The Amulet of Samarkand

Bartimaeus of Uruk to dossing in a West End back alley and expect to get away with it. First I'd find out his name, then—
    Wait...
    Footsteps in the alley... Several pairs of boots approaching.
    Perhaps it was just coincidence. London's a city. People use it. People use alleys. Whoever was coming was probably just taking a shortcut home.
    Down the very alley that I happened to be hiding in.
    I don't believe in coincidences.
    I shrank back into the doorway's shallow well of darkness and cast a Concealment upon myself. A layer of tightly laced black threads covered me where I sat in the shadows, blending me into the murk. I waited.
    The boots drew nearer. Who might it be? A Night Police patrol? A phalanx of magicians sent by Simon Lovelace? Perhaps the orbs had spotted me, after all.
    It was neither police nor magicians. It was the children from Trafalgar Square.
    Five boys, with the girl at their head. They were dawdling along, looking casually from side to side. I relaxed a little. I was well hidden, and even if I hadn't been, there was nothing to fear from them now that we were out of the public gaze. Admittedly, the boys were big and loutish looking, but they were still just boys, dressed in jeans and leathers. The girl wore a black leather jacket and trousers that flared wildly from the knees down. There was enough spare material there to make a second pair for a midget. Down the alley they came, scuffling through the litter. I realized suddenly how unnaturally silent they were.
    In doubt, I checked the other planes again. On each, everything was just as it should be. Six children.
    Hidden behind my barrier, I waited for them to go past.
    The girl was in the lead. She drew level with me.
    Safe behind my barrier, I yawned.
    One of the boys tapped the girl's shoulder.
    "It's there," he said, pointing.
    "Get it," the girl said.
    Before I had a chance to get over my surprise, three of the burliest boys leaped into the doorway and crashed down upon me. As they touched the Concealment wisps, the threads tore and dissolved away into nothingness. For an instant I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of distressed leather, cheap aftershave, and body odor. I was sat upon, punched, and smacked about the head. I was bundled unceremoniously to my feet.
     
    Then I reasserted myself. I am Bartimaeus, after all.
    The alley was illuminated by a brief discharge of heat and light. The bricks of the doorway looked as if they had been seared on a griddle.
    To my surprise the boys were still holding on. Two of them gripped my wrists, while the third had both arms tight round my waist.
    I repeated the effect with greater emphasis. Car alarms in the next street started ringing. This time, I confess, I expected to be left in the charcoally grip of three charred corpses.[3]
     
    [3] Despite what some would say on the subject, many of us have no particular interest in harming ordinary humans. There are exceptions, of course, of which Jabor is one. However, even for mild-tempered djinn such as me, there is such a thing as being pushed too far
     
    But the boys were still there, breathing hard and holding on like grim death.
    Something was not quite right, here.
    "Hold it steady," the girl said.
    I looked at her, she looked at me. She was a little bit taller than my current manifestation, with dark eyes, long dark hair. The other two boys stood on either side of her like an acned guard of honor. I grew impatient.
    "What do you want?" I said.
    "You have something round your neck." The girl had a remarkably level and authoritative voice for someone so young. I guessed she was about thirteen.
    "Says who?"
    "It's been in full view for the last two minutes, you cretin. It fell out of your Tshirt when we jumped you."
    "Oh. Fair enough."
    "Hand it over."
    "No."
    She shrugged. "Then we'll take it. It's your funeral."
    "You don't really know who I am, do you?" I made it sound damn casual, with a side helping of menace. "You're not a magician."
    "Too right I'm not." She spat the words out.
    "A magician would know better than to trifle with one such as me." I was busy cranking up the awe-factor again, although this is always fairly tricky when you have a brawny half-wit clasping you round your waist.
    The girl grinned coldly. "Would a magician do so well against your wickedness?"
    She had a point there. For a start, a magician wouldn't have wanted to come within a dog's bark of me without being protected up to the hilt with charms and pentacles. Next he