The Amulet of Samarkand

ground more quickly than you. And you've made yourself ill by refusing my help last night."
    "I'm not ill."
    "Sorry, didn't catch that. Your teeth were chattering too loudly."
    "I'll be fine. Now leave me alone."
    "This cold of yours could let us down big time if we get in the house. Lovelace might follow the trail of sn—Listen!"
    "What?"
    "A car! Coming from behind us. Perfect. It'll slow right here. Wait for my order."
    I scampered through the long grasses to the other side of the copse and waited behind a large stone on the dirt bank above the road. The noise of the oncoming vehicle grew loud. I scanned the sky—no watchers could be seen, and the trees hid the road from the direction of the house. I readied myself to spring....
     
    Then hunched down behind the stone. No good. A black and shiny limousine: a magician's car. Too risky to try. It flashed past in a welter of dust and pebbles; all skirling brakes and shining bonnet. I caught a glimpse of its occupant: a man I did not know, broad-lipped, pasty, with slicked-back hair. There was no sign of an imp or other guardian, but that meant nothing. There was no point in ambushing a magician.
    I returned to the boy, still motionless under the bush. "No go," I said. "Magician."
    "I've got eyes." He sniffed messily. "I know him, too. That's Lime, one of Lovelace's cronies. Don't know why he's in on the plot; he's not very powerful. I once stung him with some mites. He swelled up like a balloon."
    "Did you?" I confess I was impressed. "What happened?"
    He shrugged. "They beat me. Is that someone coming?"
    A bicycle had appeared around the bend in front of us. Upon it was a short, fat man, his legs whirring round like helicopter blades. Above the bicycle's front wheel was an enormous basket, covered with a weighted white cloth. "Butcher," I said.
    The boy shrugged. "Maybe. Do we get him?"
    "Could you wear his clothes?"
    "No."
    "Then we let him pass. There'll be other options."
    Red-faced and perspiring freely, the cyclist arrived at the crossroads, skidded to a halt, wiped his brow and proceeded on toward the Hall. We watched him go, the boy's eyes mainly on the basket.
    "We should have taken him out," he said, wistfully. "I'm starving."
    Time passed and the bicycling butcher returned. He whistled as he pedaled, making light of his journey. His basket was now empty, but no doubt his wallet had been nicely filled. Beyond the hedge, one of the sentries trailed in his wake with great loping bounds, its body and tattered robes almost translucent in the sunlight.
    The butcher freewheeled into the distance. The boy suppressed a sneeze. The sentry drifted away. I scuttled up a thorn stem that ran through the bush and peered out at the top. The skies were clear; the winter sun bathed the fields with unseasonal warmth. The roads were empty.
     
    Twice more during the next hour, vehicles approached the crossroads. The first was a florist's van, driven by a slatternly woman smoking a cigarette. I was about to pounce on her, when out of the corner of my mouse's eye I spied a trio of blackbird sentries sailing lazily over the copse at low altitude. Their beady eyes flicked hither and thither. No chance: they would have seen everything. I hid and let the woman drive on her way.
    The blackbirds flew off, but the next passerby served me no better: a magician's convertible with the top down, this time coming from the direction of the Hall. The driver's face was mostly obscured under a cap and a pair of driving goggles: I only caught a flash of reddish beard, short and clipped, as he shot by.
    "Who's that?" I asked. "Another accomplice?"
    "Never seen him before. Maybe he was the one who drove in last night."
    "He's not sticking around, whoever he is."
    The boy's frustration was getting to him. He beat a fist against the grass. "If we don't get in soon, all the other guests will start arriving. We need time in there to find out what's going on. Ahh! If I only had more power!"
    "The eternal cry of all magicians," I said wearily. "Have patience."
    He looked up at me savagely. "You need time to have patience," he snarled. "We have no time."
    But in fact it was only twenty minutes later that we got our chance.
    Once again the sound of a car; once again I crossed to the other side of the copse and took a look from the top of the bank. As soon as I did so, I knew the time had come. It was a dark-green grocer's van, tall and squared, with smart black mudguards and a newly washed look. On its