Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Hello, there.” He spoke in an extra-friendly fashion; as he did so, he ran his eyes up and down the boy. Perfect. Just the right size.

  The lad couldn’t help but notice this interest. “Er, do you want something?”

  “Yes. Is there a cloakroom near here? I’ve had a long journey and … you know how it is.”

  At the foot of a broad staircase, the boy halted. He pointed along a side passage. “Down there.”

  “Can you show me? I’m afraid of getting the wrong door.”

  “I’m late as it is, pal.”

  “Please.”

  With a groan of reluctance, the boy turned aside and led Nathaniel along the corridor. He walked so fast that the dish on his head began to wobble precariously. He paused, straightened it, and continued on his way. Nathaniel followed behind, pausing only to draw from his uppermost basket the hefty rolling pin that he had stolen from the kitchen. At the fourth door, the boy stopped.

  “There.”

  “Are you sure it’s the right one? I don’t want to barge in on anyone.”

  “I’m telling you it is. Look.” The boy kicked out with a foot. The door swung open. Nathaniel swung the rolling pin. Boy and silver platter went crashing forward onto the washroom floor. They hit the tiles with a sound like a rifle crack; a rainstorm of cream cheese–and-prawn canapes fell all around. Nathaniel stepped in smartly after them and closed and locked the door.

  The boy was out cold, so Nathaniel met no resistance when he took his clothes. He had infinitely more difficulty in gathering up the canapes, which had scattered and smeared themselves in every crack and cranny of the washroom. The cheese was soft and could often be shoveled back onto the pastry, but it was not always possible to resurrect the prawns.

  When he had arranged the platters as best he could, he tore his grocer’s shirt into strips and bound and gagged the boy. Then he pulled him into one of the cubicles, locked the door on the inside, and clambered out over the top by balancing on the toilet tank.

  With the evidence safely hidden, Nathaniel straightened his uniform in the mirror, balanced the platter upon his head, and left the washroom. Reasoning that anything worth discovering was unlikely to be in the servants’quarters, he retraced his steps and set off up the staircase.

  Various servants hurried past in both directions, carrying trays and crates of bottles, but no one challenged him.

  At the top of the stairs, a door opened onto a hallway, lit by a row of high, arched windows. The flooring was polished marble, covered at intervals by richly woven carpets from Persia and the East. Alabaster busts, depicting great leaders of past ages, sat in special niches along the whitewashed walls. The whole effect, even in the weak winter sunlight, was one of dazzling brightness.

  Nathaniel passed along the hall, keeping his eyes peeled.

  Ahead he heard loud, laughing voices raised in greeting. He thought it wisest to avoid them. An open side door showed a flash of books. He stepped through into a beautiful circular library, which rose through two full stories to a glass dome in the roof. A spiral staircase wound up to a metal walkway circling the wall far above his head. On one side, great glass doors with windows above them looked out onto the lawns and a distant ornamental lake. Every other inch of wall was covered with books: large, expensive, ancient, collected from cities all over the world. Nathaniel’s heart skipped a beat in wonder.

  One day he too would have a library like this….

  “What do you think you’re doing?” A panel of books had swung to one side, revealing a door opposite him. A young woman stood there, dark-haired and frowning. For some reason, she reminded him of Ms. Lutyens; his initiative failed him: he opened and shut his mouth aimlessly.

  The woman strode forward. She wore an elegant dress, jewels flashed at her slender throat. Nathaniel collected himself. “Erm … would you like a prawn thing?”

  “Who are you? I’ve not seen you before.” Her voice was hard as flint.

  He cudgeled his brain into action. “I’m John Squalls, ma’am. I helped my father deliver some supplies to you this morning. Only the pageboy’s been taken ill, just now, ma’am, and they asked if I could help out. Didn’t want you to be short-staffed on an important day like this. Looks as if I took a wrong turning, not being familiar—”

  “That’ll do.” She was still hostile; her narrowed eyes scanned the platter. “Look at the state of these! How dare you bring such—”

  “Amanda!” A young man had followed her into the library. “There you are—and thank goodness, food! Let me at it!” He plunged past her and seized three or four of the most forlorn canapes from Nathaniel’s silver dish.

  “Absolute lifesaver! Famishing journey from London. Mmm, there’s a prawn on this one.” He chewed heartily. “Interesting flavor.Very fresh. So tell me, Amanda … is it true about you and Lovelace? Everyone’s been talking….”

  Amanda Cathcart began a tinkling little laugh, then gestured curtly at Nathaniel. “You—get out and serve those in the entrance hall. And prepare the next ones better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nathaniel bowed slightly, as he had seen the parliamentary servants do, and exited the library.

  It had been a close shave, and his heart was beating fast, but his mind was calm. The guilt that had beset him after the fire had now hardened into a cold acceptance of his situation. Mrs. Underwood had died because he had stolen the Amulet. She had died; Nathaniel had survived. So be it. Now he would destroy Lovelace in his turn. He knew the likelihood was that he would not survive the day. This did not worry him. The odds were stacked in his enemy’s favor, but that was the way it should be. He would succeed, or die trying.

  A certain heroism in this equation appealed to him. It was clear and simple; it helped block out the messiness of his conscience.

  He followed the hubbub to the entrance hall. The guests were arriving in droves now; the marbled pillars echoed with the noise of their chattering. Ministers of State shuffled through the open door, taking off gloves and unwinding long silk scarves, their breath hanging in the cold air of the hall. The men wore dinner jackets, the women elegant dresses. Servants stood on the fringes, accepting coats and proffering champagne. Nathaniel hung back for a moment, then, with his platter held high, dived into the throng.

  “Sir, madam, would you like … ?”

  “Cheese-and-prawn things, madam … ?”

  “Can I interest you in … ?”

  He wheeled about, buffeted this way and that by a battery of outstretched hands that preyed on his dish like seagulls swooping on a catch. No one spoke to him or even seemed to see him: several times his head was struck by an arm or hand blindly reaching out toward the platter, or raising a canape to an open mouth. In seconds, the uppermost dish was empty save for a few crumbs and only a few desultory morsels remained on the lower. Nathaniel found himself expelled from the group, out of breath and with collar awry.

  A tall, lugubrious-looking servant was standing near him, filling glasses from a bottle. “Like animals, ain’t they?” he mouthed under his breath. “Bloody magicians.”

  “Yes.” Nathaniel was barely listening. He watched the crowd of ministers, his lenses allowing him to see the full extent of activity in the hall. Almost every man and woman present had an imp hovering behind them, and while their masters engaged in smiling social chatter, talking over one another and fingering their jewels, the servants conducted a discourse of their own. Each imp postured and preened and swelled itself to ridiculous degrees, often attempting to deflate its rivals by surreptitiously prodding them in delicate places with a spiny tail. Some changed color, going through a rainbow selection before ending with warning scarlet or bright yellow. Others contented themselves with pulling faces, imitating the expressions or gestures of their rivals’masters. If the magicians noticed all this, they made a good show of ignoring it, but the combination of the guests’false grins and the antics of their imps made Nathaniel’s head spin.

  “Are you serving those, or tak
ing them for a walk?”

  A scowling woman, broad of hip and waist, with an even broader imp floating behind her. And at her side … Nathaniel’s heart fluttered—he recognized the watery eyes, the fishlike face. Mr. Lime, Lovelace’s companion, with the smallest, most maladroit imp imaginable skulking behind his ear. Nathaniel remained expressionless and bowed his head, offering up the dish. “I’m sorry, madam.”

  She took two pastries, Lime took one. Nathaniel was staring at the floor meekly, but he felt the man’s gaze upon him.

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” the clammy man said.

  The woman plucked at. her companion’s sleeve. “Come, Rufus; why address a commoner, when there are so many real people to talk to? Look—there’s Amanda!” The magician shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled away. Glancing uneasily after them, Nathaniel noticed Rufus Lime’s imp still staring back at him, its head turned at ninety degrees, until it was lost in the crowd.

  The servant beside him was oblivious to it all; the imps were invisible to him. “You’ve finished that lot,” he said. “Take this tray of drinks round. They’re as thirsty as camels. With worse manners, most of them.”

  Some guests were drifting off down the hall toward an inner gallery, and Nathaniel was pleased to have an excuse to drift off with them. He needed to get away from the crowds to explore other regions of the house. So far, he had seen no sign of Lovelace, the Amulet, or any possible trap. But nothing would happen yet, since the Prime Minister had not arrived.

  Halfway along the hall, the woman from the library was standing in the midst of a small group, holding court. Nathaniel loitered nearby, allowing guests to swap empty glasses for the full ones on his tray.

  “You’ll see it in a few minutes,” she said. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. Simon had it brought from Persia especially for this afternoon.”

  “He’s treating you very well,” a man said dryly, sipping his drink.

  Amanda Cathcart blushed. “He is,” she said. “He’s very good to me. Oh—but it’s simply the cleverest thing! I’m sure it’ll set an instant trend. Mind you, it wasn’t easy to install—his men have been working on it all week. I saw the room for the first time only this morning. Simon said it would take my breath away and he was right.”

  “The P.M.'s here,” someone shouted. With little cries of excitement, the guests rushed back toward the doors, Amanda Cathcart at their head. Nathaniel copied the other servants and positioned himself respectfully beside a pillar, ready to be called.

  Rupert Devereaux entered, slapping his gloves together in one hand and smiling his half smile. He stood out from the adoring throng not just for his elegant attire and personal grace (which were just as striking as Nathaniel remembered), but for his companions: a bodyguard of four sullen, gray-suited magicians and—more startlingly—a hulking two-meter-tall afrit with luminous black-green skin. The afrit stood directly behind its master, casting baleful red eyes upon the company.

  All the imps chittered with fear. The guests bowed their heads respectfully.

  Nathaniel realized that the Prime Minister was making a blatant show of his power to all his assembled ministers, some of whom perhaps aspired to his position. It was certainly enough to impress Nathaniel. How could Lovelace expect to overcome something as strong as that afrit? Surely the very idea was madness.

  But here was Lovelace himself, bounding down the hall to greet his leader. Nathaniel’s face remained impassive; his whole body tensed with hatred.

  “Welcome, Rupert!” Much hand-shaking. Lovelace seemed oblivious of the afrit’s presence at his shoulder. He turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! With our beloved Prime Minister here, the conference can officially begin. On behalf of Lady Amanda, may I welcome you to Heddleham Hall. Please treat the house as your own!” His eyes glanced in Nathaniel’s direction. Nathaniel shrank back deeper into the shadow of the pillar. Lovelace’s eyes moved on. “In a short while, we will hear the first speeches in the grand salon, which Lady Amanda has refurbished especially for today. In the meantime, please make your way to the annex, where further refreshments will be available.”

  He waved his hand. The guests began to move off.

  Lovelace leaned forward to speak to Devereaux. From behind the pillar, Nathaniel picked out the words. “I must just collect some props for my opening speech, sir. Would you excuse me? I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  “Of course, of course, Lovelace. Take your time.”

  Devereaux’s entourage left the hall, the afrit glowering at the rear. Lovelace watched them for a moment, then set off alone in the opposite direction. Nathaniel remained where he was, making a big show of collecting used glasses that had been discarded on the antique furniture and marble pedestals lining the hall. Then, when the final servant had departed, he set his tray down quietly on a table and, like a ghost in the night, padded off on Lovelace’s trail.

  38

  Simon Lovelace strode alone through the corridors and galleries of the great house. His head was bowed as he walked, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He paid no heed to the rows of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and other artifacts he passed; he never looked behind him.

  Nathaniel flitted from pillar to pedestal, from bookcase to writing desk, concealing himself behind each one until he was satisfied the magician was far enough ahead for him to continue. His heart pounded; he had a rushing noise in his ears—it reminded him of a time when had been ill in bed with fever. He didn’t feel ill now, but very much alive.

  The moment was fast approaching when Lovelace would strike. He knew it as if he had planned it all himself. He didn’t yet know what form the attack would take, but he could see its imminence in the tense outline of the magician’s shoulders, in his stiff, distracted way of walking.

  He wished Bartimaeus would find him. The djinni was his only weapon.

  Lovelace ascended a narrow staircase and disappeared through an open arch. Nathaniel climbed after him, placing his feet noiselessly on the slippery marble steps.

  At the arch, he peered round. It was a small library or gallery of some kind, dimly lit by windows in the roof. Lovelace was making his way along a central aisle between several rows of projecting bookcases. Here and there sat low display tables, supporting a variety of oddly shaped objects. Nathaniel took another peek, decided that his quarry was almost at the opposite door, and tiptoed into the room.

  Suddenly, Lovelace spoke. “Maurice!”

  Nathaniel shot behind the nearest bookshelf. He flattened himself against it, forcing himself to breathe quietly. He heard the far door open. Stealthily, careful not to make the slightest noise, he turned his head inch by inch, until he could look over the top of the nearest books. Other bookcases separated him from the opposite side of the gallery, but framed in a gap between two shelves he could just make out the red, wrinkled face of Schyler, the old magician. Lovelace himself was hidden from view.

  “Simon—what is wrong? Why have you come?”

  “I’ve brought you a present.” Lovelace’s voice was casual, amused. “The boy.”

  Nathaniel nearly fainted with shock. His muscles tensed, ready to run.

  Lovelace stepped out from behind the end of the bookshelf. “Don’t bother.You’ll be dead before you can leave the room.”

  Nathaniel froze. Teetering on the edge of panic, he kept quite still.

  “Come round here to Maurice.” Lovelace motioned with ostentatious courtesy. Nathaniel shuffled forward. “There’s a good boy. And stop trembling like an invalid. Another lesson for you: a magician never shows his fear.”

  Nathaniel entered the main aisle and halted, facing the old magician. His body was shaking with rage, not fear. He cast his eyes left and right, looking for avenues of escape, but saw none. Lovelace’s hand patted him on the back; he recoiled from the touch.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t got time to talk,” Lovelace said. “I will leave you in Maurice’s tender care. He
has an offer to make you. Pardon—was that a mumble?”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Rufus Lime recognized you. I doubted that you would try anything too hasty downstairs, given that the police are hunting you in connection with that … unfortunate fire. So I thought it best simply to lead you away from the crowds, before you could make trouble. Now forgive me, I have a pressing engagement. Maurice—it’s time.”

  Schyler’s face crinkled with satisfaction. “Rupert’s arrived, has he?”

  “He’s arrived, and his men have conjured a formidable afrit. Do you think he suspects?”

  “Tcha! No. It is the normal paranoia, sharpened by that cursed attack on Parliament. The Resistance has a lot to answer for—they have not made today’s task any easier. Once in power, Simon, we must root them out, these stupid children, and hang them up in chains on Tower Hill.”

  Lovelace grunted. “The afrit will be present during the speech. Rupert’s men will insist.”

  “You will have to stand close to it, Simon. It must get the first full force.”

  “Yes. I hope the Amulet—”

  “Tcha! Stop wasting time! We have talked about this already. You know it will hold firm.” Something in the old man’s voice reminded Nathaniel of his own master’s cold impatience. The wrinkled face twisted unpleasantly. “You’re not fretting about the woman, are you?”

  “Amanda? Of course not! She is nothing to me. So"—Lovelace took a deep breath—"is everything set?”

  “The pentacle is ready. I’ve a good view of the room. Rufus has just put the horn in position, so that’s dealt with. I shall keep watch. If any of them resist while it is happening, we shall do what we can. But I doubt if we’ll be necessary.” The old man gave a little titter. “I’m so looking forward to this.”

  “See you shortly.” Lovelace turned and headed for the arch. He seemed to have forgotten Nathaniel’s existence.

  The old man suddenly spoke after him. “The Amulet of Samarkand. Do you wear it yet?”