The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  Then I spun and fired off a Detonation—it collided directly with the magician’s back, propelling him forward straight into the frozen display stand. He had a protective field around him—I could see it as pretty yellow sparkles when I flipped through the planes—but though there wasn’t the hole in him I wanted, he was badly winded. He subsided gasping into a mess of icy boxer shorts. I set off for the nearest window, intending to bust my way out into the street.

  I had forgotten Simpkin. Stepping smartly from behind a rack of cloaks, he swung a giant staff (with a tag marked Extra-large) directly at my head. I ducked; the staff smashed into the glass front of the counter. Simpkin drew back to repeat the blow; I leaped at him, wrested the staff from his claws and gave him a clout that reversed the topography of his features. With a grunt he fell back into a pile of silly hats, and I proceeded on my way.

  Between two mannequins, I spied a nice open stretch of window, made of clear, curved glass that refracted the incoming sunlight into gentle rainbow colors. It looked very pretty and expensive. I fired a Detonation through it, sending a cloud of powdered glass shards pluming out into the street, and dived for the hole.

  Too late. As the window broke, a trap was triggered.

  The mannequins turned round.

  They were made of dark polished wood—the kind of shop dummy that has no human features, just a slender smooth oval where the face should be. The barest suggestion of a nose perhaps, but no mouth, no eyes. They were modeling the latest fashionable wizard gear: his-’n’-hers black suits with slim white pinstripes and razor-sharp lapels; lemon-white shirts with high, well-starched collars; daringly colorful ties. They wore no shoes: from each trouser-leg projected only a simple nub of wood.

  As I leaped between them, their arms shot out to bar the way. From the depths of each sleeve a silver blade extended and clicked into place in their fingerless hands. I was going too fast to stop, but I was still holding the extra-large staff. The blades swung toward me in two synchronized arcs. I raised the staff in front of my face just in time: the blades sank deep into it, almost cutting right through and jerking me to a sudden painful halt.

  For a moment I felt the cold aura of the silver against my skin,8 then I let go of the staff and flung myself back. The mannequins shook their blades; my staff fell to the floor in two halves. They bent their knees and sprang—

  I back-flipped over the counter.

  The silver blades bit into the parquet flooring where I had just stood.

  I needed to change, and fast—the falcon form would probably do—but I also needed to defend myself. Before I could make up my mind quite how, they were upon me again, whistling through the air, wind ruffling their oversize collars. I dived to one side, crashing into a pile of empty gift boxes. One mannequin landed on the countertop, the other behind it, their smooth heads turning toward me.

  I could feel my energy getting low. Too many changes, too many spells in too short a time. But I wasn’t helpless yet. I cast an Inferno on the nearer mannequin—the one creeping along the counter. A burst of blue fire erupted from its crisp white shirtfront and began to spread quickly across the fabric. Its tie shriveled, its jacket smoldered. The mannequin ignored this, as it was bound to do;9 it raised its blade again. I edged back. The mannequin bent its legs, ready to spring. Fire was licking across the torso; now the varnished timber body was itself ablaze.

  The mannequin jumped high into the air and looped down onto me, the flames dancing behind it like an outstretched cloak. At the last moment I jumped aside. It hit the ground heavily. There was a painful crack: the weakened, burning wood had splintered in the impact. The mannequin gave a lopsided stride toward me, its body swaying at a grotesque angle—then its legs gave way. It collapsed in a fiery mess of blackening limbs.

  I was about to do the same to its companion, which had hopped over the bonfire and was fast approaching, when a slight sound behind alerted me to the partial recovery of Sholto Pinn. I glanced back. Sholto was half sitting up, looking as if he’d been hit by a herd of buffalo. A pair of Y-fronts draped his forehead at a fetching angle. But he was still dangerous. He groped for his staff, found it, stabbed it in my direction. The yellow ray of light shot out once more—but I was already gone from the spot, and the plasms enveloped the second mannequin in mid bound. Its limbs helplessly frozen, it crashed to the floor, shattering a leg into a dozen pieces.

  Sholto cursed, looked around wildly. He really didn’t have to look far for little me. I was right above him, balanced on the top of a free-standing set of shelves. The whole stack was filled with meticulously indexed files and beautifully arranged displays of shields, statuary, and antique boxes that had all no doubt been filched from their proper owners across the world. It must have been worth a fortune. I leaned my back against the wall, set my feet firmly on the shelf top and pushed hard.

  The set of shelves groaned and teetered.

  Sholto heard the sound. He looked up. I saw his eyes widen in horror.

  I gave an extra-hard push, putting a bit of venom into it. I was thinking of the helpless djinn trapped inside the ruined mannequins.

  The shelves hung suspended for an instant. A small Egyptian canopic jar was the first to fall, closely followed by a teak incense chest. Then the center of gravity shifted, the shelves shuddered, and the whole edifice toppled down with wondrous swiftness upon the sprawling magician.

  Sholto had time for maybe half a cry before his accoutrements hit him.

  At the sound of the impact cars on Piccadilly swerved, collided. A cloud of incense and funeral dust boiled up from the strewn remnants of Sholto’s fine display.

  I was satisfied with my performance so far, but it is always best to quit while you’re ahead. I eyed the shelving cautiously, but nothing stirred beneath it. Whether his defensive Shield had been enough to save him I couldn’t tell. No matter. Surely now I was free to leave.

  Once more, I made for the hole in the window. Once more, a figure rose to block my way.

  Simpkin.

  I paused in midair. “Please,” I said, “don’t waste my time. I’ve already rearranged your face once for you.” Rather like the finger of an inside-out glove, his previously protruding nose was still squished back deep into his head. He looked testy.

  He gave a nasal whisper. “You’ve hurt the master.”

  “Yes, and you should be dancing with joy!” I sneered. “If I was in your place I’d be going in to finish him off, not whining on the sidelines like you, you miserable turncoat.”

  “It took me weeks to set up that display.”

  I lost patience. “You’ve got one second to split, traitor.”

  “It’s too late, Bodmin! I’ve sounded the alarm. The authorities have sent an af- —”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Summoning the last of my remaining energy, I changed into the falcon. Simpkin didn’t expect such a transformation from a humble messenger imp. He stumbled back; I shot over his head, depositing a farewell dropping on his scalp as I did so, and burst out at last into the freedom of the air!

  Upon which, a net of silver threads descended, dragging me down against the Piccadilly pavement.

  The threads were a Snare of the most resilient kind: they bound me on every plane, adhering to my struggling feathers, my kicking legs and snapping beak. I fought back with all my strength, but the threads clung to me, heavy with earth, the element that is most alien to me, and with the agonizing touch of silver. I could not change, I could not work any magic, great or small. My essence was wounded by the barest contact with the threads—the more I flailed about, the worse it felt.

  After a few seconds, I gave up. I lay there huddled under the net, a small, still, feathered mound. One of my eyes peeped out under the crook of my wing. I looked beyond the deadly lattice of threads to the gray pavement, still wet after the last rain and thinly covered with a sprinkling of glass shards. And somewhere or other, I could hear Simpkin laughing, long and shrill.

  Then the paving slabs grew dark under a
descending shadow.

  Two great, cloven hooves landed with a soft clink upon the slabs. The concrete bubbled and popped where each hoof touched.

  A vapor rose around the net, heavy with the noxious fumes of garlic and rosemary. My mind was poisoned; my head swam, my muscles sagged….

  Then darkness swathed the falcon and, as if it were a guttering candle, snuffed its intelligence out.

  18

  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. Bight, 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. A
s 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.