The Amulet of Samarkand

same time a familiar reverberation ran across the room.
    "A portal's about to open," I said, hastily. "The far wall."
    Faquarl looked at the other raven, still sitting on its pillar, examining its claws. "Jabor, if you would be so kind...?" The raven stepped forward into space and became a tall, jackal-headed man with bright-red skin. He strode across the room and took up position against the far wall, one leg forward, one leg back, both his hands outstretched.
    The cook turned back to me. "Now, Bartimaeus—"
    My cuticle was beginning to singe. "Let's cut to the chase," I said. "We both know that if I tell you the location, you'll leave me to die. We also know that, with that being so, I'll obviously give you false information just to spite you. So anything I say from in here will be worthless. That means you've got to let me out."
    Faquarl tapped the edge of my pillar irritably. "Annoying, but I see your point."
    "And that wailing sound is sure to be an alarm," I went on. "The magicians who put me here mentioned something about legions of horlas and utukku. I doubt even Jabor can swallow them all. So perhaps we could continue this discussion a little later?"
    "Agreed." Faquarl put his face close to the orb, which was now scarcely more than tangerine size. "You will never escape the Tower without us, Bartimaeus, so do not try any tricks just yet. I must warn you that I had two orders in coming here. The first was to learn the location of the Amulet. If that is impossible, the second is to destroy you. I needn't tell you which will give me greater pleasure."
    His face withdrew. At that moment the oval seam appeared in the back wall and broadened into the portal arch. From the blackness several figures began to emerge: pale-faced horlas,[1] holding tridents and silver nets in their stick-thin arms. Once beyond the portal, the protective Shields around their bodies would become invulnerable; while passing through, however, the Shields were weak and their essences momentarily exposed. Jabor took full advantage of this, firing off three rapid Detonations in quick succession. Bright green explosions engulfed the archway. Twittering piteously, the horlas crumpled to the ground, still half in and half out of the portal. But behind came another troop, stepping with fastidious care over the bodies of their fellows. Jabor fired again.
     
    [1] Horla: a powerful subclass of djinni. To a human, horlas appear as shadowy apparitions that cause madness and disease; to other djinn, they radiate a malicious aura that saps our essence.
     
    Faquarl, meanwhile, had not been idle. From a pocket in his coat he drew forth a ring of iron, about the size of a bracelet, soldered to the end of a long metal rod. I viewed the ring warily.[2]
     
    [2] Almost as much as silver, iron does not do a djinni any good. People have been using it to ward off our influence for millennia; even horseshoes are considered "lucky" because they are made of iron.
     
    "And what do you expect me to do with that?" I asked.
    "Leap through it, of course. Imagine you're a trained dog in a circus. Not hard for you, I'm sure, Bartimaeus; you've tried most jobs in your time." Holding one end cautiously between finger and thumb, Faquarl positioned the rod so that the iron ring made contact with the surface of the orb. With a violent fizzing, the lines of the barrier diverged and arced around the edge of the ring, leaving the gap within it free.
    "Lovelace has specially strengthened the ring to enhance the magical resistance of the iron," Faquarl went on. "But it won't last forever, so I suggest you jump fast." He was right. Already, the edges of the ring were bubbling and melting under the power of the orb. As a beetle, I didn't have room to maneuver, so I summoned up my remaining energy and became a fly once more. Without further ado, I did a quick circuit of the orb to build up speed and, in a flash, shot through the molten ring to freedom.
    "Marvelous," Faquarl said. "If only we'd had a drumroll accompaniment."
    The fly landed on the floor and became a very irritable falcon.
    "It was dramatic enough for me, I assure you," I said. "And now?"
    Faquarl tossed the remains of the ring to the floor. "Yes, we'd better go." A silver-headed trident shot through the air and clattered between us across the flagstones. Up by the portal, now half choked with horla corpses, Jabor was steadily retreating. A new wave of guards, uttuku mainly, advanced behind a strong collective