The Amulet of Samarkand tbt-1

by Jonathan Stroud

  Nathaniel closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Please."

  "Much better." A small spark leaped and ignited a pile of wood nearby. Nathaniel shuffled over and huddled beside it, his hands inches from the flames.

  For a few minutes the djinni remained silent, pacing here and there about the room. The feeling slowly returned to Nathaniel's fingers, though his face stayed numb. At length he became aware that the djinni had come close again, and was sitting on its haunches, idly stirring a long sliver of wood in the fire.

  "How does that feel?" it asked. "Melting nicely, I hope." It waited politely for an answer, but Nathaniel said nothing. "I'll tell you one thing," the djinni went on, in a conversational tone, "you're an interesting specimen. I've known a fair few magicians in my time, and there aren't many who are quite as suicidal as you. Most would think that popping in to tell a powerful enemy you'd pinched his treasure wasn't a terribly bright idea. Especially when you're utterly defenseless. But you? All in a day's work."

  "I had to," Nathaniel said shortly. He did not want to talk.

  "Mmm. No doubt you had a brilliant plan, which I—and Lovelace, for that matter—completely missed. Mind telling me what it was?"

  "Be silent!"

  The djinni wrinkled its nose. "That was your plan? It's a simple one, I'll say that much. Still, don't forget it was my life you were risking too back there, acting out your strange convulsion of conscience." It reached into the fire suddenly and removed a burning ember, which it held musingly between finger and thumb. "I had another master like you once. He had the same mulish obstinacy, seldom acted in his own best interests. Didn't live long." It sighed, tossed the ember back into the flames. "Never mind—all's well that ends well."

  Nathaniel looked at the djinni for the first time. "All's well?"

  "You're alive. Does that count as good?"

  For an instant, Nathaniel saw Mrs. Underwood's face watching him from the fire. He rubbed his eyes.

  "I hate to say this," the djinni said, "but Lovelace was right. You were totally out of your depth last night. Magicians don't act the way you do. It was a good thing I was there to rescue you. So—where are you going now? Prague?"

  "What?"

  "Well, Lovelace knows you've escaped. He'll be looking out for you—and you've seen what he'll do to keep you quiet. Your only hope is to vanish from the scene and leave London for good. Abroad will be safest. Prague."

  "Why should I go to Prague?"

  "Magicians there might help you. Nice beer, too, I'm told."

  Nathaniel's lip curled. "I'm no traitor."

  The boy shrugged. "If that's no good, then you're left with getting a quiet new life here. There are plenty of possibilities. Let's see… looking at you, I'd say heavy lifting's out—you're too spindly. That rules out being a laborer."

  Nathaniel frowned with indignation. "I have no intention—"

  The djinni ignored him. "But you could turn your runtlike size to your advantage. Yes! A sweep's lad, that's the answer. They always need fresh urchins to climb the flues."

  "Wait! I'm not—"

  "Or you could become apprentice to a sewer rat. You get a bristle brush, a hook and a rubber plunger, then wriggle up the tightest tunnels looking for blockages."

  "I won't—"

  "There's a world of opportunities out there! And all of them better than being a dead magician."

  "Shut up!" The effort of raising his voice made Nathaniel feel his head was about to split in two. "I don't need your suggestions!" He stumbled to his feet, eyes blazing with anger. The djinni's jibes had cut through his weariness and grief to ignite a pent—up fury that suddenly consumed him. It rose up from his guilt, his shock, and his mortal anguish and used them for its fuel. Lovelace had said that there was no such thing as honor, that every magician acted only for himself. Very well. Nathaniel would take him at his word. He would not make such a mistake again.

  But Lovelace had made an error of his own. He had underestimated his enemy. He had called Nathaniel weak, then tried to kill him. And Nathaniel had survived.

  "You want me to slink away?" he cried. "I cannot! Lovelace has murdered the only person who ever cared for me—" He halted: there was a catch in his voice, but still his eyes were dry.

  "Underwood? You must be joking! He loathed you! He was a man of sense!"

  "His wife, I mean. I want justice for her. Vengeance for what he has done."

  The effect of these ringing words was slightly spoiled by the djinni's blowing a loud raspberry. It rose, shaking its head sadly, as if weighed down by great wisdom. "It isn't justice you're after, boy. It's oblivion. Everything you had went up in flames last night. So now you've got nothing to lose. I can read your thoughts as if they were my own: you want to go out in a blaze of glory against Lovelace."

  "No. I want justice."

  The djinni laughed. "It'll be so easy, following your master and his wife into the darkness—so much easier than starting life afresh. Your pride is ruling your head, leading you to your death. Didn't last night teach you anything? You're no match for him, Nat. Give it up."

  "Never."

  "It's not even as if you're really a magician any more." It gestured at the crumbling walls. "Look around you. Where are we? This isn't some cushy townhouse, filled with books and papers. Where are the candles? Where's all the incense? Where's the comfort? Like it or not, Nathaniel, you've lost everything a magician needs. Wealth, security, self—respect, a master… Let's face it, you've got nothing."

  "I have my scrying glass," Nathaniel said. "And I have you." Hurriedly, he sat himself back beside the fire. The cold of the room still pierced him through.

  "Ah yes, I was coming to that." The djinni began clearing a space among the debris of the floor with the side of its boot. "When you've calmed down a bit, I shall bring you some chalk. Then you can draw me a circle here and set me free."

  Nathaniel stared at him.

  "I've completed my charge," the boy continued. "And more, much more. I spied on Lovelace for you. I found out about the Amulet. I saved your life."

  Nathaniel's head felt oddly light and woozy, as if it were stuffed with cloth.

  "Please! Don't rush to thank me!" the boy went on. "I'll only get embarrassed. All I want is to see you drawing that pentacle. That's all I need."

  "No," Nathaniel said. "Not yet."

  "Sorry?" the boy replied. "My hearing must be going, on account of that dramatic rescue I pulled off last night. I thought you just said no."

  "I did. I'm not setting you free. Not yet."

  A heavy silence fell. As Nathaniel watched, his little fire began to dwindle, as if it were being sucked down through the floor. It vanished altogether. With little cracking noises, ice began to crust onto the scraps of wood that a moment before had been burning nicely. Cold blistered his skin. His breath became harsh and painful.

  He staggered upright. "Stop that!" he gasped. "Bring back the fire."

  The djinni's eyes glittered. "It's for your own good," it said. "I've just realized how inconsiderate I was being. You don't want to see another fire—not after the one you caused last night. Your conscience would hurt you too much."

  Flickering images rose before Nathaniel's eyes: flames erupting from the ruined kitchen. "I didn't start the fire," he whispered. "It wasn't my fault."

  "No? You hid the Amulet. You framed Underwood."

  "No! I didn't intend Lovelace to come. It was for security—"

  The boy sneered. "Sure it was—your security."

  "If Underwood had been any good he'd have survived! He'd have fought Love—lace off—raised the alarm!"

  "You don't believe that. Let's face it, you killed them both."

  Nathaniel's face twisted in fury. "I was going to expose Lovelace! I was going to trap him with the Amulet—show the authorities!"

  "Who cares? You were too late. You failed."

  "Thanks to you, demon! If you hadn't led them to the house none of this would have happened!" Nathaniel seized o
n this idea like a drowning man. "It's all your fault and I'm going to pay you back! Think you're ever going to be freed? Think again! You're staying permanently. It's Perpetual Confinement for you!"

  "Is that so? In that case—" the counterfeit boy stepped forward and was suddenly very close—"I might as well kill you myself right now. What have I got to lose? I'll be in the tin either way, but I'll have the satisfaction of breaking your neck first." Its hand descended gently on Nathaniel's shoulder.

  Nathaniel's skin crawled. He resisted the overpowering temptation to shy away and run, and instead stared back into the dark, blank eyes.

  For a long moment, neither said anything.

  At last Nathaniel licked his dry lips. "That won't be necessary," he said thickly. "I'll free you before the month is up."

  The djinni pulled him closer. "Free me now!"

  "No." Nathaniel swallowed. "We have work to do first."

  "Work?" It frowned; its hand stroked his shoulder. "What work? What is there to do?"

  Nathaniel forced himself to remain quite still. "My master and his wife are dead. I must avenge them. Lovelace must pay for what he did."

  The whispering mouth was very near now, but Nathaniel could feel no breath against his face. "But I've told you. Lovelace is too powerful. You haven't a hope of besting him. Forget the matter, as I do. Release me and forget your troubles."

  "I cannot."

  "Why so?"

  "I—I owe it to my master. He was a good man—"

  "No, he wasn't. That's not the reason at all." The djinni whispered directly into his ear. "It isn't justice or honor that drives you now, boy, but guilt. You can't take the consequences of your actions. You seek to drown out what you've done to your master and his wife. Well, if that's the way you humans choose to suffer, so be it. But leave me out of the equation."

  Nathaniel spoke with a firmness he did not feel. "Until your month is up you'll obey me if you ever want your freedom."

  "Going after Lovelace practically amounts to suicide in any case—yours and mine." The boy smiled nastily. "That being so, I still don't see why I shouldn't kill you now…"

  "There will be ways to expose him!" Nathaniel could not help himself; he was speaking far too fast. "We just need to think it through carefully. I'll make a bargain with you. Help me avenge myself on Lovelace and I'll set you free immediately afterward. Then there can be no doubt about our positions. It's in both our interests to succeed."

  The djinni's eyes glittered. "As always, a laudably fair arrangement, dictated from a one—sided position of power. Very well. I have no choice. But if at any time you place either of us at undue risk, be warned—I shall get my revenge first."

  "Agreed."

  The boy stepped back and released Nathaniel's shoulder. Nathaniel retreated, eyes wide, breathing hard. Humming gently, the djinni wandered to the window, reigniting the fire casually as it passed. Nathaniel struggled to calm himself, to regain control. Another wave of misery washed through him, but he did not succumb. No time for that. He must appear strong in front of his slave.

  "Well then, master," the djinni said. "Enlighten me. Tell me what we do."

  Nathaniel kept his voice as level as he could. "First, I need food, and perhaps new clothes. Then we must pool our information on Lovelace and the Amulet. We also need to know what the authorities think about… about what happened last night."

  "That last one's easy," Bartimaeus said, pointing out of the window. "Look out there."

  32

  " Times! Morning edition!"

  The newspaper boy wheeled his handcart slowly along the pavement, stopping whenever passersby thrust coins in his direction. The crowd was thick and the boy's progress was slow. He had barely made it as far as the baker's by the time Nathaniel and Bartimaeus sidled out from the alley beside the derelict library and crossed the road to meet him.

  Nathaniel still had in his pocket the remnants of the money he had stolen from Mrs. Underwood's jar a few days before. He glanced at the cart: it was piled high with copies of The Times—the Government's official paper. The newspaper boy himself wore a large, checked cloth cap, fingerless gloves, and a long dark coat that reached almost to his ankles. The tips of his fingers were mauve with cold. Every now and then he roared out the same hoarse call: "Times! Morning edition!"

  Nathaniel had little experience of dealing with commoners. He hailed the boy in his deepest, most assertive voice. "The Times. How much is it?"

  "Forty pence, kid." Coldly, Nathaniel handed over the change and received the newspaper in return. The paperboy glanced at him, first incuriously, and then with what seemed a sudden intense interest. Nathaniel made to pass on, but the boy addressed him.

  "You look rough, chum," he said cheerily. "Been out all night?"

  "No." Nathaniel adopted a stern expression, which he hoped would discourage further curiosity.

  It didn't work. "Course you ain't, course you ain't," the paperboy said. "And I wouldn't blame you for not admitting it if you had. But you ought to be careful with the curfew on. The police are sniffing about more than usual."

  "What curfew's this?" the djinni asked.

  The paperboy's eyes widened. "Where've you been, mate? After that disgraceful attack on Parliament, there's an eight o'clock curfew each night this week. It won't do nothing, but the search spheres are out, and the Night Police too, so you'll want to hole up somewhere before they find you and eat you. Looks to me like you struck lucky so far. Tell you what—I could find you a good place to shelter tonight, if you need it. It's safe, and the spot to go"—he paused, looked up and down the street, and lowered his voice—"if you've got anything you might want to sell."

  Nathaniel looked at him blankly. "Thank you. I haven't."

  The boy scratched the back of his head. "Suit yourself. Well, can't hang about chatting. Some of us have got work to do. I'm off." He took up the poles of his handcart and moved away, but Nathaniel noticed him look back at them over his shoulder more than once.

  "Strange," Bartimaeus said. "What was that about?"

  Nathaniel shrugged. He had already dismissed it from his mind. "Go and get me some food and warmer clothes. I'll go back to the library and read this."

  "Very well. Do try to keep out of trouble while I'm gone." The djinni turned and headed off into the crowd.

  The article was on page two, sandwiched between the Employment Ministry's monthly request for new apprentices and a short report from the Italian campaign. It was three columns in length. It noted with regret the deaths in a severe house fire of the Internal Affairs Minister Arthur Underwood and his wife, Martha. The blaze had started at approximately 10:15 P.M. and had only been fully extinguished by fire crews and emergency service magicians three hours later, by which time the whole building had been gutted. Two neighboring houses had been badly affected, and their occupants evacuated to safety. The cause of the fire was unknown, but police were keen to interview Mr. Underwood's apprentice, John Mandrake, aged twelve, whose body had not been recovered. Some confused reports had him being observed running from the scene. Mandrake was rumored to be of an unstable disposition; he was known to have assaulted several prominent magicians the year before and the public was told to approach him with caution. Mr. Underwood's death, the article concluded, was a sad loss to the Government; he had served his ministry ably all his life and made many significant contributions, none of which the paper had space to describe.

  Sitting below the windows, Nathaniel let the paper drop. His head sank against his chest; he closed his eyes. Seeing in cold, clear print the confirmation of what he already knew struck him like a fresh blow. He reeled with it, willing the tears to come, but his grief remained pent up, elusive. It was no good. He was too tired for anything. All he wanted was to sleep…

  A boot nudged him, not softly. He started and awoke.

  The djinni stood over him, grinning. It carried a paper bag from which steam curled promisingly. Raw hunger overcame Nathaniel's dignity—he snatched the b
ag, almost spilling the polystyrene cup of coffee on his lap. To his relief, beneath the cup were two neatly wrapped greaseproof paper parcels, each containing a hot steak sandwich. It seemed to Nathaniel that he had never eaten anything half as good in his entire life. In two straight minutes, both sandwiches were gone and he sat nursing the coffee in his chilblained fingers, breathing heavily.

  "What an exhibition," the djinni said.

  Nathaniel slurped the coffee. "How did you get this?"

  "Stole it. Got a delicatessen man to make it all up, then ran off with it while he was at the cash register. Nothing fancy. The police were summoned."

  Nathaniel groaned. "That's all we need."

  "Don't worry. They'll be looking for a tall blond woman in a fur coat. Speaking of which"—it pointed to a small mound amid the debris of the floor—"you'll find some better clothing there. Coat, trousers, hat, and gloves. I hope they'll fit you. I picked the scrawniest sizes I could find."

  A few minutes later, Nathaniel was better fed, better clothed, and partially revived. He sat beside the fire and warmed himself. The djinni crouched nearby, staring into the flames.

  "They think I did it." Nathaniel indicated the newspaper.

  "Well, what do you expect? Lovelace isn't going to come clean, is he? What magician would do a stupid thing like that?" Bartimaeus eyed him meaningfully. "The whole point of starting the fire was to hide all trace of his visit. And since he couldn't kill you, he's set you up to take the rap."

  "The police are after me."

  "Yep. The police on one side, Lovelace on the other. He'll have his scouts out trying to track you down. A nice little pincer movement. That's what he wants—to keep you on the run, isolated, out of his hair."

  Nathaniel ground his teeth. "We'll see about that. What if I go to the police myself? They could raid Lovelace's house—find the Amulet…"

  "Think they'll listen to you? You're a wanted man. I use man in the broadest possible sense there, obviously. Even if you weren't, I'd be cautious about contacting the authorities. Lovelace isn't acting alone. There's his old master, Schyler—"