Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

But now another day had passed and his future had been decided. An official car had driven him to his new master's home—a modern riverside development on the south bank of the Thames. Dinner would be served at half past eight; his master would await him in the dining room at eight—fifteen. This meant that Nathaniel and I had an hour all to ourselves. I intended to make it count.

The room contained the usual: bed, desk, wardrobe (a walk—in one, this—swanky), bookcase, bedside table, chair. A connecting door led to a tiny private bathroom. There was a powerful electric light set in the pristine ceiling and a small window in one wall. Outside, the moon shone on the waters of the Thames. The boy was looking out at the Houses of Parliament almost directly opposite, an odd expression on his face.

"They're a lot nearer now," I said.

"Yes. She'd be very proud." He turned, only to discover that I had adopted Ptolemy's form and was reclining on his bed. "Get off there! I don't want your horrible—hey!" He spotted a book tucked into a shelf beside the bed. "Faust's Compendium! My own copy. That's amazing! Underwood forbade me to touch this."

"Just remember—it didn't do Faust any good."

He was flipping the pages. "Brilliant… And my master says I can do minor conjurings in my room."

"Ah, yes—your nice, sweet, new master." I shook my head sadly. "You're pleased with her, are you?"

He nodded eagerly. "Ms. Whitwell's very powerful. She'll teach me lots. And she'll treat me with proper respect, too."

"You think so? An honorable magician, is she?" I made a sour face. My old friend Jessica Whitwell, rake—thin Minister for Security, head of the Tower of London, controller of the Mournful Orbs. Yes, she was powerful, all right. And it was no doubt a sign of how highly the authorities thought of Nathaniel that he was being trusted to her tender care. Certainly, she would be a very different master from Arthur Underwood, and would see to it that his talent didn't go to waste. What it would do to his temperament was another question. Well—no doubt he was getting exactly what he deserved.

"She said I had a great career ahead of me," he went on, "if I played my cards right and worked hard. She said she would supervise my training, and that if all went well they'd put me on the fast track and I'd soon be working in a ministerial department, getting experience." He had that triumphant look in his eyes again, the kind that made me want to put him over my knee. I made a big show of yawning and plumping up the pillow, but he kept going. "There's no restriction on age, she said, only on talent. I said I wanted to get involved with the Ministry for Internal Affairs—they're the ones who're hunting the Resistance. Did you know there was another attack while we were out of London? An office in Whitehall was blown up. No one's made a breakthrough, yet—but I bet I could track them down. First off I'll catch Fred and Stanley—and that girl. Then I'll make them talk, then I'll—"

"Steady on," I said. "Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it—two power—crazed magicians killed, a hundred power—crazed magicians saved… You're a hero."

My slight sarcasm was wasted on him. "That's what Mr. Devereaux said."

I sat up suddenly and cupped my ear toward the window. "Listen to that!" I exclaimed.

"What?"

"It's the sound of lots of people not cheering."

He scowled. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning the Government's keeping this all very quiet. Where are the photographers? Where are the newspapermen? I'd have expected you on the front page of The Times this morning. They should be asking for your life story, giving you medals in public places, putting you on cheesy limited—edition postage stamps. But they aren't, are they?"

The boy sniffed. "They have to keep it quiet for security reasons. That's what they told me."

"No, it's for reasons of not wanting to look stupid. 'Twelve—year old saves Government'? They'd be laughed at in the street. And that's something no magicians ever want, take it from me. When that happens, it's the beginning of the end."

The boy smirked. He was too young to understand. "It's not the commoners we have to fear," he said. "It's the conspirators—the ones who got away. Ms. Whitwell says that at least four magicians must have summoned the demon, so as well as Lovelace, Schyler, and Lime there must be at least one more. Lime's gone, and no one's seen that red—bearded magician at any of the harbors or aerodromes. It's a real mystery. I'm sure Sholto Pinn's in on it, too, but I can't say anything about him, after what you did to his shop."

"Yes," I said, putting my hands behind my head and speaking in a musing sort of way, "I suppose you do have rather a lot to hide. There's me, your 'minor imp, and all my exploits. There's you, stealing the Amulet and framing your master…" He flushed at this and made a big show of going off to investigate the walk—in wardrobe. I got up and followed him. "By the way," I added, "I notice you gave Mrs. Underwood a starring role in your version of events. Helps salve your conscience, does it?"

He spun round, his face reddened. "If you have a point," he snapped, "get to it."

I looked at him seriously then. "You said you would revenge yourself on Love—lace," I said, "and you did what you set out to do. Perhaps that takes away a little of your pain—I hope so; I wouldn't know. But you also promised that if I helped you against Lovelace, you'd set me free. Well, help has been dutifully given. I think I saved your life several times over. Lovelace is dead and you're better off—in your eyes—than you've ever been before. So now's the time to honor your promise, Nathaniel, and let me go."

For a moment he was silent. "Yes," he said, at last. "You did help me. You did save me."

"To my eternal shame."

"And I'm—" He halted.

"Embarrassed?"

"No."

"Delighted?"

"No."

"A teensy bit grateful?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm grateful. But that doesn't alter the fact that you know my birth name."

It was time to iron this out once and for all. I was tired; my essence ached with the effort of nine days in the world. I had to go. "True," I said. "I know your name and you know mine. You can summon me. I can damage you. That makes us even. But while I'm in the Other Place, who am I going to tell? No one. You should want me to go back there. If we're both lucky, I won't even be summoned again during your lifetime. However, if I am"—I paused, gave a heavy sigh—"I promise I won't reveal your name."

He said nothing. "You want it official?" I cried. "How about this? 'Should I break this vow, may I be trampled into the sand by camels and scattered among the ordure of the fields. [129] An old Egyptian vow. Be careful when you use it—it invariably comes true. Now I can't say fairer than that, can I?"

He hesitated. For an instant, he was going to agree. "I don't know," he muttered. "You're a de—a djinni. Vows mean nothing to you."

"You're confusing me with a magician! All right, then." I jumped back in anger. "How about this? If you don't dismiss me here and now, I'll go right downstairs and tell your dear Ms. Whitwell exactly what's been going on. She'll be very interested to see me in my true form."

He bit his lip, reached for his book. "I could—"

"Yes, you could do lots of things," I said. "That's your trouble. You're too clever for your own good. A lot has happened because you were too clever to let things lie. You wanted revenge, you summoned a noble djinni, you stole the Amulet, you let others pay the price. You did what you wanted, and I helped because I had to. And no doubt, with your cleverness, you could devise some new bond for me in time, but not quickly enough to stop me telling your master right now about you, the Amulet, Underwood, and me."