The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud
Sholto grunted and looked at the woman. She tapped her watch.
“Time’s up,” she said. “Well?”
And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened. I was just about to give them a last tirade of impassioned (yet clever) abuse, when I felt a familiarly painful sensation in my bowels. A multitude of red-hot pincers were plucking at me, tugging at my essence.…
I was being summoned!
22
For the first time ever I felt grateful to the boy. What perfect timing! What a remarkable coincidence! I could now disappear from under their noses, dematerialized by the summons, while they gawped and gulped like startled fish. If I was quick, there would just be time to thumb my nose at them too before departure.
I gave a rueful shake of the head. “So sorry.” I smiled. “I’d love to help you, really I would. But I have to go. Maybe we can pick up the torture and captivity again sometime soon. Only with a small alteration. I’ll be out there and it’ll be you two cuddling up inside the orb. So you’d better start dieting big time, Sholto. Meanwhile, you can both—ouch!—go boil your heads and—Ahh! … Oooh!” It wasn’t my most fluent repartee, I’ll admit, but the pain of the summoning was getting to me. It felt worse than normal, somehow—sharper, less healthy….
Also, it was taking longer.
I abandoned all pretence of a cheekily insolent posture, and writhed about on the top of the column, willing the boy to get on with it. What was his problem? Didn’t he know I was in agony? It wasn’t like I could writhe properly either—the orb’s force-lines were far too close for comfort.
After two deeply unpleasant minutes, the vicious tug of the summoning lessened and died away. It left me in an undignified posture—crouched in a ball, head between my knees, arms over my head. With the slow stiffness of accumulated agony, I raised my face a little and gingerly brushed the hair back from my eyes.
I was still inside the orb. The two magicians were right there, grinning at me from beyond the walls of my prison.
No way to make this look good. Grimly, with a thousand residual aches, I straightened, stood up, stared back at them implacably. Sholto was chuckling quietly to himself. “That was worth the price of admission on its own, dear Jessica,” he said. “The look on its face was simply exquisite.”
The woman nodded. “Such good timing,” she said. “I’m so glad we were here to see that. Don’t you understand yet, you stupid creature?” Her flagstone shifted a little nearer. “I told you; it is impossible to leave a Mournful Orb, and that includes by summoning. Your essence is locked inside it. Even your master cannot call you from it.”
“She’ll find a way,” I said, then bit my lip as if I regretted saying it.
“She?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Your master is a woman?”
“It lies.” Sholto Pinn shook his head. “An obvious bluff. Jessica, I am weary; also I am overdue for my morning’s massage at the Byzantine Baths. I should be in the steam room this moment. Might I suggest that the creature needs further encouragement, and that we leave him to it?”
“An admirable idea, dear Sholto.” She clicked her nails five times. A hum, a shudder. Time to downsize, pronto! I poured what remained of my energy into a hasty transformation, and as the flickering lines of the orb closed in on me, shrank myself into a new form. An elegant cat, hunched and sinuous, shying away from the lowering walls of the orb.
In a matter of seconds, the orb shrank to about a third of its former dimensions. The humming of its obscene energy was loud in my feline ears, but there was still a healthy gap between me and the walls. The woman snapped her nails, and the rate of shrinking slowed dramatically.
“Fascinating …” She spoke to Sholto. “In a time of crisis, it becomes a desert cat. Very Egyptian. This one’s had a long career, I think.” Now she turned back to me. “The orb will continue to shrink, demon,” she said. “Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Eventually it will reach a single point. You will be observed continuously, so if at any time you wish to speak, you need only to say so. Otherwise, farewell.”
In reply, the cat hissed and spat. That was as articulate as I could get right then.
The flagstones turned and descended to their original positions. Sholto and the woman returned to the arch and were swallowed by the portal. The seam closed up and the wall was as before. Eagle-beak and Bull-head resumed their marching. The deathly white lines of the orb hummed and glowed and closed in imperceptibly.
The cat curled on the top of the column and wrapped its tail around itself, tight as it would go.
Over the next few hours, my situation grew ever less comfortable. The cat lasted me well at first, but eventually the orb had shrunk so much my ears were down beneath my whiskers and I could feel the tip of my tail beginning to fry. A succession of changes ensued. I knew I was being watched, so I didn’t do the obvious thing and just become a flea straight off—that would only result in the orb’s shrinking really fast to catch up with me. Instead, I went through a series of furry and scaly variations, keeping just ahead of the shimmering prison bars each time. First a jack-rabbit, then a marmoset, then an undistinguished vole … Put all my forms together and you’d have a pretty decent pet shop, I suppose, but it wasn’t exactly becoming.
Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with any great plan of escape either. I could gain a reprieve by spinning some long, complex lie to the woman, but she’d soon find out I was fibbing and finish me off all the quicker. That was no good.
To make matters even worse, the wretched boy tried summoning me twice more. He didn’t give up easily, probably reckoning he’d made some kind of mistake the first time, and ended up causing me so much discomfort I nearly decided to turn him in.
Nearly, but not quite; no point giving up just yet. There was always the chance something might happen.
“Were you at Angkor Thorn?” Bull-head again, still trying to place me.
“What?” I was the vole at this point; I did my best to sound grandly dismissive, but voles can only do peeved.
“You know, the Khmer Empire. I worked for the imperial magicians, me, when they conquered Thailand. Were you something to do with that? Some rebel?”
“No."1
“Sure about that?”
“Yes! Of course I’m sure! You’re confusing me with someone else. But forget about that for a minute. Listen …” The vole dropped its voice nice and quiet, and spoke from under a raised paw. “You’re obviously a clever fellow, you’ve been around the block a few times, worked for a lot of the most vicious empires. Look—I’ve got powerful friends. If you can get me out of here, they’ll kill your master for you, free you from your bond.”
If Bull-head had possessed more brains, I’d have sworn he was looking at me skeptically. Nevertheless, I plowed on regardless. “How long have you been cooped up here on guard duty?” I said. “Fifty years? A hundred? That’s no life for an utukku, is it? You might as well be in an orb like this.”
The head came close to the bars. A shower of nose-steam jetted all over me, leaving sticky droplets in my fur. “What friends?”
“Erm, a marid—a big one—and four afrits, very powerful, much stronger than me …You can join us….”
The head retreated with a contemptuous growl. “You must think I’m stupid!”
“No, no …"The vole gave a shrug. “That’s what Eagle-beak over there thinks. He said you wouldn’t join our plan. Still, if you’re not interested …"With a wriggle and a half-hop, the vole turned its back.
“What?” Bull-head hastened round to the other side of the column, holding his spear close to the orb. “Don’t you turn your back on me! What did Xerxes say?”
“Oi!” Eagle-beak came hurrying from the far corner of the room. “I heard my name! Stop talking to the prisoner!”
Bull-head looked at him resentfully. “I can talk if I want to. So, you think I’m stupid, do you? Well, I’m not, see? What’s this plan of yours?”
“Don
Eagle-beak made a rasping noise with his beak. “Plan? I know no plan. The prisoner’s lying to you, Baztuk. What’s it been saying?”
“It’s all right, Xerxes,” I called, brightly. “I haven’t mentioned … you know.”
Bull-head brandished his spear. “I think it’s me who should be asking the questions, Xerxes,” he said. “You’ve been plotting with the captive!”
“No, you idiot—”
“Idiot, am I?”
Then they were off: muzzle to beak, all posturing muscles and flaring crest feathers, shouting and landing punches on each other’s armored chests. Ho-hum. Utukku always were easy to fool. In their excitement, I had been quite forgotten, which suited me fine. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed seeing them at each other’s throats, but right now it was scant consolation for the mess I was in.
The orb had become uncomfortably tight once more, so I downsized again, this time to a scarab beetle. Not that there was a great deal of point in this; but it delayed the inevitable and gave me room to scurry back and forth on the top of the pillar, flashing my wing-cases in rage and something like despair. That boy, Nathaniel! If ever I got out, I’d wreak such revenge on him that it would enter the legends and nightmares of his people! That I, Bartimaeus, who spoke with Solomon and Hiawatha, should go out like this—as a beetle crushed by an enemy too arrogant to even watch it done! No! Even now, I’d find a way….
I scurried back and forth, back and forth, thinking, thinking….
Impossible. I could not escape. Death was closing in steadily on every side. It was hard to see how the situation could possibly get any worse.
A froth of steam, a roar, a mad, red eye lowered to my level.
“Bartimaeus!”
Well, that was one way. Bull-head was no longer squabbling. He had suddenly remembered who I was. “I know you now!” he cried. “Your voice! Yes, it is you—the destroyer of my people! At last! I have waited twenty-seven centuries for this moment!”
When you’re faced with a comment like that, it’s hard to think of anything to say.
The utukku raised his silver spear and howled out the triumphant battle cry that his kind always deliver with the death stroke.
I settled for whirring my wings. You know, in a forlorn, defiant sort of way.
23
What was to become the worst day of Nathaniel’s life started out much as it meant to go on. Despite returning from Parliament at such a late hour, he had found it almost impossible to get to sleep. His master’s final words rang endlessly through his mind, instilling in him a growing unease: “Anyone in possession of stolen property will suffer the severest penalties …” The severest penalties … And what was the Amulet of Samarkand if not stolen property?
True, on the one hand, he was certain Lovelace had already stolen the Amulet: it was to get proof of this that he had sent Bartimaeus on his mission. But on the other hand, he—or, strictly speaking, Underwood—currendy had the stolen goods instead. If Lovelace, or the police, or anyone from the Government should find it in the house … indeed, if Underwood himself should discover it in his collection, Nathaniel dreaded to think what catastrophes might occur. What had started out as a personal strike against his enemy now seemed suddenly a far riskier business. It wasn’t just Lovelace he was up against now, but the long arm of the Government too. He had heard about the glass prisms, containing the remains of traitors, that hung from the battlements of the Tower of London. They made an eloquent point. It was never wise to risk official wrath.
By the time the ghostly light that precedes the dawn began to glow around the skylight, Nathaniel was sure of one thing only. Whether the djinni had gathered proof or not, he ought to get rid of the Amulet fast. He would return it to Lovelace and alert the authorities in some way. But for that, he needed Bartimaeus.
And Bartimaeus refused to come to him.
Despite his bone-aching weariness, Nathaniel performed the summoning three times that morning, and three times the djinni did not appear. By the third try, he was practically sobbing with panic, gabbling out the words with hardly a care that a mispronounced syllable might endanger him. When he finished, he waited, breathing fast, watching the circle. Come on, come on.
No smoke, no smell, no demon.
With a curse, Nathaniel canceled the summons, kicked a pot of incense across the room and flung himself upon his bed. What was going on? If Bartimaeus had found some way to break free of his charge … But surely that was impossible—no demon had ever managed such a thing as far as Nathaniel knew. He beat his fist uselessly against the blankets. When he got the djinni back again, he’d make it pay for this delay—he’d subject it to the Jagged Pendulum and watch it squirm!
But in the meantime, what to do?
Use the scrying glass? No, that could come later: the three summonings had worn him out, and first he had to rest. Instead, there was his master’s library. That was the place to begin. Maybe there were other, more advanced methods of summoning he could try. Perhaps there was information on tricks djinn used to avoid returning.
He got up and kicked the rug over the chalk circles on the floor. No time to clear it up now. In a couple of hours he was due to meet his master, to finally try the long-awaited summoning of the natterjack impling. Nathaniel groaned with frustration—that was the last thing he needed! He could summon the impling in his sleep, but his master would ensure he checked and double-checked every line and phrase until the process took several hours. It was a waste of energy he could well do without. What a fool his master was!
Nathaniel set off for the library. He clattered down the attic stairs.
And ran headlong into his master coming up.
Underwood fell back against the wall, clutching the most expansive part of his waistcoat, which had connected sharply with one of Nathaniel’s elbows. He gave a cry of rage and aimed a glancing slap at his apprentice’s head.
“You little ruffian! You could have killed me!”
“Sir! I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect—”
“Careering down stairs like some brainless oik, some commoner! A magician keeps his deportment strictly under control at all times. What are you playing at?”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, sir….” Nathaniel was recovering from the shock; he spoke meekly. “I was just going down to the library, to double-check a few things before our summoning this afternoon. I’m sorry if I was too eager.”
His humble manner had its effect. Underwood breathed hard, but his expression relaxed. “Well, if the intention was good, I suppose I can hardly blame you. In fact I was coming to say that unfortunately I shall not be in this afternoon. Something serious has happened and I must—” He stopped; the eyebrows flickered and melted into a frown. “What’s that I smell?”
“Sir?”
“That odor … it clings to you, boy.” He bent closer and sniffed loudly.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I forgot to wash this morning. Mrs. Underwood’s mentioned this to me before.”
“I’m not talking about your own scent, boy, unpleasant though it is. No, it’s more like … rosemary …Yes! And laurel … and St. John’s wort….” His eyes suddenly widened and flashed in the half-light of the staircase. “This is general summoning incense hanging about your person!”
“No, sir—”
“Don’t you dare contradict me, boy! How has it… ?” A suspicion dawned in his eyes. “John Mandrake, I wish to see your room! Lead the way.”
“I’d rather not, sir—it’s a terrible mess; I’d feel embarrassed….”
His master raised himself to his full height, his eyes flashing, his singed beard bristling. He seemed somehow to grow taller than Nathaniel had ever seen him, although the fact that he was standing on the step above probably helped a bit. Nathaniel felt himself shrink back, cowering.
Underwood flourished a finger and pointed up the stairs. “Go!”
Helplessly,
For a few seconds, Underwood surveyed the scene. It was an incriminating picture: an upturned pot, with a trail of multicolored incense extending from it across the floor; several dozen summoning candles, still smoldering, arranged against the walls and upon the desk; two heavy books on magic, taken from Underwood’s own personal shelves, lying open on the bed. The only things that weren’t visible were the summoning circles themselves. They lay hidden under the rug. Nathaniel thought this gave him a possible way out. He cleared his throat.
“If I might explain, sir.”
His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug, which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes. Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.
“Well?”
Nathaniel swallowed. He knew that no excuse would save him, but he had to try. “I was just practicing making the marks, sir,” he began in an uncertain voice. “Getting the feel for it. I didn’t actually summon anything, of course, sir. I wouldn’t dare….”
He faltered, stopped. With one hand, his master was pointing to the center of the bigger circle, where a prominent scorch mark had been left by Bartimaeus’s first appearance. With the other, he indicated the numerous burns left on the walls by the explosion of the Stimulating Compass. Nathaniel’s shoulders sagged.
“Um …”
For an instant, it seemed as though Mr. Underwood’s deportment was going to fail him. His face mottled with rage, he took two quick steps in Nathaniel’s direction, his hand raised to strike. Nathaniel flinched, but the blow did not fall.