The Amulet of Samarkand

enough to carry out his plan, but not so potent that it would threaten Nathaniel himself. The time for mastering the great entities was not yet here.
    He read through his master's works of demonology. He studied track records through the ages. He read about the lesser servants of Solomon and Ptolemy.
     
    Finally, he chose: Bartimaeus.

14
     
    Bartimaeus
     
    I knew there was going to be a decent scrap when we got back to the attic, so this time I prepared for it properly. First, I had to decide what shape to take. I wanted something that would really goad him—make him totally lose his cool— and, strange as it may seem, that ruled out most of my more scary forms. In fact, it meant appearing as a person of some kind. It's odd, but being insulted by a flickering specter or being called names by a fiery winged serpent isn't half as annoying for a hardened magician as hearing it from the mouth of something that seems to be human. Don't ask me why. It's just something to do with the way people's minds work.
    I figured that the best I could do was appear as another boy of about the same age, someone who would rouse all the kid's feelings of direct competition and rivalry. That was no problem. Ptolemy was fourteen when I knew him best. Ptolemy it would be.
    After that, all that remained was to revise my best counter-spells and look forward with pleasure to being able to return home shortly.
    Perceptive readers might have noticed a new optimism in my attitude toward the kid. They would not be wrong. Why? Because I knew his birth name.[1]
     
    [1] Armed with this, I would be able to combat the whippersnapper's most vicious attacks. Knowledge of the name redresses the power balance a little, you see, acting as a kind of defensive shield for djinn inside the circle. It's a simple and very ancient kind of talisman and—Well, what are you hanging around reading this for? Read on quickly and see for yourself.
     
    Give him his due, however: he came out fighting. No sooner had he got up to his room than he put on his coat, hopped into his circle, and summoned me in a loud voice. He didn't have to shout so; I was right beside him, scuttling along the floor.
    An instant later, the small Egyptian boy appeared in the circle opposite, wearing his London gear. I flashed a grin.
    "Nathaniel, eh? Very posh. Doesn't really suit you. I'd have guessed something a bit more down-market—Bert or Chuck, maybe."
    The boy was white with rage and fear; I could see panic in his eyes. He controlled himself with an effort and put on a lying face.
    "That's not my true name. Even my master doesn't know it."
    "Yeah, right. Who are you trying to kid?"
    "You can think what you want. I charge you now—"
    I couldn't believe it—he was trying to send me off again! I laughed in his face, adopted a puckish pose with hands on hips, and interrupted in sophisticated style. "Go boil your head."
    "I charge you now—"
    "Yah, boo, sucks!"
    The boy was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so angry.[2] He stamped his foot like a toddler in the playground. Then—as I hoped—he forgot himself and went for the obvious attack. It was the Systemic Vise again, the bully's favorite.
     
    [2] Old or young, small or fat, the besetting weakness of all magicians is their pride. They can't bear to be laughed at. They hate it so much even the cleverest ones can lose control and make silly mistakes.
     
    He spat out the incantation, and I felt the bands drawing in.[3]
     
    [3] The Systemic Vise consists of a number of concentric bands of force that squeeze round you, tight as a mummy's bandage-cloth. As the magician repeats the incantation, the bands grow tighter and tighter until the helpless djinni trapped inside begs for mercy.
     
    "Nathaniel." Under my breath I spoke his name and then the words of the appropriate counter-spell.
    The bands immediately reversed their loop. They expanded outward, away from me, out of the circle like ripples in a pond. Through his lenses, the boy saw them heading in his direction. He gave a yelp and, after a moment's panic, found the words of cancellation. He gabbled them out; the bands vanished.
    I flicked a nonexistent piece of dust from the sleeve of my jacket and winked at him.
    "Whoops," I said. "Nearly took your own head off there."
    If the boy had paused, he would have realized what had happened, but his rage was too great. He probably thought he had made some error, spoken something out of turn. Breathing deeply, he searched