The Amulet of Samarkand

glinted in the darkness. Something about the look of them made Nathaniel's skin crawl.
    Evidently the figure now spoke or made a noise, for Simon Lovelace suddenly started and wheeled round in his chair.
    The image flickered, faded, reappeared again. Nathaniel cursed and pressed his face closer to the disc. It was as if the picture had jumped forward a moment or two in time. The two men were closer now—the intruder had moved to stand beside the desk. Simon Lovelace was talking to him eagerly. He held out his hand, but the stranger merely inclined his head toward the desk. The magician nodded, opened a drawer and, pulling out a cloth bag, emptied it upon the desktop. Bundles of banknotes spilled forth.
    The bronze disc emitted a throaty voice, which spoke urgently. "Just thought I'd warn you, and please don't jab me again, but there's some kinda watcher coming. Two rooms away, heading in our direction. We need to pull out, boss, and do it swiftish."
    Nathaniel bit his lip. "Stay where you are until the very last moment. I want to see what he's paying for. And memorize the conversation."
    "It's your funeral, boss."
    The stranger had extended a gloved hand from under his cape and was slowly replacing the banknotes inside the bag. Nathaniel was nearly hopping with frustration—at any moment the imp would leave the scene and he would be none the wiser.
    Fortunately, his impatience was shared by Simon Lovelace, who held out his hand again, more decisively this time. The stranger nodded. He reached inside his cape and drew forth a small packet. The magician snatched it and feverishly tore the wrapping apart.
    The imp's voice sounded. "It's at the door! We're pulling out."
    Nathaniel just had time to see his enemy reach into the wrapping and draw forth something that sparkled in the lamplight—then the disc was wiped clean.
    He uttered a terse command, and the baby's face reluctantly appeared.
    "Ain't that all? I need a bit of shut-eye now, I can tell you. Whoof, that was a close one. We so nearly got fried."
    "What did they say?"
    "Well now, what did they say? I might have heard snatches, won't say I didn't, but my hearing's not what it was, what with my long confinement—"
    "Just tell me!"
    "Big fella didn't say much. Did you see those red stains on his cape, incidentally? V-e-r-y suspicious. Not ketchup, let's put it that way. Fresh too, I could smell it. What did he say now? 'I have it.' That was one thing. And, 'I want my payment first.' Man of few words, I'd call him."
    "Was he a demon?"
    "By that crude remark I assume you mean a noble entity from the Other Place? Nope. Man."
    "And what did the magician say?"
    "He was a bit more forthcoming. Quite voluble in fact. 'Do you have it?' That's how he began. Then he said, 'How did you? No, I don't want to know the details. Just give it to me.' He was all breathless and eager. Then he got the cash out."
    "Was that it? What was the object? Did either of them say?"
    "Don't know that I recall—no, wait! Wait! You don't need to get nasty with me—I'm doing what you asked, ain't I? When the big guy handed over the package, he said something...."
    "What?"
    "So quiet, almost didn't catch it..."
    "What did he say?"
    "He said: 'The Amulet of Samarkand is yours, Lovelace.' That's what he said."
     
     
    It took Nathaniel almost another six months before he felt himself to be ready. He mastered new areas of his craft, learned new and greater Commands, and went swimming every morning before lessons to increase his stamina. By these means he grew strong in body and mind.
    Never again was he able to spy directly on his enemy. Whether or not its presence had been detected, the imp was unable to get close again.
    No matter. Nathaniel had the information that he needed.
     
    He sat in the garden as spring turned into summer, devising and refining his plan. It pleased him. It had the merit of simplicity and an even greater one in that nobody in all the world guessed at his power. His master was only just ordering his lenses now; he had spoken absently of perhaps trying out a basic summons in the winter. To his master, his tutors, even to Mrs. Underwood, he was an apprentice of no great talent. This would remain the case while he stole Simon Lovelace's amulet.
    The theft was only the beginning, a test of his own power. After that, if all went well, he would set his trap.
    All that remained was to find himself a servant who could do what he required. Something powerful and resourceful