The Amulet of Samarkand

ricocheting Viennese Cannon, and an Ultramarine Bonfire, and although the effect of each one individually would have been modest, taken together they became quite potent. A medley of cheap popular ballads sounded and the air instantly became heavy with the flavors of rowan, edelweiss, and camphor. The combined explosion blew the old man off his feet and straight into the door at the end of the gallery. He hit it hard, head first. The door caved in; he slumped across it, his neck twisted oddly. The black energy pulsing on his hand was instantly snuffed out.
     
    Nathaniel walked slowly toward him through the smoke, cupping a final cube loosely in his palm.
    The magician did not move.
    Perhaps he was faking it: in a moment he would spring up, ready to fight. This was possible. He had to be ready for him.
    Closer. Still no movement. Now he was adjacent to the old man's splayed leather shoes....
    Another half-step... surely he would get up now.
    Maurice Schyler did not get up. His neck was broken. His face sagged against a panel of the door, his lips slightly apart. Nathaniel was close enough to count all the lines and creases on his cheek; he could see little red veins running across the nose and under the eye.
    The eye was open, but glazed, unseeing. It looked like that of a fish on a slab. A trace of limp white hair fell across it.
    Nathaniel's shoulders began to shake. For a moment, he thought he was going to cry.
    Instead he forced himself to remain motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the shaking to die down. When his emotion was safely contained, he stepped over the body of the old man. "You made a mistake," he said softly. "It is not my master that I'm doing this for."
    The room beyond was small and windowless. It had perhaps once been a storeroom. A pentacle had been drawn in the center of the floor, with candles and incense pots carefully arranged around. Two of the candles had been knocked over by the impact of the falling door, and these Nathaniel carefully set upright, in position.
    On one of the walls was a gold picture frame, hanging from a nail by a string. There was neither painting nor canvas inside the frame; instead it was filled with a beautiful image of a large, circular, sunny room, in which many small figures moved. Nathaniel knew instantly what the frame was: a scrying glass far sharper and more powerful than his lost bronze disc. He stepped close to inspect it. It showed a vast auditorium, filled with chairs, whose carpeted floor shone strangely. The ministers were entering it from one side, laughing and chatting, still holding their glasses, accepting glossy black pens and folders from a line of servants by the door. The Prime Minister was there, at the center of a milling throng, the grim afrit still attentively in tow. Lovelace had not yet arrived.
    But any moment now, he would enter the hall and set his plan in motion.
    Nathaniel noted a box of matches lying on the floor. Hurriedly, he lit the candles, double-checked the incense and stepped into the pentacle—admiring, despite his haste, the elegance with which it had been drawn. Then he closed his eyes, composed himself, and searched his memory for the incantation.
     
    After a few seconds, he had it ready. His throat was a little dry because of the smoke; he coughed twice and spoke the words.
    The effect was instantaneous. It had been so long since Nathaniel had completed a summons that he gave a little start when the djinni appeared. It was in its gargoyle form and wore a peeved expression.
    "You really have got perfect timing, haven't you?" it said. "I'd just got the assassin where I wanted him, and all of a sudden you remember how to call me!"
    "It's about to start!" The effort of calling Bartimaeus had made Nathaniel lightheaded. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. "Look—there in the glass! They're gathering. Lovelace is on his way now, and he'll be wearing the Amulet, so he won't feel the effects of whatever happens. I-I think it's a summons."
    "You don't say? I'd worked that one out already. Well, come on then— surrender to my tender claws." It flexed them experimentally; they let off a creaking sound.
    Nathaniel went white. The gargoyle rolled its eyes. "I'm going to have to carry you," it said. "We'll have to hurry if we want to stop him entering the room. Once he's in, the place will be sealed—you can bet on that."
    Gingerly, Nathaniel stepped forward. The gargoyle tapped a foot impatiently. "Don't