Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  A very blurry image filled the center of the disc. It was possible to make out a smudgy brown building with several turrets or towers, surrounded by woodland, with a long drive approaching from one side. A couple of black dots could be seen moving rapidly through the sky behind the building.

  “See those things?” the imp’s voice remarked. “Sentries. They sensed me as soon as I materialized. That’s them coming for me. Fast, aren’t they? No wonder I had to skeddadle straight away.”

  The image disappeared; the baby took its place. “How was that?”

  “Useless,” Bartimaeus said. “We still don’t know where the Hall is.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” The baby’s face assumed an inconceivably smug expression. “It’s fifty miles due south of London and nine miles west of the Brighton railway line. A huge estate. Can’t miss it. I may be slow, but I’m thorough.”

  “You may depart.” Nathaniel passed his hand across the disc, wiping it clear again. “Now we’re getting started,” he said. “The amount of magical protection confirms that that must be where the conference is taking place.Wednesday …We’ve two days to get there.”

  The djinni blew out its cheeks rudely. “Two days till we’re back at the mercy of Lovelace, Faquarl, Jabor, and a hundred wicked magicians who think you’re an arsonist. Goody. Can’t wait.”

  Nathaniel’s face hardened. “We have an agreement, remember? All we need is proper planning. Go to Heddleham Hall now, get as close as you can, and find a way to get in. I shall wait for you here. I need to sleep.”

  “Humans really do have no stamina. Very well: I shall go.” The djinni rose.

  “How long will it take you?”

  “A few hours. I’ll be back before nightfall. There’s a curfew on and the spheres will be out, so don’t leave this building.”

  “Stop telling me what to do! Just leave! Wait—before you go, how do I build up the fire?”

  A few minutes later, the djinni departed. Nathaniel lay down on the floor close to the crackling flames. His grief and guilt lay down with him like shadows, but his weariness was stronger than both of them combined. In under a minute, he was asleep.

  33

  In his dream, he sat in a summer garden with a woman at his side. A pleasant feeling of peace was upon him: she was talking and he listened, and the sound of her voice mingled with the birdsong and the sun’s touch upon his face. A book lay unopened on his lap, but he ignored it: either he had not read it, or he did not wish to do so. The woman’s voice rose and fell; he laughed and felt her put an arm around his shoulders. At this, a cloud passed over the sun and the air chilled. A sudden gust of wind blew open the cover of the book and riffled its pages loudly. The woman’s voice grew deeper; for the first time he looked in her direction … Under a mop of long blond hair, he saw the djinni’s eyes, its leering mouth. The grip around his shoulders tightened, he was pulled toward his enemy. Its mouth opened—

  He awoke in a twisted posture, one of his arms raised defensively across his face.

  The fire had burned itself out and the light was dying in the sky. The library room was thick with shadow. Several hours must have passed since he had fallen asleep, but he did not feel refreshed, only stiff and cold. Hunger clamped his stomach; his limbs were weak when he tried to stand. His eyes were hot and dry.

  In the light of the window, he consulted his watch. Three-forty: the day was almost gone. Bartimaeus had not yet returned.

  * * *

  As dusk fell, men with hooked poles emerged from the shops opposite and pulled the night-grilles down in front of their display windows. For several minutes, the rattles and crashes echoed along the road from both directions, like portcullises being dropped at a hundred castle gates. Yellow streetlights came on, one by one, and Nathaniel saw thin curtains being drawn in the windows above the shops. Buses with lit windows rumbled past; people hurried along the pavements, anxious to get home.

  Still Bartimaeus did not come. Nathaniel paced impatiently about the cold, dark room. The delay enraged him. Yet again he felt powerless, at the mercy of events. It was just as things had always been. In every crisis, from Lovelace’s first attack the year before, to the murder of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel had been unable to respond—his weakness had cost him dearly every time. But things would change now. He had nothing holding him back, nothing left to lose. When the djinni returned, he would—

  “Evening edition! Latest news!”

  The voice came faintly to him from along the darkening street. Pressing his head against the leftmost window, he saw a small weak light come swinging along the pavement. It hung from a long pole above a wobbling handcart. The paperboy, back again.

  For a few minutes Nathaniel watched the boy’s approach, deliberating with himself. In all probability, there was no point in buying another paper: little would have changed since the morning. But The Times was his only link with the outside world; it might give him more information—about the police search for him, or the conference. Besides, he would go mad if he didn’t do something. He rummaged in a pocket and checked his change. The result decided him. Treading carefully in the half-light, he crossed to the staircase, descended to the ground floor and squeezed past the loose plank into the side alley.

  “One copy, please.” He caught up with the paperboy just as he was wheeling his cart round a corner, off the main street. The boy’s cap was hanging from the back of his head; a sprig of white hair spilled out onto his brow. He looked round and gave a slightly toothless grin.

  “You again. Still out on the streets?”

  “One copy.” It seemed to Nathaniel that the boy was staring at him. He held his coins out impatiently. “It’s all right—I’ve got the money.”

  “Never said you hadn’t, chum. Trouble is, I’ve just sold out.” He indicated the empty interior of his cart. “Lucky for you, my mate will have some left. His pitch isn’t so lucrative as mine.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Nathaniel turned to go.

  “Oh, he’ll be just along here. Won’t take a minute. I always meet him near the Nag’s Head at the end of the day. Just round the next corner.”

  “Well …” Nathaniel hesitated. Bartimaeus could be back at any time, and he’d been told to stay inside. Told? Who was the master here? It was just round the corner; it would be fine. “All right,” he said.

  “Dandy. Come on, then.” The boy set off, the wheel of his cart squeaking and shaking on the uneven stones. Nathaniel went beside him.

  The side road was less frequented than the main highway, and few people passed them before they arrived at the next corner. The lane beyond was quieter still. A little way along it was an inn, a squat and ugly building with a flat roof and gray pebbledash walls. An equally squat and ugly horse was depicted on a badly painted sign, hanging above the door. Nathaniel was disconcerted to see a small vigilance sphere hovering unobtrusively beside it.

  The paperboy seemed to sense Nathaniel’s hesitation. “Don’t worry; we’re not going near the spy. It only watches the door, acts as a deterrent. Doesn’t work, mind. Everyone at the Nag’s Head just goes in the back. Anyway, here’s old Fred.”

  A narrow alley ran off from the lane at an angle between two houses, and at its entrance another handcart had been parked. Behind it, in the shadows of the alley, a tall youth wearing a black leather jacket lounged against the wall. He was eating an apple methodically and regarding them from under lowered eyelids.

  “Hello, Fred,” the paperboy said heartily. “I’ve brought a chum to see you.”

  Fred said nothing. He took a giant bite out of the apple, chewed it slowly with his mouth slightly open, and swallowed. He eyed Nathaniel up and down.

  “He’s after an evening paper,” the boy explained.

  “Is he?” Fred said.

  “Yeah, I’d run out. And he’s the one I was telling you of and all,” the paperboy added quickly. “He’s got it on him now.”

  At this, Fred straightened, stretched, tossed th
e remains of the apple down the alley and turned to face them. His leather jacket squeaked as he moved. He stood head-and-shoulders taller than Nathaniel and was broad-chested too; a sea of spots on his chin and cheeks did nothing to detract from his slightly menacing appearance. Nathaniel felt a little uneasy, but drew himself up and spoke with as much brusque confidence as he could. “Well, do you have one? I don’t want to waste my time.”

  Fred looked at him. “I’ve run out of papers too,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t really need it.” Nathaniel was only too eager to depart.

  “Hold on—” Fred stretched out a large hand and grabbed him by a sleeve. “No need to run off so quick. It ain’t curfew yet.”

  “Get off me! Let me go!” Nathaniel tried to shake himself free. His voice felt tight and high.

  The paperboy patted him on the back in a friendly manner. “Don’t panic. We’re not looking for trouble. We don’t look like magicians, do we? Well then. We just want to ask you a few questions, don’t we, Fred?”

  “That’s right.” Fred seemed to exert no effort, but Nathaniel found himself drawn into the alley, out of sight of the inn along the street. He did his best to quell his mounting fear.

  “What do you want?” he said. “I haven’t got any money.”

  The paperboy laughed. “We’re not trying to rob you, chum. Just a few questions, like I said. What’s your name?”

  Nathaniel swallowed. “Um … John Lutyens.”

  “Lutt-chens? Aren’t we posh? So what are you doing round here, John? Where’s your home?”

  “Er, Highgate.” As soon as he said it, he guessed it was a mistake.

  Fred whistled. The paperboy’s tone of voice was politely skeptical. “Very nice. That’s a magician’s part of town, John. You a magician?”

  “No.”

  “What about your friend?”

  Nathaniel was momentarily taken aback. “My—my friend?”

  “The good-looking dark kid you were with this morning.”

  “Him? Good-looking? He’s just someone I met. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “Where did you get your new clothes?”

  This was too much for Nathaniel to take. “What is this?” he snapped. “I don’t have to answer all this! Leave me alone!” A trace of imperiousness had returned to his manner. He had no intention of being interrogated by a pair of commoners—the whole situation was absurd.

  “Simmer down,” the paperboy said. “We’re just interested in you—and in what you’ve got in your coat.”

  Nathaniel blinked. All he had in his pocket was the scrying glass, and no one had seen him use that, he was sure. He’d only taken it out in the library. “My coat? There’s nothing in it.”

  “But there is,” Fred said. “Stanley knows—don’t you, Stanley?”

  The paperboy nodded. “Yup.”

  “He’s lying if he says he’s seen anything.”

  “Oh, I ain’t seen it,” the boy said.

  Nathaniel frowned. “You’re talking nonsense. Let me go, please.” This was insufferable! If only Bartimaeus was to hand, he would teach these commoners the meaning of respect.

  Fred squinted at his watch in the gloom of the alley. “Must be getting on to curfew, Stanley. Want me to take it off him?”

  The paperboy sighed. “Look, John,” he said patiently. “We just want to see what it is you’ve stolen, that’s all. We’re not cops or magicians, so you don’t have to beat about the bush. And—who knows?—perhaps we can make it worth your while. What were you going to do with it, anyway? Use it? So—just show us the object you’ve got in your left-hand pocket. If not, I’ll have to let old Fred here go to work.”

  Nathaniel could see he had no choice. He put his hand in his pocket, drew out the disc, and wordlessly handed it over.

  The paperboy examined the scrying glass in the light of his lantern, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “What do you think, Stanley?” Fred asked.

  “Modern,” he said at last.” Very crudely done. Homemade piece, I’d say. Nothing special, but it’s worth having.” He passed it across to Fred to examine.

  A suspicion took sudden shape in Nathaniel’s mind. The recent spate of artifact thefts was a big concern to ministers. Devereaux had mentioned it in his speech, while his master had linked the crimes to the mysterious Resistance which had attacked Parliament two days before. It was thought that commoners had carried out the thefts, and that the magical objects were then made available to enemies of the Government. Nathaniel remembered the wild-eyed youth standing on the terrace at Westminster Hall, the elemental sphere spinning through the air. Here perhaps was firsthand evidence of the Resistance in action. His heart beat fast. He had to tread very carefully.

  “Is it—is it valuable?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Stanley said. “It’s useful in the right hands. How did you get hold of it?”

  Nathaniel thought fast. “You’re right,” he said. “I, er … I did steal it. I was in Highgate—I don’t live there myself, obviously—and I passed this big house. There was an open window—and I saw something shining on the wall just inside. So I nipped in and took it. No one saw me. I just thought I could sell it maybe, that’s all.”

  “All things are possible, John,” the paperboy said. “All things are possible. Do you know what it does?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a magician’s divining disc, or scrying glass—something like that.”

  Nathaniel was gaining confidence now. It was going to be easy enough to fool them. His mouth gaped in what he imagined was a commoner’s stupefied amazement. “What—can you see the future in it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you work it?”

  Stanley spat violently against the wall. “You cheeky little sod! I ought to punch you hard for that.”

  Nathaniel backtracked in confusion. “Sorry—I didn’t mean … Well, um, if it’s valuable, do you know anyone who might want to buy it? Thing is, I badly need the cash.”

  Stanley glanced across at Fred, who nodded slowly. “Your luck’s in!” Stanley said, in a chipper tone. “Fred’s up for it, and I always go along with old Fred. We do know someone who might be able to give you a good price, and perhaps help you out if you’re down on your luck. Come along with us and we can arrange a meeting.”

  This was interesting, but inconvenient. He couldn’t waltz off across London to an unknown rendezvous now—he had already been away from the library too long. Getting to Lovelaces conference was far more important. Besides, he would need Bartimaeus with him if he was to get involved with these criminals. Nathaniel shook his head. “I can’t come now,” he said. “Tell me who it is, or where I need to go, and I’ll meet you there later.”

  The two youths stared at him blankly. “Sorry,” Stanley said. “It’s not that sort of meeting—and not that sort of someone, neither. What’ve you got to do that’s so important, anyway?”

  “I’ve got to, um, meet my friend.” He cursed silently. Mistake.

  Fred shifted; his jacket squeaked. “You just said you didn’t know where he was.”

  “Er, yes—I need to find him.”

  Stanley looked at his watch. “Sorry, John. It’s now or never. Your friend can wait. I thought you wanted to sell this thing.”

  “I do, but not tonight. I’m really interested in what you suggest. I just can’t do it now. Listen—I’ll meet you here tomorrow. Same time, same place.” He was growing desperate now, speaking too fast. He could sense their mounting suspicion and disbelief; all that mattered was getting away from them as fast as possible.

  “No can do.” The paperboy adjusted his cap squarely on his head."I don’t think we’re going to get any joy here, Fred.What say we head off?”

  Fred nodded. With disbelief, Nathaniel saw him stow the scrying glass inside his jacket pocket. He let out a shout of rage. “Hey! That’s mine! Give it back!”

  “You missed your chance, John—if that is your
name. Beat it.” Stanley reached down for the poles of his handcart. Fred gave Nathaniel a push that sent him sprawling back against the wet stones of the wall.

  At this, Nathaniel felt all restraint dissolve; with a strangled cry, he fell upon Fred, pummeling him with his fists and kicking out wildly in all directions.

  “Give—me—back—my—disc!”

  The toe cap of one boot connected hard with Fred’s shin, eliciting a bellow of pain. Fred’s fist swung up and caught Nathaniel on the cheek; the next thing he knew he was lying in the muck of the alley floor, head spinning, watching Fred and Stanley disappear hurriedly along the alley with their carts bouncing and leaping behind them.

  Fury overwhelmed his dizziness, it took control of his sense of caution. He struggled to his feet and set off unsteadily in pursuit.

  He could not go fast. Night hung heavy in the alley; its walls were curtains of gray scarcely lighter than the inky nothingness out in front. Nathaniel felt his way step by fevered step, one hand brushing the bricks on his right, listening hard for the telltale squeaking and scraping of the handcarts up ahead. It seemed that Fred and Stanley had been forced to slow down too—the sounds of their progress never quite faded; he was able to guess their route at every junction.

  Once again, his helplessness infuriated him. Curse the djinni! It was never there when he needed it! If he ever caught the thieves, they’d suffer such—Now where? He paused beside a tall, barred window, caked with grime. Distantly he made out the noise of handcart wheels banging hard on stone. The left fork. He set off down it.

  A little later he became aware that the sound up ahead had changed. Muttered voices replaced the noise of movement. He went more cautiously now, pressing himself close to the wall, placing each footfall carefully to avoid splashing in the wet.

  The alley drew to an end at a narrow, cobbled lane, fringed with mean little workshops, all derelict and boarded up. Shadows choked the doorways like cobwebs. A faint smell of sawdust hung in the air.