The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1

by Jonathan Stroud

  This was a new clue. My master eagerly reported sighting such a person leaving the Hall that very morning, and messengers were immediately sent out with his description to alert the police in London and the home counties.

  When all was done that could be done, Devereaux and his senior ministers refreshed themselves with champagne, cold meats, and jellied fruits and listened properly to my master's story. And what a story it was. What an outrageous yarn he told. Even I, with my long experience of human duplicity, was flabbergasted by the whoppers that boy came up with. To be frank, he did have a lot of things to hide: his own theft of the Amulet, for example, and my little encounter with Sholto Pinn. But a lot of his fibs were quite unnecessary. I had to sit quietly on his shoulder and hear myself referred to as a "minor imp" (five times), a "sort of foliot" (twice), and even (once) as a "homunculus."[127] I ask you—how insulting is that?

  But that wasn't the half of it. He recounted (with big, mournful eyes) how his dear master, Arthur Underwood, had long been suspicious of Simon Lovelace, but had never had proof of any wrongdoing. Until, that was, the fateful day when Underwood had by chanced perceived the Amulet of Samarkand in Lovelace's possession. Before he could tell the authorities, Lovelace and his djinn had arrived at the house intent on murder. Underwood, together with John Mandrake, his faithful apprentice, had put up strong resistance, while even Mrs. Underwood had pitched in, heroically trying to tackle Lovelace herself. All in vain. Mr. and Mrs. Underwood had been killed and Nathaniel had fled for his life, with only a minor imp to help him. There were actually tears in his eyes when he recounted all this; it was almost as if he believed the rubbish he was spouting.

  That was the bulk of his lie. Having no way of proving Lovelace's guilt, Nathaniel had then traveled to Heddleham Hall in the hope of somehow preventing his terrible crime. Now he was only happy he had managed to save the lives of his country's noble rulers, etc., etc.; honestly, it was enough to make an imp weep.

  But they bought it. Didn't doubt a single word. He had another hurried snack, a swig of champagne, and then my master was whisked away in a ministerial limousine, back to London and further debriefing.

  I went along too, of course. I wasn't letting him out of my sights for anything. He had a promise to keep.

  44

  The servant's footsteps receded down the stairs. The boy and I looked around.

  "I preferred your old room," I said. "This one smells, and you haven't even moved in yet."

  "It doesn't smell."

  "It does: of fresh paint and plastic and all things new and fabricated. Which I suppose is quite appropriate for you—don't you think so, Mr. Mandrake?"

  He didn't answer. He was bounding across to the window to look out at the view.

  It was the evening of the day following the great summoning at Heddleham Hall, and for the first time, my master was being left to his own devices. He had spent much of the previous twenty—four hours in meetings with ministers and police, going over his story and no doubt adding lies with each retelling. Meanwhile, I'd remained out on the street,[128] shivering with impatience. My frustration had only increased when the boy had spent the first night in a specially provided dormitory on Whitehall, a building heavily guarded in numerous ways. While he snored within, I'd been forced to skulk outside, still unable to engage him in the necessary chat.

  But now another day had passed and his future had been decided. An official car had driven him to his new master's home—a modern riverside development on the south bank of the Thames. Dinner would be served at half past eight; his master would await him in the dining room at eight—fifteen. This meant that Nathaniel and I had an hour all to ourselves. I intended to make it count.

  The room contained the usual: bed, desk, wardrobe (a walk—in one, this—swanky), bookcase, bedside table, chair. A connecting door led to a tiny private bathroom. There was a powerful electric light set in the pristine ceiling and a small window in one wall. Outside, the moon shone on the waters of the Thames. The boy was looking out at the Houses of Parliament almost directly opposite, an odd expression on his face.

  "They're a lot nearer now," I said.

  "Yes. She'd be very proud." He turned, only to discover that I had adopted Ptolemy's form and was reclining on his bed. "Get off there! I don't want your horrible—hey!" He spotted a book tucked into a shelf beside the bed. "Faust's Compendium! My own copy. That's amazing! Underwood forbade me to touch this."

  "Just remember—it didn't do Faust any good."

  He was flipping the pages. "Brilliant… And my master says I can do minor conjurings in my room."

  "Ah, yes—your nice, sweet, new master." I shook my head sadly. "You're pleased with her, are you?"

  He nodded eagerly. "Ms. Whitwell's very powerful. She'll teach me lots. And she'll treat me with proper respect, too."

  "You think so? An honorable magician, is she?" I made a sour face. My old friend Jessica Whitwell, rake—thin Minister for Security, head of the Tower of London, controller of the Mournful Orbs. Yes, she was powerful, all right. And it was no doubt a sign of how highly the authorities thought of Nathaniel that he was being trusted to her tender care. Certainly, she would be a very different master from Arthur Underwood, and would see to it that his talent didn't go to waste. What it would do to his temperament was another question. Well—no doubt he was getting exactly what he deserved.

  "She said I had a great career ahead of me," he went on, "if I played my cards right and worked hard. She said she would supervise my training, and that if all went well they'd put me on the fast track and I'd soon be working in a ministerial department, getting experience." He had that triumphant look in his eyes again, the kind that made me want to put him over my knee. I made a big show of yawning and plumping up the pillow, but he kept going. "There's no restriction on age, she said, only on talent. I said I wanted to get involved with the Ministry for Internal Affairs—they're the ones who're hunting the Resistance. Did you know there was another attack while we were out of London? An office in Whitehall was blown up. No one's made a breakthrough, yet—but I bet I could track them down. First off I'll catch Fred and Stanley—and that girl. Then I'll make them talk, then I'll—"

  "Steady on," I said. "Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it—two power—crazed magicians killed, a hundred power—crazed magicians saved… You're a hero."

  My slight sarcasm was wasted on him. "That's what Mr. Devereaux said."

  I sat up suddenly and cupped my ear toward the window. "Listen to that!" I exclaimed.

  "What?"

  "It's the sound of lots of people not cheering."

  He scowled. "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning the Government's keeping this all very quiet. Where are the photographers? Where are the newspapermen? I'd have expected you on the front page of The Times this morning. They should be asking for your life story, giving you medals in public places, putting you on cheesy limited—edition postage stamps. But they aren't, are they?"

  The boy sniffed. "They have to keep it quiet for security reasons. That's what they told me."

  "No, it's for reasons of not wanting to look stupid. 'Twelve—year old saves Government'? They'd be laughed at in the street. And that's something no magicians ever want, take it from me. When that happens, it's the beginning of the end."

  The boy smirked. He was too young to understand. "It's not the commoners we have to fear," he said. "It's the conspirators—the ones who got away. Ms. Whitwell says that at least four magicians must have summoned the demon, so as well as Lovelace, Schyler, and Lime there must be at least one more. Lime's gone, and no one's seen that red—bearded magician at any of the harbors or aerodromes. It's a real mystery. I'm sure Sholto Pinn's in on it, too, but I can't say anything about him, after what you did to his shop."

  "Yes," I said, putting my hands behind my head and speaking in a musing sort of way, "I suppose you do have rather a lot to hide. There's me, your 'minor imp, and all my exploits. There's you, ste
aling the Amulet and framing your master…" He flushed at this and made a big show of going off to investigate the walk—in wardrobe. I got up and followed him. "By the way," I added, "I notice you gave Mrs. Underwood a starring role in your version of events. Helps salve your conscience, does it?"

  He spun round, his face reddened. "If you have a point," he snapped, "get to it."

  I looked at him seriously then. "You said you would revenge yourself on Love—lace," I said, "and you did what you set out to do. Perhaps that takes away a little of your pain—I hope so; I wouldn't know. But you also promised that if I helped you against Lovelace, you'd set me free. Well, help has been dutifully given. I think I saved your life several times over. Lovelace is dead and you're better off—in your eyes—than you've ever been before. So now's the time to honor your promise, Nathaniel, and let me go."

  For a moment he was silent. "Yes," he said, at last. "You did help me. You did save me."

  "To my eternal shame."

  "And I'm—" He halted.

  "Embarrassed?"

  "No."

  "Delighted?"

  "No."

  "A teensy bit grateful?"

  He took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm grateful. But that doesn't alter the fact that you know my birth name."

  It was time to iron this out once and for all. I was tired; my essence ached with the effort of nine days in the world. I had to go. "True," I said. "I know your name and you know mine. You can summon me. I can damage you. That makes us even. But while I'm in the Other Place, who am I going to tell? No one. You should want me to go back there. If we're both lucky, I won't even be summoned again during your lifetime. However, if I am"—I paused, gave a heavy sigh—"I promise I won't reveal your name."

  He said nothing. "You want it official?" I cried. "How about this? 'Should I break this vow, may I be trampled into the sand by camels and scattered among the ordure of the fields. [129] Now I can't say fairer than that, can I?"

  He hesitated. For an instant, he was going to agree. "I don't know," he muttered. "You're a de—a djinni. Vows mean nothing to you."

  "You're confusing me with a magician! All right, then." I jumped back in anger. "How about this? If you don't dismiss me here and now, I'll go right downstairs and tell your dear Ms. Whitwell exactly what's been going on. She'll be very interested to see me in my true form."

  He bit his lip, reached for his book. "I could—"

  "Yes, you could do lots of things," I said. "That's your trouble. You're too clever for your own good. A lot has happened because you were too clever to let things lie. You wanted revenge, you summoned a noble djinni, you stole the Amulet, you let others pay the price. You did what you wanted, and I helped because I had to. And no doubt, with your cleverness, you could devise some new bond for me in time, but not quickly enough to stop me telling your master right now about you, the Amulet, Underwood, and me."

  "Right now?" he said quietly.

  "Right now."

  "You'd end up in the tin."

  "Too bad for both of us."

  For a few moments we held each other's gaze properly, perhaps for the first time. Then, with a sigh, the boy looked away.

  "Dismiss me, John," I said. "I've done enough. I'm tired. And so are you."

  He gave a small smile at this. "I'm not tired," he said. "There's too much I want to do."

  "Exactly," I said. "The Resistance… the conspirators… You'll want a free hand trying to hunt them down. Think of all the other djinn you'll need to summon as you embark on your great career. They won't have my class, but they'll give you less lip."

  Something in that seemed to strike a chord with him. "All right, Bartimaeus," he said finally. "I agree. You'll have to wait while I draw the circle."

  "That's no problem!" I was eagerness itself. "In fact, I'll gladly entertain you while you do it! What would you like? I could sing like a nightingale, summon sweet music from the air, create a thousand heavenly scents… I suppose I could even juggle a bit if that tickles your fancy."

  "Thank you. None of that will be necessary."

  The floor in one corner of the room had been purposely left bare of carpet and was slightly raised. Here, with great precision, and with only one or two fleeting glances at his book of formulae, the boy drew a simple pentacle and two circles with a piece of black chalk he found in the drawer of his desk. I kept very quiet while he did so. I didn't want him to make any mistakes.

  At last he finished, and rose stiffly, holding his back.

  "It's done," he said, stretching. "Get in."

  I considered the runes carefully. "That cancels Adelbrand's Pentacle, does it?"

  "Yes."

  "And breaks the bond of Perpetual Confinement?"

  "Yes! See that hieroglyph here? That snaps the thread. Now do you want to be dismissed or not?" "Just checking." I skipped into the bigger circle and turned to face him. He readied himself, ordering the words in his mind, then looked at me severely.

  "Take that stupid grin off your face," he said. "You're putting me off."

  "Sorry." I adopted a hideous expression of malady and woe.

  "That's not much better."

  "Sorry, sorry."

  "All right, prepare yourself." He took a deep breath.

  "Just one thing," I said. "If you were going to summon someone else soon, I recommend Faquarl. He's a good worker. Put him to something constructive, like draining a lake with a sieve, or counting grains of sand on a beach. He'd be good at that."

  "Look, do you want to go or not?"

  "Oh, yes. I do. Very much."

  "Well, then—"

  "Nathaniel—one last thing."

  "What?"

  "Listen: for a magician, you've got potential. And I don't mean the way you think I mean. For a start, you've got far more initiative than most of them, but they'll crush it out of you if you're not careful. And you've a conscience too, another thing which is rare and easily lost. Guard it. That's all. Oh, and I'd beware of your new master, if I were you."

  He looked at me for a moment, as if he wanted to speak. Then he shook his head impatiently. "I'll be all right. You needn't bother about me. This is your last chance. I have to be down for dinner in five minutes."

  "I'm ready."

  Then the boy spoke the counter—summons swiftly and without fault. I felt the weight of words binding me to the earth lessen with every syllable. As he neared the end, my form extended, spread, blossomed out from the confines of the circle. Multiple doors opened in the planes, beckoning me through. I became a dense cloud of smoke that roared up and outward, filling a room that became less real to me with every passing instant.

  He finished. His mouth snapped shut. The final bond broke like a severed chain.

  So I departed, leaving behind a pungent smell of brimstone. Just something to remember me by.

  Примечания

  1

  Not everyone agrees with me on this. Some find it delightful sport. They refine countless ways of tormenting their summoners by means of subtly hideous apparitions. Usually the best you can hope for is to give them nightmares later, but occasionally these stratagems are so successful that the apprentices actually panic and step out of the protective circle. Then all is well—for us. But it is a risky business. Often they are very well trained. Then they grow up and get their revenge.

  (<< back)

  2

  I couldn't do anything while I was in the circle, of course. But later I'd be able to find out who he was, look for weaknesses of character, things in his past I could exploit. They've all got them. You've all got them, I should say.

  (<< back)

  3

  One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.

  (<< back)

  4

  I have access to seven planes, all coexistent. They overlap each other like layers on a crushed mille—feuille. Seven planes is sufficient for anybody. Those who operate on more are just showing off.

&
nbsp; (<< back)

  5

  On two planes. Cats have that power.

  (<< back)

  6

  Once each on five different pebbles. Not the same pebble five times. Just want to make that clear. Sometimes you human beings are so dense.

  (<< back)

  7

  For those who are wondering, I have no difficulty in becoming a woman. Nor for that matter a man. In some ways I suppose women are trickier, but I won't go into that now. Woman, man, mole, maggot—they're all the same, when all's said and done, except for slight variations in cognitive ability.

  (<< back)

  8

  Don't get me wrong. I wasn't afraid of the imp. I could squish him without a second thought. But he was there for two reasons: for his undying loyalty to his master and for his perceptive eye. He would not be taken in by my cunning fly guise for one fraction of a second.

  (<< back)

  9

  A human who listened to the conversation would probably have been slack—jawed with astonishment, for the magicians account of corruption in the British Government was remarkably detailed. But I for one was not agog Having seen countless civilizations of far greater panache than this one crumble into dust, I could rouse little interest in the matter I spent the time fruitlessly trying to recall which unearthly powers might have been bound into Simon Lovelace's service. It was best to be prepared.