The Amulet of Samarkand

didn't try anything beforehand.
    She poured a cup of tea and plonked it on the table before him. "That'll put color in your cheeks. It's a big day for you, Nathaniel. When I see you again, you'll be someone else. This will probably be the last time I call you by your old name. I suppose I shall have to start forgetting it now."
    Why couldn't you have started forgetting it this morning? he thought. A small, malicious part of him wished to blame her for her careless affection, but he knew that this was totally unjust. It was his fault the demon had been on hand to hear her. Safe, secret, strong. He was none of these things now. He took a gulp of tea and burned his mouth.
    "Come in, boy, come in." His master, seated in a tall upright chair beside the library desk, seemed almost genial. He eyed Nathaniel as he approached and indicated a stool beside him. "Sit, sit. Well, you're looking smarter than usual. Even wearing a jacket, eh? I'm pleased to see that you register the importance of the occasion."
    "Yes, sir."
    "Right. Where's the Almanac? Good, let's have it...." The book was bound in shiny green leather, with an ox-hair ribbon bookmark. It had been delivered by Jaroslav's only the day before and had not yet been read. Mr. Underwood opened the cover delicately and glanced at the tide page. "Loew's Nominative Almanac, three hundred ninety-fifth edition... How time flies. I chose my name from the three hundred fiftieth, would you believe? I remember it as if it were yesterday."
    "Yes, sir." Nathaniel stifled a yawn. His exertions of the morning were catching up with him, but he had to concentrate on the task in hand. He watched as his master flipped the pages, talking all the while.
    "The Almanac, boy, lists all official names used by magicians between Prague's golden age and the present. Many have been used more than once. Beside each is a register that indicates whether the name is currently being occupied. If not, the name is free to be taken. Or you can invent one of your own. See here— 'Underwood, Arthur; London'... I am the second of that name, boy. The first was a prominent Jacobean; a close associate of King James the first, I believe. Now, I have been giving the matter some consideration, and I think you would do well to follow in the footsteps of one of the great magicians."
    "Yes, sir."
    "I thought Theophilus Throckmorton, perhaps—he was a notable alchemist. And... yes, I see that combination is free. No? That doesn't appeal? What about Balthazar Jones? You're not convinced? Well, perhaps he is a hard act to follow. Yes, boy? You have a suggestion?"
    "Is William Gladstone free, sir? I admire him."
    "Gladstone!" His master's eyes bulged. "The very idea... There are some names, boy, that are too great and too recent to touch. No one would dare! It would be the height of arrogance to assume his mantle." The eyebrows bristled. "If you aren't capable of a sensible suggestion, I shall do the choosing for you."
    "Sorry, sir. I didn't think."
    "Ambition is all very well, my lad, but you must cloak it. If it is too obvious, you will find yourself brought down in flames before you reach your twenties. A magician must not draw attention to himself too soon; certainly not before he has summoned his first mouler. Well, we shall browse together from the beginning...."
    It took an hour and twenty-five minutes for the choice to be made, and a harrowing time Nathaniel had of it. His master seemed to have a great deal of affection for obscure magicians with obscurer names, and Fitzgibbon, Treacle, Hooms, and Gallimaufry were avoided only with difficulty. Likewise, Nathaniel's preferences always seemed too arrogant or ostentatious to Mr. Underwood. But in the end the choice was made. Wearily, Mr. Underwood brought out the official form and entered in the new name and signed it. Nathaniel had to sign too, in a large box at the bottom of the page. His signature was spiky and ill-formed, but then it was the first time he had used it. He read it back to himself under his breath: John Mandrake. He was the third magician of that name. Neither of his predecessors had achieved much of significance, but by this time Nathaniel didn't care. Anything was better than Treacle. It would do.
    His master folded the paper, placed it into a brown envelope, and sat back in his chair.
    "Well, John," he said. "It is done. I shall get that stamped at the ministry directly and you will then officially exist. However, don't go getting above