The Amulet of Samarkand

worry on my account," it snapped, "I won't strain my back or anything. I'm feeling angry and my strength's returned." With this, it made a grab, snatched Nathaniel around the waist and turned to leave, only to trip over the body lying in the doorway.
    "Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that." With a bound it had cleared the debris and was leaping through the gallery, spurring itself on with great beats of its stony wings.
    Nathaniel's stomach lurched horribly with every stride. "Slow down!" he gasped. "You'll make me sick!"
    "You won't like this then." Bartimaeus leaped through the arch at the end of the gallery, ignored the landing and staircase completely and plummeted directly to the hall thirty feet below. Nathaniel's wail made the rafters echo.
    Half flying, half leaping, the gargoyle negotiated the next corridor. "So," it said agreeably, "you've made your first direct kill. How does it feel? Much more manly, I'm sure. Does it help blot out the death of Underwood's wife?"
    Nathaniel was too nauseous to listen, let alone answer.
     
    A minute later, the ride came to an end so abruptly that Nathaniel's limbs swung about like a rag doll's. The gargoyle had halted at the corner of a long corridor; it dropped him to the floor and pointed silently up ahead. Nathaniel shook his head to stop his vision spinning, and stared.
    At the other end of the corridor was the open door to the auditorium. Three people stood there: a haughty servant, who held the door ajar; the fish-faced magician Rufus Lime; and Simon Lovelace, who was buttoning up his collar. A brief flash of gold showed at his throat, then the collar was adjusted and his tie wrapped in place. Lovelace clapped his companion on the shoulder and strode through the door.
    "We're too late!" Nathaniel hissed. "Can't you—?" He looked to his side in surprise—the gargoyle was gone.
    A tiny voice whispered in his ear. "Smooth your hair down and get to the door. You can enter as a servant. Hurry it up!" Nathaniel ignored the strong desire to scratch his earlobe; he could feel something small and ticklish hanging there. He squared his shoulders, swept back his hair, and trotted along the corridor.
    Lime had departed elsewhere. The servant was swinging the door to.
    "Wait!" Nathaniel wished his voice were deeper and more commanding. He approached the servant at speed. "Let me in too! They want someone extra to serve the drinks!"
    "I don't recognize you," the man said, frowning. "Where's young William?"
    "Erm, he had a headache. I was called in. At the last minute."
    Footsteps along the corridor; a voice of command. "Wait!"
    Nathaniel turned. He heard Bartimaeus swearing on the cusp of his earlobe. The black-bearded mercenary was approaching fast, barefoot ragged cape swinging, blue eyes afire.
    "Quick!" The djinni's voice was urgent. "The door's open a crack—slip inside!"
    The mercenary quickened his pace. "Stop that boy!"
    But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant's shoe. The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.
    The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. "Shut it on them!"
    He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight on the other side. The door began to swing open.
    Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.
    "Don't bother," it said. "Let him go in. He deserves his fate."
     
    The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.
    The small voice spoke against his ear. "Now, that was ominous," it said.

41
     
    Bartimaeus
     
    From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed, events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.
    First, where were we? By the locked door, on the very edge of the circular glass floor. This glass had been given a slightly rough surface, so that shoes gripped it, but it was still clear enough for the carpet below to be beautifully displayed. The boy was standing right above the edge of the carpet—a border depicting interlocking vines. Nearby, and at intervals around the whole hall, stood impassive servants, each one