The Amulet of Samarkand

search spheres, and I feared they might take exception to my presence.
     
    But now another day had passed and his future had been decided. An official car had driven him to his new master's home—a modern riverside development on the south bank of the Thames. Dinner would be served at half past eight; his master would await him in the dining room at eight-fifteen. This meant that Nathaniel and I had an hour all to ourselves. I intended to make it count.
    The room contained the usual: bed, desk, wardrobe (a walk-in one, this— swanky), bookcase, bedside table, chair. A connecting door led to a tiny private bathroom. There was a powerful electric light set in the pristine ceiling and a small window in one wall. Outside, the moon shone on the waters of the Thames. The boy was looking out at the Houses of Parliament almost directly opposite, an odd expression on his face.
    "They're a lot nearer now," I said.
    "Yes. She'd be very proud." He turned, only to discover that I had adopted Ptolemy's form and was reclining on his bed. "Get off there! I don't want your horrible—hey!" He spotted a book tucked into a shelf beside the bed. "Faust's Compendium! My own copy. That's amazing! Underwood forbade me to touch this."
    "Just remember—it didn't do Faust any good."
    He was flipping the pages. "Brilliant... And my master says I can do minor conjurings in my room."
    "Ah, yes—your nice, sweet, new master." I shook my head sadly. "You're pleased with her, are you?"
    He nodded eagerly. "Ms. Whitwell's very powerful. She'll teach me lots. And she'll treat me with proper respect, too."
    "You think so? An honorable magician, is she?" I made a sour face. My old friend Jessica Whitwell, rake-thin Minister for Security, head of the Tower of London, controller of the Mournful Orbs. Yes, she was powerful, all right. And it was no doubt a sign of how highly the authorities thought of Nathaniel that he was being trusted to her tender care. Certainly, she would be a very different master from Arthur Underwood, and would see to it that his talent didn't go to waste. What it would do to his temperament was another question. Well—no doubt he was getting exactly what he deserved.
    "She said I had a great career ahead of me," he went on, "if I played my cards right and worked hard. She said she would supervise my training, and that if all went well they'd put me on the fast track and I'd soon be working in a ministerial department, getting experience." He had that triumphant look in his eyes again, the kind that made me want to put him over my knee. I made a big show of yawning and plumping up the pillow, but he kept going. "There's no restriction on age, she said, only on talent. I said I wanted to get involved with the Ministry for Internal Affairs—they're the ones who're hunting the Resistance. Did you know there was another attack while we were out of London? An office in Whitehall was blown up. No one's made a breakthrough, yet—but I bet I could track them down. First off I'll catch Fred and Stanley—and that girl. Then I'll make them talk, then I'll—"
    "Steady on," I said. "Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it— two power-crazed magicians killed, a hundred power-crazed magicians saved.... You're a hero."
    My slight sarcasm was wasted on him. "That's what Mr. Devereaux said."
    I sat up suddenly and cupped my ear toward the window. "Listen to that!" I exclaimed.
    "What?"
    "It's the sound of lots of people not cheering."
    He scowled. "Meaning what?"
    "Meaning the Government's keeping this all very quiet. Where are the photographers? Where are the newspapermen? I'd have expected you on the front page of The Times this morning. They should be asking for your life story, giving you medals in public places, putting you on cheesy limited-edition postage stamps. But they aren't, are they?"
    The boy sniffed. "They have to keep it quiet for security reasons. That's what they told me."
    "No, it's for reasons of not wanting to look stupid. 'Twelve-year old saves Government'? They'd be laughed at in the street. And that's something no magicians ever want, take it from me. When that happens, it's the beginning of the end."
    The boy smirked. He was too young to understand. "It's not the commoners we have to fear," he said. "It's the conspirators—the ones who got away. Ms. Whitwell says that at least four magicians must have summoned the demon, so as well as Lovelace, Schyler, and Lime there must be at least one more.