Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

As we watched, the giant, translucent arm was followed by a brawny, translucent shoulder, more than a meter long. And now something like a head began to emerge through the rift. Once more it was only an outline: seen through it, the windows and the distant trees showed perfectly; around its edge, the planes shuddered in a new frenzy.

"Lovelace can't have summoned this on his own," I said. "He must have had help. And I don't just mean that old scarecrow you killed, or the clammy one at the door. Someone with real power must have had a hand." [117] This being was greater by far than all the various marids, afrits, and djinn that magicians normally summon. A strong magician can summon an afrit on his own; most marids require two. I was calculating a minimum of four for this one.

The great being pulled itself through the gap. Now another arm appeared, and the suggestion of a torso. Most of the magicians were clustering against the periphery of the room, but a few near the windows were caught in a ripple running through the planes. Their faces changed—a man's became a woman's; a woman's a child's. Maddened by his transformation, one magician ran blindly toward the podium—in an instant, his body seemed to become liquid: it slewed in a corkscrew motion up into the rift and vanished from sight. My master gasped in horror.

Now a great, translucent leg emerged, with almost feline stealth and poise. Things were really desperate. Nevertheless, I'm an optimist at heart. I noticed that the ripples emanating from the being changed the nature of every spell they hit. And that gave me hope.

"Nathaniel," I said. "Listen to me."

He didn't answer at first. He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens. After all the events of the previous few days, I had almost forgotten how young he was. Right at that moment, he did not look like a magician at all, but just a terrified small boy.

"Nathaniel."

A faint voice. "Yes?"

"Listen. If we get out of this Stricture, do you know what we have to do?"

"But how can we get out?"

"Don't bother about that. If we escape, what must we do?"

He shrugged.

"I'll tell you, then. We need to accomplish two things. First—get the Amulet off Lovelace. That's your job."

"Why?"

"Because I can't touch the Amulet now that he's wearing it: it's absorbing everything magical that comes near him—and I don't wish to be included accidentally. It's got to be you. But I'll try to distract him while you get close."

"That's kind."

"The second thing," I said, "is that we must reverse the summons to drive our big friend away. That's your job."

"My job again? "

"Yes—I'll help by stealing the summoning horn from Lovelace. It needs to be broken if we're to do the job. But you'll have to round up some of the other magicians to speak the Dismissal Spell. Some of the stronger ones are bound to know enough, providing they're still conscious. Don't worry—you won't have to do it yourself."

The boy frowned. " Lovelace intends to dismiss it on his own." He said this with a touch of his normal vigor.

"Yes, and he's a master magician, highly skilled and powerful. Right—that's settled. We go for the Amulet. If we get it, you head off and seek help from the others, while I deal with Lovelace."

How the boy would have answered, I'll never know, because at that moment, the great entity stepped clear of the rift and a particularly strong ripple ran out through the planes. It swept through the discarded chairs, turning some to liquid, setting others on fire, and finally reaching the shimmering white Stricture where all this time we had been imprisoned. At its touch, the membrane that enclosed us exploded with a cacophonous bang that sent me flying one way and the boy another. He landed heavily, cutting his face.

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 magicians 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."