Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  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.

  19

  They walked beside an endless row of glittering black cars toward a pair of metal doors. By this time, Nathaniel’s anticipation was such that he could hardly focus on anything at all. He was so distracted that he scarcely took in the two slim guards who stopped them beside the doors, or noticed his master produce three plastic passes, which were inspected and returned. He barely registered the oak-paneled lift that they entered, or the tiny red sphere observing them from the ceiling. And it was only when the lift doors opened and they stepped out into the splendor of Westminster Hall that, with a rush, his senses returned to him.

  It was a vast space, wide and open under a steeply pitched ceiling of age-blackened beams. The walls and floors were made of giant smoothed blocks of stone; the windows were ornate arches filled with intricate stained glass. At the far end a multitude of doors and windows opened on to a terrace overlooking the river. Yellow lanterns hung from the roof and projected from the walls on metal braziers. Perhaps two hundred people already stood or strolled about the hall, but they were so engulfed by the great expanse it seemed the place was almost empty. Nathaniel swallowed hard. He felt himself reduced to sudden insignificance.

  He stood beside Mr. and Mrs. Underwood at the top of a flight of steps that swept down into the hall. A black-suited servant glided forward and retreated with his master’s coat. Another gestured politely and they set off down the stairs.

  An object to the side caught his eye. A dull-gray statue—a crouching boy dressed in strange clothes, looking up with wide eyes and holding a boot scraper in his hands. Although age had long since worn away the finer details of the face, it still had a curiously imploring look that made Nathaniel’s skin crawl. He hurried onward, careful not to get too close to his master’s heels.

  At the foot of the steps they paused. Servants approached bearing glasses of champagne (which Nathaniel wanted), and lime cordial (which he didn’t, but received). Mr. Underwood took a long swig from his glass and flicked his eyes anxiously to and fro. Mrs. Underwood gazed about her with a vague, dreamy smile. Nathaniel drank some cordial and looked around.

  Magicians of every age milled about, talking and laughing. The hall was a blur of black suits and elegant dresses, of white teeth flashing and jewels sparkling under the lantern light. A few hard-faced men wearing identical gray jackets lounged near each exit. Nathaniel guessed they were police, or magicians on security duty, ready to call up djinn at the slightest hint of trouble—but even through his lenses, he could spot no magical entities currently present in the room.

  He did, however, notice several strutting youths and straight-backed girls who were evidently apprentices like himself. Without exception they were chatting confidently to other guests, all very much at ease. Nathaniel suddenly became acutely conscious of how awkwardly his master and Mrs. Underwood were standing, isolated and alone.

  “Oughtn’t we to talk to someone?” he ventured.

  Mr. Underwood flashed him a venomous look. “I thought I told you—” He broke off and hailed a fat man who had just come down the steps. “Grigori!”

  Grigori didn’t seem particularly thrilled. “Oh. Hello, Underwood.”

  “How delightful to see you!” Mr. Underwood stepped across to the man, practically pouncing on him in his eagerness to start a conversation. Mrs. Underwood and Nathaniel were left on their own.

  “Isn’t he going to introduce us?” Nathaniel asked peevishly.

  “Don’t worry, dear. It’s important for your master to talk to the top people. We don’t need to talk to anyone, do we? But we can still watch, which is always a pleasure….” She tutted a little. “I must say the styles this year are so conservative.”

  “Is the Prime Minister here, Mrs. Underwood?”

  She craned her neck. “I don’t think so, dear, no. Not yet. But that’s Mr. Duvall, the Chief of Police…” A short distance away a burly man in gray uniform stood
listening patiently to two young women, who both seemed to be talking animatedly to him at the same time. “I met him once—such a charming gentleman. And very powerful, of course. Let me see, who else? Goodness, yes … you see that lady there?” Nathaniel did. She was startlingly thin, with cropped white hair; her fingers clasped the stem of her glass like the clenched talons of a bird. “Jessica Whitwell. She’s something to do with Security: a very celebrated magician. She was the one who caught the Czech infiltrators ten years ago. They raised a marid and set it on her, but she created a Void and sucked it in. All on her own she did that, and with minimum loss of life. So—don’t cross her when you’re older, John.”

  She laughed and drained her glass. Instantly, a servant appeared at her shoulder and refilled it almost to the brim. Nathaniel laughed too. As often happened in her company, he found some of Mrs. Underwood’s serenity rubbing off on him. He relaxed a little.

  “Excuse me, excuse me! The Duke and Duchess of Westminster.” A pair of liveried servants hustled past. Nathaniel was pushed unceremoniously to one side. A small, shrewish woman wearing a frumpy black dress, a gold anklet, and an imperious expression elbowed her way through the throng. An exhausted-looking man followed in her wake. Mrs. Underwood looked after them, marveling.

  “What a hideous woman she is; I can’t think what the Duke sees in her.” She took another sip of champagne. “And that there—good heavens! What has befallen him?—is the merchant Sholto Pinn.” Nathaniel observed a great, fat man wearing a white linen suit come hobbling down the steps, supporting himself on a pair of crutches. He moved as if it gave him great pain to do so. His face was covered with bruises; one eye was black and closed. Two menservants hovered about him, clearing his way toward some chairs set against the wall.

  “He doesn’t look too well,” Nathaniel said.

  “No indeed. Some dreadful accident. Perhaps some artifact went wrong, poor man….” Bolstered by her champagne, Mrs. Underwood continued to give Nathaniel a running guide to many of the great men and women arriving in the hall. It was the cream of government and society; the most influential people in London (and that of course meant the world). As she expanded on their most famous feats, Nathaniel became ever more glumly aware how peripheral he was to all this glamour and power. The self-satisfied feeling that had warmed him briefly in the car was now forgotten, replaced instead by a gnawing frustration. He caught sight of his master again several times, always standing on the fringes of a group, always barely tolerated or ignored. Ever since the Lovelace incident he had known how ineffectual Underwood was. Here was yet more proof. All his colleagues knew the man was weak. Nathaniel ground his teeth with anger. To be the despised apprentice of a despised magician! This wasn’t the start in life that he wanted or deserved….

  Mrs. Underwood jerked his arm urgently. “There! John—do you see him? That’s him! That’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “Rupert Devereaux. The Prime Minister.”

  Where he had come from, Nathaniel had no idea. But there suddenly he was: a small, slim man with light brown hair, standing at the center of a scrummage of competing dinner-jackets and cocktail dresses, yet miraculously occupying a solitary point of grace and calm. He was listening to someone, nodding his head and smiling slightly. The Prime Minister! The most powerful man in Britain, perhaps the world… Even at a distance, Nathaniel experienced a warm glow of admiration; he wanted nothing more than to get close and watch him, to listen to him speak. He sensed that the whole room felt as he did: that behind the surface of each conversation, everyone’s senses were angled in that one direction. But even as he began to stare, the crowd closed in and the slender, dapper figure was hidden from his view.

  Reluctantly, Nathaniel turned away. He took a resigned sip of his cordial—and froze.

  Near the foot of the staircase, two magicians stood. Almost alone of all the guests in that vicinity they were taking no interest in the Prime Ministerial throng; they talked animatedly, heads close together. Nathaniel took a deep breath. He knew them both—indeed, their faces had been imprinted on his memory since his humiliation the year before. The old man with the florid, wrinkled skin, more withered and bent than ever; the younger man with the clammy complexion, his lank hair draping down over his collar. Lovelace’s friends. And if they were present, would Lovelace himself be far away?

  An uncomfortable prickling broke out in Nathaniel’s stomach, a feeling of weakness that annoyed him greatly. He licked his dry lips. Calm down. There was nothing to fear. Lovelace had no way of tracing the Amulet to him, even if they met face to face. His searchers would actually have to enter Underwood’s house before they could detect its aura. He was safe enough. No, he should seize this opportunity, like any good magician. If he drew close to his enemies, he might overhear what they had to say.

  He glanced round; Mrs. Underwood’s attention had been diverted. She was in conversation with a short, squat gentleman and had just broken into peals of laughter. Nathaniel began to sidle through the crowd on a trajectory that would bring him around to the shadows of the staircase, not far from where the two magicians stood.

  Halfway across, he saw the old man break off in mid-sentence and look up toward the entrance gallery. Nathaniel followed his gaze. His heart jolted.

  There he was: Simon Lovelace, red-faced and out of breath. Evidently he had only just arrived. He removed his overcoat in a flurry and tossed it to a servant, before adjusting the lapels of his jacket and hurrying for the stairs. His appearance was just how Nathaniel remembered it: the glasses, the hair slicked back, the energy of movement, the broad mouth flicking a smile on-off at everyone he passed. He trotted down the steps briskly, spurning the champagne that was offered him, making for his friends.

  Nathaniel speeded up. In a few seconds, he had reached an empty patch of floor beside one sweeping banister of the staircase. He was now not far from the foot of the stairs, close to where the end of the banister curled round to form an ornate plinth, topped with a stone vase. Behind one side of the vase, he glimpsed the back of the clammy magician’s head; behind the other, part of the old man’s jacket. Lovelace himself had now descended the staircase to join them and was out of view.

  The vase shielded Nathaniel from their sight. He eased himself against the rear of the plinth and leaned against it in what he hoped was a debonair fashion. Then he strained to distinguish their voices from the hubbub all around.

  Success. Lovelace himself was speaking, his voice harsh and irritable. “… no luck whatsoever. I’ve tried every inducement possible. Nothing I’ve summoned can tell me who controls it.”

  “Tcha, you have been wasting your time.” It was the thick accent of the older man. “How should the other demons know?”

  “It’s not my habit to leave any possibility untried. But no—you’re right. And the spheres have been useless, too. So perhaps we have to change our plans. You got my message? I think we should cancel.”

  “Cancel?” A third voice, presumably the clammy man’s.

  “I can always blame the girl.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.” The old man spoke softly; Nathaniel could barely hear the words. “Devereaux would be down on you even more if you canceled. He’s looking forward to all the little luxuries you’ve promised to provide. No, Simon, we have to put a brave face on it. Keep searching. We’ve got a few days. It may yet turn up.”

  “It’ll ruin me if it’s all for nothing! Do you know how much that room’s cost?”

  “Calm down.You’re raising your voice.”

  “All right. But you know what I can’t stand? Whoever did it is here, somewhere. Watching me, laughing … When I discover who, I’ll—”

  “Keep your voice down, Lovelace!” The clammy man again.

  “Perhaps, Simon, we should go somewhere a little more discreet….” Behind the plinth, Nathaniel jerked himself backward as if propelled by an electric charge. They were moving off. It would not do to come face to face with them here. Wit
hout pausing, he sidestepped away from the shadow of the staircase and took a few steps into the crowd. Once he had got far enough away to be safe, he looked back. Lovelace and his companions had scarcely moved: an elderly magician had imposed herself on their company and was jabbering away—to their vast impatience.

  Nathaniel took a sip of his drink and composed himself. He had not understood all he had heard, but Lovelace’s fury was pleasingly evident. To find out more, he would have to summon Bartimaeus. Perhaps his slave was even here right now, trailing Lovelace…. Nothing showed up in his lenses, admittedly, but the djinni would have changed its form on each of the first four planes. Any one of these seemingly solid people might be a shell, concealing the demon within.

  He stood, lost in thought for a time, at the edge of a small group of magicians. Gradually, their conversation broke in on him.

  “… so handsome. Is he attached?”

  “Simon Lovelace? Some woman. I don’t recall her name.”

  “You want to stick clear of him, Devina. He’s no longer the golden boy.”

  “He’s holding the conference next week, isn’t he? And he’s so good-looking….”

  “He had to suck up to Devereaux long and hard for that. No, his career’s going nowhere fast.”

  “The P.M.'s sidelined him. Lovelace tried for the Home Office a year ago, but Duvall blocked it. Hates him, can’t recall why.”

  “Duvall’s got the P.M.'s ear, all right.”

  “That’s old Schyler with Lovelace, isn’t it? Whatever did he summon to get a face like that? I’ve seen better-looking imps.”

  “Lovelace chooses curious company for a minister, I’ll say that much. Who’s that greasy one?”

  “Lime, I think. Agriculture.”

  “He’s a queer fish….”

  “Where’s this conference taking place, anyway?”

  “Some godforsaken place—outside London.”

  “Oh no, really? How desperately tedious. We’ll probably all be pitchforked by men in smocks.”