The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud
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.”
27
Underwood’s brows lowered. “Lovelace?” he growled. “What does he want? Typical of him to turn up at the worst moment.Very well, I will see him. As for you—stop your wriggling!” Nathaniel was making sudden feverish movements, as if attempting to escape his grip. “You, boy, can wait in the box room until I’m ready to deal with you.”
“Sir—”
“Not a word!” Underwood began to manhandle Nathaniel across the landing. “Martha, put on the kettle for our visitor. I shall be down in a few minutes. I need to tidy myself up.”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“Sir—please listen! It’s important! In the study—”
“Silence!” Underwood opened a narrow door and shoved Nathaniel through, into a small, cold room filled with old files and stacks of government papers. Without a backward glance, his master shut the door and turned the key. Nathaniel knocked on the wood and frantically called out after him.
“Sir! Sir!” No one answered. “Sir!”
“You’re too kind.” A large beetle with huge mandibles squeezed itself under the door. “I actually find sir a bit formal for my taste, but it’s better than
“Bartimaeus!” Nathaniel stepped back in shock; before his eyes, the beetle grew, distorted … the dark-skinned boy was standing in the room with him, hands on hips and head slightly to one side. As always, the form was a perfect replica: its hair shifted as it moved, the light glistened on the pores of its skin—it could not have been singled out as false from among a thousand true humans.Yet something about it—perhaps the soft, dark eyes that gazed at him—screamed out its alien otherness. Nathaniel blinked; he struggled to control himself. He felt the same disorientation he had experienced during their previous meeting.
The false boy surveyed the bare floorboards and piles of junk. “Who’s been a naughty little magician, then?” it said dryly. “Underwood’s cottoned on to you at last, I see. He took his time.”
Nathaniel ignored him. “So it was you at the window,” he began. “How did you—?”
“Down a chimney, how d’you think? And before you say it, I know you didn’t summon me, but things have been moving far too fast for me to wait. The Amulet—”
Nathaniel was struck by a sudden horrified realization. “You—you’ve brought Lovelace here!”
The boy seemed surprised. “What?”
“Don’t lie to me, demon! You’ve betrayed me! You’ve led him here.”
“Lovelace?” It looked genuinely taken aback. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs. He’s just arrived.”
“Nothing to do with me if he has. Have you been blabbing?”
“Me? It was you—”
“I’ve said nothing. I’ve got a tobacco tin to think of….” It frowned and appeared to be thinking. “It is a slight coincidence, I must admit.”
“Slight?” Nathaniel was practically hopping with agitation. “You’ve led him here, you fool! Now, quickly—get the Amulet! Get it away from the study, before Lovelace finds it!”
The boy laughed harshly. “Not a chance. If Lovelace is here, he’ll have stationed a dozen spheres outside. They’ll home in on its aura and be on me the moment I leave the building.”
Nathaniel drew himself up. With his servant returned, he was not as helpless as before. There was still a chance to avoid disaster, providing the demon did as it was told. “I command you to obey!” he began. “Go to the study—”
“Oh, can it, Nat.” The boy waved a weary and dismissive hand. “You’re not in the pentacle now. You can’t force me to obey each new order. Running off with the Amulet will be fatal, take it from me. How strong is Underwood?”
“What?” Nathaniel was nonplussed.
“How strong? What level? I assume from the size of that beard he’s no great shakes, but I might be wrong. How good is he? Could he beat Lovelace? That’s the point.”
“Oh. No. No, I don’t think so….” Nathaniel had little actual evidence either way, but his master’s past display of servility to Lovelace left him in little doubt. “You think …”
“Your one chance is that if Lovelace finds the Amulet, he might want to keep the whole thing quiet. He may try to do a deal with Underwood. If he doesn’t—”
Nathaniel went cold. “You don’t think he’ll—?”
“Whoops! In all this excitement I nearly forgot to tell you what I came for!” The boy put on a deep and plangent voice: “Know ye that I have devotedly carried out my charge. I have spied on Lovelace. I have sought the secrets of the Amulet. I have risked all for you, O my master. And the results are"—here it adopted a more normal, sardonic tone—"you’re an idiot.You’ve no idea what you’ve done. The Amulet is so powerful it’s been in government keeping for decades—until Lovelace had it stolen, that is. His assassin murdered a senior magician for it. In those circumstances, I don’t think it’s likely that he’ll worry about killing Underwood to retrieve it, do you?
To Nathaniel, the room seemed to spin. He felt quite faint. This was worse than anything he had imagined. “We can’t just stand here,” he stammered. “We’ve got to do something—”
“True. I’ll go and watch developments. Meanwhile, you’d better stay here like a good little boy, and be ready for a quick exit if things get nasty.”
“I’m not running anywhere.” He said it in a small, small voice. His head was reeling with the implications. “Mrs. Underwood …”
“I’ll give you a tip born of long experience. Running’s good if your skin needs saving. Better get used to the idea, bud.” The boy turned to the box room door and set the palm of one hand against it. With a despairing crack, the door split around the lock and swung open. “Go up to your room and wait. I’ll tell you what happens soon enough. And be prepared to move fast.”
With that, the djinni was gone. When Nathaniel followed, the landing was already empty.
28
“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 artif
“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.1 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."2
“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.”