The Amulet of Samarkand

stopped. The boy's head was halfway through the shirt collar at the time. He fell forward against the dashboard.
    "Ow! You did that on purpose!"
    I pressed the correct pedal. We speeded up once more. "Get that jacket on, or we're done. And the cap."
    "What about the trousers?"
    "Forget them. No time."
    The boy had the jacket on and was just jamming the cap down on his tousled head when the two sentries drew alongside. They remained on the other side of the hedges, surveying us with their shining eyes.
    "Remember—we shouldn't be able to see them," I said. "Keep looking straight ahead."
    "I am." A thought struck him. "Won't they realize what you are?"
    "They're not powerful enough." I devoutly hoped that this was true. I thought they were ghuls,[4] but you can never be sure these days.[5]
     
    [4] Ghuls: lesser djinn of an unsavory cast, keen on the taste of humans Hence efficient (if frustrated) sentries They can only see onto five planes. I was Squalls on all but the seventh
     
    [5] Everything seems to aspire to be something better than it is. Mites aspire to be moulers, moulers aspire to be foliots, foliots aspire to be djinn Some djinn aspire to be afrits or even marids In each case it's hopeless. It is impossible to alter the limitations of one's essence. But that doesn't stop many entities waltzing around in the guise of something more powerful than they are. Of course, when you're pretty darn perfect to start with, you don't want to change anything.
     
    For a time, we drove along the road toward the bank of trees. Both of us looked straight ahead. The sentries kept pace beside the van.
    Presently, the boy spoke again. "What am I going to do about the trousers?"
    "Nothing. You'll have to make do with what you've got. We'll be at the gate soon. Your top half's smart enough, anyway."
    "But—"
    "Smooth down your jacket, get rid of any wrinkles you can see. It'll have to do. Right—I'm Squalls and you're my son. We're delivering groceries to Heddleham Hall, fresh for conference day. Which reminds me, we'd better check what it is we're actually bringing. Can you have a look?"
    "But—"
    "Don't worry, there's nothing odd about you peering in the back." Between us, in the rear wall of the cab, was a metal hatch. I gestured at it. "Have a quick peek. I would, but I'm driving."
    "Very well." He kneeled on the seat and, opening the hatch, stuck his head through.
    "It's quite dark... there's lots of stuff in here...."
    "Can you make anything out?" I took a glance at him and nearly lost control of the wheel. The van swerved wildly toward the hedge; I righted it just in time.
    "Your trousers! Sit back down! Where are your trousers?"
    He sat back in his seat. The view to my left improved markedly. "I took my ones off, didn't I? You told me not to put the new ones on."
    "I didn't realize you'd ditched the others! Put them on."
    "But the sentry will see—"
    "The sentry's already seen, believe you me. Just put them on."
    As he fumbled with his shoes against the dashboard, I shook my shiny head. "We'll just have to hope ghuls aren't too clever when it comes to the etiquette of human attire. Maybe they'll think it normal for you to be changing costume now. But the guards at the gate will be more perceptive, you can be sure of that."
    We were nearly at the boundary of the estate. Trees spanned the view through the windscreen. The road ahead curved into them in leisurely fashion; almost immediately the great arch came in sight. Constructed from massive blocks of yellow sandstone, it rose from the bushes at the roadside with the portentous solidity of a hundred thousand similar arches across the world.[6] What particular lordling had paid for this one, and why he had done so, I doubted anyone knew. The faces on the caryatids that held up the roof were worn away, the detail on the inscriptions likewise. Eventually, the ivy that clung to it all would destroy the stonework too.
     
    [6] All built to celebrate one insignificant tribe's victory over another. From Rome to Beijing, Timbuktu to London, triumphal arches crop up wherever there are cities, heavy with the weight of earth and death. I've never seen one I liked.
     
    Above and around the arch, the red dome soared into the sky and extended into the woods. Only through the arch was the way clear.
    Our accompanying sentries were looking ahead of them expectantly.
    A few meters from the arch I slowed the van to a halt, but kept the engine on. It thrummed gently. We sat in the