The Amulet of Samarkand

blocked the window, bounded away in the direction of the door.
    My response went almost unnoticed: the magicians were otherwise occupied. Swathed in his defensive nexus, Underwood sent a bolt of blue fire crackling toward Lovelace. The bolt hit Lovelace directly in his chest and vanished. The Amulet of Samarkand had absorbed its power.
    I broke through the door with the boy under my arm and set off up the stairs. I hadn't reached the top when a colossal explosion ripped through the passage from behind and sent us slamming against a far wall. The impact dazed me. As I lay there, momentarily stunned, a series of deafening crashes could be heard. Jabor's attack had perhaps been overzealous: it sounded as if the entire study floor had given way beneath him.[1]
     
    [1] Typical Jabor, this. He's just the sort who'd happily saw off a branch he was sitting on, or paint himself steadily into a corner. If he were given to D.I.Y., that is. Which he isn't.
     
    It didn't take me long to put my essence in order and get to my feet, but believe it or not, in those few moments, that benighted boy had gone. I caught sight of him on the landing, heading for the stairs. And going down.
    I shook my head in disbelief. What had I told him about staying out of trouble? He'd already walked straight into Lovelace's hands and risked both our lives in the process. Now here he was, in all probability heading straight toward Jabor. It's all very well running for your little life, but at least do it in the right direction. I flapped my wings and set off in grim pursuit.
    The second golden rule of escaping is: make no unnecessary sounds. As the boy reached the ground floor, I heard him breaking this in no uncertain terms with a bellow that echoed up and down the stairwell: "Mrs. Underwood! Mrs. Underwood! Where are you?" His shouts sounded even above the crashing noises reverberating through the house.
    I rolled my eyes to the skies and descended the final flight of stairs, to find the hall already beginning to fill with billowing coils of smoke. A dancing red light flickered from along the passage. The boy was ahead of me—I could see him stumbling toward the fire.
    "Mrs. Underwood!"
    There was a movement far off in the smoke. A shape, hunched in a corner behind a barrier of licking flames. The boy saw it too. He tottered toward it. I speeded up, claws outstretched.
    "Mrs. Underwood? Are you—?"
    The shape rose, unbent itself. It had the head of a beast.
    The boy opened his mouth to scream. At that precise moment I caught up with him and seized him round the middle. He settled for a choking yell.
    "It's me, you idiot." I hiked him backward toward the stairs. "It's coming to kill you. Do you want to die along with your master?"
    His face went blank. The words shocked him. I don't think that until that moment he had truly comprehended what was happening, despite seeing it all unfold before his eyes. But I was happy to spell it out; it was time he learned the consequences of his actions.
    Out through a wall of fire strode Jabor. His skin gleamed as if it had been oiled; the dancing flames were reflected on him as he stalked along the hall.
    We started up the stairs again. My limbs strained at my master's weight. His limbs dragged; he seemed incapable of movement.
    "Up," I snarled. "This house is terraced. We'll try the roof."
    He managed a mumble. "My master..."
    "Is dead," I said. "Swallowed whole, most probably." It was best to be precise.
    "But Mrs. Underwood..."
    "Is no doubt with her husband. You can't help her now."
    And here, believe it or not, the fool began to struggle, flailing about with his puny fists. "No!" he shouted. "It's my fault! I must find her—!" He wriggled like an eel, slipping from my grasp. In another moment he would have hurled himself around the banister and straight into Jabor's welcoming arms. I let out a vivid curse[2] and, grabbing him by an earlobe, pulled him up and onward.
     
    [2] Don't worry. It was in Old Babylonian. The boy wouldn't have understood the references.
     
    "Stop struggling!" I said. "Haven't you made enough useless gestures for one day?"
    "Mrs. Underwood—"
    "Would not want you to die too," I hazarded.[3] "Yes, it is your fault, but, er, don't blame yourself. Life's for the living... and, erm.... Oh, whatever." I ran out of steam.[4] Whether or not it was my words of wisdom, the boy stopped straining against me. I had my arm round his neck and was dragging him up and round each corner, half