The Amulet of Samarkand

looked as if Lovelace had guessed I might escape from Faquarl He must have set spies watching the Tower to trail us once we broke free And I'd led them straight back to the Amulet in double-quick time How embarrassing.
     
    Underwood shook his head in befuddlement. "Back here? You lie!"
    "Not ten minutes ago, it disappeared down your chimney in the form of a noxious cloud. Are you surprised that I came immediately to reclaim my object? And now that I am inside..." Lovelace raised his head as if he could smell something good. "Yes, I sense its aura. It is close by."
    "But..."
    "I would never have guessed it was you, Arthur. Not that I didn't think you coveted my treasures. I just thought you lacked the competence to take them."
    The old man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, making inarticulate sounds. Lovelace's imp contorted its face for an instant into a violently different expression, then reverted to the original. Its master tapped the table gently with a forefinger.
    "I could have forced an entry to your house, Arthur. It would have been quite within my rights. But I prefer to be courteous. Also, this piece of mine—as I'm sure you are well aware—is rather... contentious. Neither of us would want word of its presence in our houses to get out, now would we? So—if you return it to me with all speed, I am sure we could come to some... arrangement that will benefit both of us." He stood back, one hand toying with a cuff. "I'm waiting."
    If Underwood had comprehended one word of what Lovelace was saying, he might have saved himself.[4] If he had recalled his apprentice's misdeeds and put two and two together, all might have been well. But in his confusion he could see nothing beyond the false accusation being leveled, and in great wrath he rose from his chair.
     
    [4] He could have produced the Amulet, agreed to terms, and seen Lovelace head off satisfied into the night. Of course, now that he knew a little of Lovelace's crimes, he would certainly have been bumped off soon afterward, but that breathing space might have given him time to shave his beard, put on a flowery shirt, fly off somewhere hot and sandy and so survive.
     
    "You pompous upstart!" he cried. "How dare you accuse me of theft! I haven't got your object—I know nothing of it and want it even less. Why should I take it? I'm not a political lickspittle, like you; I'm no fawning backstabber. I don't go grubbing about after power and influence like a hog in a cesspit! Even if I did, I wouldn't bother robbing you. Everyone knows your star has waned. You're not worth harming. No, your agents have got it wrong—or more probably, they lie. Bartimaeus is not here! I know nothing of him. And your trinket is not in my house!"
    As he was speaking, Simon Lovelace's face seemed to shrink back into deep shadow, even though the lamplight still played on the surface of his glasses. He shook his head slowly.
    "Don't be foolish, Arthur," he said. "My informants do not lie to me! They are things of power that grovel at my command."
    The old man jutted forth his beard defiantly. "Get out of my house."
    "I need hardly tell you what resources I have at my disposal," Simon Lovelace went on. "But speak softly with me and we can yet avoid a scene."
    "I have nothing to say. Your accusation is false."
    "Well, then..."
    Simon Lovelace clicked his fingers. Instantly his imp sprang down from thin air and landed on the mahogany top of the dining-room table. It grimaced, strained. A bulb swelled at the end of its tail, finally growing into a prong with a serrated edge. The imp lowered its rump meditatively and twirled its tail. Then the prong stabbed down into the polished surface of the table, cutting it as a knife does butter. The imp strode across the width of the tabletop, dragging its tail through the wood, slicing it in two. Underwood's eyes bulged in his head. Lovelace smiled.
    "Family heirloom, Arthur?" he said. "Thought so."
    The imp had nearly reached the other side when there was a sudden knock at the door. Both men turned. The imp froze in its tracks. Mrs. Underwood came in carrying a laden tray.
    "Here's the tea," she said. "And some shortbread; that's Arthur's favorite, Mr. Lovelace. I'll just set it down here, shall I?"
    Wordlessly, magicians and imp watched as she approached the table. With great care she set the heavy tray down upon it midway between the sawn crack and the end where Underwood was standing. In the heavy silence, she unloaded a large