The Amulet of Samarkand

door, and tiptoed into the room.
    Suddenly, Lovelace spoke. "Maurice!"
    Nathaniel shot behind the nearest bookshelf. He flattened himself against it, forcing himself to breathe quietly. He heard the far door open. Stealthily, careful not to make the slightest noise, he turned his head inch by inch, until he could look over the top of the nearest books. Other bookcases separated him from the opposite side of the gallery, but framed in a gap between two shelves he could just make out the red, wrinkled face of Schyler, the old magician. Lovelace himself was hidden from view.
    "Simon—what is wrong? Why have you come?"
    "I've brought you a present." Lovelace's voice was casual, amused. "The boy."
    Nathaniel nearly fainted with shock. His muscles tensed, ready to run.
    Lovelace stepped out from behind the end of the bookshelf. "Don't bother. You'll be dead before you can leave the room."
    Nathaniel froze. Teetering on the edge of panic, he kept quite still.
    "Come round here to Maurice." Lovelace motioned with ostentatious courtesy. Nathaniel shuffled forward. "There's a good boy. And stop trembling like an invalid. Another lesson for you: a magician never shows his fear."
    Nathaniel entered the main aisle and halted, facing the old magician. His body was shaking with rage, not fear. He cast his eyes left and right, looking for avenues of escape, but saw none. Lovelace's hand patted him on the back; he recoiled from the touch.
    "I'm afraid I haven't got time to talk," Lovelace said. "I will leave you in Maurice's tender care. He has an offer to make you. Pardon—was that a mumble?"
    "How did you know I was here?"
    "Rufus Lime recognized you. I doubted that you would try anything too hasty downstairs, given that the police are hunting you in connection with that... unfortunate fire. So I thought it best simply to lead you away from the crowds, before you could make trouble. Now forgive me, I have a pressing engagement. Maurice— it's time."
    Schyler's face crinkled with satisfaction. "Rupert's arrived, has he?"
    "He's arrived, and his men have conjured a formidable afrit. Do you think he suspects?"
    "Tcha! No. It is the normal paranoia, sharpened by that cursed attack on Parliament. The Resistance has a lot to answer for—they have not made today's task any easier. Once in power, Simon, we must root them out, these stupid children, and hang them up in chains on Tower Hill."
    Lovelace grunted. "The afrit will be present during the speech. Rupert's men will insist."
    "You will have to stand close to it, Simon. It must get the first full force."
    "Yes. I hope the Amulet—"
    "Tcha! Stop wasting time! We have talked about this already. You know it will hold firm." Something in the old man's voice reminded Nathaniel of his own master's cold impatience. The wrinkled face twisted unpleasantly. "You're not fretting about the woman, are you?"
    "Amanda? Of course not! She is nothing to me. So"—Lovelace took a deep breath—"is everything set?"
    "The pentacle is ready. I've a good view of the room. Rufus has just put the horn in position, so that's dealt with. I shall keep watch. If any of them resist while it is happening, we shall do what we can. But I doubt if we'll be necessary." The old man gave a little titter. "I'm so looking forward to this."
    "See you shortly." Lovelace turned and headed for the arch. He seemed to have forgotten Nathaniel's existence.
    The old man suddenly spoke after him. "The Amulet of Samarkand. Do you wear it yet?"
    Lovelace didn't look back. "No. Rufus has it. That afrit would smell it a mile off, given time. I shall put it on as I enter."
    "Well, then—good luck, my boy."
    No answer. Presently, Nathaniel heard footsteps clattering away down the stairs.
    Then Schyler smiled; all the wrinkles and creases of his face seemed to stem from the corners of his eyes, but the eyes themselves were blank slits. His body was so stooped with age that he was scarcely taller than Nathaniel; the skin upon his hands looked waxy, dusted with liver spots. Yet Nathaniel could sense the power in him.
    "John," Schyler said. "That is your name, is it not? John Mandrake. We were very surprised to find you in the house. Where is your demon? Have you lost it? That is a careless thing."
    Nathaniel compressed his lips. He glanced aside at the nearest display table. It had a few strange objects on it: stone bowls, bone pipes, and a large moth-eaten headdress, perhaps once worn by a North American shaman. All useless to