkand

Nathaniel

No sooner had the djinni transformed itself into a pigeon and flown from his window than Nathaniel closed the fastener, drew the curtains, and sank down upon the floor. His face was corpse—white and his body shook with exhaustion. For almost an hour, he remained slumped against the wall, staring at nothing.

He had done it; yes, he had done it all right. The demon was bested, was under his control again. He only had to work the binding spell on the tin, and Bartimaeus would be forced to serve him for as long as he desired. It was all going to be fine. He had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

So he told himself. But his hands trembled in his lap and his heart pounded painfully against his chest, and the confident assertions he tried to conjure fell from his mind. Angrily, he forced himself to breathe deeply and clasped his hands together tightly to suppress the shaking. Of course, this fear was only natural. He had ducked the Stimulating Compass by a fraction of a second. It was the first time he had come near death. That sort of thing was bound to cause a reaction. In a few minutes he would be back to normal; he could work the spell, take the bus to the Thames…

The djinni knew his birth name.

It knew his birth name.

Bartimaeus of Uruk, Sakhr al—Jinni of Al—Arish… He had allowed it to uncover his name. Mrs. Underwood had spoken, and the djinni had heard; and in that moment the cardinal rule had been broken. And now Nathaniel was compromised, perhaps forever.

He felt the panic welling up in his throat; the force of it practically made him gag. For the first time he could remember, his eyes stung with tears. The cardinal rule… if you broke that, you gave yourself up for lost. Demons always found a way. Give them any power at all and sooner or later they would have you. Sometimes it took years, but they would always…

He remembered famous case studies from the books. Werner of Prague: he had allowed his birth name to be uncovered by a harmless imp in his employ; in due course the imp had told a foliot and the foliot had told a djinni and the djinni had told an afrit. And three years later, when Werner had been crossing Wenceslas Square to buy a smoked sausage, a whirlwind had swept him into the air. For several hours his howls from above had deafened the townspeople going about their business, until the disruption had finished with pieces of the magician raining down upon on the weathervanes and chimneys. And this fate was hardly the most horrible that had befallen careless magicians. There was Paulo of Turin, Septimus Manning, Johann Faust…

A sob broke from Nathaniel's mouth, and the small, pathetic sound shocked him out of his despair and self—pity. Enough of this. He wasn't dead yet, and the demon was still under his command. Or it would be, once he had disposed of the tobacco tin properly. He would pull himself together.

Nathaniel struggled to his feet, his limbs awash with weakness. With a great effort, he drove his fears to the back of his mind and began his preparations. He redrew the pentacle and changed the incense. He lit new candles. He stole down to his master's library and double—checked the incantations. Then he added more rosemary to the tobacco tin, placed it in the center of its circle, and began the spell of Indefinite Confinement. After five long minutes, his mouth was dry and his voice cracked, but a steel—gray aura began to gleam across the surface of the tin. It flared and faded. Nathaniel uttered the name of Bartimaeus, added an astrological date on which the confinement would begin, and finished. The tin was as before. Nathaniel put it in the pocket of his jacket, snuffed out the candles, and drew the rug over the markings on the floor. Then he collapsed upon the bed.

When Mrs. Underwood brought her husband his lunch an hour later, she confided an anxiety with him.

"I'm worried about the boy," she said. "He's barely touched his sandwich. He's flopped himself down at the table, white as a sheet. Like he's been up all night. Something's scared him, or he's sickening for something." She paused. "Dear?"

Mr. Underwood was inspecting the array of food upon his plate. "No mango chutney, Martha? You know I like it with my ham and salad."

"We've run out, dear. So what do you think we should do?"

"Buy some more. That's obvious, isn't it? Heavens above, woman—"

"About the boy."

"Mmm? Oh, he's all right. The brat's just nervous about the Naming. And about summoning his first impling. I remember how terrified I got—my master practically had to whip me into the circle." Mr. Underwood shoveled a forkful of ham into his mouth. "Tell him to meet me in the library in an hour and a half's time and not to forget the Almanac. No—make it an hour. I'll need to ring Duvall about those thefts afterward, curse him."

In the kitchen, Nathaniel had still only managed half a sandwich. Mrs. Underwood ruffled his hair.

"Buck up," she said. "Is it the Naming that's unsettled you? You mustn't worry about it at all. Nathaniel's nice, but there are lots of other good names out there. Just think, you can choose whatever name you like, within reason. As long as no other current magician has it. Commoners don't have that privilege, you know. They have to stick with what they're given." She bustled about, filling the teapot and finding the milk and all the while talking, talking, talking. Nathaniel felt the tin weighing down his pocket.

"I'd like to go out for a bit, Mrs. Underwood," he said. "I need some fresh air."

She looked at him blankly. "But you can't, dear, can you? Not before your Naming. Your master wants you in the library in an hour. And don't forget the Nominative Almanac, he says. Though having said that, you do look rather peaky. Fresh air would do you good, I suppose… I'm sure he won't notice if you nip out for five minutes."

"It's all right, Mrs. Underwood. I'll stay in." Five minutes? He needed two hours, maybe more. He would have to dispose of the tin later, and hope Bartimaeus didn't try anything beforehand.

She poured a cup of tea and plonked it on the table before him. "That'll put color in your cheeks. It's a big day for you, Nathaniel. When I see you again, you'll be someone else. This will probably be the last time I call you by your old name. I suppose I shall have to start forgetting it now."

Why couldn't you have started forgetting it this morning? he thought. A small, malicious part of him wished to blame her for her careless affection, but he knew that this was totally unjust. It was his fault the demon had been on hand to hear her. Safe, secret, strong. He was none of these things now. He took a gulp of tea and burned his mouth.

"Come in, boy, come in." His master, seated in a tall upright chair beside the library desk, seemed almost genial. He eyed Nathaniel as he approached and indicated a stool beside him. "Sit, sit. Well, you're looking smarter than usual. Even wearing a jacket, eh? I'm pleased to see that you register the importance of the occasion."

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Where's the Almanac? Good, let's have it…" The book was bound in shiny green leather, with an ox—hair ribbon bookmark. It had been delivered by Jaroslav's only the day before and had not yet been read. Mr. Underwood opened the cover delicately and glanced at the tide page. "Loew's Nominative Almanac, three hundred ninety—fifth edition… How time flies. I chose my name from the three hundred fiftieth, would you believe? I remember it as if it were yesterday."

"Yes, sir." Nathaniel stifled a yawn. His exertions of the morning were catching up with him, but he had to concentrate on the task in hand. He watched as his master flipped the pages, talking all the while.

"The Almanac, boy, lists all official names used by magicians between Prague's golden age and the present. Many have been used more than once. Beside each is a register that indicates whether the name is currently being occupied. If not, the name is free to be taken. Or you can invent one of your own. See here—'Underwood, Arthur; London'… I am the second of that name, boy. The first was a prominent Jacobean; a close associate of King James the first, I believe. Now, I have been giving the matter some consideration, and I think you would do well to follow in the footsteps of one of the great magicians."

"Yes, sir."

"I thought Theophilus Throckmorton, perhaps—he was a notable alchemist. And… yes, I see that combination is free. No? That doesn't appeal? What about Balthazar Jones? You're not convinced? Well, perhaps he is a hard act to follow. Yes, boy? You have a suggestion?"

"Is William Gladstone free, sir? I admire him."

"Gladstone!" His master's eyes bulged. "The very idea… There are some names, boy, that are too great and too recent to touch. No one would dare! It would be the height of arrogance to assume his mantle." The eyebrows bristled. "If you aren't capable of a sensible suggestion, I shall do the choosing for you."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't think."

"Ambition is all very well, my lad, but you must cloak it. If it is too obvious, you will find yourself brought down in flames before you reach your twenties. A magician must not draw attention to himself too soon; certainly not before he has summoned his first mouler. Well, we shall browse together from the beginning…"

It took an hour and twenty—five minutes for the choice to be made, and a harrowing time Nathaniel had of it. His master seemed to have a great deal of affection for obscure magicians with obscurer names, and Fitzgibbon, Treacle, Hooms, and Gallimaufry were avoided only with difficulty. Likewise, Nathaniel's preferences always seemed too arrogant or ostentatious to Mr. Underwood. But in the end the choice was made. Wearily, Mr. Underwood brought out the official form and entered in the new name and signed it. Nathaniel had to sign too, in a large box at the bottom of the page. His signature was spiky and ill—formed, but then it was the first time he had used it. He read it back to himself under his breath: John Mandrake. He was the third magician of that name. Neither of his predecessors had achieved much of significance, but by this time Nathaniel didn't care. Anything was better than Treacle. It would do.

His master folded the paper, placed it into a brown envelope, and sat back in his chair.

"Well, John," he said. "It is done. I shall get that stamped at the ministry directly and you will then officially exist. However, don't go getting above yourself. You still know almost nothing, as you will see when you attempt to summon the natterjack impling tomorrow. Still, the first stage of your education is completed, thanks to me."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Heaven knows, it has been six long and tedious years. I often doubted you would get this far. Most masters would have turned you out on to the streets after that little affair last year. But I persevered… No matter. From now on you may wear your lenses."

"Thank you, sir." Nathaniel couldn't help blinking. He was already wearing them.

Mr. Underwood's voice took on a complacent tone. "All being well, in a few years we will have you in a worthy job: perhaps as an under—secretary in one of the lesser ministries. It won't be glamorous, but it will suit your modest capabilities perfectly. Not every magician can aspire to become an important minister like me, John, but that shouldn't stop you making a contribution of your own, however meager. In the meantime, as my apprentice, you will be able to assist me in trivial conjurations, and pay me back a little for all the effort I have spent on you."

"It would be an honor, sir."

His master waved a hand of dismissal, allowing Nathaniel to turn away and assume a sour expression. He was halfway to the door when his master remembered something.

"One thing more," he said. "Your Naming has happened just in time. In three days, I shall be attending Parliament to hear the state address given by the Prime Minister to all senior members of his government. It is a largely ceremonial occasion, but he will be outlining his intended policies at home and abroad. Named apprentices are invited too, along with spouses. Providing you do not displease me beforehand, I shall take you with me. It will be an eye—opening experience for you to see us master magicians all together!"

"Yes, sir; thank you very much, sir!" For almost the first time in living memory when talking to his master, Nathaniel's enthusiasm was actually genuine. Parliament! The Prime Minister! He left the library and ran up the staircase to his room and the skylight, through which the distant Houses of Parliament were barely visible beneath the gray November sky. To Nathaniel, the matchstick tower seemed bathed in sunshine.

A little later, he remembered the tobacco tin in his pocket.

There were still two hours till dinner. Mrs. Underwood was in the kitchen, while his master was on the telephone in his study. Stealthily, Nathaniel left the house by the front door, taking five pounds from the tradesmen's jar that Mrs. Underwood kept on a shelf in the hall. At the main road, he caught a bus heading south.

Magicians were not known for catching public transport. He sat on the backseat, as far away from the other passengers as possible, watching them get on and off out of the corner of his eye. Men, women, old, young; youths dressed in drab colors, girls with flashes of jewelry at their throats. They bickered, laughed or sat quietly, read newspapers, books, and glossy magazines. Human, yes, but it was easy to see they had no power. To Nathaniel, whose experience of people was very limited, this made them oddly two—dimensional. Their conversations seemed about nothing; the books they read looked trivial. Aside from feeling that most of them were faintly vulgar, he could make nothing of them.

After half an hour the bus arrived at Blackfriars Bridge and the river Thames.

Nathaniel alighted and walked to the very center of the bridge, where he leaned out over the wrought—iron balustrade. The river was at high tide; its fast gray waters raced beneath him, its uneven surface swirling ceaselessly. Along both sides, blank—eyed office towers clustered above the Embankment roads, where car lights and street lamps were just beginning to come on. The Houses of Parliament, Nathaniel knew, stood just around a bend in the river. He had never been so close to them before. The very thought made his heart quicken.

Time enough for that another day. First he had a vital task to accomplish. From one pocket he drew a plastic bag and a half—brick found in his master's garden. From another he took the tobacco tin. Brick and tin went into the bag, the head of which he tied with a double knot.

Nathaniel gave a quick glance both ways along the bridge. Other pedestrians hurried past him, heads down, shoulders hunched. No one glanced in his direction. Without any more ado, he tossed the package over the balustrade and watched it fall.

Down… down… By the end it was nothing but a white speck. He could barely see the splash.

Gone. Sunk like a stone.

Nathaniel pulled up the collar of his jacket, shielding his neck from the wind gusting along the river. He was safe. Well, safe as he could be for the moment. He had carried out his threat. If Bartimaeus dared betray him now…

It began to rain as he made his way back along the bridge to the bus stop. He walked slowly, lost in thought, almost colliding with several hurrying commuters coming in the opposite direction. They cursed him as they passed, but he barely noticed. Safe… That was all that mattered…

A great weariness descended upon him with every step.

Bartimaeus

When I set out from the boy's attic window, my head was so full of competing plans and complex stratagems that I didn't look where I was going and flew straight into a chimney.

Something symbolic in that. It's what fake freedom does for you.

Off I went, flying through the air, one of a million pigeons in the great metropolis. The sun was on my wings, the cold air ruffled my handsome feathers. The endless rows of gray—brown roofs stretched below me and away to the dim horizon like the furrows of a giant autumn field. How that great space called to me. I wanted to fly until I had left the cursed city far behind, never looking back. I could have done so. No one would have stopped me. I would not be summoned back.

But I could not follow this desire. The boy had made quite clear what would happen if I failed to spy on Simon Lovelace and dish the dirt on him. Sure, I could go anywhere I wanted right now. Sure, I could use any methods I chose to acquire my info (bearing in mind that anything I did that harmed Nathaniel would in due course harm me too). Sure, the boy would not summon me for a while at least. (He was weary and needed rest.[42]) Sure, I had a month to do the job. But I still had to obey his orders to his satisfaction. If not, I had an appointment with Old Chokey, which at that moment was probably settling softly into the thick, dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames.

Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price.

Thinking things through, I decided that I had the meager choice of starting with a known place or with a known fact. The place was Simon Lovelace's villa in Hampstead, where much of his secret business presumably occurred. I did not wish to enter it again, but perhaps I could mount a watch outside and see who went in and who went out. The fact was that the magician had seemingly come into possession of the Amulet of Samarkand by ill means. Perhaps I could find someone who knew more about the object's recent history, such as who had owned it last.

Of the two starting points, visiting Hampstead seemed the best way to begin. At least I knew how to get there.

This time I kept as far away as possible. Finding a house on the opposite side of the road that afforded a decent view of the villa's front drive and gate, I alighted upon it and perched on the gutter. Then I surveyed the terrain. A few changes had been made to Lovelace's pad since the night before. The defense nexus had been repaired and strengthened with an extra layer, while the most badly scorched trees had been cut up and taken away. More ominously, several tall, thin, reddish creatures were now prowling the lawns on the fourth and fifth planes.

There was no sign of Lovelace, Faquarl, or Jabor, but then I didn't expect anything right away. I was bound to have to wait for an hour or so. Fluffing up my feathers against the wind, I settled down to my surveillance.

Three days I stayed on that gutter. Three whole days. It did me good to rest myself, I'm sure, but the ache that grew up within my manifestation made me fretful. Moreover, I was very bored. Nothing significant happened.

Each morning, an elderly gardener toddled around the estate scattering fertilizer on the stretches of lawn where Jabor's Detonations had landed. In the afternoons, he snipped at token stems and raked the drive before pottering in for a cup of tea. He was oblivious to the red things, three of which stalked him at all times, like giant yearning birds of prey. No doubt only the strict terms of their summoning prevented them from devouring him.

Each evening, a flotilla of search spheres emerged to resume their hunt across the city. The magician himself remained inside, doubtless orchestrating other attempts to locate his amulet. I wondered idly whether Faquarl and Jabor had suffered for letting me escape. One could only hope.

On the morning of the third day, a soft coo of approval broke my concentration. A small, well—presented pigeon had appeared on the guttering to my right and was looking at me with a distinctly interested tilt of the head. Something about it made me suspect it was female. I gave what I hoped was a haughty and dismissive coo and looked away. The pigeon gave a coquettish hop along the guttering. Just what I needed: an amorous bird. I edged away. She hopped a little closer. I edged away again. Now I was right at the end of the gutter, perched above the opening to the drainpipe.

It was tempting to turn into an alley cat and frighten her out of her feathers, but it was too risky to make a change so close to the villa. I was just about to fly elsewhere, when at long last I spotted something leaving Simon Lovelace's compound.

A small circular hole widened in the shimmering blue nexus and a bottle—green imp with bat's wings and the snout of a pig issued through it. The hole closed up; the imp beat his wings and flew down the road at streetlamp height.

He carried a pair of letters in one paw.

At that moment, a purring coo sounded directly in my ear. I half turned my head—and looked directly into the beak of that benighted she—pigeon. With devious feminine cunning she'd seized the opportunity to snuggle right up close.

My response was eloquent and brief. She got a wingtip in the eye and a kick in the plumage. And with that I was airborne, following the imp.

It was clear to me that he was a messenger of some kind, probably entrusted with something too dangerous or secret for telephone or mail. I had seen creatures of his kind before.[43] Whatever he was carrying now, this was my first opportunity to spy on Lovelace's doings.

The imp drifted over some gardens, soaring on an updraft. I followed, laboring somewhat on my stubby wings. As I went I considered the situation carefully. The safest and most sensible thing to do was to ignore the envelopes he was carrying and concentrate instead on making friends with him. I could, for instance, adopt the semblance of another messenger imp and start up a conversation, perhaps winning his confidence during the course of several «chance» meetings. If I were patient, friendly and casual enough, he would no doubt eventually spill some beans…

Or I could just beat him up instead. This was a quicker and more direct approach and all in all I favored it. So I followed the imp at a discreet distance and jumped him over Hampstead Heath.

When we were in a remote enough area, I made the change from pigeon to gargoyle; then I swooped down upon the unlucky imp, and bundled us to earth among some scrubby trees. This done, I held him by a foot and gave him a decent shaking.

"Leggo!" he squealed, flailing back and forth with his four clawed paws. "I'll have you! I'll cut you to ribbons, I will!"

"Will you, my lad?" I dragged him into a thicket and fixed him nicely under a small boulder. Only his snout and paws protruded.

"Right," I said, sitting myself cross—legged on top of the stone and plucking the envelopes from a paw. "First I'm going to read these, then we can talk. You can tell me what and all you know about Simon Lovelace."

Affecting not to notice the frankly shocking curses that sounded up from below, I considered the envelopes. They were very different. One was plain and completely blank: it bore no name or mark and had been sealed with a small blob of red wax. The other was more showy, made of soft yellowish vellum, its seal had been pressed with the shape of the magician's monogram, SL. It was addressed to someone named R. Devereaux, Esq.

"First question," I said. "Who's R. Devereaux?"

The imp's voice was muffled but insolent. "You're kidding! You don't know who Rupert Devereaux is? You stupid or something?"

"A small piece of advice," I said. "Generally speaking, it isn't wise to be rude to someone bigger than you, especially when they've just trapped you under a boulder."

"You can stick your advice up—"

* * * * * * * * * *[44]

"I'll ask again. Who is Rupert Devereaux?"

"He's the British Prime Minister, O Most Bounteous and Merciful One."

"Is he?[45] Lovelace does move in high circles. Let's see what he's got to say to the Prime Minister, then…"

Extending the sharpest of my claws I carefully prised the sealing wax off the envelope with minimum damage and placed it on the boulder beside me for safekeeping. Then I opened the envelope.

It wasn't the most thrilling letter I've ever intercepted.

Just your typical groveling magician—speak, the kind of sycophantic twaddle that leaves an oily sensation on the tongue. And isn't greatly informative either. Still, at least I had no difficulty in guessing what "something extremely urgent" was—that could only be the missing Amulet, surely. Also, it was noticeable that he needed to sort it out before a "big event" next week—a conference of some kind. Perhaps that was worth investigating. As for Amanda: she could only be the woman I had seen with Lovelace on my first trip to the villa. It would be useful to learn more about her.

I replaced the letter carefully in the envelope, took up the sealing wax, and, by judiciously applying a tiny burst of heat, melted its underside. Then I stuck the seal down again and—presto! Good as new.

Next, I opened the second envelope. Inside was a small slip of paper, inscribed with a brief message.

Now, this was more like it! Much more suspicious: no addressee, no signature at the bottom, everything nice and vague. And, like all the best secret messages, its true meaning was concealed. Or at least, it would have been for any human numbskull who'd chanced to read it. I, on the other hand, instantly saw through all the tripe about lost tickets. Lovelace was quietly discussing his missing amulet again. It looked as if the kid was right: perhaps the magician did have something to hide. It was time to ask my friend the imp a few straight questions.

"Right," I said, "this blank envelope. Where are you taking it?"

"To the residence of Mr. Schyler, O Most Awful One. He lives in Greenwich."

"And who is Mr. Schyler?"

"I believe, O Light of All Djinn, that he is Mr. Lovelace's old master. I regularly take correspondence between them. They are both ministers in the Government."

"I see." This was something to go on, if not much. What were they up to? What was this «performance» that might have to be canceled? From the clues in both letters, it seemed that Lovelace and Schyler would meet to discuss their affairs this evening at Parliament. It would be well worth being there to hear what they had to say.

In the meantime, I resumed my enquiries. "Simon Lovelace. What do you know about him? What's this conference he's organizing?"

The imp gave a forlorn cry. "O Brilliant Ray of Starlight, it grieves me, but I do not know! May I be toasted for my ignorance! I simply carry messages, worthless as I am. I go where I'm directed and bring replies by return, never deviating from my course and never pausing—unless I am so fortunate as to be waylaid by your good grace and squashed under a stone."

"Indeed. Well, who is Lovelace closest to? Who do you carry messages to most often?"

"O Most Glorious Person of High Repute, perhaps Mr. Schyler is his most frequent correspondent. Otherwise, no one stands out. They are mainly politicians and people of stature in London society. All magicians, of course, but they vary greatly. Only the other day, for instance, I carried messages to Tim Hildick, Minister for the Regions, to Sholto Pinn of Pinn's Accoutrements and to and from Quentin Make—peace, the theatrical impresario. That is a typical cross—section."

"Pinn's Accoutrements—what's that?"

"If anyone else asked that question, O He Who is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool; in you it is a sign of that disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue. Pinn's Accoutrements is the most prestigious supplier of magical artifacts in London. It is situated on Piccadilly. Sholto Pinn is the proprietor."

"Interesting. So if a magician wanted to buy an artifact he would go to Pinn's?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Miraculous One, it's difficult to think of new titles for you when you ask short questions."

"We'll let it pass this time. So, other than Schyler, no one stands out among all his contacts? You're sure?"

"Yes, Exalted Being. He has many friends. I cannot single one out."

"Who's Amanda?"

"I could not say, O Ace One. Perhaps she is his wife. I have never taken messages to her."

" ' O Ace One.' You really are struggling, aren't you? All right. Two last questions coming up. First: have you ever seen or delivered messages to a tall, dark—bearded man wearing a travel—stained cloak and gloves? Glowering, mysterious. Second: What servants does Simon Lovelace employ? I don't mean squirts like yourself, but potent ones like me. Look sharp and I might remove this pebble before I go."

The imp's voice was doleful. "I wish I could satisfy your every whim, Lord of All You Survey, but first, I fear I have never set eyes on such a bearded person, and second, I do not have access to any of the magician's inner chambers. There are formidable entities within; I sense their power, but fortunately I have never met them. All I know is that this morning the master installed thirteen ravenous krels in his grounds. Thirteen! One would be bad enough. They always go for my leg when I arrive with a letter."

I debated for a moment. My biggest lead was the Schyler connection. He and Lovelace were up to something, no doubt about it, and if I eavesdropped at Parliament that evening, I might very well find out what. But that meeting was hours away; in the meantime, I thought I would call in on Pinn's Accoutrements of Piccadilly. For sure, Lovelace hadn't got his Amulet there, but I might learn something about the bauble's recent past if I checked the place out.

There was a slight wriggling under the stone.

"If you are finished, O Lenient One, might I be allowed to proceed on my way? I suffer the Red—hot Stipples if I am late delivering my messages."

"Very well." It is not uncommon to swallow lesser imps that fall into one's power, but that wasn't really my style.[46] I removed myself from the boulder and tossed it to one side. A paper—thin messenger folded himself in a couple of places and got painfully to his feet.

"Here're your letters. Don't worry, I haven't doctored them."

"Nothing to do with me if you had, O Glorious Meteor of the East. I simply carry the envelopes. Don't know nuffin about what's in 'em, do I?" The crisis over, the imp was already reverting to his obnoxious type.

"Tell no one about our meeting, or I'll be waiting for you next time you set out."

"What, d'you think I'd go looking for trouble? No way. Well, if my drubbing's over, I'm out of here."

With a few weary beats of his leathery wings, the imp rose into the air and disappeared over the trees. I gave him a few minutes to get clear, then I turned into a pigeon again and flew off myself, heading southward over the lonely heath to distant Piccadilly.

Nathaniel

The two days following his Naming were uncomfortable ones for Nathaniel. Physically, he was at a low ebb: the summoning of Bartimaeus and their magical duel had seen to that. By the time he arrived back from his trip to the Thames, he was already sniffing slightly; at nightfall he was snuffling like a hog, and by the following morning he had a full—blown, taps—running head cold. When he appeared, wraithlike, in her kitchen, Mrs. Underwood took one look at him, spun him on his heels, and sent him back to bed. She followed him up shortly afterward with a hot—water bottle, a pile of chocolate—spread sandwiches, and a steaming mug of honey and lemon. From the depths of his blankets, Nathaniel coughed his thanks.

"Don't mention it, John," she said. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you this morning. We have to get you better for the state address, don't we?" She glanced around the room, frowning. "There's a very strong smell of candles up here," she said. "And incense. You haven't been practicing here, have you?"

"No, Mrs. Underwood." Inwardly Nathaniel cursed his carelessness. He had been meaning to open the window to let the stench out, but he had felt so weary the evening before, it had slipped his mind. "That happens sometimes. Smells rise to the top of the house from Mr. Underwood's workroom."

"Odd. I've never noticed it before."

She sniffed again. Nathaniel's eyes were drawn as if by a magnet to one edge of his rug, where to his horror he saw the perimeter of an incriminating pentacle peeping out. With a great effort of will he tore his gaze away and broke into a vigorous fit of coughing. Mrs. Underwood was distracted. She passed him the honey and lemon.

"Drink that, dear. Then sleep," she said. "I'll come up again at lunch time."

Long before she did so the window had been opened and the room well and truly aired. The floorboards beneath the rug had been scrubbed clean.

Nathaniel lay in bed. His new name, which Mrs. Underwood had seemed determined to break in for him, rang strangely in his ears. It sounded fake, even a little foolish. John Mandrake. Appropriate perhaps for a magician from the history books; less so for a dribbly, cold—ridden boy. He would find it hard to get used to this new identity, harder still to forget his old name… Not that he'd be allowed to forget it, with Bartimaeus around. Even with his safeguard—the tobacco tin washing about at the bottom of the river—Nathaniel did not feel quite secure. Try as he might to eject it from his mind, the anxiety came back: it was like a guilty conscience, prodding him, reminding him, never letting him rest easy. Maybe he had forgotten something vital that the demon would spot… maybe even now it was hatching its plan, instead of spying on Lovelace as he had directed.

A multitude of unpleasant possibilities spun endlessly through his mind as he sprawled amid the debris of orange peels and crumpled tissues. He was sorely tempted to bring out the scrying glass from its hiding place under the roof tiles, and with its help check up on Bartimaeus. But he knew this was unwise—his head was fogged, his voice a feeble croak, and his body didn't have strength enough to sit upright, let alone control a small, belligerent imp. For the moment, the djinni would have to be left to its own dubious devices. All would no doubt be well.

Mrs. Underwood's attentions saw Nathaniel back on his feet by the third morning.

"And not a moment too soon," she said. "It's our big outing this evening."

"Who will be there?" Nathaniel asked. He was sitting cross—legged in the corner of the kitchen, polishing his shoes.

"The three hundred ministers of the Government, their husbands and wives, some very lucky named apprentices… and a few hangers—on—the lesser magicians from the civil service or military, who are close to being promoted, but don't yet know the right people. It's a good opportunity to see who's in and who's out, John, not to mention what everyone's wearing. At the summer gathering in June, several of the female ministers experimented with caftans in the Samarkand style. It caused quite a stir, but it didn't catch on, of course. Oh, please concentrate, John." He had dropped his brush.

"Sorry, it slipped, that's all. Why Samarkand, Mrs. Underwood? What's so trendy about it?"

"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea. If you've finished your shoes, you'd better get on with brushing your jacket."

It was a Saturday and there were no lessons to distract Nathaniel from the thrill of what was to come, so as the day wore on he became possessed by a wildly mounting excitement. By three o'clock, several hours before it was necessary, he was already dressed in his best clothes and prowling back and forth about the house—a state of affairs that continued until his master put his head out of his bedroom and abruptly ordered him to stop.

"Cease your tramping, boy! You're making my head throb! Or would you prefer to remain behind this evening?"

Nathaniel shook his head numbly and descended on tiptoe to the library, where he kept himself out of trouble researching new Constraining spells for middle—ranking djinn. Time passed agreeably, and he was still busy learning the difficult incantation for the Jagged Pendulum, when Mr. Underwood strode into the room, his best overcoat flowing behind him.

"There you are, you idiot! I've been calling for you, up and down the house! Another minute and you'd have found us gone."

"Sorry, sir—I was reading—"

"Not that book you weren't, you dozy fool. It's fourth—level, written in Coptic—you'd never have a hope. You were asleep and don't deny it. Right, snap to sharpish, or I really will leave you behind."

Nathaniel's eyes had been closed at the moment his master walked in: he found it easier to memorize things that way. All things considered, this was perhaps fortunate, since he didn't have to come up with any further explanations. In an instant the book was lying discarded on the chair and he was out of the library at his master's heels and following him in a heart—pounding flurry down the hall, through the front door and out into the night, where Mrs. Underwood, in a shiny green dress and with something like a furry anaconda wound loosely round her neck, waited smiling beside the big black car.

Nathaniel had only been in his master's car once before, and he did not remember it. He climbed into the back, marveling at the feel of the shiny leather seat and the odd, fake smell of the pine—tree odoriser dangling from the rearview mirror.

"Sit back and don't touch the windows." Mr. Underwood's eyebrows glowered at him in the mirror. Nathaniel sat back, his hands contentedly in his lap, and the journey to Parliament began.

Nathaniel stared out of the window as the car cruised south. The countless glowing lights of London—headlamps, street lamps, shop fronts, windows, vigilance spheres—flashed in quick succession across his face. He gazed wide—eyed, blinking hardly at all, drinking everything in. Traveling across the city was a special occasion in itself—it rarely happened to Nathaniel, whose experience of the world was confined mainly to books. Now and then, Mrs. Underwood took him on necessary bus trips to clothes and shoe stores, and once, when Mr. Underwood was away on business, he had been taken to the zoo. But he had seldom gone beyond the outskirts of Highgate, and certainly never at night.

As usual, it was the sheer scale that took his breath away; the profusion of streets and side—roads, the ribbons of lights curving off on all sides. Most of the houses seemed very different from the ones in his master's street: much smaller, meaner, more tightly packed. Often they seemed to congregate around large, windowless buildings with flat roofs and tall chimneys, presumably factories where commoners assembled for some dull purpose. As such they didn't really interest him.

The commoners themselves were in evidence too. Nathaniel was always amazed by how many of them there were. Despite the dark and the evening drizzle, they were out in surprising numbers, heads down, hurrying along like ants in his garden, ducking in and out of shops, or sometimes disappearing into ramshackle inns on street corners, where warm orange light shone through frosted windows. Every house like this had its own vigilance sphere floating prominently in the air above the door; whenever someone walked below, it bobbed and pulsed with a deeper red.

The car had just passed one of these inns—a particularly large example opposite a subway station—when Mr. Underwood banged his fist down on the dashboard hard enough to make Nathaniel jump.

"That's one, Martha!" he exclaimed. "That's one of the worst of them! If it was up to me, the Night Police would move in tomorrow and carry off everyone they found inside."

"Oh, not the Night Police, Arthur," his wife said, in a pained voice. "Surely there are better ways of re—educating them."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Martha. Show me a London inn, and I'll show you a commoners' meeting house hidden inside. In the attic, in the cellar, in a secret room behind the bar… I've seen it all—Internal Affairs has raided them often enough. But there's never any evidence and none of the goods we're after—just empty rooms, a few chairs and tables… Take it from me—it's filthy dives and pits like that where all this trouble's starting. The P.M.'ll have to act soon, but by then who knows what kind of outrage they'll have committed. Vigilance spheres aren't enough! We need to burn the places to the ground—that's what I told Duvall this afternoon. But of course no one listens to me."

Nathaniel had long ago learned never to ask questions, no matter how interested he was in something. He craned his head and watched the orange lights of the inn dwindle and vanish behind them.

Now they were entering central London, where the buildings became ever bigger and more grand, as befitted the capital of the Empire. The number of private cars on the roads increased, while the shop fronts grew wide and gaudy, and magicians as well as commoners became visible strolling on the pavements.

"How are you doing in the back, dear?" Mrs. Underwood asked.

"Very well, Mrs. Underwood. Are we nearly there yet?"

"Another couple of minutes, John."

His master took a glance in the rearview mirror. "Time enough then to give you a warning," he said. "Tonight you're representing me. We're going to be in the same room as all the major magicians in the country and that means men and women whose power you can't even begin to guess at. Put a foot out of line and it'll ruin my reputation. Do you know what happened to Disraeli's apprentice?"

"No, sir."

"It was a state address much like this one. The apprentice tripped on Westminster steps while Disraeli was being introduced to the assembly. He knocked against his master and sent him tumbling head over heels down the stairs. Disraeli's fall was broken by the Duchess of Argyle—fortunately a well—padded lady."

"Yes, sir."

"Disraeli stood up and apologized to the Duchess with great courtesy. Then he turned to where his apprentice was trembling and weeping at the top of the steps and clapped his hands. The apprentice fell to his knees, his hands outstretched, but to no avail. A darkness fell across the hall for approximately fifteen seconds. When it cleared the apprentice had gone and in his place was a solid iron statue, in exactly the wretched boy's shape. In its supplicating hands was a boot scraper, on which everyone entering the hall for the last one hundred fifty years has been able to clean their shoes."

"Really, sir? Will I see it?"

"The point being, boy, that if you embarrass me in any way I shall ensure that there's a matching hat stand there too. Do you understand?"

"I do indeed, sir." Nathaniel made a mental note to check the formulae for Petrifaction. He had a feeling it involved summoning an afrit of considerable power. From what he knew of his master's ability, he doubted he would have the slightest chance of accomplishing this. He smiled slightly in the darkness.

"Stay beside me at all times," Mr. Underwood went on. "Do not speak unless I give you leave and do not stare at any of the magicians, no matter what deformities they may possess. And now, be quiet—we're there, and I need to concentrate."

The car slowed; it joined a procession of similar black vehicles that moved along the broad gray span of Whitehall. They passed a succession of granite monuments to the conquering magicians of the late Victorian age and the fallen heroes of the Great War, then a few monolithic sculptures representing Ideal Virtues (Patriotism, Respect for Authority, the Dutiful Wife). Behind soared the flat—fronted, many—windowed office towers that housed the Imperial Government.

The pace slowed to a crawl. Nathaniel began to notice groups of silent onlookers standing on the sidewalks, watching the cars go by. As best he could judge, their mood seemed sullen, even hostile. Most of the faces were thin and drawn. Large men in gray uniforms stood casually further off, keeping an eye upon the crowds. Everyone—policemen and commoners alike—looked very cold.

Sitting by himself in the insulated comfort of the car, a glow of self—satisfaction began to steal over Nathaniel. He was part of things now; he was an insider on his way to Parliament at last. He was important, set apart from the rest—and it felt good. For the first time in his life he knew the lazy exhilaration of easy power.

Presently the car entered Parliament Square and they turned left through some wrought—iron gates. Mr. Underwood flashed a pass, someone signaled them to go on, then the car was crossing a cobbled yard and descending a ramp into an underground car—park lit by neon striplights. Mr. Underwood pulled into a free bay and switched off the ignition.

In the back, Nathaniel's fingers dug into the leather seat. He was shaking with suppressed excitement.

They had arrived.

Bartimaeus

The darkness cloaking my mind lifted. Instantly, I was as alert as ever, crystal—sharp in all my perceptions, a coiled spring ready to explode into action. It was time to escape!

Except it wasn't.

My mind works on several levels at once.[56] I've been known to make pleasant small talk while framing the words of a spell and assessing various escape routes at the same time. This sort of thing regularly comes in handy. But right then I didn't need more than one cognitive level to tell me that escape was wholly out of the question. I was in big trouble.

But first things first. One thing I could do was look good. The moment I awoke I realized that my form had slipped while I had been out. My falcon form had deteriorated into a thick, oily vapor that sloshed back and forth in midair, as if pulled by a miniature tide. This substance was in fact the nearest I could get to revealing my pure essence[57] while enslaved on earth, but despite its noble nature, it wasn't wholly fetching.[58] I thus quickly changed myself into the semblance of a slender human female, draped in a simple tunic, before adding a couple of small horns on her scalp for the heck of it.

With this done, I appraised my surroundings with a jaundiced eye.

I was standing on top of a small stone plinth or pillar, which rose about two meters high from the middle of a flagstoned floor. On the first plane my view was clear in all directions, but on the second to seventh, it was blocked by something nasty: a small energy sphere of considerable power. This was made up of thin, white, crisscrossing lines of force that expanded out from the top of the pillar beside my slender feet and met again over my delicate head. I didn't have to touch the lines to know that if I did so they would cause me unbearable pain and hurl me back.

There was no opening, no weak spot in my prison. I could not get out. I was stuck inside the sphere like some dumb goldfish in a bowl.

But unlike a goldfish, I had a good memory. I could remember what had happened after I busted out of Sholto's shop. The silver Snare falling on me; the afrit's red—hot hooves melting the pavement stones; the smell of rosemary and garlic throttling me fast as a murderer's hands until my consciousness fled. The outrage of it—me, Bartimaeus, spark out on a London street! But there was time for anger later. Now I had to keep calm, look for a chance.

Beyond the surface of my sphere was a sizeable chamber of some antiquity. It was built of gray stone blocks and roofed with heavy wooden beams. A single window high up on one wall let in a shaft of weak and ailing light, which barely managed to push through the swirling motes of dust to reach the floor. The window was fitted with a magical barrier similar to my prison. Elsewhere in the room were several other pillars similar to the one on which I stood. Most were desolate and empty, but one had a small, bright, and very dense blue sphere balanced upon it. It was hard to be sure, but I thought I could see a contorted something pressed inside.

There were no doors in the walls, though that meant little. Temporary portals were common enough in magicians' prisons. Access to the next chamber out (or in) would be impossible except through gateways opened to order by combinations of trusted magician—warders. It would be tiresomely difficult to bypass these, even if I could escape my prison sphere.

The guards didn't help matters either. They were two sizeable utukku,[59] stolidly marching around the perimeter of the room. One of them had the face and crest of a desert eagle, all cruel curving beak and bristling plumes. The other had a bull's head, blowing clouds of spittle out of his nostrils. Both walked like men on massive legs; their great, veined hands clasping silver—tipped spears. Feathered wings lay folded heavily on their muscled backs. Their eyes rolled ceaselessly back and forth, covering every inch of the room with their stupid, baleful glare.

I gave a light, rather maidenly sigh. Things really didn't seem too promising.

Still, I wasn't beaten yet. Judging by the impressive scale of the prison, I was probably in the hands of the Government, but it was best to be sure. The first thing to do was grill my warders for as much information as they had.[60]

I gave a slightly insolent whistle. The nearest utukku (the eagle—headed one) looked across, jerking his spear in my direction.

I smiled winsomely. "Hello there."

The utukku hissed like a serpent, showing his sharp, red—bird's tongue. He approached, still feinting toughly with the spear.

"Steady with that thing," I said. "It's always more impressive to hold a weapon still. You look as if you're trying to skewer a marshmallow with a toasting fork."

Eagle—beak came close. His feet were on the ground, two meters below me, but even so he was easily tall enough to look me in the eye. He was careful not to get too near to the glowing wall of my sphere.

"Speak out of turn again," the utukku said, "and I'll prick you full of holes." He pointed to the tip of his spear. "Silver, this is. It can pass through your sphere easy and prick you good, if you don't shut up."

"Point already taken." I brushed a loop of hair back from my brow. "I can see I'm at your mercy."

"That's right." The utukku made to go off, but a lonely thought had somehow made it into the wasteland of his mind. "Here," he added, "my colleague,"—he indicated Bull—head, who was watching us from a distance with his little red eyes—"he says he's seen you somewhere before."

"I don't think so."

"Long time ago. Only you looked different. He says he's smelled you certain. Only he can't think when."

"He may be right. I've been around a fair time. I have a bad memory for faces, I'm afraid. Can't help him. Where are we now, exactly?" I was trying to change the subject here, uncomfortably aware that the conversation might shortly get round to the battle of Al—Arish. If Bull—head was a survivor, and he learned my name…

The utukku's crest tipped back a little as he considered my question. "No harm your knowing that," he said at last. "We're in the Tower. The Tower of London." He spoke this with considerable relish, banging the base of his spear on the flagstones to emphasize each word.

"Oh. That's good, is it?"

"Not for you."

Several flippant remarks were lining up to be spoken here, but I forced them back with difficulty and remained silent. I didn't want to be pricked. The utukku marched away to resume his patrol, but now I spied Bull—head coming closer, snuffling and sniffling all the while with his vile wet nose.

When he was so close to the edge of my sphere that the gouts of froth he breathed out fizzed and foamed against the charged white threads, he let out a tormented growl. "I know you," he said. "I know your scent. Long ago, yes, but I never forget. I know your name."

"A friend of a friend, perhaps?" I eyed his spear—tip nervously. Unlike Eagle—beak, he didn't wave it about at all.

"No… an enemy…"

"Terrible when you can't remember something that's right on the tip of your tongue," I observed. "Isn't it, though? And you try so hard to recall it, but often as not you can't because some fool's interrupting you, prattling away so you can't concentrate, and—"

Bull—head gave a bellow of rage. "Shut up! I almost had it then!"

A tremor ran through the room, vibrating along the floor and up the pillar. Instantly, Bull—head spun on his heels and trotted across to take up a sentry position against a nondescript bit of wall. A few meters away, Eagle—beak did the same. Between them an oval seam appeared in the air; it widened at the base, becoming a broad arch. Within the arch was a blackness, and from this two figures emerged, slowly gathering color and dimension as they forced their way out of the treacly nothingness of the portal. Both were human, though their shapes were so different that this was hard to believe.

One of them was Sholto.

He was as round as ever, but hobbling nicely, as if every muscle pained him. I was pleased to see too that his plasm—firing walking stick had been swapped for a pair of very ordinary crutches. His face looked as though an elephant had just got up from it, and I swear his monocle had sticky tape on its rim. One eye was black and closed. I allowed myself a smile. Despite my predicament, there were still a few things left in life to enjoy.

Sholto's bruised immensity made the woman alongside him seem even thinner than she actually was. A stooping heron of a creature, she was dressed in a gray top and a long black skirt, with straight white hair chopped short abruptly behind her ears. Her face was all cheekbones and eyes, and entirely colorless—even her eyes were washed out, two dull marbles the color of rainwater sitting in her head. Long—nailed fingers like scalpels jutted from her frilly sleeves. She carried the odor of authority and danger: the utukku clicked their heels and saluted as she passed, and with a snap of her too—sharp nails, the portal behind her closed into nothing.

Trapped in my sphere I watched them approach—thin and fat, stooped and limping. All the while, behind its monocle, Sholto's good eye was fixed on me.

They stopped a few meters off. The woman snapped her fingers again, and to my slight surprise, the flagstones on which they stood rose slowly into the air. The captive imps beneath the stones gave occasional grunts as they shouldered the burden, but otherwise it was a pretty smooth move. Hardly any wobbling. Soon the stones stopped rising and the two magicians stood regarding me at my level. I stared back, impassive.

"Woken up, have you?" the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.[61] "Good. Then perhaps you can help us. First, your name. I won't waste time calling you Bodmin; the records have been checked and we know that's a false identity. The only djinni with that name perished in the Thirty Years War."

I shrugged, said nothing.

"We want your name, your purpose in coming to Mr. Pinn's shop and everything you know about the Amulet of Samarkand. Above all, we want to know the identity of your master."

I brushed my hair out of my eye and smoothed it back. My gaze wandered round the room in a bored sort of way.

The woman did not become angry or impatient; her tone remained level.

"Are you going to be sensible?" she said. "You can tell us straightaway or tell us later on. It is entirely up to you. Mr. Pinn, by the way, does not think you will be sensible. That is why he has come. He wishes to see your pain."

I gave the battered Sholto a wink. "Go on," I prompted him (with rather more cheer than I actually felt), "give me a wink back. It's good exercise for a bruised eye." The magician bared his teeth, but did not speak.

The woman made a motion and her flagstone slid forward. "You are not in a position to be impudent, demon. Let me clarify the situation for you. This is the Tower of London, where all enemies of the Government are brought for punishment. Perhaps you have heard of this place? For one hundred fifty years magicians and spirits of all kinds have found their way here; none have left it, save at our pleasure. This chamber is protected by three layers of hex—locks. Between each layer are vigilant battalions of horlas and utukku, patrolling constantly. But even to reach them you would have to leave your sphere, which is impossible. You are in a Mournful Orb. It will tear your essence if you touch it. At a word of my command"—she uttered a word and the force—lines on the sphere seemed to shudder and grow—"the orb will shrink a little. You can shrink too, I'm sure, so to start with you will be able to avoid being burned and blistered. But the orb can shrink to nothing—and that you cannot do."

I couldn't help glancing across at the neighboring pillar, with its densely packed blue sphere. Something had been inside that orb and its remains were in there still. The orb had shrunk until it had run out of room. It was like glimpsing a dead spider at the bottom of a dark glass bottle.

The woman had followed my gaze. "Exactly," she said. "Need I say more?"

"If I do talk," I said, addressing her for the first time, "what happens to me then? What's to stop you squeezing the juice out of me anyway?"

"If you cooperate we will let you go," she said. "We have no interest in killing slaves."

She sounded so brutally forthright I almost believed her. But not quite.

Before I could react, Sholto Pinn gave a wheezing cough to draw the woman's attention. He spoke with difficulty, as if his ribs were hurting him. "The attack," he whispered. "The Resistance…"

"Ah, yes." The woman turned back to me. "You will gain even more chance of a reprieve if you can give us information about an incident that happened yesterday evening, after your capture—"

"Hold on," I said. "How long have you kept me knocked out?"

"For a little under twenty—four hours. We would have interrogated you last night, but as I say, this incident… We didn't get round to removing the silver net until about thirty minutes ago. I am impressed at the speed of your recovery."

"Don't mention it. I've had practice.[62] So, this incident… Tell me what happened."

"It was an attack by terrorists, styling themselves the Resistance. They claim to loathe all forms of magic, but notwithstanding that, we believe they may have some magical connections. Djinn such as yourself, perhaps; conjured by enemy magicians. It's possible."

This Resistance again. Simpkin had mentioned them too. He'd guessed they'd stolen the Amulet. But Lovelace was responsible for that—perhaps he was behind this latest outrage as well.

"What sort of attack was it?"

"An elemental sphere. Futile, haphazard."

Didn't sound quite Lovelace's cup of tea. I saw him as more of a stealth—andintrigue man, the kind who authorizes murders while nibbling cucumber sandwiches at garden parties. Also, his note to Schyler had suggested they were planning something a little farther ahead.

My musings were rudely disrupted by a guttural snarl from my old friend Sholto.

"Enough of this! It will not tell you of its own free will. Reduce the orb, dear Jessica, so that it squirms and speaks! We are both far too busy to loiter in this cell all day."

For the first time, the thin—lipped slash that was the woman's mouth extended outward in a kind of smile. "Mr. Pinn is impatient, demon," she said. "He does not care whether you speak or not, as long as the orb is put to work. But I always prefer to follow the proper procedure. I have told you what we require—now is the time for you to talk."

A pause followed. I'd like to say it was pregnant with suspense. I'd like to say that I was wrestling with my conscience about whether to spill the beans about Nathaniel and my mission; that waves of doubt poured dramatically across my delicate features, while my captors waited on tenterhooks to know what my decision would be. I'd like to say that, but it would be a lie.[63] So it was in fact a rather more leaden, dreary, and desolate kind of pause, during which I tried to reconcile myself to the pain that I knew would be forthcoming.

Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to stitch Nathaniel up good and proper. I'd have given them everything: name, address, shoe size—I'd even have hazarded a guess about his inside—leg measurement if they'd wanted it. I'd have told them about Lovelace and Faquarl too, and precisely where the Amulet of Samarkand was to be found. I'd have sung like a canary—there was so much to tell. But… if I did so, I doomed myself. Why? Because: 1. There was a good chance they'd just squish me in the orb anyway, and 2. Even if they did let me go, Nathaniel would then be killed or otherwise inconvenienced and I'd be bound for Old Chokey at the bottom of the Thames. And just the thought of all that rosemary made my nose run.[64]

Better a quick extinction in the orb than an infinity of misery. So I rubbed my delicate chin and waited for the inevitable to begin.

Sholto grunted and looked at the woman. She tapped her watch.

"Time's up," she said. "Well?"

And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened. I was just about to give them a last tirade of impassioned (yet clever) abuse, when I felt a familiarly painful sensation in my bowels. A multitude of red—hot pincers were plucking at me, tugging at my essence…

I was being summoned!

Nathaniel

What was to become the worst day of Nathaniel's life started out much as it meant to go on. Despite returning from Parliament at such a late hour, he had found it almost impossible to get to sleep. His master's final words rang endlessly through his mind, instilling in him a growing unease: "Anyone in possession of stolen property will suffer the severest penalties…" The severest penalties… And what was the Amulet of Samarkand if not stolen property?

True, on the one hand, he was certain Lovelace had already stolen the Amulet: it was to get proof of this that he had sent Bartimaeus on his mission. But on the other hand, he—or, strictly speaking, Underwood—currently had the stolen goods instead. If Lovelace, or the police, or anyone from the Government should find it in the house… indeed, if Underwood himself should discover it in his collection, Nathaniel dreaded to think what catastrophes might occur. What had started out as a personal strike against his enemy now seemed suddenly a far riskier business. It wasn't just Lovelace he was up against now, but the long arm of the Government too. He had heard about the glass prisms, containing the remains of traitors, that hung from the battlements of the Tower of London. They made an eloquent point. It was never wise to risk official wrath.

By the time the ghostly light that precedes the dawn began to glow around the skylight, Nathaniel was sure of one thing only. Whether the djinni had gathered proof or not, he ought to get rid of the Amulet fast. He would return it to Lovelace and alert the authorities in some way. But for that, he needed Bartimaeus.

And Bartimaeus refused to come to him.

Despite his bone—aching weariness, Nathaniel performed the summoning three times that morning, and three times the djinni did not appear. By the third try, he was practically sobbing with panic, gabbling out the words with hardly a care that a mispronounced syllable might endanger him. When he finished, he waited, breathing fast, watching the circle. Come on, come on.

No smoke, no smell, no demon.

With a curse, Nathaniel canceled the summons, kicked a pot of incense across the room and flung himself upon his bed. What was going on? If Bartimaeus had found some way to break free of his charge… But surely that was impossible—no demon had ever managed such a thing as far as Nathaniel knew. He beat his fist uselessly against the blankets. When he got the djinni back again, he'd make it pay for this delay—he'd subject it to the Jagged Pendulum and watch it squirm!

But in the meantime, what to do?

Use the scrying glass? No, that could come later: the three summonings had worn him out, and first he had to rest. Instead, there was his master's library. That was the place to begin. Maybe there were other, more advanced methods of summoning he could try. Perhaps there was information on tricks djinn used to avoid returning.

He got up and kicked the rug over the chalk circles on the floor. No time to clear it up now. In a couple of hours he was due to meet his master, to finally try the long—awaited summoning of the natterjack impling. Nathaniel groaned with frustration—that was the last thing he needed! He could summon the impling in his sleep, but his master would ensure he checked and double—checked every line and phrase until the process took several hours. It was a waste of energy he could well do without. What a fool his master was!

Nathaniel set off for the library. He clattered down the attic stairs.

And ran headlong into his master coming up.

Underwood fell back against the wall, clutching the most expansive part of his waistcoat, which had connected sharply with one of Nathaniel's elbows. He gave a cry of rage and aimed a glancing slap at his apprentice's head.

"You little ruffian! You could have killed me!"

"Sir! I'm sorry, sir. I didn't expect—"

"Careering down stairs like some brainless oik, some commoner! A magician keeps his deportment strictly under control at all times. What are you playing at?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, sir…" Nathaniel was recovering from the shock; he spoke meekly. "I was just going down to the library, to double—check a few things before our summoning this afternoon. I'm sorry if I was too eager."

His humble manner had its effect. Underwood breathed hard, but his expression relaxed. "Well, if the intention was good, I suppose I can hardly blame you. In fact I was coming to say that unfortunately I shall not be in this afternoon. Something serious has happened and I must—" He stopped; the eyebrows flickered and melted into a frown. "What's that I smell?"

"Sir?"

"That odor… it clings to you, boy." He bent closer and sniffed loudly.

"I—I'm sorry, sir, I forgot to wash this morning. Mrs. Underwood's mentioned this to me before."

"I'm not talking about your own scent, boy, unpleasant though it is. No, it's more like… rosemary… Yes! And laurel… and St. John's wort…" His eyes suddenly widened and flashed in the half—light of the staircase. "This is general summoning incense hanging about your person!"

"No, sir—"

"Don't you dare contradict me, boy! How has it…?" A suspicion dawned in his eyes. "John Mandrake, I wish to see your room! Lead the way."

"I'd rather not, sir—it's a terrible mess; I'd feel embarrassed…"

His master raised himself to his full height, his eyes flashing, his singed beard bristling. He seemed somehow to grow taller than Nathaniel had ever seen him, although the fact that he was standing on the step above probably helped a bit. Nathaniel felt himself shrink back, cowering.

Underwood flourished a finger and pointed up the stairs. "Go!"

Helplessly, Nathaniel obeyed. In silence, he led the way to his chamber, his master's heavy boots treading close behind him. As he opened the door, an unmistakable stench of incense and candle wax gusted up into his face. Nathaniel stood glumly to one side as, stooping under the low ceiling, his master entered the attic room.

For a few seconds, Underwood surveyed the scene. It was an incriminating picture: an upturned pot, with a trail of multicolored incense extending from it across the floor; several dozen summoning candles, still smoldering, arranged against the walls and upon the desk; two heavy books on magic, taken from Underwood's own personal shelves, lying open on the bed. The only things that weren't visible were the summoning circles themselves. They lay hidden under the rug. Nathaniel thought this gave him a possible way out. He cleared his throat.

"If I might explain, sir."

His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug, which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes. Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.

"Well?"

Nathaniel swallowed. He knew that no excuse would save him, but he had to try. "I was just practicing making the marks, sir," he began in an uncertain voice. "Getting the feel for it. I didn't actually summon anything, of course, sir. I wouldn't dare…"

He faltered, stopped. With one hand, his master was pointing to the center of the bigger circle, where a prominent scorch mark had been left by Bartimaeus's first appearance. With the other, he indicated the numerous burns left on the walls by the explosion of the Stimulating Compass. Nathaniel's shoulders sagged.

"Um…"

For an instant, it seemed as though Mr. Underwood's deportment was going to fail him. His face mottled with rage, he took two quick steps in Nathaniel's direction, his hand raised to strike. Nathaniel flinched, but the blow did not fall.

The hand lowered. "No," his master said, panting hard. "No. I must consider how to deal with you. You have disobeyed me in a hundred ways, and in so doing have risked your own life and that of the people in this house. You have dabbled with works of magic that you cannot hope to comprehend—I see Faust's Compendium there, and The Mouth of Ptolemy! You have summoned, or attempted to summon, a djinni of at least the fourteenth level, and even tried to bind it with Adelbrand's Pentacle, a feat that I would balk at. The fact that you undoubtedly failed in no way mitigates your crime. Stupid child! Have you no concept of what such a being might do to you, if you made even the slightest slip? Have all my lessons over the years meant nothing? I should have known you were not to be trusted last year, when your wilful act of violence against the guests of my house nearly ruined my career. I should have disposed of you then, when you were nameless. No one would have given it a second thought! But now that you are named and will be in the next edition of the Almanac, I cannot get rid of you so easily! Questions will be asked, forms will have to be filled, and my judgment will once again be called into doubt. No, I must consider what to do with you, though my hand itches to call up a Reviler on the spot and leave you in its tender care."

He paused for breath. Nathaniel had slumped back to sit on the edge of his bed, all energy crushed from him.

"Take it from me," his master said, "that no apprentice of mine disobeys me in the fashion you have done. If I didn't have to go to the ministry urgently, I would deal with you now. As it is, you are confined to your room until my return. But first"—here he strode across to Nathaniel's wardrobe and flung wide the door—"we must see that you have no other surprises hidden away."

For the next ten minutes, Nathaniel could only sit dull—eyed while his master searched the room. The wardrobe and the chest—of—drawers were turned out and rifled, his meager quantity of clothes strewn upon the floor. Several plastic bags of incense were found, a small supply of colored chalk, and one or two sheaves of notes that Nathaniel had made during his extracurricular studies. Only the scrying glass, secure in its hiding place beneath the eaves, remained undiscovered.

Mr. Underwood gathered up the incense, books, chalk and notes. "I shall read through your scrawlings upon my return from the ministry," he said, "in case I need to question you further about your activities before you receive your punishment. In the meantime, remain here and reflect upon your sins and the ruin of your career."

Without another word, he swept from the attic and locked the door behind him.

Nathaniel's heart was a stone plummeting to the bottom of a deep, dark well. He sat motionless on the bed, listening to the rain tapping on the skylight and, far below, his master banging from room to room in his fury. Eventually a distant slam assured him that Mr. Underwood had left the house.

An unknown time later, he was startled out of his misery by the sound of the key turning in the lock. His heart jolted with fear. Surely not his master back already?

But it was Mrs. Underwood who entered, bringing a small bowl of tomato soup on a tray. She placed it on the table and stood regarding him. Nathaniel could not bring himself to look at her.

"Well," she said, in a level voice, "I hope you're satisfied with yourself. From what Arthur tells me, you have been very bad indeed."

If his master's torrent of anger had merely numbed him, these few words from Mrs. Underwood, laced as they were simply with quiet disappointment, pierced Nathaniel to the marrow. His last vestiges of self—control failed him. He raised his eyes to her, feeling tears prickle against the corners.

"Oh, Nath—John!" He had never heard her so exasperated. "Why couldn't you be patient? Ms. Lutyens used to say that this was your abiding fault, and she was right! Now you've tried to run before you can walk, and I don't know if your master will ever forgive you."

"He'll never forgive me. He said so." Nathaniel's voice was faint; he was holding back the tears.

"He's extremely angry, John, and rightly."

"He said my—my career was ruined."

"I shouldn't be surprised if that wasn't exactly what you deserved."

"Mrs. Underwood!"

"But perhaps, if you are open and honest with him about what you've done, there is a chance that he will listen to you when he returns. A very small chance."

"He won't; he's too angry."

Mrs. Underwood sat down on the bed beside Nathaniel and put her arm round his shoulder. "You don't think it's unheard of, do you, for apprentices to try too much, too soon? It often marks out those with the most talent. Arthur is livid, but he is also impressed, I can tell. I think you should confide fully in him; throw yourself on his mercy. He will like that."

Nathaniel gave a sniff. "You think so, Mrs. Underwood?" As always, the comfort of her presence and her calm common sense reached past his defenses and soothed his pride. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should tell the truth about everything…

"I will do my best to appease him too," she went on. "Heaven knows, but you don't deserve it. Look at the state of this room!"

"I'll clean it right away, Mrs. Underwood; right away." He felt a little comforted. Perhaps he would tell his master, own up to his suspicions about Lovelace and the Amulet. Things would be painful, but simpler that way.

"Drink your soup first." She got up. "Make sure you have everything ready to tell your master when he comes back."

"Why's Mr. Underwood gone to the ministry? It's a Sunday." Nathaniel was already picking up some of the garments and stuffing them back into the drawers.

"Some emergency, dear. A rogue djinni has been caught in central London."

A slight shiver ran down Nathaniel's spine. "A djinni?"

"Yes. I don't know the details, but apparently it was masquerading as one of Mr. Lovelace's imps. It broke into Mr. Pinn's shop and caused no end of damage. But they sent an afrit and caught it soon enough. It's being interrogated now. Your master thinks the magician that sent the djinni may have some link to these artifact thefts that have been so bothering him—and perhaps to the Resistance too. He wants to be there when they force the information out. But that's not really your prime concern now—is it, John? You need to be deciding what to say to your master. And scrub this floor till it shines!"

"Yes, Mrs. Underwood."

"Good boy. I'll look in for your tray later."

No sooner had the door been locked than Nathaniel was running to the skylight, throwing it open and reaching under the cold wet tiles for the bronze disc. He drew it in and shut the window against the lancing rain. The disc was cold; it took several minutes of escalating inducements before the imp's face reluctantly appeared.

"Blimey," it said. "It's been a while. Thought you'd forgotten me. You ready to let me out yet?"

"No." Nathaniel was in no mood to play around. "Bartimaeus. Find him. I want to see where he is and what he's doing. Now. Or I'll bury this disc in the earth."

"Who's got out the wrong side of bed today? There's such a thing as asking nicely! Well, I'll have a go, but I've had easier requests in my time, even from you…" Muttering and grimacing with strain, the baby's face faded out, only to reappear again, faintly, as if from afar. "Bartimaeus, you say? Of Uruk?"

"Yes! How many of them can there be?"

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Touchy. Well, don't hold your breath. This may take some time."

The disc went blank. Nathaniel hurled it onto the bed, then thought better of it and stowed it away under the mattress, out of sight. In great agitation, he proceeded to tidy his room, scrubbing the floor till all traces of the pentacles were gone and even the marks of candle grease had been improved. He stowed his clothes away tidily and returned everything to its proper place. Then he drank his soup. It was cold.

Mrs. Underwood returned to reclaim the tray, and surveyed the room with approval. "Good boy, John," she said. "Now tidy yourself up, and have a wash while you're about it. What was that?"

"What, Mrs. Underwood?"

"I thought I heard a voice calling."

Nathaniel had heard it too. A muffled "Oi!" from under the bed. "I think it was from downstairs," he said weakly. "Maybe someone at the door?"

"Do you think so? I'd better see, I suppose." Somewhat uncertainly, she departed, locking the door behind her.

Nathaniel flung the mattress aside. "Well?" he snarled.

The baby's face had big bags under the eyes and was now somehow unshaven. "Well," it said, "I've done the best I could. Can't ask for no more than that."

"Show me!"

"Here you go, then." The face vanished, to be replaced by a long—distance view across London. A silver strip that had to be the Thames wound across the backdrop between a dark gray mess of warehouses and wharves. Rain fell, half obscuring the scene, but Nathaniel easily made out the focus of the picture: a giant castle, protected by endless loops of high, gray walls. In its center was a tall, squared keep, with the Union Jack flying from its central roof. Black—sided police trucks moved below in the castle yard, together with troops of tiny figures, not all of them human.

Nathaniel knew what he was looking at, but he did not want to accept the truth. "And what's this got to do with Bartimaeus?" he snapped.

The imp was weary, heavy—voiced. "That's where he is, as far as I can reckon. I picked up his trail in the middle of London, but it was already faint and cold. It led here, and I can't get any closer to the Tower of London, as you well know. Far too many watchful eyes. Even from this distance, a few outriding spheres nearly caught me. I'm fair tuckered out, I am. Anything else?" it added, as Nathaniel failed to react. "I need a kip."

"No, no, that's all."

"First sensible thing you've said all day." But the imp did not fade. "If he's in there, this Bartimaeus is in trouble," it observed in a rather more cheery manner. "You didn't send him out there, did you?"

Nathaniel made no reply.

"Oh dear," said the imp. "Then, that being the case, I'd say you was in almost as much bother as him, wouldn't you? I 'spect he's probably coughing up your name right now." It bared its sharp, small teeth in a face—splitting grin, blew a loud raspberry, and vanished.

Nathaniel sat very still, holding the disc in his hands. The daylight in the room gradually faded away.

Bartimaeus

Put a scarab beetle, roughly the size of a matchbox, up against a four—metertall, bull—headed leviathan wielding a silver spear, and you don't expect to see much of a contest, especially when the beetle is imprisoned within a small orb that will incinerate its essence if it touches so much as a stray antenna. True, I did my best to prolong the issue by hovering just off the top of the pillar, in the vague hope that I could dart to one side as the spear crashed down—but to be honest my heart was—n't really in it. I was about to be squashed by a lummox with the IQ of a flea, and the sooner we got it over with, the better.

So I was a little surprised when the utukku's shrieking war cry was cut off by a sudden yelled command, just as the spear was about to descend upon my head.

"Baztuk, stop!"

Eagle—beak had spoken; the urgency in his voice was clear. Once it has made its mind up to do something, an utukku finds it hard to change tack: Bull—head stopped the spear's downward swing with difficulty, but kept it raised high above the orb.

"What now, Xerxes?" he snarled. "Don't try to rob me of my revenge! Twenty—seven centuries I've wanted Bartimaeus in my power—"

"Then you can wait a minute more. He'll keep. Listen—can you hear something?"

Baztuk cocked his head to one side. Within the orb, I stilled the humming of my wings and listened too. A gentle tapping sound… so low, so subtle, it was impossible to tell from which direction it came.

"That's nothing. Just workmen outside. Or the humans marching again. They like doing that. Now, shut up, Xerxes." Baztuk was not inclined to spare the matter another thought. The sinews along his forearms knotted as he readied the spear.

"It's not workmen. Too near." The feathers on Xerxes's crest looked ruffled. He was jumpy. "Leave Bartimaeus alone and come and listen. I want to pinpoint it."

With a curse, Baztuk stomped away from my column. He and Xerxes ranged around the perimeter of the room, holding their ears close to the stones and muttering to each other to tread more quietly. All the while the little tapping noise continued, soft, irregular, and maddeningly unlocatable.

"Can't place it." Baztuk scraped his spear—tip against the wall. "Could come from anywhere. Hold on…! Maybe he's doing it…" He looked evilly in my direction.

"Not guilty, your honor," I said.

"Don't be stupid, Baztuk," Eagle—beak said. "The orb stops him using magic beyond its barrier. Something else is going on. I think we should raise the alarm."

"But nothing's happened!" Bull—head looked panicked. "They'll punish us. At least let me kill Bartimaeus first," he pleaded. "I mustn't lose this chance."

"I think you should definitely call for help," I advised. "It's almost certainly something you can't handle. A deathwatch beetle, maybe. Or a disorientated woodpecker."

Baztuk blew spume a meter into the air. "That's the last straw, Bartimaeus! You die!" He paused. "Mind you, it might be a deathwatch beetle, come to think of it…"

"In a solid stone building?" Xerxes sneered. "I think not."

"What makes you an expert all of a sudden?"

A new argument broke out. My two captors faced up to each other again, strutting and shoving, roused to blind fury by each other's stupidity and by the occasional careful prompting from me.

Underneath it all, the tap, tap, tapping went on. I had long since located the source of it as a patch of stone high up along one wall, not too far from the single window. While encouraging the squabble, I kept a constant eye on this area, and was rewarded, after several minutes, by spying a discreet shower of stone—dust come trickling out between two blocks. A moment later, a tiny hole appeared; this was rapidly enlarged as more dust and flakes dropped from it, propelled by something small, sharp and black.

To my annoyance, after walking their way round the room in a flurry of girly slaps and yells, Xerxes and Baztuk had come to rest not far from the mysterious hole. It was only a matter of time before they would notice the spiraling dust—fall, so I decided I had to risk all in a final gambit.

"Hey, you pair of sand—eaters!" I shouted. "The moon shines on the corpses of your fellows! The jackals carry home the severed heads for their pups to play with!"[66]

As I had expected, Baztuk instantly left off tugging at Xerxes's side feathers and Xerxes prised his fingers out of Baztuk's nose. Both of them slowly turned toward me with murder in their eyes. So far, so good. I calculated that I had approximately thirty seconds before whatever was coming through the hole put in an appearance. Should it delay, I was dead—if not by the hands of Baztuk and Xerxes, then by the orb, which had now diminished to the size of a runty grapefruit.

"Baztuk," Xerxes said politely, "I shall allow you to strike the first blow."

"That is good of you, Xerxes," Baztuk replied. "Afterward, you may dice the remains to your heart's content."

Both hefted their spears and strode toward me. Behind them, the tapping suddenly ceased, and from the hole in the wall, which had by now grown quite large, a shiny beak poked out, sharp as an anvil. This was followed by a tufted jet—black head, complete with beady eye. The eye flicked rapidly to and fro, taking in the scene, then silently the bird behind it began to squeeze its way through the hole, wriggling forward in a distinctly unbirdlike way.

With a shake and a hop, an enormous black raven perched on the lip of the stone. As its tail feathers cleared the hole, another beak appeared behind it.

By now the utukku had reached my pillar. Baztuk flung back his arm.

I coughed. "Look behind you!"

"That won't work on me, Bartimaeus!" Baztuk cried. His arm jerked forward, the spear began to plunge. A flash of black shot across its path, seized the spear—shaft in its beak, and flew onward, wrenching it out of the utukku's hand. Baztuk gave a yelp of astonishment and turned. Xerxes spun around too.

A raven sat on a vacant column, holding the spear neatly in its beak.

Uncertainly, Baztuk stepped toward it.

With deliberate care, the raven bit down on the steel shaft. The spear snapped in two; both halves fell to the ground.

Baztuk stopped dead.

Another raven fluttered down and came to rest on a neighboring pillar. Both sat silently, watching the utukku with unblinking eyes.

Baztuk looked at his companion. "Er, Xerxes…?"

Eagle—beak rattled his tongue warningly. "Raise the alarm, Baztuk," he said. "I'll deal with them." He bent his legs, leaped high into the air. With a sound like ripping cloth, his great, white wings unfolded. They beat once, twice; he soared up, up, almost to the ceiling. The feathers angled, tensed; he spun and dived, head first, wings back, one hand holding the outstretched spear; hurtling down at lightning speed.

Toward a raven, calmly waiting.

A look of doubt came into Xerxes's eyes. Now he was almost upon the raven, and still it hadn't moved. Doubt was replaced by sudden fear. His wings jerked out; desperately, he tried to bank, to avoid colliding—

The raven opened its beak wide.

Xerxes screamed.

There was a blur of movement, a snap and a gulp. A few fluttering feathers drifted slowly down upon the stones around the pillar. The raven still sat there, a dreamy look in its eyes. Xerxes was gone.

Baztuk was making for the wall where the portal would appear. He was fumbling in a pouch strapped to his waist. The second raven lazily hopped from one pillar to another, cutting him off. With a cry of woe, Baztuk hurled his spear. It missed the raven, embedding itself to the hilt in the side of the pillar. The raven shook its head sorrowfully and spread its wings. Baztuk wrenched his pouch open and removed a small bronze whistle. He set it to his lips—

Another blur, a whirlwind too swift to follow. Credit to him, Baztuk was fast; I glimpsed him lowering his head, lashing out with his horns—and then the whirlwind had engulfed him. When it ceased, so had Baztuk. He was nowhere to be seen. The raven landed awkwardly on the ground, green blood oozing from one wing.

Inside its orb, the scarab beetle skittered about. "Well done!" I called, trying to make my voice a little less high and piping. "I don't know who you are, but how about getting me…"

My voice trailed away. Thanks to the orb, I could see the newcomers only on the first plane, where up until now they'd worn their raven guise. Perhaps they realized this, because suddenly, for a split second, they displayed their true selves to me on the first plane. It was only a flash, but it was all I needed. I knew who they were.

Trapped in the orb, the beetle gave a strangled gulp.

"Oh," I said. "Hello."

"Hello, Bartimaeus," Faquarl said.

Nathaniel

As evening drew on, the clenching agonies of dread closed in upon Nathaniel. Pacing about his room like a panther in a cage, he felt as if he were trapped in a dozen different ways. Yes, the door was locked so he could not physically escape, but this was the least of his problems.

At that very moment, his servant Bartimaeus was imprisoned in the Tower, being subjected to whatever tortures the high magicians could devise. If it really had caused carnage in central London this was exactly what the demon deserved. But Nathaniel was its master. He was responsible for its crimes.

And that meant the magicians would be looking for him too.

Under torture, the threat of Perpetual Confinement would be forgotten. Bartimaeus would tell them Nathaniel's name and the police would come to call. And then…

With a shiver of fear, Nathaniel remembered the injuries Sholto Pinn had displayed the evening before. The consequences would not be pleasant.

Even if, by some miracle, Bartimaeus kept quiet, there was Underwood to deal with too. Already Nathaniel's master had promised to disown him—and perhaps worse. Now he only had to read the scribbled notes he had removed from Nathaniel's room to discover precisely what his apprentice had summoned. Then he would demand the full story. Nathaniel shuddered to guess what methods of persuasion he might use.

What could he do? Mrs. Underwood had suggested a way out. She had advised him simply to tell the truth. But the thought of revealing his secrets to his master's spite and sarcasm made Nathaniel feel physically sick.

Thrusting the dilemma aside, Nathaniel summoned the weary imp and, ignoring its protests, sent it out to spy on the Tower of London once more. From a safe distance, he watched in awe as an angry horde of green—winged demons spiraled like locusts above the parapets, then suddenly dispersed in all directions across the darkening sky.

"Impressive, that is," the scrying glass commented. "Real class. You don't mess with them high—level djinn. Who knows?" it added. "Maybe some of them are coming for you!"

"Find Underwood," Nathaniel snarled. "Where is he and what is he doing?"

"My, aren't we in a bate? Let's see, Arthur Underwood… Nope, sorry. He's in the Tower too. Can't get access. But we can speculate, can't we?" The imp chuckled. "He's probably talking to your Bartimaeus pal right now."

Further observation of the Tower was obviously useless. Nathaniel tossed the disc under the bed. It was no good. He would have to come clean about everything. He would have to tell his master—someone he had no respect for, who had failed to protect him, who had cowered and sniveled before Lovelace. Nathaniel could well imagine how Underwood's fury would be expressed—in sneers and jibes and fears for his own petty reputation… And as for what would happen then…

Perhaps an hour later, he caught the echo of a door slamming somewhere below. He froze, listening for his master's dreaded footsteps on the stair, but for a long while no one came. And when the key did turn in the lock, he knew already, from the gentle wheezing, that it was Mrs. Underwood outside. She carried a small tea tray, with a glass of milk and a rather curled tomato—and—cucumber sandwich.

"I'm sorry this is late, John," she said. "Your food's been ready for ages, but your master came home before I could bring it up." She took a deep breath. "I mustn't stop. Things are a little hectic downstairs."

"What… what's happening, Mrs. Underwood?"

"Eat your sandwich, there's a good boy. It looks like you need it—you're quite pale. It won't be long before your master calls you, I'm sure."

"But did he say anything—?"

"Heavens, John! Will you never stop asking questions? He said a great deal, but nothing that I'm going to share with you now. There's a pan of water on downstairs and I have to make him something quickly. Eat your sandwich, dear."

"Is my master—?"

"He's locked himself in his study, with orders not to be disturbed. Apart from his food, of course. There's quite an emergency on."

An emergency… In that instant Nathaniel came to a sudden decision. Mrs. Underwood was the only person he could trust, the only person who truly cared. He would tell her everything: about the Amulet, about Lovelace. She would help him with Underwood, even with the police, if necessary; he didn't know how, but she would make everything all right.

"Mrs. Underwood—"

She held up a hand. "Not now, John. I haven't time."

"But, Mrs. Underwood, I really need—"

"Not a word more! I have to go."

And with a harassed smile, she went. The door shut. The key turned. Nathaniel was left staring after her. For an instant he felt as if he were about to cry, then a stubborn anger swelled inside him. Was he some naughty child, to be left moping in the attic while his punishment was prepared? No. He was a magician! He would not be ignored!

All his equipment had been taken. He had nothing left, except the scrying glass—and all that could do was look. Still, looking might lead to knowledge. And knowledge was power.

Nathaniel took a bite of the curling sandwich and instantly regretted it. Setting the plate aside, he crossed to the skylight and looked out at London's carpeting of yellow lights stretching away under the night sky. Surely if Bartimaeus had mentioned his name, Underwood or the police would have collared him by now. It was curious. And this emergency… was it related to Bartimaeus or not?

Underwood was below, doubtless on the phone. The solution was simple: a little spying would swiftly clear up the matter.

Nathaniel retrieved the scrying glass. "My master is in his study. Go close so that I see all; moreover, listen and relay everything he says directly and accurately to me."

"Who's a little sneak, then? Sorry, sorry, fair enough! Your morals are none of my business. Here we go, then…"

The center of the disc cleared; in its place, a strong, clear view of his master's study. Underwood sat in his leather chair, hunched forward with both elbows on his desk. One hand was clutching the telephone receiver; the other waved and gesticulated as he talked. The imp drew closer; now the agitation on Underwood's face became clear. He was plainly shouting. Nathaniel rapped the disc. "What's he saying?" The imp's voice began in the middle of a sentence. There was a slight delay between Underwood's lips moving and the sound reaching Nathaniel, but he could see the imp was reporting accurately. "…telling me? All three escaped? Leaving dozens of casualties? It's unheard of! Whitwell and Duvall must answer for this. Yes, well, I do feel strongly, Grigori. This is a significant blow to my enquiries. I was intending to interrogate it myself. Yes, me. Because I'm sure it is linked to the artifact thefts… it's the latest escalation. Everyone knows the finest objects are held at Pinn's; it was hoping to steal them… Well, yes, it would mean a magician was involved… yes, I know that's unlikely… Even so, this was one of my best leads… the only lead, to be truthful, but what do you expect when I'm given no funding? What about their identities? No joy there either? This will be a kick in the teeth for Jessica—that's one good thing to come out of the whole sorry affair… Yes—I suppose so. And listen, Grigori, changing the subject for a moment, I wanted to ask your opinion on something more personal…"

At this, the imp's commentary stopped, though Underwood was evidently still talking, his mouth close up to the receiver. Nathaniel applied an improving Shock to the disc, at which the imp's face appeared.

"Hoi, there was no call for that!"

"The sound, where's the sound?"

"He's whispering, ain't he? I can't hear a thing. And it ain't safe to go any closer."

"Let me hear it!"

"But, boss, you know there's a safe limit. Magicians often have protective sensors; you know, even this guy—"

Nathaniel's face felt sore and puffy under the strain. He was past caution. "Do it. You won't want me to ask again."

The imp did not answer. Underwood's face reappeared, so close it almost filled the center of the disc. The hairs tufting from his nostrils were rendered in loving three—dimensional detail. The magician was nodding. "I agree. I suppose I should be flattered… Yes, looking at it that way, the boy is a testimony to my hard graft and inspiration. Now, my old master—"

He broke off, with a wince and a shudder, as if something cold had brushed against him. "Sorry, Grigori. It was just, I felt—" Nathaniel saw the eyes narrow, the familiar brows beetle sharply. At this the image on the disc suddenly broadened out, as if the imp were retreating hurriedly across the room. Underwood uttered a loud syllable; the imp's voice tried to copy it, but cut out midway, as if turned off like a radio. The image remained, quivering strangely.

Nathaniel couldn't suppress a catch in his voice. "Imp, what's happening?"

Nothing. Silence from the imp.

"I order you to leave the study and return to me."

No answer.

The image in the disc was not reassuring. Shaky though it was, Nathaniel could see Underwood putting down the telephone, then slowly rising and coming round to the front of his desk, all the while peering hard—up, down, in every direction—as if hunting for something he knew was there. The image shook still harder: the imp seemed to be redoubling its efforts to escape, but to no avail. In mounting panic, Nathaniel applied a few frantic Shocks to the disc in vain. The imp was frozen, unable to speak or move.

Underwood crossed to a cupboard at the back of the study, rummaged within it, and returned, carrying a metal cylinder. He shook it: from four small holes at its top, a white powder was emitted, which quickly spread out to fill the room. Whatever the powder did, the effect was immediate. Underwood gave a start and stared upward—directly at Nathaniel. It was as if the disc was a window and he was looking directly through it. For a moment, Nathaniel thought his master could actually see him, then he realized it was simply the suspended imp that hung revealed.

Horror—stricken, Nathaniel watched his master bend down to the carpet and pull at a loop of ribbon. A great square section of carpet peeled up and fell away to one side. Below were two painted pentacles. His master stepped inside the smaller, never for one moment taking his eyes away from the frozen imp. He began to speak, and within seconds a tall misty apparition appeared within the larger circle. Underwood uttered a command. The apparition bowed and vanished. To Nathaniel's amazement, Underwood's body seemed to shimmer and slide away from itself. His master still stood within the pentacle, but another version of his master, ghostlike and see—through, stood alongside it.

The ghostly form lifted into the air, kicked its heels and began to float forward—straight to where the helpless imp was still relaying the view from the study. Nathaniel screamed commands and shook the disc in fury, but could do nothing to stop his master's slow approach. Closer, closer… The spectral eyebrows were lowered, the glinting eyes never looked away. Now Underwood's form swelled to fill the disc—it seemed as if it would break right through…

Then nothing. The disc showed the study again, with Underwood's physical body still standing motionless in the pentacle.

Despite his panic, Nathaniel knew all too well what was happening. Having located the spy and safely frozen it in position, Underwood had decided to follow the imp's astral cord back to its source to learn the identity of the enemy magician. Such sources might be many miles away; perhaps his master was expecting a long journey in his djinni—controlled form. If so, he was about to get a surprise.

Too late, Nathaniel realized what he had to do. The window! If he could throw the disc out into the street, perhaps his master would not guess…

He had only taken two strides in the direction of the skylight when, without a sound, the translucent head of Arthur Underwood welled up through the floorboards. It was see—through and glowing with a greenish phosphorescence; the tip of the dilapidated beard extended into the floor. Slowly, slowly, the head revolved through ninety degrees, until at last it caught sight of Nathaniel standing above it, holding the scrying glass in his hands.

At this, an expression appeared on his master's face that Nathaniel had never seen before. It was not the familiar look of impatient disdain that had long characterized Underwood's tutelage. It was not even the fury he had witnessed that morning, following the discovery in his room. Instead, it was first a look of extreme shock, and then a sudden explosion of such malice that Nathaniel's knees gave way. The disc fell from his hands; he slumped against the wall; he tried to speak, but could not.

The ghostly head stared at him from the center of the floor. Nathaniel stared back; unable to tear his eyes away. Then—very muffled and distant, perhaps because it was uttered by the physical body in the study far below—Underwood's voice came sounding from inside the upturned disc.

"Traitor…"

Nathaniel's mouth opened, but let forth only a strangled croak.

The voice spoke again. "Traitor! You have betrayed me. I shall discover who is guiding you to spy on me."

"No one—there's no one…" Nathaniel could only manage the barest whisper.

"Prepare yourself! I shall come for you."

The voice faded. Underwood's head descended, spiraling into the floor. The phosphorescent glow vanished with it from the room. With trembling fingers, Nathaniel picked up the disc and peered into it. After a few seconds the view of the study grew misty as his master's spirit form passed back through the imp; it drifted away across the carpet to where the body waited. Coming alongside, it adopted the exact same posture and merged in with itself. A moment later, Underwood was himself again and the shadowy apparition had reappeared in the other circle. With a clap of the hands, Underwood dismissed the djinni; it bowed and vanished. He stepped out of the pentacle, eyes blazing, and strode out of shot toward his study door.

At this, the spell on the imp was lifted and the baby's face returned to fill the disc. It blew out its cheeks with relief.

"Whoof! I don't mind telling you, that was bad for my system," it said. "Having that horrible old geezer drifting straight through me and right up my cord… it gives me the willies just to think about it, it really does!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Beside himself with terror, Nathaniel was trying to think.

"Look, do us a favor," the imp said. "You haven't got much time left. Couldn't you just free me now, before you die? Life gets so dreary in this disc; you don't know how lonely it gets. Go on, boss. I'd really appreciate it." The baby's attempt at a winning smile was interrupted as the disc was hurled against the wall. "Ow! Well, I hope you enjoy what's coming to you, then!"

Nathaniel ran to the attic door and rattled desperately at the handle. Somewhere below he heard his master's footsteps hastening up the stairs.

"He's really angry," the imp called. "Even his astral form practically pickled my essence as it went by. I wish I wasn't facing the floor—I'd love to watch what happens when he gets in here."

Nathaniel sprang at the wardrobe, pushed at it frantically; he planned to push it in front of the door, to block the way in. Too heavy, he hadn't the strength. His breathing came in fits and gasps.

"What's the matter?" the imp asked. "You're a big magician now. Call something up to save your skin. An afrit maybe—that should do the job. Or what about that Bartimaeus you're so obsessed with? Where's he when you need him?"

With a sob, Nathaniel stumbled back into the center of the room and turned slowly to face the door.

"Nasty, ain't it?" The imp's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Being at someone else's mercy. Now you know what it feels like. Face it, kid—you're on your own. You've got no one there to help you."

Something tapped on the skylight window.

After an instant in which his heart nearly stopped, Nathaniel looked: a disheveled pigeon was sitting beyond the glass, gesticulating urgently with both wings. In doubt, Nathaniel stepped closer.

"Bartimaeus…?"

The pigeon rapped its beak several times against the pane. Nathaniel raised his hand to undo the catch—

A key rattled in a lock. With a bang, the bedroom door burst open. Underwood stood there, his face pink with exertion and framed by a furious white mane of hair and beard. Nathaniel's arm dropped to his side; he turned to his master. The pigeon had vanished from the window.

It took Underwood a moment to regain his breath. "Miserable boy! Who is controlling you? Which of my enemies?"

Nathaniel could feel his whole body trembling, but he forced himself to stand stock—still and look his master in the eyes.

"No one, sir. I—"

"Is it Duvall? Or Mortensen? Or Lovelace?"

Nathaniel's lip curled at the last name. "None of those, sir."

"Who taught you to make the glass? Who told you to spy on me?"

Despite his fear, anger flared in Nathaniel's heart. He spoke with contempt. "Will you not take my word? I have already said. There is no one."

"Even now you continue your lies! Very well! Take a last look at this room. You will not be returning here. We will go to my study, where you will enjoy the company of my imps until your tongue is loosened. Come!"

Nathaniel hesitated, but there was no help for it. His master's hand descended on his shoulder and clamped it like a vise. Almost bodily, he was propelled out of the door and down the attic stairs.

On the first landing, Mrs. Underwood met them, in haste and out of breath. When she saw Nathaniel's hapless posture and the fury on her husband's face, her eyes widened with distress, but she did not comment.

"Arthur," she panted, "there is a visitor to see you."

"I haven't time. This boy—"

"It's a matter of the greatest urgency, he says."

"Who? Who says?"

"Simon Lovelace, Arthur. He practically showed himself in."

Bartimaeus

"My apologies for the intrusion, Arthur," Simon Lovelace said.

Underwood had only just entered his long, dark dining room when I caught up with him—he'd spent a few minutes beside the lower landing mirror smoothing down his hair and adjusting his tie. It didn't make any difference: he still looked disheveled and moth—eaten beside the younger magician, who was standing beside the mantelpiece, examining his nails, as cold and tense as a coiled spring.

Underwood waved his hand in an airy attempt at magnanimity. "My house is yours, I'm sure. I am sorry for the delay, Lovelace. Won't you take a seat?"

Lovelace did not do so. He wore a slim, dark suit with a dark—green tie. His glasses caught the lamp light from the ceiling and flashed with every movement of his head. His eyes were invisible, but the skin below the glasses was gray, heavy, bagged. "You seem flustered, Underwood," he said.

"No, no. I was engaged at the top of the house. I am somewhat out of breath."

I had entered the door as a spider and had crawled my way discreetly over the lintel and up the wall, until I reached the secluded gloom of the darkest corner. Here I spun several hasty threads across, obscuring me as fully as possible. I did so because I could see that the magician had his second—plane imp with him, prying into every nook and cranny with it's hot little eyes.

Quite how Lovelace had come to suspect that the Amulet was in the house, I did not like to guess. For all my denials to the boy, it was certainly an unpleasant coincidence that he had arrived at the exact same time as I had. But working that out could wait: the boy's future—and consequently, mine—depended on my reacting quickly to whatever happened now.

Underwood sat himself in his customary chair and put on a forced smile. "So," he said. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"

"No, thank you."

"Well, at least tell that imp of yours to quit its jiggling. It's making me feel quite ill." He spoke with sudden waspish asperity. Simon Lovelace made a clicking sound with his tongue. The imp hovering behind his head instantly became rigid, holding its face in a deliberately unfortunate posture, midway between a gawp and a grin.

Underwood did his best to ignore it. "I do have a few other matters to take care of today," he said. "Perhaps you might tell me what I can do for you?"

Simon Lovelace inclined his head gravely. "A few nights ago," he said, "I suffered a theft. An item, a small piece of some power, was stolen from my house while I was absent."

Underwood made a consoling sound. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you. It is a piece that I hold especially dear. Naturally, I am eager for its return."

"Naturally. You think the Resistance—?"

"And it is in connection with this that I have called on you today, Underwood…" He spoke slowly, carefully, skirting round the issue. Perhaps even now he hoped he would not have to make the accusation directly. Magicians are always circumspect with words; hasty ones, even in a crisis, can lead to misfortune. But the older man was oblivious to the hint.

"You can count on my support, of course," Underwood said equably. "These thefts are an abomination. We have known for some time that a black market for stolen artifacts exists and I for one believe that their sale helps to fund resistance to our rule. We saw yesterday what outrages this can lead to." Underwood's eyebrows lifted with something like amusement. "I must say," he went on, "I am surprised to hear that you have fallen victim. Most recent thefts were perpetrated on—may I be frank? —relatively minor magicians. The thieves are often thought to be youths, even children. I would have thought your defenses might have coped with them."

"Quite." Simon Lovelace spoke through his teeth.

"Do you think it has any connection with the attack on Parliament?"

"A moment, please." Lovelace held up his hand. "I have reason to suspect that the theft of the—of my item, was not the work of the so—called Resistance, but that of a fellow magician."

Underwood frowned. "You think so? How can you be sure?"

"Because I know what carried out the raid. It goes by the unseemly name of Bartimaeus. A middle—ranking djinni of great impudence and small intelligence.[74] It is nothing special. Any half—wit might have summoned it. A half—wit magician, that is, not a commoner."

"Nevertheless," Underwood said mildly, "this Bartimaeus got away with your item."[75]

"It was a bungler! It allowed itself to be identified!" Lovelace controlled himself with difficulty. "No, no—you are quite right. It got away."

"And as to who summoned it…"

The glasses flashed. "Well, Arthur, that is why I am here. To see you."

There was a momentary pause while Underwood's brain cells struggled to make the connection. Finally, success. Several emotions competed for control of his face, then all were swept away by a kind of glacial smoothness. The temperature in the room grew cold.

"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "What did you say?"

Simon Lovelace leaned forward and rested his two hands on the dining table. He had very well manicured nails. "Arthur," he said, "Bartimaeus has not been keeping a low profile lately. As of this morning, it was imprisoned within the Tower of London, following its attack on Pinn's of Piccadilly."

Underwood reeled with astonishment. "That djinni? How—how do you know this? They were unable to learn its name… And—and it escaped, this very afternoon…"

"It did indeed." Lovelace did not explain how. "After its escape, my agents… spotted it. They followed Bartimaeus across London—and back here."[76]

Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"

"Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I am inside…" Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."

"But…"

"I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."

The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different expression, then reverted to the original. Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.

"I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite within my rights. But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well aware—is rather… contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get out, now would we? So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some… arrangement that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff. "I'm waiting."

If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he might have saved himself.[77] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.

"You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How dare you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should I take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I would—n't bother robbing you. Everyone knows your star has waned. You're not worth harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably, they lie. Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my house!"

As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.

"Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."

The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."

"I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."

"I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."

"Well, then…"

Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air and landed on the mahogany top of the dining—room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.

"Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."

The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a laden tray.

"Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr. Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"

Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large porcelain teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display—rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.

Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.

"Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."

Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the display—rack. The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.

"That's right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs. Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.

The door closed.

As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.

With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.

There was a brief silence.

Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.

"What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.

Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance. "That was my best teapot."

He gave three whistles, shrill, high—pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin—imp, blue—faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin—imp sprang, turning in midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong. The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin—imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.

Underwood turned back to Lovelace, who had watched all this tight—lipped.

I confess the old man surprised me—he was putting up a better show than I'd expected. Nevertheless the strain of raising that tame imp was taking its toll. The back of his neck was sweaty.

Lovelace knew this too. "One last chance," he snapped. "Give me my property or I'll raise the stakes. Lead me to your study."

"Never!" Underwood was beside himself with strain and rage. He did not heed the promptings of common sense.

"Watch then." Lovelace smoothed back his oiled hair. He spoke a few words under his breath. There was a frisson in the dining room; everything in it flickered. The wall at the far end of the room became insubstantial. It receded, moving farther and farther back until it could no longer be seen. In its place a corridor of uncertain dimensions stretched away. As Underwood watched, a figure appeared far off along the corridor. It began to move toward us, growing larger at great speed, but floating, for its legs were still.

Underwood gasped and stumbled back. He knocked against his chair.

He was right to gasp. I knew that figure, the bulky frame, the jackal's head.

"Stop!" Underwood's face was waxen; he gripped his chair for support.

"What was that?" Simon Lovelace held his fingers to his ear. "I can't hear you."[78]

"Stop! All right, you win! I'll take you to my study now! Call it off!"

The figure grew in size. Underwood was cowering. The goblin—imp made a rueful face and withdrew hastily back through the tiles. I shifted in my corner, wondering quite what I was going to do when Jabor finally entered the room.[79]

All at once Lovelace gave a sign. The infinite corridor and the approaching figure vanished. The wall was there again as before, a yellowed photograph of Underwood's smiling grandmother hanging in its center.

Underwood was on his knees beside the ruins of his tea service. He shook so hard he could barely stand.

"Which way to your study, Arthur?" Simon Lovelace said.

Nathaniel

Nathaniel stood alone on the landing, gripping the banister as if he feared to fall. A murmur of voices came from the dining room below; it rose and fell, but he hardly registered it. The panic rushing in his head drowned out all other sounds. The only bad magician is an incompetent one. And what was incompetence? Loss of control. Slowly, steadily, over the last few days, everything had spiraled out of Nathaniel's control. First, Bartimaeus had learned his birth name. He had remedied that all right with the tobacco tin, but the respite had not lasted long. Instead, disaster after disaster had struck in quick succession. Bartimaeus had been captured by the Government, Underwood had discovered his activities and his career had been ruined before it had begun. Now the demon refused to obey his orders and Love—lace himself was at the door. And all he could do was stand and watch, helpless to react. He was at the mercy of the events he had set in motion. Helpless…

A small noise sliced through his self—pity and jolted him upright. It was the gentle humming made by Mrs. Underwood as she padded along the hall from the kitchen toward the dining room. She was bringing tea: Nathaniel heard the clinking of the china on the tray she carried. A knock upon the door followed; more clinking as she entered, then silence.

In that moment, Nathaniel quite forgot his own predicament. Mrs. Underwood was in danger. The enemy was in the house. In a few moments, he would doubtless force or persuade Underwood to open his study for inspection. The Amulet would be found. And then… what might Lovelace do—to Mr. Underwood or his wife?

Bartimaeus had told him to wait upstairs and be ready for the worst. But Nathaniel had had enough of helpless loitering. He was not done yet. The situation was desperate, but he could still act. The magicians were in the dining room. Underwood's study was empty. If he could slip inside and retrieve the Amulet, perhaps he could hide it somewhere, whatever Bartimaeus might say.

Quietly, quickly, he stole downstairs to the landing below, to the level of his master's study and workrooms. The muffled voices from the ground floor were raised now: he thought he could hear Underwood shouting. Time was short. Nathaniel hastened through the rooms to the door leading to the study stairs. Here he paused. He had not gone that way since he was six years old. Distant memories assailed him and made him shiver, but he shrugged them off. He passed onward, down the steps…

And pulled up dead.

Underwood's study door stood before him, daubed with its red, five—pointed star. Nathaniel groaned aloud. He knew enough now to recognize a fire—hex when he saw it. He would be incinerated the moment he touched the door. Without protection, he could not progress, and protection required a circle, a summons, careful preparation…

And he had no time for that. He was helpless! Useless! He beat his fist against the wall. From far away in the house came a noise that might have been a cry of fear.

Nathaniel ran back up the stairs and through to the landing, and as he did so, he heard the dining—room door open and footsteps sounding in the hall.

They were coming.

Then from below, Mrs. Underwood's voice, anxious and enquiring, speared Nathaniel with a thrill of pain. "Is everything all right, Arthur?"

The reply was dull, weary, almost unrecognizable. "I am just showing Mr. Lovelace something in my study. Thank you, we need nothing."

They were climbing the stairs now. Nathaniel was in an agony of indecision. What should he do? Just as someone turned the corner, he ducked behind the nearest door and closed it almost to. Breathing hard, he pressed his eye against the small crack that gave a view onto the landing.

A slow procession passed. Mr. Underwood led the way. His hair and clothes were disordered, his eyes wild, his back bent as if by a great weight. Behind walked Simon Lovelace, eyes hidden behind his glasses, his mouth a thin, grim slit. Behind him came a spider, scuttling in the shadows of the wall.

The procession disappeared in the direction of the study. Nathaniel sank back, head spinning, nauseous with guilt and fear. Underwood's face… Despite his extreme dislike of his master, to see him in that state rebelled against everything Nathaniel had been taught. Yes, he was weak; yes, he was petty; yes, he had treated Nathaniel with consistent disdain. But the man was a minister, one of the three hundred in the Government. And he had not taken the Amulet. Nathaniel had.

He bit his lip. Lovelace was a criminal. Who could tell what he might do? Let Underwood take the blame. He deserved it. He had never stuck up for Nathaniel, he had sacked Ms. Lutyens… let him suffer too. Why had Nathaniel put the Amulet in the study in the first place, if not to protect himself when Lovelace came? He would stay out of the way, as the djinni had said. Get ready to run, if necessary…

Nathaniel's head sank into his hands.

He could not run. He could not hide. That was the advice of a demon, treacherous and sly. Running and hiding were not the actions of an honorable magician. If he let his master face Lovelace alone, how would he live with himself again? When his master suffered, Mrs. Underwood would suffer too and that would be impossible to bear. No, there was no help for it. Now that the crisis was upon him, Nathaniel found, to his surprise and horror, that he had to act. Regardless of the consequences, he had to intervene.

Even to think of doing what he now did made him physically sick. Nevertheless he managed it, little by little, step by dragging step. Out from behind the door, across the landing, along toward the study stairs… Down the stairs, one at a time…

With every step, his common sense screamed at him to turn and flee, but he resisted. To run would be to fail Mrs. Underwood. He would go in there and tell the truth, come what may.

The door was open, the fiery hex defused. Yellow light spilled from inside.

Nathaniel paused at the threshold. His brain seemed to have shut down. He did not fully understand what he was about to do.

He pushed at the door and went in, just in time to witness the moment of discovery.

Lovelace and Underwood were standing by a wall cupboard with their backs to him. The cupboard doors gaped wide. Even as he watched, Lovelace's head craned forward eagerly like a hunting cat's, and his hand stretched out and knocked something aside. He gave a cry of triumph. Slowly, he turned and raised his hand before Underwood's corpse—white face.

Nathaniel's shoulders slumped.

How small it looked, the Amulet of Samarkand, how insignificant it seemed, as it hung from Lovelace's fingers on its slender gold chain. It swung gently, glinting in the study light.

Lovelace smiled. "Well, well. What have we here?"

Underwood was shaking his head in confusion and disbelief. In those few seconds, his face had aged.

"No," he whispered. "A trick… You're framing me…"

Lovelace wasn't even looking at him. He gazed at his prize. "I can't imagine what you thought you could do with this," he said. "Summoning Bartimaeus on its own would have been quite enough to wear you out."

"I keep saying," Underwood said weakly, "I don't know anything about this Bartimaeus, and I know nothing about your object, nor how it got there."

Nathaniel heard a new voice speaking, high and shaky. It was his own.

"He's telling the truth," he said. "I took it. The person that you want is me."

The silence that followed this statement lasted almost five seconds. Both magicians spun round on the instant, only to stare at him openmouthed in shock. Mr. Underwood's eyebrows rose high, sank low, then rose again, mirroring his utter bewilderment. Lovelace wore an uncomprehending frown.

Nathaniel took the opportunity to walk farther into the room. "It was I," he said, his voice a little firmer now that the deed was done. "He knows nothing about it. You can leave him alone."

Underwood blinked and shook his head. He seemed to doubt the evidence of his senses. Lovelace remained quite still, his hidden eyes fixed on Nathaniel. The Amulet of Samarkand swung gently between his motionless fingers.

Nathaniel cleared his throat, which was dry. What would happen now he dared not guess. He had not thought beyond his confession. Somewhere in the room his servant lurked, so he was not entirely defenseless. If necessary, he hoped Bartimaeus would come to his aid.

His master found his voice at last. "What are you gibbering about, you fool? You can have no idea what we discuss. Leave here at once!" A thought occurred to him. "Wait—how did you get out of the room?"

At his side, Lovelace's frown suddenly fractured into a twitching smile. He laughed quietly. "A moment, Arthur. Perhaps you are being too hasty."

For an instant, a fleeting glimpse of Underwood's irascibility returned. "Don't be absurd! This stripling cannot have committed the crime! He would have had to bypass my fire—hex, for a start, not to mention your own defenses."

"And raise a djinni of the fourteenth level," murmured Lovelace. "That too."

"Exactly. The notion is abs—" Underwood gasped. Sudden understanding dawned in his eyes. "Wait… perhaps… Can it be possible? Only today, Lovelace, I caught this brat with summoning equipment, and Adelbrand's Pentacle chalked out in his room. He had sophisticated books—The Mouth of Ptolemy, for one. I assumed he had failed, was over—ambitious… But what if I was wrong?"

Simon Lovelace said nothing. He never looked away from Nathaniel.

"Just this past hour," Underwood went on, "I caught him spying on me in my study. He had a scrying glass, something I have never given him. If he is capable of that, who knows what other crimes he might attempt?"

"Even so," Lovelace said, softly, "why should he steal from me?"

Nathaniel could tell from his master's behavior that he had not recognized the Amulet for what it was, and realized that this ignorance might yet save him. Would Lovelace believe the same was true of Nathaniel, too? He spoke up quickly, trying to sound as much like a child as possible. "It was just a trick, sir," he said. "A joke. I wanted to get back at you for hitting me that time. I asked the demon to take something of yours, anything at all. I was going to keep that thing till I was older, and, erm, till I could find out what it was and, how to use it. I hope it wasn't valuable, sir. I'm very sorry for putting you to any trouble…"

He trailed off, excruciatingly aware how weak his story was. Lovelace just gazed at him; he could make out nothing from the man's expression.

But his master, for one, believed him. His full fury was unleashed. "That is the last straw, Mandrake!" he cried. "I will have you up before the court! Even if you escape prison, you will be stripped of your apprenticeship and turned out into the street! I will cast you out! All jobs will be closed to you! You will become a pauper among commoners!"

"Yes, sir." Anything, if only Lovelace would leave.

"I can only apologize, Lovelace." Underwood drew himself up and puffed out his chest. "We have both been inconvenienced—he has betrayed me and from you he has stolen a most powerful treasure, this amulet—" He glanced toward the small gold oval dangling from Lovelace's hand and in that sudden, fatal, instant realized what it was. A short, suppressed intake of breath sounded against his teeth. It was a small noise, but Nathaniel heard it clearly enough. Lovelace didn't move.

The color drained from Underwood's cheeks. His eyes darted toward Lovelace's face to see if he had noticed anything. Nathaniel's eyes did likewise. Through the blood pounding in his head, he heard Underwood struggling to continue where he had broken off: "And… and we shall both see him suitably punished, yes we will; he will regret the day when he ever thought to—"

The other magician held up his hand. Instantly, Underwood was silent.

"Well, John Mandrake," Simon Lovelace said, "I am almost very impressed. Yes, I have been inconvenienced; the last few days have been difficult for me. But see—I have my prize again, and all will now be well. Please do not apologize. To summon a djinni such as Bartimaeus at your age is no mean achievement; to control him over several days is even more surprising. You left me frustrated, too, which is a rare event, and Underwood ignorant, which is somewhat less unusual. All very clever. Only at the end have you fallen down. What possessed you to own up to your action? I might have dealt quietly with Underwood and left you alone." His voice was soft and reasonable.

Underwood urgently tried to speak, but Lovelace interrupted him. "Quiet, man. I want to hear the boy's reasons."

"Because it wasn't his fault," Nathaniel said, stolidly. "He knew nothing. Your quarrel was with me, whether you knew so or not. He should be left out of it. That's why I came down." A sense of the utter futility of his action weighed down upon him.

Lovelace chuckled. "Some childish concept of nobility, is it?" he said. "I guessed as much. The honorable course of action. Heroic, but stupid. Where did you get that notion from? Not from Underwood here, I'll bet."

"I robbed you because you wronged me," Nathaniel continued. "I wanted to get back at you. That's all there is to it. Punish me if you want. I don't care." His attitude of surly resignation concealed a growing hope. Maybe Lovelace did not realize that they knew about the Amulet; maybe he would administer some token punishment and go.

Underwood was evidently hoping the same thing. He grasped Lovelace eagerly by the arm. "As you have seen, Simon, I am entirely innocent in this affair. It was this wicked, scheming boy. You must deal with him as you wish. Whatever sentence fits the crime, you may administer it. I leave it entirely up to you."

Gently, Lovelace disengaged himself. "Thank you, Underwood. I shall administer his punishment shortly."

"Good."

"After disposing of you."

"What—?" For a second, Underwood froze, then with a turn of speed unexpected in a man of his age, he ran for the open door. Just as he passed Nathaniel, a gust of wind from nowhere slammed the door tight shut. Underwood rattled the handle and pulled with all his strength, but it remained fast. With a snarl of fear, he spun round. He and Nathaniel stood facing Simon Lovelace across the room. Nathaniel's legs shook. He looked round wildly for Bartimaeus, but the spider was nowhere to be seen.

With fastidious care, Lovelace took the Amulet of Samarkand by its chain and hung it round his neck. "I am not stupid, John," he said. "It is possible that you do not know what this object is, but frankly I cannot take that chance. And certainly, poor Arthur knows."

At this, Underwood stretched out a clawing hand and grasped Nathaniel around the neck. His voice was cracked with panic. "Yes, but I will say nothing! You can trust me, Lovelace! You may keep the Amulet for all eternity for all I care! But the boy is a meddling fool; he must be silenced before he blabs. Kill him now, and the matter will be finished!" His nails dug into Nathaniel's skin, he thrust him forward; Nathaniel cried out in pain.

A smirk extended across Lovelace's face. "Such loyalty from a master to his apprentice! Very touching. You see, John, Underwood and I are giving you a final lesson in the art of being a magician, and perhaps with our help you will understand your error in owning up to me today. You believed in the notion of the honorable magician, who takes responsibility for his actions. Mere propaganda. Such a thing does not exist. There is no honor, no nobility, no justice. Every magician acts only for himself, seizing each opportunity he can. When he is weak, he avoids danger—which is why second—raters plod away within the system. Arthur knows all about that, don't you, Underwood? But when he is strong, he strikes. How do you think Rupert Devereaux himself came to power? His master killed the previous Prime Minister in a coup twenty years ago and he inherited the title. That is the truth of it. That is how things are always done. When I use the Amulet next week, I will be following in a grand tradition reaching back to Gladstone." The glasses flashed, a hand was raised, ready to begin a gesture. "It may console you to know that even before you arrived, I was resolved to kill you and everyone in this house. I cannot leave anything to chance. So your stupidity in coming here has actually changed nothing."

An image of Mrs. Underwood, downstairs in the kitchen, flashed through Nathaniel's mind. Tears flooded his eyes. "Please—"

"You are weak, boy. Just like your master." Lovelace clapped his hands. The light in the study suddenly darkened. A tremor ran across the floor. Nathaniel sensed something appearing in the far corner of the room, but fear froze him in place—he dared not look to see. At his side, Underwood uttered the words of a defensive charm. A shimmering green net of protective threads rose up to enfold him. Nathaniel was excluded, defenseless.

"Master—!"

At that moment, like a shaft collapsing in a slate mine, a terrible voice echoed through the room. "YOUR WISH?"

Lovelace's voice: "Destroy them both. And anything else living in the house. Burn it to the ground with all its contents."

Underwood gave a great cry. "Take the boy! Leave me!" He pushed Nathaniel with frantic strength. Nathaniel sprawled forward, stumbled, and fell. His eyes were blind with tears; he tried to rise, conscious only of his utter helplessness. Close by sounded a splintering noise. He opened his mouth to scream. Then claws descended and seized him around the throat.

Bartimaeus

I give Underwood's desk the credit. It was an old—fashioned, sturdy affair, and fortunately Jabor had materialized on its far side. The three seconds it took him to smash his way straight through it gave me time to move. I had been loitering on the ceiling, in a crevice above the light shade; now I dropped straight down, transforming into a gargoyle as I did so. I landed directly on my master, grabbed him unceremoniously around the neck, and, since Jabor blocked the window, bounded away in the direction of the door.

My response went almost unnoticed: the magicians were otherwise occupied. Swathed in his defensive nexus, Underwood sent a bolt of blue fire crackling toward Lovelace. The bolt hit Lovelace directly in his chest and vanished. The Amulet of Samarkand had absorbed its power.

I broke through the door with the boy under my arm and set off up the stairs. I hadn't reached the top when a colossal explosion ripped through the passage from behind and sent us slamming against a far wall. The impact dazed me. As I lay there, momentarily stunned, a series of deafening crashes could be heard. Jabor's attack had perhaps been overzealous: it sounded as if the entire study floor had given way beneath him.[80]

It didn't take me long to put my essence in order and get to my feet, but believe it or not, in those few moments, that benighted boy had gone. I caught sight of him on the landing, heading for the stairs. And going down.

I shook my head in disbelief. What had I told him about staying out of trouble? He'd already walked straight into Lovelace's hands and risked both our lives in the process. Now here he was, in all probability heading straight toward Jabor. It's all very well running for your little life, but at least do it in the right direction. I flapped my wings and set off in grim pursuit.

The second golden rule of escaping is: make no unnecessary sounds. As the boy reached the ground floor, I heard him breaking this in no uncertain terms with a bellow that echoed up and down the stairwell: "Mrs. Underwood! Mrs. Underwood! Where are you?" His shouts sounded even above the crashing noises reverberating through the house.

I rolled my eyes to the skies and descended the final flight of stairs, to find the hall already beginning to fill with billowing coils of smoke. A dancing red light flickered from along the passage. The boy was ahead of me—I could see him stumbling toward the fire.

"Mrs. Underwood!"

There was a movement far off in the smoke. A shape, hunched in a corner behind a barrier of licking flames. The boy saw it too. He tottered toward it. I speeded up, claws outstretched.

"Mrs. Underwood? Are you—?"

The shape rose, unbent itself. It had the head of a beast.

The boy opened his mouth to scream. At that precise moment I caught up with him and seized him round the middle. He settled for a choking yell.

"It's me, you idiot." I hiked him backward toward the stairs. "It's coming to kill you. Do you want to die along with your master?"

His face went blank. The words shocked him. I don't think that until that moment he had truly comprehended what was happening, despite seeing it all unfold before his eyes. But I was happy to spell it out; it was time he learned the consequences of his actions.

Out through a wall of fire strode Jabor. His skin gleamed as if it had been oiled; the dancing flames were reflected on him as he stalked along the hall.

We started up the stairs again. My limbs strained at my master's weight. His limbs dragged; he seemed incapable of movement.

"Up," I snarled. "This house is terraced. We'll try the roof."

He managed a mumble. "My master…"

"Is dead," I said. "Swallowed whole, most probably." It was best to be precise.

"But Mrs. Underwood…"

"Is no doubt with her husband. You can't help her now."

And here, believe it or not, the fool began to struggle, flailing about with his puny fists. "No!" he shouted. "It's my fault! I must find her—!" He wriggled like an eel, slipping from my grasp. In another moment he would have hurled himself around the banister and straight into Jabor's welcoming arms. I let out a vivid curse[81] and, grabbing him by an earlobe, pulled him up and onward.

"Stop struggling!" I said. "Haven't you made enough useless gestures for one day?"

"Mrs. Underwood—"

"Would not want you to die too," I hazarded.[82] "Yes, it is your fault, but, er, don't blame yourself. Life's for the living… and, erm… Oh, whatever." I ran out of steam.[83] Whether or not it was my words of wisdom, the boy stopped straining against me. I had my arm round his neck and was dragging him up and round each corner, half flying, half walking, fast as I could lift him. We reached the second landing and went on again, up the attic stairs. Directly below, the steps cracked and splintered under Jabor's feet.

By the time we reached the top, my master had recovered himself sufficiently to be stumbling along almost unaided. And so, like the hopeless pair in a three—legged race who trail in last to a round of sympathetic applause, we arrived at the attic room still alive. Which was something, I suppose.

"The window!" I said. "We need to get onto the roof!" I bundled Nathaniel across to the skylight and punched it open. Cold air rushed in. I flew through the opening and, perching on the roof, extended a hand back down into the room. "Come on," I said. "Out."

But to my astonishment, the infernal boy hesitated. He shuffled off to a corner of the room, bent down and picked something up. It was his scrying glass. I ask you! Jackal—headed death hard on his heels, and he was dawdling for that? Only then did he amble over to the skylight, his face still wiped clean of expression.

One good thing about Jabor. Slow. It took him time to negotiate the tricky proposition of the stairs. If it had been Faquarl chasing, he'd have been able to overtake us, lock and bar the skylight, and maybe even fit it with a nice new rollerblind before we got there. Yet so lethargic was my master that I barely had him within grabbing distance when Jabor finally appeared at the top of the stairs, sparks of flame radiating from his body and igniting the fabric of the house around him. He caught sight of the boy, raised a hand and stepped forward.

And banged his head nicely on the low—slung attic door.

This gave me the instant I needed. I swung down from the skylight, holding on with my feet like a gibbon, seized the boy under an arm and swung myself back up and away from the hole. As we fell back against the tiles, a gout of flame erupted from the skylight. The whole building shook.

The boy would have lain there all night if I'd let him, staring glassy—eyed at the stars. He was in shock, I think. Maybe nobody had seriously tried to kill him before. Conversely, I had reactions born of long practice: in a trice I was up again, hoisting him with me and rattling off along the sloping roof, gripping tightly with my claws.

I made for the nearest chimney and, flinging the boy down behind it, peered back the way we had come. The heat from below was doing its work: tiles were popping out of position, small flames dancing through the cracks between them. Somewhere, a mass of timber cracked and shifted.

At the skylight, a movement: a giant black bird flapping clear of the fire. It alighted on the roof crest and changed form. Jabor glared back and forth. I ducked down behind the chimney and snatched a quick look up ahead.

There was no sign of any of Lovelace's other slaves: no djinn, no watchful spheres. Perhaps, with the Amulet back in his hands, he felt he had no need of them. He was relying on Jabor.

The street was terraced: this gave us an avenue of escape stretching away along a succession of connecting houses. To the left, the roofs were a dark shelf above the lamp—lit expanse of the street. To the right, they looked over the shadowy mass of the gardens, full of overgrown trees and bushes. Some way off, a particularly large tree had been allowed to grow close to its house. That had potential.

But the boy was still sluggish. I couldn't rely on a speedy flight from him. Jabor would nail us with a Detonation before we'd gone five meters.

I risked a quick peek around the edge of the brickwork. Jabor was approaching, head lowered a little, snuffling in our trail. Not long before he guessed our hiding place and vaporized the chimney. Now was very much the time to think of a brilliant, watertight plan.

Failing that, I improvised.

Leaving the boy lying, I rose up from behind the chimney in gargoyle form. Jabor saw me; as he fired, I closed my wings for a moment, allowing myself to drop momentarily through the air. The Detonation shot above my plummeting head and curved away over the roof to explode harmlessly[84] somewhere in the street beyond. I flapped my wings again and soared closer to Jabor, watching all the while the little sheets of flame licking up around his feet, cracking the tiles and feeding on the hidden timbers that fixed the roof in place.

I held up my claws in a submissive gesture. "Can't we discuss this? Your master may want the boy alive."

Jabor was never one for small talk. Another near miss almost finished the argument for me. I spiraled around him as fast as I could, keeping him as near as possible in the same spot. Every time he fired, the force of his shot weakened the section of roof on which he stood; every time this happened the roof trembled a little more violently. But I was running out of energy—my dodges grew less nimble. The edge of a Detonation clipped a wing and I tumbled to the tiles.

Jabor stepped forward.

I raised a hand and fired a return shot. It was weak and low, far too low to trouble Jabor. It struck the tiles directly in front of his feet. He didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he let out a triumphant laugh, which was cut short by the whole section of roof collapsing. The master beam that spanned the length of the building split in two; the joists fell away, and timber and plaster and tile upon tile dropped into the inferno of the house, taking Jabor with them. He must have fallen a good long way from there—down four burning floors to the cellars below ground. Much of the house would have fallen on top of him.

Flames crackled through the hole. To me, as I grasped the edge of the chimney and swung myself over to the other side, it sounded rather like a round of applause.

The boy was crouching there, dull—eyed, looking out into the dark.

"I've given us a few minutes," I said, "but there's no time to waste. Get moving." Whether or not it was the friendly tone of my voice that did it, he struggled to his feet quickly enough. But then he set off, shuffling along the rooftop with all the speed and elegance of a walking corpse. At that pace it would have taken him a week to get close to the tree. An old man with two glass eyes could have caught up with him, let alone an angry djinni. I glanced back. As yet there was no sign of pursuit—only flames roaring up from the hole. Without wasting a moment, I summoned up my remaining strength and slung the boy over my shoulder. Then I ran as fast as I could along the roof.

Four houses further on, we drew abreast of the tree, an evergreen fir. The nearest branches were only four meters distant. Jumpable. But first, I needed a rest. I dumped the boy onto the tiles and checked behind us again. Nothing. Jabor was having problems. I imagined him thrashing around in the white heat of the cellar, buried under tons of burning debris, struggling to get out.

There was a sudden movement among the flames. It was time to go.

I didn't give the boy the option of panicking. Grasping him around the waist, I ran down the roof and leaped from the end. The boy made no sound as we arched through the air, picked out in orange by the light of the fire. My wings beat frantically, keeping us aloft just long enough, until with a whipping and stabbing and a cracking of branches, we plunged into the foliage of the evergreen tree.

I clasped the trunk, stopping us from falling. The boy steadied himself against a branch. I glanced back at the house. A black silhouette moved slowly against the fire.

Gripping the trunk loosely, I let us slide. The bark sheared away against each claw as we descended. We landed in wet grass in the darkness at the foot of the tree.

I set the boy on his feet again. "Now—absolute silence!" I whispered. "And keep below the trees."

Then away we slunk, my master and I, into the dripping darkness of the garden, as the wail of fire engines grew in the street beyond and another great beam crashed into the flaming ruin of his master's house.