Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

Nathaniel walked slowly toward him through the smoke, cupping a final cube loosely in his palm.

The magician did not move.

Perhaps he was faking it: in a moment he would spring up, ready to fight. This was possible. He had to be ready for him.

Closer. Still no movement. Now he was adjacent to the old man's splayed leather shoes…

Another half—step… surely he would get up now.

Maurice Schyler did not get up. His neck was broken. His face sagged against a panel of the door, his lips slightly apart. Nathaniel was close enough to count all the lines and creases on his cheek; he could see little red veins running across the nose and under the eye.

The eye was open, but glazed, unseeing. It looked like that of a fish on a slab. A trace of limp white hair fell across it.

Nathaniel's shoulders began to shake. For a moment, he thought he was going to cry.

Instead he forced himself to remain motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the shaking to die down. When his emotion was safely contained, he stepped over the body of the old man. "You made a mistake," he said softly. "It is not my master that I'm doing this for."

The room beyond was small and windowless. It had perhaps once been a storeroom. A pentacle had been drawn in the center of the floor, with candles and incense pots carefully arranged around. Two of the candles had been knocked over by the impact of the falling door, and these Nathaniel carefully set upright, in position.

On one of the walls was a gold picture frame, hanging from a nail by a string. There was neither painting nor canvas inside the frame; instead it was filled with a beautiful image of a large, circular, sunny room, in which many small figures moved. Nathaniel knew instantly what the frame was: a scrying glass far sharper and more powerful than his lost bronze disc. He stepped close to inspect it. It showed a vast auditorium, filled with chairs, whose carpeted floor shone strangely. The ministers were entering it from one side, laughing and chatting, still holding their glasses, accepting glossy black pens and folders from a line of servants by the door. The Prime Minister was there, at the center of a milling throng, the grim afrit still attentively in tow. Lovelace had not yet arrived.

But any moment now, he would enter the hall and set his plan in motion.

Nathaniel noted a box of matches lying on the floor. Hurriedly, he lit the candles, double—checked the incense and stepped into the pentacle—admiring, despite his haste, the elegance with which it had been drawn. Then he closed his eyes, composed himself, and searched his memory for the incantation.

After a few seconds, he had it ready. His throat was a little dry because of the smoke; he coughed twice and spoke the words.

The effect was instantaneous. It had been so long since Nathaniel had completed a summons that he gave a little start when the djinni appeared. It was in its gargoyle form and wore a peeved expression.

"You really have got perfect timing, haven't you?" it said. "I'd just got the assassin where I wanted him, and all of a sudden you remember how to call me!"

"It's about to start!" The effort of calling Bartimaeus had made Nathaniel light—headed. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. "Look—there in the glass! They're gathering. Lovelace is on his way now, and he'll be wearing the Amulet, so he won't feel the effects of whatever happens. I—I think it's a summons."

"You don't say? I'd worked that one out already. Well, come on then—surrender to my tender claws." It flexed them experimentally; they let off a creaking sound.

Nathaniel went white. The gargoyle rolled its eyes. "I'm going to have to carry you," it said. "We'll have to hurry if we want to stop him entering the room. Once he's in, the place will be sealed—you can bet on that."

Gingerly, Nathaniel stepped forward. The gargoyle tapped a foot impatiently. "Don't worry on my account," it snapped, "I won't strain my back or anything. I'm feeling angry and my strength's returned." With this, it made a grab, snatched Nathaniel around the waist and turned to leave, only to trip over the body lying in the doorway.

"Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that." With a bound it had cleared the debris and was leaping through the gallery, spurring itself on with great beats of its stony wings.

Nathaniel's stomach lurched horribly with every stride. "Slow down!" he gasped. "You'll make me sick!"

"You won't like this then." Bartimaeus leaped through the arch at the end of the gallery, ignored the landing and staircase completely and plummeted directly to the hall thirty feet below. Nathaniel's wail made the rafters echo.

Half flying, half leaping, the gargoyle negotiated the next corridor. "So," it said agreeably, "you've made your first direct kill. How does it feel? Much more manly, I'm sure. Does it help blot out the death of Underwood's wife?"

Nathaniel was too nauseous to listen, let alone answer.

A minute later, the ride came to an end so abruptly that Nathaniel's limbs swung about like a rag doll's. The gargoyle had halted at the corner of a long corridor; it dropped him to the floor and pointed silently up ahead. Nathaniel shook his head to stop his vision spinning, and stared.

At the other end of the corridor was the open door to the auditorium. Three people stood there: a haughty servant, who held the door ajar; the fish—faced magician Rufus Lime; and Simon Lovelace, who was buttoning up his collar. A brief flash of gold showed at his throat, then the collar was adjusted and his tie wrapped in place. Lovelace clapped his companion on the shoulder and strode through the door.

"We're too late!" Nathaniel hissed. "Can't you—?" He looked to his side in surprise—the gargoyle was gone.

A tiny voice whispered in his ear. "Smooth your hair down and get to the door. You can enter as a servant. Hurry it up!" Nathaniel ignored the strong desire to scratch his earlobe; he could feel something small and ticklish hanging there. He squared his shoulders, swept back his hair, and trotted along the corridor.

Lime had departed elsewhere. The servant was swinging the door to.

"Wait!" Nathaniel wished his voice were deeper and more commanding. He approached the servant at speed. "Let me in too! They want someone extra to serve the drinks!"

"I don't recognize you," the man said, frowning. "Where's young William?"

"Erm, he had a headache. I was called in. At the last minute."

Footsteps along the corridor; a voice of command. "Wait!"

Nathaniel turned. He heard Bartimaeus swearing on the cusp of his earlobe. The black—bearded mercenary was approaching fast, barefoot ragged cape swinging, blue eyes afire.

"Quick!" The djinni's voice was urgent. "The door's open a crack—slip inside!"

The mercenary quickened his pace. "Stop that boy!"

But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant's shoe. The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.

The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. "Shut it on them!"

He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight on the other side. The door began to swing open.

Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.

"Don't bother," it said. "Let him go in. He deserves his fate."

The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.

The small voice spoke against his ear. "Now, that was ominous," it said.

From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed, events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.