The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1

by Jonathan Stroud

  "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.

  "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 gi
ve 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."

  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 the 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?"