Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

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

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

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

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

  “Agreed.”

  The boy stepped back and released Nathaniel’s shoulder.

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

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

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

  “That last one’s easy,” Bartimaeus said, pointing out of the window. “Look out there.”

  32

  “Times! Morning edition!”

  The newspaper boy wheeled his handcart slowly along the pavement, stopping whenever passersby thrust coins in his direction. The crowd was thick and the boy’s progress was slow. He had barely made it as far as the baker’s by the time Nathaniel and Bartimaeus sidled out from the alley beside the derelict library and crossed the road to meet him.

  Nathaniel still had in his pocket the remnants of the money he had stolen from Mrs. Underwood’s jar a few days before. He glanced at the cart: it was piled high with copies of The Times—the Government’s official paper. The newspaper boy himself wore a large, checked cloth cap, fingerless gloves, and a long dark coat that reached almost to his ankles. The tips of his fingers were mauve with cold. Every now and then he roared out the same hoarse call:“Times! Morning edition!”

  Nathaniel had little experience of dealing with commoners. He hailed the boy in his deepest, most assertive voice. “ The Times. How much is it?”

  “Forty pence, kid.” Coldly, Nathaniel handed over the change and received the newspaper in return. The paperboy glanced at him, first incuriously, and then with what seemed a sudden intense interest. Nathaniel made to pass on, but the boy addressed him.

  “You look rough, chum,” he said cheerily. “Been out all night?”

  “No.” Nathaniel adopted a stern expression, which he hoped would discourage further curiosity.

  It didn’t work. “Course you ain’t, course you ain’t,” the paperboy said. “And I wouldn’t blame you for not admitting it if you had. But you ought to be careful with the curfew on. The police are sniffing about more than usual.”

  “What curfew’s this?” the djinni asked.

  The paperboy’s eyes widened. “Where’ve you been, mate? After that disgraceful attack on Parliament, there’s an eight o’clock curfew each night this week. It won’t do nothing, but the search spheres are out, and the Night Police too, so you’ll want to hole up somewhere before they find you and eat you. Looks to me like you struck lucky so far. Tell you what—I could find you a good place to shelter tonight, if you need it. It’s safe, and the spot to go"—he paused, looked up and down the street, and lowered his voice—"if you’ve got anything you might want to sell.”

  Nathaniel looked at him blankly. “Thank you. I haven’t.”

  The boy scratched the back of his head. “Suit yourself. Well, can’t hang about chatting. Some of us have got work to do. I’m off.” He took up the poles of his handcart and moved away, but Nathaniel noticed him look back at them over his shoulder more than once.

  “Strange,” Bartimaeus said. “What was that about?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. He had already dismissed it from his mind. “Go and get me some food and warmer clothes. I’ll go back to the library and read this.”

  “Very well. Do try to keep out of trouble while I’m gone.” The djinni turned and headed off into the crowd.

  The article was on page two, sandwiched between the Employment Ministry’s monthly request for new apprentices and a short report from the Italian campaign. It was three columns in length. It noted with regret the deaths in a severe house fire of the Internal Affairs Minister Arthur Underwood and his wife, Martha. The blaze had started at approximately 10:15 P.M. and had only been fully extinguished by fire crews and emergency service magicians three hours later, by which time the whole building had been gutted. Two neighboring houses had been badly affected, and their occupants evacuated to safety. The cause of the fire was unknown, but police were keen to interview Mr. Underwood’s apprentice, John Mandrake, aged twelve, whose body had not been recovered. Some confused reports had him being observed running from the scene. Mandrake was rumored to be of an unstable disposition; he was known to have assaulted several prominent magicians the year before and the public was told to approach him with caution. Mr. Underwood’s death, the article concluded, was a sad loss to the Government; he had served his ministry ably all his life and made many significant contributions, none of which the paper had space to describe.

  Sitting below the windows, Nathaniel let the paper drop. His head sank against his chest; he closed his eyes. Seeing in cold, clear print the confirmation of what he already knew struck him like a fresh blow. He reeled with it, willing the tears to come, but his grief remained pent up, elusive. It was no good. He was too tired for anything. All he wanted was to sleep….

  A boot nudged him, not softly. He started and awoke.

  The djinni stood over him, grinning. It carried a paper bag from which steam curled promisingly. Raw hunger overcame Nathaniel’s dignity—he snatched the bag, almost spilling the polystyrene cup of coffee on his lap. To his relief, beneath the cup were two neatly wrapped greaseproof paper parcels, each containing a hot steak sandwich. It seemed to Nathaniel that he had never eaten anything half as good in his entire life. In two straight minutes, both sandwiches were gone and he sat nursing the coffee in his chilblained fingers, breathing heavily.

  ” What an exhibition,” the djinni said.

  Nathaniel slurped the coffee. “How did you get this?”

  “Stole it. Got a delicatessen man to make it all up, then ran off with it while he was at the cash register. Nothing fancy. The police were summoned.”

  Nathaniel groaned. “That’s all we need.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll be looking for a tall blond woman in a fur coat. Speaking of which”—it pointed to a small mound amid the debris of the floor—“you’ll find some better clothing there. Coat, trousers, hat, and gloves. I hope they’ll fit you. I picked the scrawniest sizes I could find.”

  A few minutes later, Nathaniel was better fed, better clothed, and partially revived. He sat beside the fire and warmed himself. The djinni crouched nearby, staring into the flames.

  “They think I did it.” Nathaniel indicated the newspaper.

  “Well, what do you expect? Lovelace isn’t going to come clean, is he? What magician would do a stupid thing like that?” Bartimaeus eyed him meaningfully. “The whole point of starting the fire was to hide all trace of his visit. And since he couldn’t kill you, he’s set you up to take the rap.”

  “The police are after me.”

  “Yep. The police on one side, Lovelace on the other. He’ll have his
scouts out trying to track you down. A nice little pincer movement. That’s what he wants—to keep you on the run, isolated, out of his hair.”

  Nathaniel ground his teeth. “We’ll see about that. What if I go to the police myself? They could raid Lovelace’s house—find the Amulet….”

  “Think they’ll listen to you? You’re a wanted man. I use man in the broadest possible sense there, obviously. Even if you weren’t, I’d be cautious about contacting the authorities. Lovelace isn’t acting alone. There’s his old master, Schyler—”

  “Schyler?” Of course—the wizened red-faced old man. “Schyler is his master? Yes … I know him. I overheard them discussing the Amulet at Parliament. There’s another one, too, called Lime.”

  The djinni nodded. “That may just be the tip of the iceberg. A great many search spheres chased me when I stole the Amulet that first night—they were the work of several magicians. If it is a wide conspiracy, and you go to the authorities, you can’t trust anyone in a position of power not to tip him off and kill you instead. For example, Sholto Pinn, the artifact merchant, may be in on it. He is one of Lovelace’s closest friends, and in fact was having lunch with him only yesterday. I discovered that shortly before I was unavoidably detained at Pinn’s shop.”

  Nathaniel’s anger flared. “You were far too reckless! I asked you to investigate Lovelace, not endanger me!”

  “Temper, temper. That’s precisely what I was doing. It was at Pinn’s that I found out about the Amulet. Lovelace had it taken from a government magician named Beecham, whose throat was cut by the thief. The Government badly wants it back. I would have learned more, but an afrit came calling and took me to the Tower.”

  “But you escaped. How?”

  “Ah, well, that was the interesting thing,” Bartimaeus went on. “It was Lovelace himself who broke me out. He must have heard from Pinn or someone that a djinni of incredible virtuosity had been captured and guessed at once that I was the one who stole the Amulet. He sent his djinn Faquarl and Jabor on a rescue mission—an extremely risky enterprise. Why do you think he did that?”

  “He wanted the Amulet, of course.”

  “Exactly—and he needs to use it soon. He told us as much last night. Faquarl said the same thing: it’s going to be used for something big in the next couple of days. Time is of the essence.”

  A half-buried memory stirred in Nathaniel’s mind. “Someone at Parliament said that Lovelace was holding a ball, or conference, soon. At a place outside London.”

  “Yep, I learned that too. Lovelace has a wife, girlfriend, or acquaintance named Amanda. It is she who is hosting the conference, at some hall or other. The Prime Minister will be attending. I saw this Amanda at Lovelace’s house when I first stole the Amulet. He was trying very hard to charm her—so she can’t be his wife. I doubt they’ve known each other very long.”

  Nathaniel pondered for a moment. “I overheard Lovelace telling Schyler that he wanted to cancel the conference. That was when he didn’t have the Amulet.”

  “Yes. But now he’s got it again.”

  Another surge of cold rage made Nathaniel’s head spin. “The Amulet of Samarkand. Did you discover its properties?”

  “Little more than I have always known. It has long had a reputation for being an item of great power. The shaman who made it was a potent magician indeed—far greater than any of your piffling crowd. His or her tribe had no books or parchments: their knowledge was passed down by word of mouth and memory alone. Anyway, the Amulet protects its wearer from magical attack—it is more or less as simple as that. It is not a talisman—it can’t be used aggressively to kill your rivals. It only works protectively. All amulets—”

  Nathaniel cut in sharply. “Don’t lecture me! I know what amulets do.”

  “Just checking. Not sure what they teach kids nowadays. Well, I witnessed a little of the Amulet’s powers when I was planting it in Underwood’s study for you.”

  Nathaniel’s face contorted."I wasn’t planting it!”

  “Of course you weren’t. But it dealt with an admittedly fairly poor fire-hex without any trouble. Absorbed it just like that—gone. And it disposed of Underwood’s lame attack last night too, as you may have seen while dangling under my arm. One of my informants stated that the Amulet is rumored to contain an entity from the heart of the Other Place: if so, it will be powerful indeed.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes hurt. He rubbed them. More than anything else, he needed sleep.

  “Whatever the Amulet’s exact capacity,” the djinni continued, “it’s clear that Lovelace is going to use it in the next few days, at that conference he arranged. How? Difficult to guess. Why? Easy. He’s seizing power.” It yawned. “That old story.”

  Nathaniel cursed. “He’s a renegade, a traitor!”

  “He’s a normal magician. You’re just the same.”

  “What? How dare you! I’ll—”

  “Well, not yet, maybe. Give it a few years.” The djinni looked a little bored. “So—what do you propose to do?”

  A thought crossed Nathaniel’s mind. “I wonder….” he said. “Parliament was attacked two days ago. Do you think Lovelace was behind that too?”

  The djinni looked dubious. “Doubt it. Too amateur. Also, judging by Lovelace’s correspondence, he and Schyler weren’t expecting anything that evening.”

  “My master thought it was the Resistance—people who hate magicians.”

  Bartimaeus grinned. “Much more likely. You watch out—they may be disorganized now, but they’ll get you in the end. It always happens. Look at Egypt, look at Prague….”

  “Prague’s decadent.”

  “Prague’s magicians are decadent. And they no longer rule. Look over there …” In one area of the library, the rotting shelves had fallen away. The walls there were muraled with layers of graffiti and carefully drawn hierogylphs. “Old Kingdom curses,” Bartimaeus said. “You get a more informed class of delinquent round here. ‘Death to the overlords’that big one says. That’s you, Natty boy, if I’m not much mistaken.”

  Nathaniel ignored this; he was trying to organize his thoughts. “It’s too dangerous to go to the authorities about Lovelace,” he said slowly. “So there is only one alternative. I shall attend the conference myself and expose the plot there.”

  The djinni coughed meaningfully. “I thought we mentioned something about undue risk … Be careful—that idea sounds suicidal to me.”

  “Not if we plan carefully. First we need to know where and when the conference is taking place. That is going to be tricky.… You will have to go out and discover this information for me.” Nathaniel cursed. “But that will take time! If only I had some books and the proper incense, I could organize a troop of imps to spy on all the ministers at once! No—they would be hard to control. Or I could—”

  The djinni had picked up the newspaper and was flipping through it. “Or you could just read the information printed here.”

  “What?”

  “Here in the Parliament Circular. Listen: ‘Wednesday, December second, Heddleham Hall. Amanda Cathcart hosts the Annual Parliamentary Conference and Winter Ball. In attendance, among others, the Right Honorable Rupert Devereaux, Angus Nash, Jessica Whitwell, Chloe Baskar, Tim Hildick, Sholto Pinn, and other members of the elite.'”

  Nathaniel snatched the paper and read it through. “Amanda Cathcart—that’s got to be Lovelace’s girlfriend. There’s no doubt about it. This must be it.”

  “Pity we don’t know where Heddleham Hall is.”

  “My scrying glass will find it.” From his pocket, Nathaniel drew the bronze disc. Bartimaeus eyed it askance.

  “I doubt it. It’s a poor piece if ever I saw one.”

  “I made this.”

  “Yes.”

  Nathaniel passed his hand twice across the disc and muttered the invocation. At the third time of asking, the imp’s face appeared, spinning as if on a roundabout. It raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

  “Ain’t you dead?” it said.<
br />
  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “Stop spinning,” Nathaniel snarled. “I have a task for you.”

  “Hold on a sec,” the imp said, screeching to a halt suddenly. “Who’s that with you?”

  “That’s Bartimaeus, another of my slaves.”

  “He’d like to think as much,” the djinni said.

  The imp frowned. “That’s Bartimaeus? The one from the Tower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ain’t he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “He’s a feisty one.” Bartimaeus stretched and yawned. “Tell him to watch it. I pick my teeth with imps his size.”

  The baby made a skeptical face. “Yeah? I’ve eaten djinn like you for breakfast, mate.”

  Nathaniel kicked a foot against the floor. “Will you both just shut up and let me give my command? I’m in charge here. Right. Imp: I wish you to show me the building known as Heddleham Hall. Somewhere near London. Owned by a woman named Amanda Cathcart. So! Be gone about your errand!”

  “Hope it ain’t too far off, this hall. My astral cord’s only so long, you know.”

  The disc clouded. Nathaniel waited impatiently for it to clear.

  And waited.

  “That is one slow scrying glass,” Bartimaeus said. “Are you sure it’s working?”

  “Of course. It’s a difficult objective, that’s why it’s taking time. And don’t think you’re getting off lightly, either. When we find the Hall, I want you to go and check it out. See if anything’s going on. Lovelace may be setting some kind of trap.”

  “It would have to be a subtle one to fool all those magicians heading there on Wednesday. Why don’t you try shaking it?”

  “It works, I tell you! You see—here we go.”

  The imp reappeared, huffing and wheezing as if it was hideously out of breath. “What is it with you?” it panted. “Most magicians use their glasses to spy on people they fancy in the shower. But not you, oh no. That would be much too easy. I’ve never approached a place that’s so well guarded. That Hall is almost as bad as the Tower itself. Hair-trigger nexuses, randomly materializing sentries, the lot. I had to retreat as soon as I got near. This is the best image I could get.”