The Amulet of Samarkand

beside a trolley heavily laden with cakes and beverages. Within this was the semicircle of chairs that I had seen from the window, now groaning under the assembled bottoms of the magicians. They were sipping their drinks and half listening to the woman, Amanda Cathcart, who was standing on the podium in the center of the hall, welcoming them all there. At her shoulder, his face expressionless, was Simon Lovelace, waiting.
    The woman was wrapping up her speech. "Last, I hope you will not mind my drawing your attention to the carpet on display below. We commissioned it from Persia, and I believe it is the biggest in England. I think you will find yourselves all included if you look carefully." (Murmured approval, a few cheers.) "This afternoon's discussion will last until six. We will then break for dinner in the heated tents on the lawn outside, where you will be entertained by some Latvian sword jugglers." (Enthusiastic cheering.) "Thank you. May I now hand you over to your true host, Mr. Simon Lovelace!" (Strained and ragged clapping.)
    While she droned on, I was busy whispering in the boy's ear.[1] I was a head louse at this point, which is pretty much as small as I can go. Why? Because I didn't want the afrit to notice me until it couldn't be avoided. She was the only otherworld being currently in evidence (for politeness' sake, all the magicians' imps had been dismissed for the duration of the meeting) but she was bound to see me as a threat.
     
    [1] In both senses. And I can tell you I've been in some sticky places in my time, but for sheer waxy unpleasantness, his earlobe would be hard to beat.
     
    "This is our last chance," I said. "Whatever Lovelace is going to do, take it from me he'll do it now, before the afrit picks up the Amulet's aura. He's got it round his neck. Can you creep up behind him and pull it into view? That'll rouse the magicians."
    The boy nodded. He began to sidle around the edge of the crowd. On the podium, Lovelace began an obsequious address: "Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, may I say how honored we are...."
    We were now at the edge of the audience, with a clear run down the edge of the magicians' chairs toward the podium. The boy started forward at a canter, with me urging him on like a jockey does a willing (if stupid) horse.
    But as he passed the first delegate, a bony hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of the neck.
    "And where do you think you're going, servant?"
    I knew that voice. For me it brought back displeasing memories of her Mournful Orb. It was Jessica Whitwell, all cadaverous cheeks and cropped white hair. Nathaniel struggled in her grip. I wasted no time, but motored over the top of his ear and down the soft white skin behind it, making for the grasping hand.
    Nathaniel wriggled. "Let—me—go!"
    "...it is a delight and a privilege...." As yet, Lovelace had heard nothing.
    "How dare you seek to disrupt this meeting?" Her sharp nails dug cruelly into the boy's neck. The head louse approached her pale, thin wrist.
    "You don't—understand—" Nathaniel choked. "Lovelace has—"
    "Silence, brat!"
    "...glad to see you here. Sholto Pinn sends his apologies, he is indisposed...."
    "Put him in a Stricture, Jessica." This was a magician at the next chair along. "Deal with him after."
    I was at her wrist now. Its underside ran with blue veins.
    Head lice aren't big enough for what I had in mind. I became a scarab beetle, with extra-sharp pincers. I bit with gusto.
    The woman's shriek made the chandeliers jangle. She let go of Nathaniel, who stumbled forward, nearly jolting me from the back of his neck. Lovelace was interrupted—he spun round, eyes wide. All heads turned.
    Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed. "Watch out!" he croaked (the grip on his neck had nearly throttled him). "Lovelace has got the Am—"
    A web of white threads rose up around us and closed over Nathaniel's head. The woman lowered her hand and sucked on her bleeding wrist.
    "—ulet of Samarkand! He's going to kill you all! I don't know how, but it's going to be horrible and—"
    Wearily, the scarab beetle tapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Don't bother," I said. "No one can hear you. She's sealed us off."[2] He looked blank. "Not been in one before? Your lot do it to others all the time."
     
    [2] The threads of a Stricture act as a seal. They allow no object (or sound) to escape their cocoon It's a kind of temporary prison, more usually employed on unfortunate humans than on djinn.
     
    I