The Amulet of Samarkand

this affair. It was this wicked, scheming boy. You must deal with him as you wish. Whatever sentence fits the crime, you may administer it. I leave it entirely up to you."
    Gently, Lovelace disengaged himself. "Thank you, Underwood. I shall administer his punishment shortly."
    "Good."
    "After disposing of you."
    "What—?" For a second, Underwood froze, then with a turn of speed unexpected in a man of his age, he ran for the open door. Just as he passed Nathaniel, a gust of wind from nowhere slammed the door tight shut. Underwood rattled the handle and pulled with all his strength, but it remained fast. With a snarl of fear, he spun round. He and Nathaniel stood facing Simon Lovelace across the room. Nathaniel's legs shook. He looked round wildly for Bartimaeus, but the spider was nowhere to be seen.
    With fastidious care, Lovelace took the Amulet of Samarkand by its chain and hung it round his neck. "I am not stupid, John," he said. "It is possible that you do not know what this object is, but frankly I cannot take that chance. And certainly, poor Arthur knows."
    At this, Underwood stretched out a clawing hand and grasped Nathaniel around the neck. His voice was cracked with panic. "Yes, but I will say nothing! You can trust me, Lovelace! You may keep the Amulet for all eternity for all I care! But the boy is a meddling fool; he must be silenced before he blabs. Kill him now, and the matter will be finished!" His nails dug into Nathaniel's skin, he thrust him forward; Nathaniel cried out in pain.
    A smirk extended across Lovelace's face. "Such loyalty from a master to his apprentice! Very touching. You see, John, Underwood and I are giving you a final lesson in the art of being a magician, and perhaps with our help you will understand your error in owning up to me today. You believed in the notion of the honorable magician, who takes responsibility for his actions. Mere propaganda. Such a thing does not exist. There is no honor, no nobility, no justice. Every magician acts only for himself, seizing each opportunity he can. When he is weak, he avoids danger— which is why second-raters plod away within the system. Arthur knows all about that, don't you, Underwood? But when he is strong, he strikes. How do you think Rupert Devereaux himself came to power? His master killed the previous Prime Minister in a coup twenty years ago and he inherited the title. That is the truth of it. That is how things are always done. When I use the Amulet next week, I will be following in a grand tradition reaching back to Gladstone." The glasses flashed, a hand was raised, ready to begin a gesture. "It may console you to know that even before you arrived, I was resolved to kill you and everyone in this house. I cannot leave anything to chance. So your stupidity in coming here has actually changed nothing."
    An image of Mrs. Underwood, downstairs in the kitchen, flashed through Nathaniel's mind. Tears flooded his eyes. "Please—"
    "You are weak, boy. Just like your master." Lovelace clapped his hands. The light in the study suddenly darkened. A tremor ran across the floor. Nathaniel sensed something appearing in the far corner of the room, but fear froze him in place—he dared not look to see. At his side, Underwood uttered the words of a de fensive charm. A shimmering green net of protective threads rose up to enfold him. Nathaniel was excluded, defenseless.
    "Master—!"
    At that moment, like a shaft collapsing in a slate mine, a terrible voice echoed through the room. "YOUR WISH?"
    Lovelace's voice: "Destroy them both. And anything else living in the house. Burn it to the ground with all its contents."
    Underwood gave a great cry. "Take the boy! Leave me!" He pushed Nathaniel with frantic strength. Nathaniel sprawled forward, stumbled, and fell. His eyes were blind with tears; he tried to rise, conscious only of his utter helplessness. Close by sounded a splintering noise. He opened his mouth to scream. Then claws descended and seized him around the throat.

30
     
    Bartimaeus
     
    I give Underwood's desk the credit. It was an old-fashioned, sturdy affair, and fortunately Jabor had materialized on its far side. The three seconds it took him to smash his way straight through it gave me time to move. I had been loitering on the ceiling, in a crevice above the light shade; now I dropped straight down, transforming into a gargoyle as I did so. I landed directly on my master, grabbed him unceremoniously around the neck, and, since Jabor