The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1

by Jonathan Stroud

  "Hey, do I ever do anything else?" I managed to skid the van to a halt a few millimeters away from the ornamental shrubbery and got out. The flunky approached.

  "Mr. Squalls?"

  "That's me, guv'nor. This here's… my son."

  "You're late. The cook has need of your items. Please bring them to the kitchen with all speed."

  "Yes, guv'nor." An uneasy feeling ran through my essence and rippled the bristles on the back of my neck. The cook… No, it wouldn't be. He'd be elsewhere, surely. I opened the van door. "Son—snap to it, or you'll feel the back of my hand!"

  I took a certain bleak pleasure in loading the boy up with as many jars of Syrian olives and giant land snails as I could, then propelled him on his way. He staggered off under his load, not unlike Simpkin in Pinn's shop.[102] I selected a small tub of larks' tongues and followed him through the doors and into a cool, whitewashed passage. Various servants of every shape, sex, and size were racing about like startled hares, engaged in a hundred tasks; everywhere there was a great clattering and hubbub. A scent of baked bread and roasting meats hung in the air, emanating from a wide arch that led on to the kitchen.

  I peered through the arch. Dozens of white—clothed under—cooks, chopping, basting, rinsing, slicing… Something turned on the spit in the fireplace. Stacks of vegetables were piled high on tables beside open pastry cases being filled with jellied fruits. It was a hive of activity. Orchestrating it all was a sizeable head chef, who at that moment was shouting at a small boy wearing a blue uniform.

  The chef's sleeves were rolled up. He had a thick white bandage wrapped round one arm.

  I checked the seventh plane.

  And ducked back out of sight. I knew those tentacles far too well for there to be any doubt.

  My master had entered the kitchen, placed his precarious load on a nearby work surface and was coming out again, none the wiser. As he rounded the door I thrust the larks' tongues into his hand.

  "Take those too," I hissed. "I can't go in."

  "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  He had the sense to obey, and quickly, for the servant in the dark uniform had reappeared in the corridor, and was observing us intently. We headed back out again for the next load.

  "The head cook," I whispered, as I pulled a crate of boar pate to the back of the van, "is the djinni Faquarl. Don't ask me why he likes that disguise, I've no idea. But I can't go in. He'll spot me instantly."

  The boy's eyes narrowed. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

  "You'll just have to trust me on this one. There—you can manage another sack of ostrich steaks, can't you? Oops. Perhaps not." I helped him to his feet. "I'll unload the van; you take the stuff in. We'll both think what to do."

  During the course of several round—trips for the boy, we thrashed out a plan of campaign. It took a fair bit of thrashing to reach agreement. He wanted us both to slip past the kitchen to explore the house, but I was extremely reluctant to go anywhere near Faquarl. My idea was to unload, ditch the van in the trees somewhere and creep back to start our investigations, but the kid would have none of this. "It's all right for you," he said. "You can cross the lawns like a gust of poisonous wind or something; I can't—they'll catch me before I'm halfway. Now that I'm at the house, I've got to go in."

  "But you're a grocer's boy. How will you explain that when you're seen?"

  He smiled an unpleasant smile. "Don't worry. I won't be a grocer's boy for long."

  "Well, it's too risky for me to pass the kitchen," I said. "I was lucky just now. Faquarl can usually sense me a mile off. It's no good; I'll have to find another way in."

  "I don't like it," he said. "How will we meet up?"

  "I'll find you. Just don't get caught in the meantime."

  He shrugged. If he was terrified out of his wits, he was doing a good job of hiding it. I piled the last baskets of plovers' eggs into his hands and watched him waddle off into the house. Then I shut the van doors, left the keys on the driver's seat and considered the position. I soon abandoned my idea of disposing of the van in the trees: that was more likely to attract attention than just quietly leaving it here. No one was worrying about the florist's van, after all.

  There were too many windows in the house. Something could be watching from any of them. I walked toward the door as if I were going inside, checking the planes en route: far off, a sentry patrol passed above the trees, just inside the innermost dome; that was okay—they'd see nothing. The house itself looked clear.

  As I neared the door I stepped to one side, out of view from within, and changed. Mr. Squalls became a small lizard that dropped to the ground, scuttled to the nearest patch of wall, and ran up it, making for the first floor. My creamybrown skin was ideally camouflaged against the stone. The minute bristles on my feet gave me an excellent grip. My swivel—eyes looked up, around, behind. All things considered, it was another perfect choice of form. Up the wall I ran, wondering how my master was getting on with his more cumbersome disguise.

  37

  Nathaniel

  As he set the basket of eggs down on the nearest surface, Nathaniel looked around the kitchen for his intended victim. There were so many people bustling about that at first he could see no sign of the small boy with the dark blue uniform, and he feared that he had already gone. But then, in the shadow of a large lady pastry chef, he saw him. He was transferring a mountain of bite—sized canapes to a two—storied silver platter.

  It was clear that the boy planned to take this dish elsewhere in the house. Nathaniel intended to be there when he did.

  He skulked around the kitchen, pretending to be emptying out his baskets and crates, biding his time, and growing ever more impatient as the boy painstakingly placed each cream cheese—and—prawn pastry on the dish.

  Something hard and heavy tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

  The head cook stood there, pink—faced and glistening from the heat of the roasting spit. Two bright black eyes looked down on him. The chef was holding a meat cleaver in his pudgy hand; it was with the blunt edge of this that he had tapped Nathaniel.

  "And what," asked the chef, in a gentle voice, "are you doing in my kitchen?"

  Nothing about the man, on any of the planes to which Nathaniel had access, remotely suggested he was inhuman. Nevertheless, with Bartimaeus's warning in mind, he took no chances. "Just collecting up a couple of my father's baskets," he said politely. "We don't have many, you see. I'm sorry if I've got in the way."

  The chef pointed his cleaver at the door. "Leave."

  "Yes, sir. Just going." But only as far as the passage directly outside the door, where Nathaniel propped himself against the wall and waited. Whenever someone came out of the kitchen, he ducked down as if he were doing up his shoes. It was an edgy business and he dreaded the appearance of the chef, but otherwise he felt a strange exhilaration. After the first shock of seeing the mercenary at the gate, his fear had fallen away and been replaced with a thrill he had rarely experienced be—fore—the thrill of action. Whatever happened, there would be no more helpless standing by while his enemies acted with impunity. He was taking control of events now. He was doing the hunting. He was closing in.

  Light, tripping footsteps. The pageboy appeared through the arch, balancing the double dish of canapes on his head. Steadying it with one hand, he turned right, heading up the passage. Nathaniel fell in alongside him.

  "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 groa
n 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 taking 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 shrugge
d 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.