The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud
Not far away, the great translucent head was slowly turning.
“Nathaniel!” I shouted. “Get up!”
His head rang with the force of the explosion and he felt something wet against his mouth. Close by, amid the strident clamor of the hall, a voice called out his birth name. He stumbled to his feet.
The being was fully present now: Nathaniel sensed its shape, towering high against the ceiling. Beyond it, in the distance, a crowd of magicians huddled helplessly with their imps. And there in front of him stood Simon Lovelace, shouting orders to his slave. One hand was pressed against his chest; the other was outstretched, still holding the summoning horn.
“See, Ramuthra?” he cried. “I hold the Amulet of Samarkand, and I am thus beyond your power. Every other living thing in this room, be it human or spirit, is yours! I command you to destroy them!”
The great being inclined its head in acceptance; it turned toward the nearest group of magicians, sending shock waves out across the room. Nathaniel began to run toward Lovelace. A little way off, he saw an ugly fly buzzing low along the ground.
Lovelace noticed the fly; he frowned and watched its weaving, darting progress through the air—first it came close to him, then it drew back, then it came close again—and all the while, Nathaniel was sneaking up behind.
Closer, closer …
The fly made an aggressive dart at Lovelace’s face, the magician flinched—and at that moment, Nathaniel pounced. He gave a spring and leaped on the magician’s back, his fingers wrenching at his collar. As he did so, the fly became a marmoset that snatched at the horn with clever, greedy fingers. Lovelace cried out and gave the marmoset a buffet that sent it spinning, tail over snout; then, bending his back, he tossed Nathaniel over his head to land heavily on the floor, Nathaniel and the marmoset sprawled side by side, with Lovelace standing over them. The magician’s glasses hung crookedly from one ear. Nathaniel’s departing hands had ripped his collar half away. The gold chain of the Amulet of Samarkand was exposed around his neck.
“So,” Lovelace said, adjusting his spectacles and addressing Nathaniel, “you rejected my offer. A pity. How did you elude Maurice? With the help of this thing?” He indicated the marmoset. “Presumably that is Bartimaeus.”
Nathaniel was winded; it pained him when he tried to rise. The marmoset was on its feet and growing, altering in outline. “Come on,” it hissed to Nathaniel. “Before he has a chance to—”
Lovelace made a sign and spoke a syllable. A hulking shape materialized at his shoulder; it had a jackal’s head. “I hadn’t meant to summon you,” the magician said. “Good slaves are so hard to find, and, man or djinni, I suspect I shall be the only one walking out of this room alive. But seeing as Bartimaeus is here, it seems wrong to deny you the chance of finishing him off.” Lovelace made an easy gesture toward the gargoyle that now crouched low and ready at Nathaniel’s side. “This time,Jabor,” he said, “do not fail me.”
The jackal-headed demon stepped forward. The gargoyle gave a curse and darted into the air. Two red-veined wings sprouted from Jabor’s back; they flapped once, making a cracking noise like breaking bones, and carried him off in pursuit.
* * *
Nathaniel and Lovelace were left regarding each other. The pain in Nathaniel’s midriff had subsided a little, and he was able to get to his feet. He kept his eyes fixed on the glint of gold at the magician’s throat.
“You know, John,” Lovelace said, tapping the horn casually against the palm of one hand, “if you’d had the luck to be apprenticed to me from the start, we might have done great things together. I recognize something in you; it is like looking into a mirror of my younger days—we share the same will to power.” He smiled, showing his white teeth. “But you were corrupted by Underwood’s softness, his mediocrity.”
He broke off at this point, as a howling magician stumbled between them, his skin shining with tiny iridescent blue scales. From all across the room came the confused, unsettling sounds of magic distorting and going wrong, as it met the shock waves emanating from Ramuthra. Most of the magicians and their imps were piled up against the far wall, almost one on top of the other in their effort to escape. The great being moved toward them with lazy steps, leaving a trail of altered debris in its wake: transformed chairs, scattered bags, and belongings—all stretched, twisted, glimmering with unnatural tones and colors. Nathaniel tried to blot it from his mind; he gazed at the Amulet’s chain, readying himself for another try.
Lovelace smiled. “Even now you haven’t given up,” he said. “And that’s exactly what I’m talking about—that’s your iron will in action. It’s very good. But if you’d been my apprentice, I’d have trained you to keep it in check until you had the ability to follow through. If he is to survive, a true magician must be patient.”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said huskily, “I’ve been told that before.”
“You should have listened. Well, it’s too late to save you now; you’ve done me too much harm, and even were I so disposed, there’s nothing I could do for you in here. The Amulet can’t be shared.”
For a moment, he considered Ramuthra: the demon had cornered an outlying pocket of magicians and was reaching down toward them with grasping fingers. A shrill screaming was suddenly cut off.
Nathaniel made a tiny movement. Instantly, Lovelace’s eyes snapped back to him. “Still fighting?” he said. “If I can’t trust you to lie down and die with all those other fools and cowards, I shall have to dispose of you first. Take it as a compliment, John.”
He set the horn to his lips and blew briefly. Nathaniel’s skin crawled; he sensed a change behind him.
Ramuthra had halted at the sound from the horn. The disturbance in the planes that marked its edges intensified, as if it radiated a strong emotion, perhaps anger. Nathaniel watched it turn; it appeared to be regarding Lovelace across the breadth of the hall.
“Do not hesitate, slave!” Lovelace cried. “You shall do my bidding! This boy must die first.”
Nathaniel felt an alien gaze upon him. With a strange detached clarity, he noticed a beautiful golden tapestry hanging on the wall beyond the giant head; it seemed larger than it should be, in crystal-clear focus, as if the demon’s essence magnified it.
“Come!” Lovelace’s voice sounded cracked and dry. A great wave rippled out from the demon, turning a nearby chandelier into a host of tiny yellow birds that broke away and flew across the rafters of the hall before dissolving. Ponderously turning its back on the remaining magicians, it set off in Nathaniel’s direction.
Nathaniel’s bowels turned to water. He backed away.
Beside him, he heard Lovelace chuckle.
So here we were again, Jabor and I, like partners in a dance—I retreating, he pursuing, step by synchronized step. Across the chaotic hall we flew, avoiding the scurrying humans, the explosions of misdirected magic, the shock waves radiating from the great being stalking in its midst. Jabor wore a grimace that might have been annoyance or uncertainty, since even his extreme resilience would be tested in this new environment. I decided to undermine his morale.
“How does it feel to be inferior to Faquarl?” I called, as I ducked behind one of the few remaining chandeliers. “I don’t see Lovelace risking his life by summoning him here today.”
From the other side of the chandelier, Jabor tried to lob a Pestilence at me, but a ripple of energy disrupted it and it became a cloud of pretty flowers drifting to the floor.
“Charming,” I said. “Next, you need to learn to arrange them properly. I’ll lend you a nice vase, if you like.”
I don’t think Jabor’s grasp of insults extended far enough to take that quite on board, but he understood the tone, and it actually roused him to verbal response.
“He summoned me because I’m stronger!” he bellowed, wrenching the chandelier from the ceiling and hurling it at me. I dodged balletically and it shattered against the wall, to rain down in little lumps of crystal on the magicians’cowering heads.
Jabor did not seem impressed by this graceful maneuver. “Coward!” he cried. “Always, you sneak and crawl and run and hide.”
“It’s called intelligence,” I said, pirouetting in midair, seizing a splintered beam from the ceiling rafters and hurling it at him like a javelin. He didn’t bother to move, but let it crack against his shoulders and fall away. Then he came closer. Despite my fine words, none of my sneaking, crawling, running or hiding was having much effect right now, and looking down across the hall, I saw that the situation was in fact deteriorating rapidly. Ramuthra4 had turned and was proceeding back across the room toward where the magician and my master were standing. It wasn’t hard to see what Lovelace intended: the boy had become too much of an irritant to let him live a moment longer. I understood his point of view.
And still Lovelace held the horn; still he wore the Amulet. So far we had gained nothing. Somehow he had to be distracted, before Ramuthra got near enough to destroy the boy. An idea came into my mind unbidden. Interesting … But first, I needed to shake Jabor off for a while.
Easier said than done, Jabor being a persistent sort of fellow.
Avoiding his outstretched fingers, I ducked down through the air, in the vague direction of the center of the room. The podium had long since been reduced to a blancmangey sort of substance by the proximity of the rift. Scattered shoes and chairs were strewn all around, but there was no one left living in this area.
I dropped at speed. Behind, I heard Jabor rushing through the air in hot pursuit.
The nearer I got to the rift, the greater the strain on my essence—I could feel a suction starting to pull me forward; the effect was unpleasantly similar to being summoned. When I had reached the limit of my endurance, I stopped in midair, did a quick somersault, and faced the oncoming Jabor. There he was, whistling down, arms out and angry, with not a thought for the danger just beyond me. He just wanted to get his claws on my essence, to rend me like one of his victims from old Ombos5 or Phoenicia.
But I was no mere human, cowering and quailing in the temple dark. I am Bartimaeus, and no coward either. I stood my ground.6
Down came Jabor. I hunched into a wrestling pose.
He opened his mouth to give that jackal cry—
I flapped my wings once and rose up a fraction. As he shot under me, I swiveled and booted his backside with all my strength. He was going too fast to stop quickly, especially with my friendly assistance. His wings jammed forward in an effort to stop. He slowed, and began to turn, snarling.
The rift exerted its pull on him. An expression of sudden doubt appeared on his face. He tried to beat his wings, but they didn’t move properly. It was as if they were immersed in fast-flowing treacle; traces of a black-gray substance were pulled off the fringes of his wings and sucked away. That was his essence beginning to go. He made a tremendous effort, and actually succeeded in advancing a little toward me. I gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“Well done,” I said. “I reckon you made about five centimeters there. Keep going.” He made another Herculean effort. “Another centimeter! Good try! You’ll get your hands on me soon.” To encourage him, I stuck a cheeky foot in his direction and waved it in front of his face, just out of reach. He snarled and tried to swipe, but now the essence was curling away from the surface of his limbs and being drawn into the rift; his muscular tone was visibly changing, growing thinner by the instant. As his strength ebbed, the pull of the rift became stronger and he began to move backward, slowly first, then faster.
If Jabor had had half a brain he might have changed into a gnat or something: perhaps with less bulk he might have fought free from the rift’s gravitational pull. A word of friendly advice could have saved him, but dear me, I was too busy watching him unravel to think of it until it was far too late. Now his rear limbs and wings were sloughing off into liquid streams of greasy gray-black stuff that spiraled through the rift and away from Earth. It can’t have been pleasant for him, especially with Lovelace’s charge still binding him here, but his face showed no pain, only hatred. So it was, right to the end. Even as the back of his head lost its form, his blazing red eyes were still locked on mine. Then they were gone, away into the rift, and I was alone, waving him a fond adieu.
I didn’t waste too much time on my good-byes. I had other matters to attend to.
“An amazing thing, the Amulet of Samarkand.” Whether from fear, or from a cruel delight in reasserting his control, Lovelace persisted in keeping up a one-sided conversation with Nathaniel even as Ramuthra stalked remorselessly toward them. It seemed he could not bring himself to shut up. Nathaniel was retreating slowly, hopelessly, knowing there was nothing he could do.
“Ramuthra disrupts the elements, you see.” Lovelace continued. “Wherever it treads, the elements rebel. And that ruins the careful order on which all magic depends. Nothing any of you might try can stop it: every magical effort will misfire—you cannot hurt me, you cannot escape. Ramuthra will have you all. But the Amulet contains an equal and opposite force to Ramuthra’s; thus I am secure. It might even lift me to its mouth, so that chaos raged upon me, and I would feel nothing.”
The demon had halved the distance to Nathaniel and was picking up pace. One of its great transparent arms was outstretched. Perhaps it was eager to taste him.
“My dear master suggested this plan,” Lovelace said, “and, as always, he was inspired. He will be watching us at this moment.”
“You mean Schyler?” Even on the threshold of death, Nathaniel couldn’t restrain a savage satisfaction. “I doubt it. He’s lying dead upstairs.”
Lovelace’s self-possession faltered for the first time. His smile flickered.
“That’s right,” Nathaniel said. “I didn’t just escape. I killed him.”
The magician laughed. “Don’t lie to me, child—”
A voice behind Lovelace: a woman’s, soft and plaintive. “Simon!”
The magician looked back; Amanda Cathcart stood there, close at hand, her gown torn and muddied, her hair disheveled and now slightly maroon. She limped as she approached him, her arms out, bafflement and terror etched upon her face. “Oh, Simon,” she said. “What have you done?”
Lovelace blanched; he turned to face the woman."Stay back!” he cried. There was a note of panic in his voice. “Get away!”
Tears welled in Amanda Cathcart’s eyes. “How could you do this, Simon? Am I to die too?”
She lurched forward. Discomforted, the magician raised his hands to ward her off. “Amanda—I-I’m sorry. It … it had to be.”
“No, Simon—you promised me so much.”
Sideways on, Nathaniel stole closer.
Lovelace’s confusion turned to anger. “Get away from me, woman, or I will call on the demon to tear you to shreds! Look—it is almost upon you!” Amanda Cathcart made no move. She seemed past caring.
“How could you use me in this way, Simon? After everything you said.You have no honor.”
Nathaniel took another shuffling step. Ramuthra’s outline towered above him now.
“Amanda, I’m warning you—”
Nathaniel leaped forward and snatched. His fingers rasped against the skin on Lovelace’s neck, then closed about something cold, hard, and flexible. The Amulet’s chain. He pulled at it with all his strength. For an instant the magician’s head was jerked toward him, then a link somewhere along the chain snapped and it came away free in his hand.
Lovelace gave a great cry.
Nathaniel fell back from him and rolled onto the floor, the chain’s links colliding against his face. He scrabbled at it with both hands, clasping the small, thin oval thing that hung from the middle of the broken chain. As he did so, he was conscious of a weight being removed from him, as if a remorseless gaze had suddenly shifted elsewhere.
Lovelace had reeled in the first shock of the assault, then made to pounce upon Nathaniel—but two slender arms pulled him back. “Wait, Simon—would you hurt a poor, sweet boy?”
“You’re mad, Ama
Lovelace squirmed backward. He nearly fell. “Ramuthra! I order you—take the boy! He has stolen the Amulet! He is not truly protected!” His voice carried no conviction. A great translucent hand reached out. Lovelace redoubled his entreaties. “Then forget the boy—take the woman! Take the woman first!”
For a moment, the hand paused. Lovelace made a great effort and ripped himself from the woman’s grasp. “Yes! See? There she is! Take her first!”
From everywhere and nowhere, came a voice like a great crowd speaking in unison. “I see no woman. Only a grinning djinni.”
Lovelace’s face froze; he turned to Amanda Cathcart, who had been gazing at him with a look of agonized entreaty. As he watched, her features slowly altered. A smile of triumphant wickedness spread across her face from ear to ear. Then, in a flash, one of her arms snaked out, plucked the summoning horn from Lovelace’s slackening grip and snatched it away. With a bound, Amanda Cathcart was gone, and a marmoset hung by its tail from a light fixture several meters away. It waved the horn merrily at the aghast magician.
“Don’t mind if I have this?” it called. “You won’t need it where you’re going.”
All energy seemed to depart from the magician; his skin hung loose and ashen on his bones. His shoulders slumped; he took a pace toward Nathaniel, as if halfheartedly trying to reclaim the Amulet. Then a great hand reached down and engulfed him, and Lovelace was plucked into the air. High, high, higher he went, his body shifting and altering as it did so. Ramuthra’s head bent to meet him. Something that might have been a mouth was seen to open.