The Amulet of Samarkand

higher-ranking entities materialize at random on the ground. There are at least two protective domes over the estate itself, which also change position. I was unable to get beyond the boundary on my foray, and it will be even harder to succeed with a deadbeat like you in tow."
    He didn't rise to the bait. He was too tired. "However," I continued, "I can feel in my essence that they are hiding something at the Hall. These defenses are in place two days too early, which involves a colossal expenditure of power. That implies mischief going on."
    "How long will it take to get there?"
    "We can reach the edge of the estate by nightfall—if we catch an early morning train. There's a long walk at the other end. But we'll need to get going now."
    "Very well." He began to get up, squelching and oozing as he did so.
    "Are you sure about this plan?" I said. "I could take you to the docks instead. There's bound to be vacancies for cabin boys there. It's a hard life, but a good one. Think of all that salty air."
    There was no answer. He was on his way out. I gave a sigh, snuffed out the fire, and followed him.
     
    The route I selected was a strip of wasteland that ran south and east between the factories and warehouses, following a narrow tributary of the Thames. Although the stream itself was meager, it meandered excessively across its mini flood plain, creating a maze of hummocks, marshes, and little pools that took us the rest of the night to negotiate. Our shoes sank into mud and water, sharp reeds spiked our legs and hands, and mosquitoes whined occasionally about our heads. The boy, by contrast, whined pretty much continually. After his adventures with the Resistance, he was in a very bad temper.
    "It's worse for me than it is for you," I snapped, after a particularly petulant outburst. "I could have flown this in five minutes, but oh, no—I have to keep you company. Writhing about in mud and slime is your birthright, human, not mine."
    "I can't see where I'm putting my feet," he said. "Create some light, can't you?"
    "Yes, if you want to attract the attention of night-flying djinn. The streets are well watched—as you've already discovered—and don't forget Lovelace may still be seeking us too. The only reason I've chosen this way is because it's so dark and unpleasant."
    He did not seem greatly comforted by this; nevertheless, his protests ceased.[1]
     
    [1] One side-benefit of this route was that its difficulties eventually took his mind off the loss of his precious scrying glass. Honestly, the way he went on about it, you'd think that imp was his blood brother, rather than a vulgar baby impersonator trapped against its will. He did seem to have taken his misfortune personally. But after the loss of his beloved Mrs. Underwood, I suppose the disc was his only friend in the world, poor thing.
     
    As we stumbled on, I considered our situation with my usual impeccable logic. It had been six days since the kid had summoned me. Six days of discomfort building up inside my essence. And no immediate end in sight.
    The kid. Where did he rate in my list of all-time human lows? He wasn't the worst master I had endured,[2] but he presented some peculiar problems of his own. All sensible magicians, well versed in clever cruelty, know when the time is right to fight. They risk themselves (and their servants) comparatively rarely. But the kid hadn't a clue. He had been overwhelmed by a disaster brought about by his own meddling, and his reaction was to lunge back at his enemy like a wounded snake. Whatever his original grudge against Lovelace, his previous discretion had now been replaced by a desperation powered by grief. Simple things like selfpreservation were disregarded in his pride and fury. He was going to his death. Which would have been fine, except he was taking me along for the ride.
     
    [2] A "good master" is a contradiction in terms, of course. Even Solomon would have been insufferable, he was so prissy in his early years, but fortunately he could command 20,000 spirits with one twist of his magic ring, so with him I got plenty of days off.
     
    I had no solution to this. I was bound to my master. All I could do was try to keep him alive.
    By dawn, we had followed the waste strip down from north London almost to the Thames. Here the stream widened briefly before sluicing over a series of weirs into the main river. It was time to rejoin the roads. We climbed a bank to a wire fence (in which I burned a discreet hole),