The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  A naked baby floated above the circle, moving its arms and legs as if it were swimming on the spot. It looked at him with sullen yellow eyes. Its small red lips pursed and blew an insolent bubble of spit.

  Nathaniel spoke the words of Confinement.

  The baby gurgled with rage, frantically flapping its pudgy arms as its legs were drawn downward toward the shining bronze disc. The command was too strong: as if sucked suddenly down a drain, the baby elongated into a flow of color, which spiraled down into the disc. For an instant its angry face could be seen squashing its nose up against the metal surface from below; then a misty sheen obscured it and the disc was clear once more.

  Nathaniel uttered several charms to secure the disc and check for snares, but all was well. With shaking legs, he stepped from his circle.

  His first summons had been successful.

  The imprisoned imp was surly and impudent, but by applying a small spell that amounted to a brisk electric shock, Nathaniel could induce it to reveal true glimpses of things happening far away. It was able to report conversations it overheard as well as to reveal them visually in the disc. Nathaniel kept his crude but effective scrying glass hidden under the roof tiles outside the skylight, and with its aid learned many things.

  As a trial, he directed the imp to reveal what went on in his master’s study. After a morning’s observation, he discovered that Underwood spent most of his time on the telephone, attempting to keep abreast of political developments. He seemed to be paranoid that his enemies in Parliament were seeking his downfall. Nathaniel found this interesting in principle, but dull in the details, and soon left off spying on his master.

  Next he observed Ms. Lutyens from afar. The mist swirled across the disc, cleared, and with a quickening heart, Nathaniel glimpsed her again as he remembered her so well: smiling, working … and teaching. The disc’s image shifted across to reveal a small, gap-toothed boy apprentice, drawing furiously in a sketchpad and evidently hanging on Ms. Lutyens’s every word. Nathaniel’s eyes burned hot with jealousy and grief. In a choked voice, he ordered the image to vanish, grinding his teeth at the laughter that bubbled up from the delighted imp.

  Nathaniel then turned his attention to his main objective. Late one evening, he ordered the imp to spy on Simon Lovelace, but was disconcerted to see the baby’s face appear in the burnished bronze instead.

  “What are you doing?” Nathaniel cried. “I’ve given you the order—now obey!”

  The baby wrinkled its nose and spoke in a disconcertingly deep voice. “Trouble is, this one’s tricky, innit?” it said. “He’s got barriers up. Not sure I can pass ’em. Might set off a spot of bother, if you know what I mean.”

  Nathaniel raised a hand and waved it menacingly. “Are you saying it’s impossible?”

  The baby winced and extended a pointed tongue gingerly out of the side of its mouth, as if licking old wounds. “Not impossible, no. Just difficult.”

  “Well, then.”

  The baby sighed heavily and vanished. After a short pause, a flickering image began to form in the disc. It blurred and leaped like a badly tuned television. Nathaniel cursed. He was about to speak the words of the Punitive Jab when he considered that this was probably the best the imp could do. He bent close to the disc and gazed into it, focusing on the scene within….

  A man was sitting at a table, typing rapidly into a laptop computer.

  Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. It was Simon Lovelace, all right.

  The imp’s vantage point was from the ceiling, and Nathaniel had a good view of the room behind the magician, although it was a little distorted, as if seen through a fish-eye lens. The room was in shadow; the only light came from a lamp on Lovelace’s desk. In the background was a set of dark curtains, stretching from ceiling to floor.

  The magician typed. He wore a dinner jacket, with the tie hanging loose. Once or twice he scratched his nose.

  Suddenly the baby’s face cut in.

  “Can’t take much more of this,” it sniffed. “I’m bored, innit, and like I say, if we stick around too long, there could be trouble.”

  “You’ll stick with it till I say so,” Nathaniel snarled. He spoke a syllable, and the baby scrunched up its eyes with pain.

  “All right, all right! How could you do that to a wee babe, you monster!” The face flicked out and the scene reappeared. Lovelace was still seated, still typing. Nathaniel wished he could get a closer look at the papers on his desk, but magicians often had sensors on their person to detect unexpected magic in their vicinity. It would not be wise to stray too near. This was as good a view as he was going to—

  Nathaniel jumped.

  Someone else was in Simon Lovelace’s room, standing in the shadows by the curtains. Nathaniel had not seen him enter; and nor, for that matter, had the magician, who was still typing away with his back to the intruder. The figure was a tall, massively built man, swathed in a long leather traveling cape that extended almost to the bottom of his boots. Both cape and boots were heavily stained with mud and wear. A thick black beard covered most of the man’s face; above it, his eyes glinted in the darkness. Something about the look of them made Nathaniel’s skin crawl.

  Evidently the figure now spoke or made a noise, for Simon Lovelace suddenly started and wheeled round in his chair.

  The image flickered, faded, reappeared again. Nathaniel cursed and pressed his face closer to the disc. It was as if the picture had jumped forward a moment or two in time. The two men were closer now—the intruder had moved to stand beside the desk. Simon Lovelace was talking to him eagerly. He held out his hand, but the stranger merely inclined his head toward the desk. The magician nodded, opened a drawer and, pulling out a cloth bag, emptied it upon the desktop. Bundles of banknotes spilled forth.

  The bronze disc emitted a throaty voice, which spoke urgently. “Just thought I’d warn you, and please don’t jab me again, but there’s some kinda watcher coming. Two rooms away, heading in our direction. We need to pull out, boss, and do it swiftish.”

  Nathaniel bit his lip. “Stay where you are until the very last moment. I want to see what he’s paying for. And memorize the conversation.”

  “It’s your funeral, boss.”

  The stranger had extended a gloved hand from under his cape and was slowly replacing the banknotes inside the bag. Nathaniel was nearly hopping with frustration—at any moment the imp would leave the scene and he would be none the wiser.

  Fortunately, his impatience was shared by Simon Lovelace, who held out his hand again, more decisively this time. The stranger nodded. He reached inside his cape and drew forth a small packet. The magician snatched it and feverishly tore the wrapping apart.

  The imp’s voice sounded. “It’s at the door! We’re pulling out.”

  Nathaniel just had time to see his enemy reach into the wrapping and draw forth something that sparkled in the lamplight—then the disc was wiped clean.

  He uttered a terse command, and the baby’s face reluctantly appeared.

  “Ain’t that all? I need a bit of shut-eye now, I can tell you. Whoof, that was a close one. We so nearly got fried.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Well now, what did they say? I might have heard snatches, won’t say I didn’t, but my hearing’s not what it was, what with my long confinement—”

  “Just tell me!”

  “Big fella didn’t say much. Did you see those red stains on his cape, incidentally? V-e-r-y suspicious. Not ketchup, let’s put it that way. Fresh too, I could smell it. What did he say now? ‘I have it.’That was one thing. And, ‘I want my payment first.’Man of few words, I’d call him.”

  “Was he a demon?”

  “By that crude remark I assume you mean a noble entity from the Other Place? Nope. Man.”

  “And what did the magician say?”

  “He was a bit more forthcoming. Quite voluble in fact. ‘Do you have it?’ That’s how he began. Then he said, ‘How did you? No, I don’t want to know the deta
ils. Just give it to me.’He was all breathless and eager. Then he got the cash out.”

  “Was that it? What was the object? Did either of them say?”

  “Don’t know that I recall—no, wait! Wait! You don’t need to get nasty with me—I’m doing what you asked, ain’t I? When the big guy handed over the package, he said something….”

  “What?”

  “So quiet, almost didn’t catch it …”

  ” What did he say?”

  “He said: ‘The Amulet of Samarkand is yours, Lovelace.’ That’s what he said.”

  It took Nathaniel almost another six months before he felt himself to be ready. He mastered new areas of his craft, learned new and greater Commands, and went swimming every morning before lessons to increase his stamina. By these means he grew strong in body and mind.

  Never again was he able to spy directly on his enemy. Whether or not its presence had been detected, the imp was unable to get close again.

  No matter. Nathaniel had the information that he needed.

  He sat in the garden as spring turned into summer, devising and refining his plan. It pleased him. It had the merit of simplicity and an even greater one in that nobody in all the world guessed at his power. His master was only just ordering his lenses now; he had spoken absently of perhaps trying out a basic summons in the winter. To his master, his tutors, even to Mrs. Underwood, he was an apprentice of no great talent. This would remain the case while he stole Simon Lovelace’s amulet.

  The theft was only the beginning, a test of his own power. After that, if all went well, he would set his trap.

  All that remained was to find himself a servant who could do what he required. Something powerful and resourceful enough to carry out his plan, but not so potent that it would threaten Nathaniel himself. The time for mastering the great entities was not yet here.

  He read through his master’s works of demonology. He studied track records through the ages. He read about the lesser servants of Solomon and Ptolemy.

  Finally, he chose: Bartimaeus.

  14

  I knew there was going to be a decent scrap when we got back to the attic, so this time I prepared for it properly. First, I had to decide what shape to take. I wanted something that would really goad him—make him totally lose his cool—and, strange as it may seem, that ruled out most of my more scary forms. In fact, it meant appearing as a person of some kind. It’s odd, but being insulted by a flickering specter or being called names by a fiery winged serpent isn’t half as annoying for a hardened magician as hearing it from the mouth of something that seems to be human. Don’t ask me why. It’s just something to do with the way people’s minds work.

  I figured that the best I could do was appear as another boy of about the same age, someone who would rouse all the kid’s feelings of direct competition and rivalry. That was no problem. Ptolemy was fourteen when I knew him best. Ptolemy it would be.

  After that, all that remained was to revise my best counter-spells and look forward with pleasure to being able to return home shortly.

  Perceptive readers might have noticed a new optimism in my attitude toward the kid. They would not be wrong. Why? Because I knew his birth name.1

  Give him his due, however: he came out fighting. No sooner had he got up to his room than he put on his coat, hopped into his circle, and summoned me in a loud voice. He didn’t have to shout so; I was right beside him, scuttling along the floor.

  An instant later, the small Egyptian boy appeared in the circle opposite, wearing his London gear. I flashed a grin.

  “Nathaniel, eh? Very posh. Doesn’t really suit you. I’d have guessed something a bit more down-market—Bert or Chuck, maybe.”

  The boy was white with rage and fear; I could see panic in his eyes. He controlled himself with an effort and put on a lying face.

  “That’s not my true name. Even my master doesn’t know it.”

  “Yeah, right. Who are you trying to kid?”

  “You can think what you want. I charge you now—”

  I couldn’t believe it—he was trying to send me off again! I laughed in his face, adopted a puckish pose with hands on hips, and interrupted in sophisticated style.

  “Go boil your head.”

  “I charge you now—”

  “Yah, boo, sucks!”

  The boy was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so angry.2 He stamped his foot like a toddler in the playground. Then—as I hoped—he forgot himself and went for the obvious attack. It was the Systemic Vise again, the bully’s favorite.

  He spat out the incantation, and I felt the bands drawing in.3

  “Nathaniel.” Under my breath I spoke his name and then the words of the appropriate counter-spell.

  The bands immediately reversed their loop. They expanded outward, away from me, out of the circle like ripples in a pond. Through his lenses, the boy saw them heading in his direction. He gave a yelp and, after a moment’s panic, found the words of cancelation. He gabbled them out; the bands vanished.

  I flicked a nonexistent piece of dust from the sleeve of my jacket and winked at him.

  “Whoops,” I said. “Nearly took your own head off there.”

  If the boy had paused, he would have realized what had happened, but his rage was too great. He probably thought he had made some error, spoken something out of turn. Breathing deeply, he searched through his repertoire of nasty tricks. Then he clapped his hands and spoke again.

  I wasn’t expecting anything as potent as the Stimulating Compass. From each of the five points of the pentacle I was in, a glowing column of electricity shot up, jarring and crackling. It was as if five lightning bolts had been momentarily trapped; in another instant, each column had discharged into a horizontal beam that pierced me with the force of a javelin. Arcs of electricity coursed around my body; I screamed and jerked, carried off the floor by the force of the charge.

  Through gritted teeth I spoke it—“Nathaniel!”—then a counter-spell as before. The effect was immediate. The charge left me, I slumped to the ground. Small lightning bolts shot off in all directions. The boy dived just in time—an electric charge that would have killed him beautifully speared straight through his flailing coat as he hit the floor. Other bolts collided with his bed and desk; one zapped into his vase of flowers, slicing the glass cleanly in two. The rest vanished into the walls, peppering them with small, asterisk-shaped burn marks. It was a delightful sight.

  The kid’s coat had fallen over his face. Slowly he raised his head and peered out from under it. I gave him a friendly thumbs-up.

  “Keep going,” I grinned. “One day, if you work hard and stop making all these stupid mistakes, you might make a real grown-up wizard.”

  The kid said nothing. He got painfully to his feet. By pure fluke, he had dived pretty much straight down and so was still safe within his pentacle. I didn’t mind. I was looking forward to whatever mistake he would make next.

  But his brain was working again. He stood still for a minute and took stock.

  “Better get rid of me quickly,” I said, in a helpful sort of way. “Old man Underwood will be coming to see what all the noise is about.”

  “No, he won’t. We’re too high up.”

  “Only two floors.”

  “And he’s deaf in one ear. He never hears anything.”

  “His missus—”

  “Shut up. I’m thinking. You did something then, both times.… What was it…?” He snapped his fingers. “My name! That’s it! You used it to deflect my spells, curse you.”

  I studied my fingernails, eyebrows raised. “Might have, might not. It’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  The kid stamped his foot again. “Stop it! Don’t speak to me like that!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you just did! You’re speaking like a child.”

  “Takes one to know one, bud.”

  This was fun. I was really riling him. The loss of his name had made him lose his cool. He was second
s away from another attack, I could tell—he had the stance and everything. I adopted a similar, but defensive pose, like a sumo wrestler. Ptolemy had been exactly this boy’s height, dark hair and everything,4 so it was nice and symmetrical.

  With an effort, the kid controlled himself. You could see him flicking through all his lessons, trying to remember what he should do. He had realized that an ordinary quick-fire punishment was out of the question now: I’d just send it back at him.

  “I’ll find another way,” he muttered darkly. “Wait and see.”

  “Ooh, I’m really scared,” I said. “Watch me shiver.”

  The kid was thinking hard. There were big gray bags under his eyes. Every time he made an incantation he wore himself out further, which suited me just fine. Some magicians have been known to drop dead simply from overexertion. It’s a high-stress lifestyle they have, poor things.

  His thinking went on for a long time. I gave an ostentatious yawn and made a watch appear on my wrist so that I could glance at it wearily.

  “Why not ask the boss?” I suggested. “He’ll help you out.”

  “My master? You must be joking.”

  “Not that old fool. The one who’s directing you against Lovelace.”

  The boy wrinkled his brow. “There’s no one. I don’t have a boss.”

  Now it was my turn to look blank.

  “I’m acting on my own.”

  I whistled. “You mean you really summoned me on your lonesome? Not bad … for a kid.” I tried to sound suitably sycophantic. “Well then, let me give you a tip. The best thing now is for you to let me go. You need a rest. Have you looked in a mirror recently? One without an imp inside, I mean? There are worry lines there. Not good at your age. It’ll be gray hairs next. What will you do then when you meet your first succubus?5 Put her right off, it will.”

  I was talking too much, I knew, but I couldn’t help it. I was worried. The kid was looking at me with a calculating expression that I didn’t like.