The Amulet of Samarkand

possible way out. He cleared his throat.
    "If I might explain, sir."
    His master ignored him. He strode forward and kicked at a corner of the rug, which fell back on itself to reveal the corner of a circle and several outer runes. Underwood stooped, took hold of the rug and flung it bodily aside so that the whole diagram was revealed. For a moment, he scanned the inscriptions, then, with grim intention in his eyes, turned to his apprentice.
    "Well?"
    Nathaniel swallowed. He knew that no excuse would save him, but he had to try. "I was just practicing making the marks, sir," he began in an uncertain voice. "Getting the feel for it. I didn't actually summon anything, of course, sir. I wouldn't dare...."
    He faltered, stopped. With one hand, his master was pointing to the center of the bigger circle, where a prominent scorch mark had been left by Bartimaeus's first appearance. With the other, he indicated the numerous burns left on the walls by the explosion of the Stimulating Compass. Nathaniel's shoulders sagged.
    "Um..."
    For an instant, it seemed as though Mr. Underwood's deportment was going to fail him. His face mottled with rage, he took two quick steps in Nathaniel's direction, his hand raised to strike. Nathaniel flinched, but the blow did not fall.
    The hand lowered. "No," his master said, panting hard. "No. I must consider how to deal with you. You have disobeyed me in a hundred ways, and in so doing have risked your own life and that of the people in this house. You have dabbled with works of magic that you cannot hope to comprehend—I see Faust's Compendium there, and The Mouth of Ptolemy! You have summoned, or attempted to summon, a djinni of at least the fourteenth level, and even tried to bind it with Adelbrand's Pentacle, a feat that I would balk at. The fact that you undoubtedly failed in no way mitigates your crime. Stupid child! Have you no concept of what such a being might do to you, if you made even the slightest slip? Have all my lessons over the years meant nothing? I should have known you were not to be trusted last year, when your wilful act of violence against the guests of my house nearly ruined my career. I should have disposed of you then, when you were nameless. No one would have given it a second thought! But now that you are named and will be in the next edition of the Almanac, I cannot get rid of you so easily! Questions will be asked, forms will have to be filled, and my judgment will once again be called into doubt. No, I must consider what to do with you, though my hand itches to call up a Reviler on the spot and leave you in its tender care."
    He paused for breath. Nathaniel had slumped back to sit on the edge of his bed, all energy crushed from him.
    "Take it from me," his master said, "that no apprentice of mine disobeys me in the fashion you have done. If I didn't have to go to the ministry urgently, I would deal with you now. As it is, you are confined to your room until my return. But first"—here he strode across to Nathaniel's wardrobe and flung wide the door—"we must see that you have no other surprises hidden away."
     
    For the next ten minutes, Nathaniel could only sit dull-eyed while his master searched the room. The wardrobe and the chest-of-drawers were turned out and rifled, his meager quantity of clothes strewn upon the floor. Several plastic bags of incense were found, a small supply of colored chalk, and one or two sheaves of notes that Nathaniel had made during his extracurricular studies. Only the scrying glass, secure in its hiding place beneath the eaves, remained undiscovered.
    Mr. Underwood gathered up the incense, books, chalk and notes. "I shall read through your scrawlings upon my return from the ministry," he said, "in case I need to question you further about your activities before you receive your punishment. In the meantime, remain here and reflect upon your sins and the ruin of your career."
    Without another word, he swept from the attic and locked the door behind him.
    Nathaniel's heart was a stone plummeting to the bottom of a deep, dark well. He sat motionless on the bed, listening to the rain tapping on the skylight and, far below, his master banging from room to room in his fury. Eventually a distant slam assured him that Mr. Underwood had left the house.
     
    An unknown time later, he was startled out of his misery by the sound of the key turning in the lock. His heart jolted with fear. Surely not his master back already?
    But it was Mrs.