The Amulet of Samarkand

away under the mattress, out of sight. In great agitation, he proceeded to tidy his room, scrubbing the floor till all traces of the pentacles were gone and even the marks of candle grease had been improved. He stowed his clothes away tidily and returned everything to its proper place. Then he drank his soup. It was cold.
    Mrs. Underwood returned to reclaim the tray, and surveyed the room with approval. "Good boy, John," she said. "Now tidy yourself up, and have a wash while you're about it. What was that?"
    "What, Mrs. Underwood?"
    "I thought I heard a voice calling."
    Nathaniel had heard it too. A muffled "Oi!" from under the bed. "I think it was from downstairs," he said weakly. "Maybe someone at the door?"
    "Do you think so? I'd better see, I suppose." Somewhat uncertainly, she departed, locking the door behind her.
    Nathaniel flung the mattress aside. "Well?" he snarled.
    The baby's face had big bags under the eyes and was now somehow unshaven. "Well," it said, "I've done the best I could. Can't ask for no more than that."
    "Show me!"
    "Here you go, then." The face vanished, to be replaced by a long-distance view across London. A silver strip that had to be the Thames wound across the backdrop between a dark gray mess of warehouses and wharves. Rain fell, half obscuring the scene, but Nathaniel easily made out the focus of the picture: a giant castle, protected by endless loops of high, gray walls. In its center was a tall, squared keep, with the Union Jack flying from its central roof. Black-sided police trucks moved below in the castle yard, together with troops of tiny figures, not all of them human.
    Nathaniel knew what he was looking at, but he did not want to accept the truth. "And what's this got to do with Bartimaeus?" he snapped.
    The imp was weary, heavy-voiced. "That's where he is, as far as I can reckon. I picked up his trail in the middle of London, but it was already faint and cold. It led here, and I can't get any closer to the Tower of London, as you well know. Far too many watchful eyes. Even from this distance, a few outriding spheres nearly caught me. I'm fair tuckered out, I am. Anything else?" it added, as Nathaniel failed to react. "I need a kip."
    "No, no, that's all."
    "First sensible thing you've said all day." But the imp did not fade. "If he's in there, this Bartimaeus is in trouble," it observed in a rather more cheery manner. "You didn't send him out there, did you?"
    Nathaniel made no reply.
    "Oh dear," said the imp. "Then, that being the case, I'd say you was in almost as much bother as him, wouldn't you? I 'spect he's probably coughing up your name right now." It bared its sharp, small teeth in a face-splitting grin, blew a loud raspberry, and vanished.
    Nathaniel sat very still, holding the disc in his hands. The daylight in the room gradually faded away.

24
     
    Bartimaeus
     
    Put a scarab beetle, roughly the size of a matchbox, up against a four-metertall, bull-headed leviathan wielding a silver spear, and you don't expect to see much of a contest, especially when the beetle is imprisoned within a small orb that will incinerate its essence if it touches so much as a stray antenna. True, I did my best to prolong the issue by hovering just off the top of the pillar, in the vague hope that I could dart to one side as the spear crashed down—but to be honest my heart wasn't really in it. I was about to be squashed by a lummox with the IQ of a flea, and the sooner we got it over with, the better.
    So I was a little surprised when the utukku's shrieking war cry was cut off by a sudden yelled command, just as the spear was about to descend upon my head.
    "Baztuk, stop!"
    Eagle-beak had spoken; the urgency in his voice was clear. Once it has made its mind up to do something, an utukku finds it hard to change tack: Bull-head stopped the spear's downward swing with difficulty, but kept it raised high above the orb.
    "What now, Xerxes?" he snarled. "Don't try to rob me of my revenge! Twentyseven centuries I've wanted Bartimaeus in my power—"
    "Then you can wait a minute more. He'll keep. Listen—can you hear something?"
    Baztuk cocked his head to one side. Within the orb, I stilled the humming of my wings and listened too. A gentle tapping sound... so low, so subtle, it was impossible to tell from which direction it came.
    "That's nothing. Just workmen outside. Or the humans marching again. They like doing that. Now, shut up, Xerxes." Baztuk was not inclined to spare the matter