The Amulet of Samarkand

equally squat and ugly horse was depicted on a badly painted sign, hanging above the door. Nathaniel was disconcerted to see a small vigilance sphere hovering unobtrusively beside it.
    The paperboy seemed to sense Nathaniel's hesitation. "Don't worry; we're not going near the spy. It only watches the door, acts as a deterrent. Doesn't work, mind. Everyone at the Nag's Head just goes in the back. Anyway, here's old Fred."
    A narrow alley ran off from the lane at an angle between two houses, and at its entrance another handcart had been parked. Behind it, in the shadows of the alley, a tall youth wearing a black leather jacket lounged against the wall. He was eating an apple methodically and regarding them from under lowered eyelids.
    "Hello, Fred," the paperboy said heartily. "I've brought a chum to see you."
    Fred said nothing. He took a giant bite out of the apple, chewed it slowly with his mouth slightly open, and swallowed. He eyed Nathaniel up and down.
    "He's after an evening paper," the boy explained.
    "Is he?" Fred said.
    "Yeah, I'd run out. And he's the one I was telling you of and all," the paperboy added quickly. "He's got it on him now."
    At this, Fred straightened, stretched, tossed the remains of the apple down the alley and turned to face them. His leather jacket squeaked as he moved. He stood head-and-shoulders taller than Nathaniel and was broad-chested too; a sea of spots on his chin and cheeks did nothing to detract from his slightly menacing appearance. Nathaniel felt a little uneasy, but drew himself up and spoke with as much brusque confidence as he could. "Well, do you have one? I don't want to waste my time."
    Fred looked at him. "I've run out of papers too," he said.
    "Don't worry. I didn't really need it." Nathaniel was only too eager to depart.
    "Hold on—" Fred stretched out a large hand and grabbed him by a sleeve. "No need to run off so quick. It ain't curfew yet."
    "Get off me! Let me go!" Nathaniel tried to shake himself free. His voice felt tight and high.
    The paperboy patted him on the back in a friendly manner. "Don't panic. We're not looking for trouble. We don't look like magicians, do we? Well then. We just want to ask you a few questions, don't we, Fred?"
    "That's right." Fred seemed to exert no effort, but Nathaniel found himself drawn into the alley, out of sight of the inn along the street. He did his best to quell his mounting fear.
    "What do you want?" he said. "I haven't got any money."
    The paperboy laughed. "We're not trying to rob you, chum. Just a few questions, like I said. What's your name?"
    Nathaniel swallowed. "Um... John Lutyens."
    "Lutt-chens? Aren't we posh? So what are you doing round here, John? Where's your home?"
    "Er, Highgate." As soon as he said it, he guessed it was a mistake.
    Fred whistled. The paperboy's tone of voice was politely skeptical. "Very nice. That's a magician's part of town, John. You a magician?"
    "No."
    "What about your friend?"
    Nathaniel was momentarily taken aback. "My—my friend?"
    "The good-looking dark kid you were with this morning."
    "Him? Good-looking? He's just someone I met. I don't know where he's gone."
    "Where did you get your new clothes?"
    This was too much for Nathaniel to take. "What is this?" he snapped. "I don't have to answer all this! Leave me alone!" A trace of imperiousness had returned to his manner. He had no intention of being interrogated by a pair of commoners— the whole situation was absurd.
    "Simmer down," the paperboy said. "We're just interested in you—and in what you've got in your coat."
    Nathaniel blinked. All he had in his pocket was the scrying glass, and no one had seen him use that, he was sure. He'd only taken it out in the library. "My coat? There's nothing in it."
    "But there is," Fred said. "Stanley knows—don't you, Stanley?"
    The paperboy nodded. "Yup."
    "He's lying if he says he's seen anything."
    "Oh, I ain't seen it," the boy said.
    Nathaniel frowned. "You're talking nonsense. Let me go, please." This was insufferable! If only Bartimaeus was to hand, he would teach these commoners the meaning of respect.
    Fred squinted at his watch in the gloom of the alley. "Must be getting on to curfew, Stanley. Want me to take it off him?"
    The paperboy sighed. "Look, John," he said patiently. "We just want to see what it is you've stolen, that's all. We're not cops or magicians, so you don't have to beat about the bush. And—who knows?—perhaps we can make it worth your while. What were you