The Amulet of Samarkand

the sun's touch upon his face. A book lay unopened on his lap, but he ignored it: either he had not read it, or he did not wish to do so. The woman's voice rose and fell; he laughed and felt her put an arm around his shoulders. At this, a cloud passed over the sun and the air chilled. A sudden gust of wind blew open the cover of the book and riffled its pages loudly. The woman's voice grew deeper; for the first time he looked in her direction... Under a mop of long blond hair, he saw the djinni's eyes, its leering mouth. The grip around his shoulders tightened, he was pulled toward his enemy. Its mouth opened—
    He awoke in a twisted posture, one of his arms raised defensively across his face.
    The fire had burned itself out and the light was dying in the sky. The library room was thick with shadow. Several hours must have passed since he had fallen asleep, but he did not feel refreshed, only stiff and cold. Hunger clamped his stomach; his limbs were weak when he tried to stand. His eyes were hot and dry.
    In the light of the window, he consulted his watch. Three-forty: the day was almost gone. Bartimaeus had not yet returned.
    As dusk fell, men with hooked poles emerged from the shops opposite and pulled the night-grilles down in front of their display windows. For several minutes, the rattles and crashes echoed along the road from both directions, like portcullises being dropped at a hundred castle gates. Yellow streetlights came on, one by one, and Nathaniel saw thin curtains being drawn in the windows above the shops. Buses with lit windows rumbled past; people hurried along the pavements, anxious to get home.
    Still Bartimaeus did not come. Nathaniel paced impatiently about the cold, dark room. The delay enraged him. Yet again he felt powerless, at the mercy of events. It was just as things had always been. In every crisis, from Lovelace's first attack the year before, to the murder of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel had been unable to respond—his weakness had cost him dearly every time. But things would change now. He had nothing holding him back, nothing left to lose. When the djinni returned, he would—
    "Evening edition! Latest news!"
    The voice came faintly to him from along the darkening street. Pressing his head against the leftmost window, he saw a small weak light come swinging along the pavement. It hung from a long pole above a wobbling handcart. The paperboy, back again.
     
    For a few minutes Nathaniel watched the boy's approach, deliberating with himself. In all probability, there was no point in buying another paper: little would have changed since the morning. But The Times was his only link with the outside world; it might give him more information—about the police search for him, or the conference. Besides, he would go mad if he didn't do something. He rummaged in a pocket and checked his change. The result decided him. Treading carefully in the half-light, he crossed to the staircase, descended to the ground floor and squeezed past the loose plank into the side alley.
    "One copy, please." He caught up with the paperboy just as he was wheeling his cart round a corner, off the main street. The boy's cap was hanging from the back of his head; a sprig of white hair spilled out onto his brow. He looked round and gave a slightly toothless grin.
    "You again. Still out on the streets?"
    "One copy." It seemed to Nathaniel that the boy was staring at him. He held his coins out impatiently. "It's all right—I've got the money."
    "Never said you hadn't, chum. Trouble is, I've just sold out." He indicated the empty interior of his cart. "Lucky for you, my mate will have some left. His pitch isn't so lucrative as mine."
    "It doesn't matter." Nathaniel turned to go.
    "Oh, he'll be just along here. Won't take a minute. I always meet him near the Nag's Head at the end of the day. Just round the next corner."
    "Well..." Nathaniel hesitated. Bartimaeus could be back at any time, and he'd been told to stay inside. Told? Who was the master here? It was just round the corner; it would be fine. "All right," he said.
    "Dandy. Come on, then." The boy set off, the wheel of his cart squeaking and shaking on the uneven stones. Nathaniel went beside him.
    The side road was less frequented than the main highway, and few people passed them before they arrived at the next corner. The lane beyond was quieter still. A little way along it was an inn, a squat and ugly building with a flat roof and gray pebbledash walls. An