The Amulet of Samarkand

going to do with it, anyway? Use it? So—just show us the object you've got in your left-hand pocket. If not, I'll have to let old Fred here go to work."
    Nathaniel could see he had no choice. He put his hand in his pocket, drew out the disc, and wordlessly handed it over.
    The paperboy examined the scrying glass in the light of his lantern, turning it over and over in his hands.
    "What do you think, Stanley?" Fred asked.
    "Modern," he said at last. "Very crudely done. Homemade piece, I'd say. Nothing special, but it's worth having." He passed it across to Fred to examine.
     
    A suspicion took sudden shape in Nathaniel's mind. The recent spate of artifact thefts was a big concern to ministers. Devereaux had mentioned it in his speech, while his master had linked the crimes to the mysterious Resistance which had attacked Parliament two days before. It was thought that commoners had carried out the thefts, and that the magical objects were then made available to enemies of the Government. Nathaniel remembered the wild-eyed youth standing on the terrace at Westminster Hall, the elemental sphere spinning through the air. Here perhaps was firsthand evidence of the Resistance in action. His heart beat fast. He had to tread very carefully.
    "Is it—is it valuable?" he said.
    "Yeah," Stanley said. "It's useful in the right hands. How did you get hold of it?"
    Nathaniel thought fast. "You're right," he said. "I, er... I did steal it. I was in Highgate—I don't live there myself, obviously—and I passed this big house. There was an open window—and I saw something shining on the wall just inside. So I nipped in and took it. No one saw me. I just thought I could sell it maybe, that's all."
    "All things are possible, John," the paperboy said. "All things are possible. Do you know what it does?"
    "No."
    "It's a magician's divining disc, or scrying glass—something like that."
    Nathaniel was gaining confidence now. It was going to be easy enough to fool them. His mouth gaped in what he imagined was a commoner's stupefied amazement. "What—can you see the future in it?"
    "Maybe."
    "Can you work it?"
    Stanley spat violently against the wall. "You cheeky little sod! I ought to punch you hard for that."
    Nathaniel backtracked in confusion. "Sorry—I didn't mean... Well, um, if it's valuable, do you know anyone who might want to buy it? Thing is, I badly need the cash."
    Stanley glanced across at Fred, who nodded slowly. "Your luck's in!" Stanley said, in a chipper tone. "Fred's up for it, and I always go along with old Fred. We do know someone who might be able to give you a good price, and perhaps help you out if you're down on your luck. Come along with us and we can arrange a meeting."
    This was interesting, but inconvenient. He couldn't waltz off across London to an unknown rendezvous now—he had already been away from the library too long. Getting to Lovelace's conference was far more important. Besides, he would need Bartimaeus with him if he was to get involved with these criminals. Nathaniel shook his head. "I can't come now," he said. "Tell me who it is, or where I need to go, and I'll meet you there later."
    The two youths stared at him blankly. "Sorry," Stanley said. "It's not that sort of meeting—and not that sort of someone, neither. What've you got to do that's so important, anyway?"
    "I've got to, um, meet my friend." He cursed silently. Mistake.
    Fred shifted; his jacket squeaked. "You just said you didn't know where he was."
    "Er, yes—I need to find him."
    Stanley looked at his watch. "Sorry, John. It's now or never. Your friend can wait. I thought you wanted to sell this thing."
    "I do, but not tonight. I'm really interested in what you suggest. I just can't do it now. Listen—I'll meet you here tomorrow. Same time, same place." He was growing desperate now, speaking too fast. He could sense their mounting suspicion and disbelief; all that mattered was getting away from them as fast as possible.
    "No can do." The paperboy adjusted his cap squarely on his head. "I don't think we're going to get any joy here, Fred. What say we head off?"
    Fred nodded. With disbelief, Nathaniel saw him stow the scrying glass inside his jacket pocket. He let out a shout of rage. "Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"
    "You missed your chance, John—if that is your name. Beat it." Stanley reached down for the poles of his handcart. Fred gave Nathaniel a push that sent him sprawling back against the wet stones of the wall.
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