The Amulet of Samarkand

you're twelve, you must have familiarized yourself with everything it contains. The books are written in Middle English, Latin, Czech, and Hebrew for the most part, although you'll find some Coptic works on the Egyptian rituals of the dead too. There's a Coptic dictionary to help you with those. It's up to you to read through all this; I haven't time to coddle you. Mr. Purcell will keep your languages up to speed. Understand?"
    "Yes, sir. Sir?"
    "What, boy?"
    "When I've read through all this, sir, will I know everything I need? To be a magician, I mean, sir. It seems such an awful lot."
    His master snorted; his eyebrows ascended to the skies.
    "Look behind you," he said.
    Nathaniel turned. Behind the door was a bookcase that climbed from floor to ceiling; it overflowed with hundreds of books, each one fatter and more dusty than the last, the sort of books that, one could tell without even opening them, were printed in minute script in double columns on every page. Nathaniel gave a small gulp.
    "Work your way through that lot," his master said dryly, "and you might be getting somewhere. That case contains the rites and incantations you'd need to summon significant demons; and you won't even begin to use them till you're in your teens, so cast it out of your mind. Your case"—he tapped the wood again— "gives you the preparatory knowledge and is more than enough for the moment. Right, follow me."
    They proceeded to a workroom that Nathaniel had never visited before. A large number of bottles and vials clustered there on stained and dirty shelves, filled with liquids of varying color. Some of the bottles had floating objects in them. Nathaniel couldn't tell whether it was the thick, curved glass of the bottles that made the objects look so distorted and strange.
    His master sat on a stool at a simple wooden worktable and indicated for Nathaniel to sit alongside him. He pushed a narrow box across the table. Nathaniel opened it. Inside was a small pair of spectacles. A distant memory made him shudder sharply.
    "Well, take them out, boy; they won't bite you. Right. Now look at me. Look at my eyes; what do you see?"
    Unwillingly, Nathaniel looked. He found it very difficult to peer into the fierce, fiery brown eyes of the old man, and as a result his brain froze. He saw nothing.
    "Well?"
    "Um, um... I'm sorry, I don't..."
    "Look around my irises—see anything there?"
    "Um..."
    "Oh, you dolt!" His master gave a cry of frustration and pulled the skin below one eye down, revealing its red underbelly. "Can't you see it? A lens, boy! A contact lens! Around the middle of my eye! See it?"
    Desperately, Nathaniel looked again, and this time he did see a faint circular rim, thin as a pencil line around the iris, sealing it in.
    "Yes, sir," he said eagerly. "Yes, I see it."
    "About time. Right." His master sat back on the stool. "When you are twelve years old, two important things will happen. First, you will be given a new name, which you shall take as your own. Why?"
    "To prevent demons getting power over me by discovering my birth name, sir."
    "Correct. Enemy magicians are equally perilous, of course. Secondly, you will get your first pair of lenses, which you can wear at all times. They will allow you to see through a little of the trickery of demons. Until that time you will use these glasses, but only when instructed to, and on no account are they to be removed from this workroom. Understand?"
    "Yes, sir. How do they help see through things, sir?"
    "When demons materialize, they can adopt all manner of false shapes, not just in this material realm, but on other planes of perception too—I shall teach you of these planes anon, do not question me on them now. Some demons of the higher sort can even become invisible; there is no end to the wickedness of their deceptions. The lenses, and to a lesser extent the glasses, allow you to look on several planes at once, giving you a chance of seeing through their illusions. Observe—"
    Nathaniel's master reached over to a crowded shelf behind him and selected a large glass bottle that was sealed with cork and wax. It contained a greenish briny liquid and a dead rat, all brownish bristles and pale flesh. Nathaniel made a face. His master considered him.
    "What would you say this was, boy?" he asked.
    "A rat, sir."
    "What kind?"
    "A brown one. Rattus norvegicus, sir."
    "Good. Latin tag too, eh? Very good. Completely wrong, but good nevertheless. It isn't a rat at all. Put on your