The Amulet of Samarkand

cordial—and froze.
    Near the foot of the staircase, two magicians stood. Almost alone of all the guests in that vicinity they were taking no interest in the Prime Ministerial throng; they talked animatedly, heads close together. Nathaniel took a deep breath. He knew them both—indeed, their faces had been imprinted on his memory since his humiliation the year before. The old man with the florid, wrinkled skin, more withered and bent than ever; the younger man with the clammy complexion, his lank hair draping down over his collar. Lovelace's friends. And if they were present, would Lovelace himself be far away?
    An uncomfortable prickling broke out in Nathaniel's stomach, a feeling of weakness that annoyed him greatly. He licked his dry lips. Calm down. There was nothing to fear. Lovelace had no way of tracing the Amulet to him, even if they met face to face. His searchers would actually have to enter Underwood's house before they could detect its aura. He was safe enough. No, he should seize this oppor tunity, like any good magician. If he drew close to his enemies, he might overhear what they had to say.
     
    He glanced round; Mrs. Underwood's attention had been diverted. She was in conversation with a short, squat gentleman and had just broken into peals of laughter. Nathaniel began to sidle through the crowd on a trajectory that would bring him around to the shadows of the staircase, not far from where the two magicians stood.
    Halfway across, he saw the old man break off in mid-sentence and look up toward the entrance gallery. Nathaniel followed his gaze. His heart jolted.
    There he was: Simon Lovelace, red-faced and out of breath. Evidently he had only just arrived. He removed his overcoat in a flurry and tossed it to a servant, before adjusting the lapels of his jacket and hurrying for the stairs. His appearance was just how Nathaniel remembered it: the glasses, the hair slicked back, the energy of movement, the broad mouth flicking a smile on-off at everyone he passed. He trotted down the steps briskly, spurning the champagne that was offered him, making for his friends.
    Nathaniel speeded up. In a few seconds, he had reached an empty patch of floor beside one sweeping banister of the staircase. He was now not far from the foot of the stairs, close to where the end of the banister curled round to form an ornate plinth, topped with a stone vase. Behind one side of the vase, he glimpsed the back of the clammy magician's head; behind the other, part of the old man's jacket. Lovelace himself had now descended the staircase to join them and was out of view.
    The vase shielded Nathaniel from their sight. He eased himself against the rear of the plinth and leaned against it in what he hoped was a debonair fashion. Then he strained to distinguish their voices from the hubbub all around.
    Success. Lovelace himself was speaking, his voice harsh and irritable. "...no luck whatsoever. I've tried every inducement possible. Nothing I've summoned can tell me who controls it."
    "Tcha, you have been wasting your time." It was the thick accent of the older man. "How should the other demons know?"
    "It's not my habit to leave any possibility untried. But no—you're right. And the spheres have been useless, too. So perhaps we have to change our plans. You got my message? I think we should cancel."
    "Cancel?" A third voice, presumably the clammy man's.
    "I can always blame the girl."
    "I don't think that would be wise." The old man spoke softly; Nathaniel could barely hear the words. "Devereaux would be down on you even more if you canceled. He's looking forward to all the little luxuries you've promised to provide. No, Simon, we have to put a brave face on it. Keep searching. We've got a few days. It may yet turn up."
    "It'll ruin me if it's all for nothing! Do you know how much that room's cost?"
    "Calm down. You're raising your voice."
    "All right. But you know what I can't stand? Whoever did it is here, somewhere. Watching me, laughing... When I discover who, I'll—"
    "Keep your voice down, Lovelace!" The clammy man again.
    "Perhaps, Simon, we should go somewhere a little more discreet...." Behind the plinth, Nathaniel jerked himself backward as if propelled by an electric charge. They were moving off. It would not do to come face to face with them here. Without pausing, he sidestepped away from the shadow of the staircase and took a few steps into the crowd. Once he had got far enough away to be safe, he looked back.