The Amulet of Samarkand

behind you!"
    "That won't work on me, Bartimaeus!" Baztuk cried. His arm jerked forward, the spear began to plunge. A flash of black shot across its path, seized the spearshaft in its beak, and flew onward, wrenching it out of the utukku's hand. Baztuk gave a yelp of astonishment and turned. Xerxes spun around too.
    A raven sat on a vacant column, holding the spear neatly in its beak.
    Uncertainly, Baztuk stepped toward it.
    With deliberate care, the raven bit down on the steel shaft. The spear snapped in two; both halves fell to the ground.
    Baztuk stopped dead.
    Another raven fluttered down and came to rest on a neighboring pillar. Both sat silently, watching the utukku with unblinking eyes.
    Baztuk looked at his companion. "Er, Xerxes...?"
    Eagle-beak rattled his tongue warningly. "Raise the alarm, Baztuk," he said. "I'll deal with them." He bent his legs, leaped high into the air. With a sound like ripping cloth, his great, white wings unfolded. They beat once, twice; he soared up, up, almost to the ceiling. The feathers angled, tensed; he spun and dived, head first, wings back, one hand holding the outstretched spear; hurtling down at lightning speed.
    Toward a raven, calmly waiting.
    A look of doubt came into Xerxes's eyes. Now he was almost upon the raven, and still it hadn't moved. Doubt was replaced by sudden fear. His wings jerked out; desperately, he tried to bank, to avoid colliding—
    The raven opened its beak wide.
    Xerxes screamed.
    There was a blur of movement, a snap and a gulp. A few fluttering feathers drifted slowly down upon the stones around the pillar. The raven still sat there, a dreamy look in its eyes. Xerxes was gone.
     
    Baztuk was making for the wall where the portal would appear. He was fumbling in a pouch strapped to his waist. The second raven lazily hopped from one pillar to another, cutting him off. With a cry of woe, Baztuk hurled his spear. It missed the raven, embedding itself to the hilt in the side of the pillar. The raven shook its head sorrowfully and spread its wings. Baztuk wrenched his pouch open and removed a small bronze whistle. He set it to his lips—
    Another blur, a whirlwind too swift to follow. Credit to him, Baztuk was fast; I glimpsed him lowering his head, lashing out with his horns—and then the whirlwind had engulfed him. When it ceased, so had Baztuk. He was nowhere to be seen. The raven landed awkwardly on the ground, green blood oozing from one wing.
    Inside its orb, the scarab beetle skittered about. "Well done!" I called, trying to make my voice a little less high and piping. "I don't know who you are, but how about getting me..."
    My voice trailed away. Thanks to the orb, I could see the newcomers only on the first plane, where up until now they'd worn their raven guise. Perhaps they realized this, because suddenly, for a split second, they displayed their true selves to me on the first plane. It was only a flash, but it was all I needed. I knew who they were.
    Trapped in the orb, the beetle gave a strangled gulp.
    "Oh," I said. "Hello."
    "Hello, Bartimaeus," Faquarl said.

25
     
    "And Jabor, too," I added. "How nice of you both to come."
    "We thought you might be feeling lonely, Bartimaeus." The nearest raven, the one with the bleeding wing, gave a shimmy and took on the semblance of the cook. His arm was badly gashed.
    "No, no, I've had plenty of attention."
    "So I see." The cook walked forward to inspect my orb. "Dear me, you are in a tight spot."
    I chortled unconvincingly. "Witticisms aside, old friend, perhaps you could see your way to helping me out of here. I can feel the tickle of the barriers pressing in."
    The cook stroked one of his chins. "A difficult problem. But I do have a solution."
    "Good!"
    "You could become a flea, or some other form of skin mite. That would give you another precious few minutes of life before your essence is destroyed."
    "Thank you, yes, that is a useful suggestion." I was gasping a little here. The orb was drawing very near. "Or perhaps you could disable the orb in some way and set me free. Imagine my gratitude...."
    The cook raised a finger. "Another thought occurs to me. You could tell us where you have secreted the Amulet of Samarkand. If you speak rapidly, we might then have time to destroy the orb before you perish."
    "Reverse that sequence and you could have yourselves a deal."
    The cook sighed heavily. "I don't think you're in a position to—" He broke off at the sound of a distant wailing noise; at the