Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

"Right now?" he said quietly.

"Right now."

"You'd end up in the tin."

"Too bad for both of us."

For a few moments we held each other's gaze properly, perhaps for the first time. Then, with a sigh, the boy looked away.

"Dismiss me, John," I said. "I've done enough. I'm tired. And so are you."

He gave a small smile at this. "I'm not tired," he said. "There's too much I want to do."

"Exactly," I said. "The Resistance… the conspirators… You'll want a free hand trying to hunt them down. Think of all the other djinn you'll need to summon as you embark on your great career. They won't have my class, but they'll give you less lip."

Something in that seemed to strike a chord with him. "All right, Bartimaeus," he said finally. "I agree. You'll have to wait while I draw the circle."

"That's no problem!" I was eagerness itself. "In fact, I'll gladly entertain you while you do it! What would you like? I could sing like a nightingale, summon sweet music from the air, create a thousand heavenly scents… I suppose I could even juggle a bit if that tickles your fancy."

"Thank you. None of that will be necessary."

The floor in one corner of the room had been purposely left bare of carpet and was slightly raised. Here, with great precision, and with only one or two fleeting glances at his book of formulae, the boy drew a simple pentacle and two circles with a piece of black chalk he found in the drawer of his desk. I kept very quiet while he did so. I didn't want him to make any mistakes.

At last he finished, and rose stiffly, holding his back.

"It's done," he said, stretching. "Get in."

I considered the runes carefully. "That cancels Adelbrand's Pentacle, does it?"

"Yes."

"And breaks the bond of Perpetual Confinement?"

"Yes! See that hieroglyph here? That snaps the thread. Now do you want to be dismissed or not?" "Just checking." I skipped into the bigger circle and turned to face him. He readied himself, ordering the words in his mind, then looked at me severely.

"Take that stupid grin off your face," he said. "You're putting me off."

"Sorry." I adopted a hideous expression of malady and woe.

"That's not much better."

"Sorry, sorry."

"All right, prepare yourself." He took a deep breath.

"Just one thing," I said. "If you were going to summon someone else soon, I recommend Faquarl. He's a good worker. Put him to something constructive, like draining a lake with a sieve, or counting grains of sand on a beach. He'd be good at that."

"Look, do you want to go or not?"

"Oh, yes. I do. Very much."

"Well, then—"

"Nathaniel—one last thing."

"What?"

"Listen: for a magician, you've got potential. And I don't mean the way you think I mean. For a start, you've got far more initiative than most of them, but they'll crush it out of you if you're not careful. And you've a conscience too, another thing which is rare and easily lost. Guard it. That's all. Oh, and I'd beware of your new master, if I were you."

He looked at me for a moment, as if he wanted to speak. Then he shook his head impatiently. "I'll be all right. You needn't bother about me. This is your last chance. I have to be down for dinner in five minutes."

"I'm ready."

Then the boy spoke the counter—summons swiftly and without fault. I felt the weight of words binding me to the earth lessen with every syllable. As he neared the end, my form extended, spread, blossomed out from the confines of the circle. Multiple doors opened in the planes, beckoning me through. I became a dense cloud of smoke that roared up and outward, filling a room that became less real to me with every passing instant.

He finished. His mouth snapped shut. The final bond broke like a severed chain.

So I departed, leaving behind a pungent smell of brimstone. Just something to remember me by.

Not everyone agrees with me on this. Some find it delightful sport. They refine countless ways of tormenting their summoners by means of subtly hideous apparitions. Usually the best you can hope for is to give them nightmares later, but occasionally these stratagems are so successful that the apprentices actually panic and step out of the protective circle. Then all is well—for us. But it is a risky business. Often they are very well trained. Then they grow up and get their revenge.

I couldn't do anything while I was in the circle, of course. But later I'd be able to find out who he was, look for weaknesses of character, things in his past I could exploit. They've all got them. You've all got them, I should say.

One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.

I have access to seven planes, all coexistent. They overlap each other like layers on a crushed mille—feuille. Seven planes is sufficient for anybody. Those who operate on more are just showing off.

On two planes. Cats have that power.

Once each on five different pebbles. Not the same pebble five times. Just want to make that clear. Sometimes you human beings are so dense.

For those who are wondering, I have no difficulty in becoming a woman. Nor for that matter a man. In some ways I suppose women are trickier, but I won't go into that now. Woman, man, mole, maggot—they're all the same, when all's said and done, except for slight variations in cognitive ability.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't afraid of the imp. I could squish him without a second thought. But he was there for two reasons: for his undying loyalty to his master and for his perceptive eye. He would not be taken in by my cunning fly guise for one fraction of a second.

A human who listened to the conversation would probably have been slack—jawed with astonishment, for the magicians account of corruption in the British Government was remarkably detailed. But I for one was not agog Having seen countless civilizations of far greater panache than this one crumble into dust, I could rouse little interest in the matter I spent the time fruitlessly trying to recall which unearthly powers might have been bound into Simon Lovelace's service. It was best to be prepared.

Oh, it was all impressive enough if you were a nonmagician. Let me see, there were crystal orbs, scrying glasses, skulls from tombs, saints' knucklebones, spirit sticks that had been looted from Siberian shamans, bottles filled with blood of doubtful provenance, witch—doctor masks, stuffed crocodiles, novelty wands, racks of capes for different ceremonies and many, many weighty books on magic that looked as if they had been bound in human skin at the beginning of time, but had probably been mass—produced last week by a factory in Catford. Magicians love this kind of thing; they love the hocus—pocus mystery of it all (and half believe it, some of them) and they adore the awe—inspiring effect it has on outsiders. Quite apart from anything else, all these knickknacks distract attention from the real source of their power: us.

They were all at it—beetling off in coach parties (or, since many of them were well—heeled, renting jets) to tour the great magical cities of the past. All cooing and ahhing at the famous sights—the temples, the birthplaces of notable magicians, the places where they came to horrible ends. And all ready to snatch bits of statuary or ransack the black—market bazaars in the hope of getting knock—me—down sorcerous bargains. It's not the cultural vandalism I object to. It's just so hopelessly vulgar.