The Amulet of Samarkand

on the stair, but for a long while no one came. And when the key did turn in the lock, he knew already, from the gentle wheezing, that it was Mrs. Underwood outside. She carried a small tea tray, with a glass of milk and a rather curled tomato-and-cucumber sandwich.
    "I'm sorry this is late, John," she said. "Your food's been ready for ages, but your master came home before I could bring it up." She took a deep breath. "I mustn't stop. Things are a little hectic downstairs."
    "What... what's happening, Mrs. Underwood?"
    "Eat your sandwich, there's a good boy. It looks like you need it—you're quite pale. It won't be long before your master calls you, I'm sure."
    "But did he say anything—?"
    "Heavens, John! Will you never stop asking questions? He said a great deal, but nothing that I'm going to share with you now. There's a pan of water on downstairs and I have to make him something quickly. Eat your sandwich, dear."
    "Is my master—?"
    "He's locked himself in his study, with orders not to be disturbed. Apart from his food, of course. There's quite an emergency on."
    An emergency... In that instant Nathaniel came to a sudden decision. Mrs. Underwood was the only person he could trust, the only person who truly cared. He would tell her everything: about the Amulet, about Lovelace. She would help him with Underwood, even with the police, if necessary; he didn't know how, but she would make everything all right.
    "Mrs. Underwood—"
    She held up a hand. "Not now, John. I haven't time."
    "But, Mrs. Underwood, I really need—"
    "Not a word more! I have to go."
    And with a harassed smile, she went. The door shut. The key turned. Nathaniel was left staring after her. For an instant he felt as if he were about to cry, then a stubborn anger swelled inside him. Was he some naughty child, to be left moping in the attic while his punishment was prepared? No. He was a magician! He would not be ignored!
    All his equipment had been taken. He had nothing left, except the scrying glass—and all that could do was look. Still, looking might lead to knowledge. And knowledge was power.
    Nathaniel took a bite of the curling sandwich and instantly regretted it. Setting the plate aside, he crossed to the skylight and looked out at London's carpeting of yellow lights stretching away under the night sky. Surely if Bartimaeus had mentioned his name, Underwood or the police would have collared him by now. It was curious. And this emergency... was it related to Bartimaeus or not?
    Underwood was below, doubtless on the phone. The solution was simple: a little spying would swiftly clear up the matter.
    Nathaniel retrieved the scrying glass. "My master is in his study. Go close so that I see all; moreover, listen and relay everything he says directly and accurately to me."
    "Who's a little sneak, then? Sorry, sorry, fair enough! Your morals are none of my business. Here we go, then..."
    The center of the disc cleared; in its place, a strong, clear view of his master's study. Underwood sat in his leather chair, hunched forward with both elbows on his desk. One hand was clutching the telephone receiver; the other waved and gesticulated as he talked. The imp drew closer; now the agitation on Underwood's face became clear. He was plainly shouting. Nathaniel rapped the disc. "What's he saying?" The imp's voice began in the middle of a sentence. There was a slight delay between Underwood's lips moving and the sound reaching Nathaniel, but he could see the imp was reporting accurately. "...telling me? All three escaped? Leaving dozens of casualties? It's unheard of! Whitwell and Duvall must answer for this. Yes, well, I do feel strongly, Grigori. This is a significant blow to my enquiries. I was intending to interrogate it myself. Yes, me. Because I'm sure it is linked to the artifact thefts... it's the latest escalation. Everyone knows the finest objects are held at Pinn's; it was hoping to steal them.... Well, yes, it would mean a magician was involved... yes, I know that's unlikely.... Even so, this was one of my best leads... the only lead, to be truthful, but what do you expect when I'm given no funding? What about their identities? No joy there either? This will be a kick in the teeth for Jessica—that's one good thing to come out of the whole sorry affair... Yes—I suppose so. And listen, Grigori, changing the subject for a moment, I wanted to ask your opinion on something more personal...."
    At this, the imp's commentary stopped, though