The Amulet of Samarkand

petrol.
    "First," he said, "I've completed my side of the bargain: against my better judgement, I saved your skin. Now for your side. Where is the Amulet of Samarkand?"
    I hesitated. Only the existence of that tin at the bottom of the Thames prevented me from giving him Nat's name and number. True, I owed Faquarl for my escape, but self-interest had to come first.
    "Look," I said. "Don't think I'm not grateful to you springing for me just now. But it isn't easy for me to comply. My master—"
    "Is considerably less powerful than mine." Faquarl leaned forward urgently. "I want you to apply your silly, footling brain and think for a moment, Bartimaeus. Lovelace badly wants the Amulet back, badly enough to command Jabor and me to break into his government's securest prison to save the miserable life of a slave like you."
    "That is pretty badly," I admitted.
    "Imagine how dangerous that was—for us and for him. He was risking all. That alone should tell you something."
    "So what does he need the Amulet for?" I said, cutting to the chase.
    "Ah, that I can't tell you." The cook tapped the side of his nose and smiled knowingly. "But what I can say is that you would find it very much in your interests, Bartimaeus, to join up with us on this one. We have a master who is going places, if you know what I mean."
    I sneered. "All magicians say that."
    "Going places very soon. We're talking days here. And the Amulet is vital to his success."
    "Maybe, but will we share his success? I've heard all this type of guff before. The magicians use us to gain more power for themselves and then simply redouble our bondage! What do we get out of it?"
    "I have plans, Bartimaeus—"
    "Yes, yes, don't we all? Besides, none of this changes the fact that I'm bound to my original charge. There are severe penalties—"
    "Penalties can be endured!" Faquarl slapped the side of his head in frustration. "My essence is still recovering from the punishments Lovelace inflicted when you vanished with his Amulet! In fact, our existence—and don't pretend to apologize, Bartimaeus; you don't care in the least—our existence here is nothing but a series of penalties! Only the cursed magicians themselves change, and as soon as one drops into his grave, another springs up, dusts off our names and summons us again! They pass on, we endure."
    I shrugged. "I think we've had this conversation before. Great Zimbabwe, wasn't it?"
    Faquarl's rage subsided. He nodded. "Maybe so. But I sense change coming and if you had any sense you'd feel it too. The waning of an empire always brings unstable times: trouble rising from the streets, magicians squabbling heedlessly, their brains softened by luxury and power.... We've both seen this often enough, you and I. Such occasions give us greater opportunities to act. Our masters get lazy, Bartimaeus—they give us more leverage."
    "Hardly."
    "Lovelace is one of those. Yes, he's strong, all right, but he's reckless. Ever since he first summoned me, he has been frustrated by the limitations of his ministerial role. He aches to emulate the great magicians of the past, to daunt the world with his achievements. As a result, he worries away at the strings of power like a dog with a moldy bone. He spends all his time in intrigue and plotting, in ceaseless attempts to gain advantage over his rivals... he never rests. And he's not alone, either. There are others like him in the Government, some even more reckless than he. You know the type: when magicians play for the highest stakes, they rarely last long. Sooner or later they'll make mistakes and give us our chance. Sooner or later, we'll have our day."
    The cook gazed up at the sky. "Well, time's getting on," he said. "Here's my final offer. Guide me to the Amulet and I promise that, whatever penalty you suffer, Lovelace will subsequently take you on. Your master, whoever it is, won't be able to stand in his way. So then we'll be partners, Bartimaeus, not enemies. That'll make a nice change, won't it?"
    "Lovely," I said.
    "Or..." Faquarl placed his hands in readiness on his knees. "You can die here and now in this patch of undistinguished suburban scrub. You know you've never beaten me before; chance has always saved your bacon.[6] It won't this time."
     
    [6] Chance or, as I prefer to think of it, my own quick-wittedness. But it was true that somehow I'd always managed to avoid a full-on fight.
     
    As I was considering this rather weighty statement and debating how best to run, we