The Amulet of Samarkand

were interrupted. With a small leafy crashing, something came down through the branches and bounced gently at our feet. A tennis ball. Faquarl leaped off the stump and I sprang to my feet—but it was too late to hide. Someone was already pushing her way into the center of the copse.
    It was the little girl I had seen playing in her drive: about six years old, frecklefaced, tousle-haired, a baggy T-shirt stretching down to her grubby knees. She stared at us, half fascinated, half alarmed.
    For a couple of seconds, not one of us moved. The girl looked at us. Faquarl and I stared at the girl. Then she spoke.
    "You smell of petrol," said the girl.
    We did not answer her. Faquarl moved his hand, beginning a gesture. I sensed his regretful intention.
    Why did I act then? Pure self-interest. Because with Faquarl momentarily distracted, it was the perfect opportunity to escape. And if I happened to save the girl too... well, it was only fair. It was she who gave me the idea.
    I lit a small Spark on the end of one finger and tossed it at the cook.
    A soft noise, like a gas fire being ignited, and Faquarl was an orange-yellow ball of flame. As he blundered about, roaring with discomfort, setting fire to the leaves about him, the little girl squealed and ran. It was good thinking: I did the same.[7]
     
    [7] Only without the squeal. Obviously.
     
    And in a few moments I was in the air and far away, hurtling at top speed toward Highgate and my stupid, misbegotten master.

26
     
    Nathaniel
     
    As evening drew on, the clenching agonies of dread closed in upon Nathaniel. Pacing about his room like a panther in a cage, he felt as if he were trapped in a dozen different ways. Yes, the door was locked so he could not physically escape, but this was the least of his problems.
    At that very moment, his servant Bartimaeus was imprisoned in the Tower, being subjected to whatever tortures the high magicians could devise. If it really had caused carnage in central London this was exactly what the demon deserved. But Nathaniel was its master. He was responsible for its crimes.
    And that meant the magicians would be looking for him too.
    Under torture, the threat of Perpetual Confinement would be forgotten. Bartimaeus would tell them Nathaniel's name and the police would come to call. And then...
    With a shiver of fear, Nathaniel remembered the injuries Sholto Pinn had displayed the evening before. The consequences would not be pleasant.
    Even if, by some miracle, Bartimaeus kept quiet, there was Underwood to deal with too. Already Nathaniel's master had promised to disown him—and perhaps worse. Now he only had to read the scribbled notes he had removed from Nathaniel's room to discover precisely what his apprentice had summoned. Then he would demand the full story. Nathaniel shuddered to guess what methods of persuasion he might use.
    What could he do? Mrs. Underwood had suggested a way out. She had advised him simply to tell the truth. But the thought of revealing his secrets to his master's spite and sarcasm made Nathaniel feel physically sick.
    Thrusting the dilemma aside, Nathaniel summoned the weary imp and, ignoring its protests, sent it out to spy on the Tower of London once more. From a safe distance, he watched in awe as an angry horde of green-winged demons spiraled like locusts above the parapets, then suddenly dispersed in all directions across the darkening sky.
    "Impressive, that is," the scrying glass commented. "Real class. You don't mess with them high-level djinn. Who knows?" it added. "Maybe some of them are coming for you!"
    "Find Underwood," Nathaniel snarled. "Where is he and what is he doing?"
    "My, aren't we in a bate? Let's see, Arthur Underwood.... Nope, sorry. He's in the Tower too. Can't get access. But we can speculate, can't we?" The imp chuckled. "He's probably talking to your Bartimaeus pal right now."
     
    Further observation of the Tower was obviously useless. Nathaniel tossed the disc under the bed. It was no good. He would have to come clean about everything. He would have to tell his master—someone he had no respect for, who had failed to protect him, who had cowered and sniveled before Lovelace. Nathaniel could well imagine how Underwood's fury would be expressed—in sneers and jibes and fears for his own petty reputation.... And as for what would happen then...
    Perhaps an hour later, he caught the echo of a door slamming somewhere below. He froze, listening for his master's dreaded footsteps