The Amulet of Samarkand

you to conduct your first summons."
    He uttered this last sentence in slow resounding tones that were evidently designed to fill the boy with awe. But Nathaniel, as I was now so delighted to call him, was distracted. He had a spider on his mind.
    His unease was not lost on Underwood. The magician rapped the table peremptorily to attract his pupil's attention.
    "Listen to me, boy!" he said. "If you fret at the very prospect of a summons you will never make a magician, even now. A well-prepared magician fears nothing. Do you understand?"
    The boy gathered himself, fixed his attention on his master. "Yes, sir; of course, sir."
    "Besides, I shall be with you at all times during the summoning, in an adjoining circle. I shall have a dozen protective charms to hand and plenty of powdered rosemary. We shall start with a lowly demon, a natterjack impling.[4] If that proves successful, we shall move on to a mouler."[5]
     
    [4] Natterjack impling: an unadventurous creature that affects the semblance and habits of a dull sort of toad.
     
    [5] Mouler: even less exciting than a natterjack impling, were that possible.
     
    It was a measure of how unobservant this magician was that he quite failed to notice the flame of contempt that flickered in the boy's eyes. He only heard the blandly eager voice. "Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to it very much, sir."
    "Excellent. You have your lenses?"
    "Yes, sir. They arrived last week."
    "Good. Then there is only one other arrangement we need to make, and that is—"
    "Was that the door, sir?"
    "Don't interrupt me, boy. How dare you? The other arrangement, which I will withhold if you are insolent again, is the choosing of your official name. We shall turn our attention to that this afternoon. Bring Loew's Nominative Almanac to me in the library after luncheon and we shall choose one for you together."
    "Yes, sir."
    The boy's shoulders had slumped; his voice was barely audible. He did not need to see me capering on my web to know that I had heard and understood.
    Nathaniel wasn't just his official name! It was his real name! The fool had summoned me before consigning his birth name to oblivion. And now I knew it!
    Underwood shifted in his chair. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? This is no time for slacking—you've got hours yet to study before lunch. Get on your way."
    "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
    The boy moved listlessly to the door. Gnashing my mandibles with glee, I followed him through with an extra-special reverse somersault with octal hitchkick.
    I had a chance at him now. Things were a bit more even. He knew my name, I knew his. He had six years' experience, I had five thousand and ten. That was the kind of odds you could do something with.
    I accompanied him up the stairs. He was dawdling now, dragging each step out.
    Come on, come on! Get back to your pentacle. I was racing ahead, eager for the contest to begin.
    Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now, all right.

12
     
    Nathaniel
     
    One summer's day, when Nathaniel was ten years old, he sat with his tutor on the stone seat in the garden, sketching the horse chestnut tree beyond the wall. The sun beat upon the red bricks. A gray-and-white cat lolled on the top of the wall, idly swishing its tail from side to side. A gentle breeze shifted the leaves of the tree and carried a faint scent across from the rhododendron bushes. The moss on the statue of the man with the lightning fork gleamed richly in the yellow sunlight. Insects hummed.
    It was the day that everything changed.
    "Patience, Nathaniel."
    "You've said that so many times, Ms. Lutyens."
    "And I'll say it again, I have no doubt. You are too restless. It's your biggest fault."
    Nathaniel irritably cross-hatched a patch of shade.
    "But it's so frustrating," he exclaimed. "He never lets me try anything! All I'm allowed to do is set up the candles and the incense and other stuff that I could do in my sleep standing on my head! I'm not even allowed to talk to them."
    "Quite right too," Ms. Lutyens said firmly. "Remember, I just want subtleties of shading. No hard lines."
    "It's ridiculous." Nathaniel made a face. "He doesn't realize what I can do. I've read all his books, and—"
    "All of them?"
    "Well, all the ones in his little bookcase, and he said they'd keep me going till I was twelve. I'm not even eleven yet, Ms. Lutyens. I mean, I've already mastered the Words of Direction and Control, most of them; I could give a djinni an order, if he summoned it for me.