The Amulet of Samarkand

porcelain teapot (which the invisible imp had to step back to avoid), two cups, two saucers, two plates, a display-rack of shortbread and several items of her best cutlery. The table's end shifted noticeably under their weight. There was a slight creak.
    Mrs. Underwood picked up the tray again and smiled at the visitor.
    "Go on, help yourself, Mr. Lovelace. You need some weight put on, you do."
    Under her direct gaze, Lovelace took a piece of shortbread from the displayrack. The tabletop wobbled. He smiled weakly.
    "That's right. Yell if you want a fresh cup." With the tray under her arm, Mrs. Underwood bustled out. They watched her go.
    The door closed.
    As one, magicians and imp turned back to the table.
    With a resounding crash the single connecting spur of wood gave way. One whole end of the table, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, plates, the shortbread, and several pieces of the Underwoods' best cutlery, collapsed onto the floor. The imp jumped clear and landed on the mantelpiece beside the display of dead flowers.
    There was a brief silence.
    Simon Lovelace tossed his piece of shortbread into the mess on the floor.
    "What I can do to a wooden table I can do to a blockhead, Arthur," he said.
    Arthur Underwood looked at him. He spoke strangely, as if from a great distance. "That was my best teapot."
    He gave three whistles, shrill, high-pitched. An answering call sounded, deep and booming, and up from the tiles before the fireplace rose a sturdy goblin-imp, blue-faced and brawny. Underwood gestured, whistled once. The goblin-imp sprang, turning in midair. He fell upon the smaller imp that cowered behind the flower heads, scooped it up with his fingerless paws and began to squeeze it, heedless of the flailing sawtooth prong. The small imp's substance contorted, blurred, was molded like putty. In a trice it had been squashed down, tail and all, into a yellowish pulpy ball. The goblin-imp smoothed down the surface of the ball, flicked it into the air, opened his mouth and swallowed it.
    Underwood turned back to Lovelace, who had watched all this tight-lipped.
    I confess the old man surprised me—he was putting up a better show than I'd expected. Nevertheless the strain of raising that tame imp was taking its toll. The back of his neck was sweaty.
    Lovelace knew this too. "One last chance," he snapped. "Give me my property or I'll raise the stakes. Lead me to your study."
    "Never!" Underwood was beside himself with strain and rage. He did not heed the promptings of common sense.
    "Watch then." Lovelace smoothed back his oiled hair. He spoke a few words under his breath. There was a frisson in the dining room; everything in it flickered. The wall at the far end of the room became insubstantial. It receded, moving farther and farther back until it could no longer be seen. In its place a corridor of un certain dimensions stretched away. As Underwood watched, a figure appeared far off along the corridor. It began to move toward us, growing larger at great speed, but floating, for its legs were still.
    Underwood gasped and stumbled back. He knocked against his chair.
    He was right to gasp. I knew that figure, the bulky frame, the jackal's head.
    "Stop!" Underwood's face was waxen; he gripped his chair for support.
    "What was that?" Simon Lovelace held his fingers to his ear. "I can't hear you."[5]
     
    [5] How unnecessary. What play-actors these magicians are.
     
    "Stop! All right, you win! I'll take you to my study now! Call it off!"
    The figure grew in size. Underwood was cowering. The goblin-imp made a rueful face and withdrew hastily back through the tiles. I shifted in my corner, wondering quite what I was going to do when Jabor finally entered the room.[6]
     
    [6] So Faquarl had been right A small army of horlas and utukku had been unable to stop Jabor. This didn't bode too well.
     
    All at once Lovelace gave a sign. The infinite corridor and the approaching figure vanished. The wall was there again as before, a yellowed photograph of Underwood's smiling grandmother hanging in its center.
    Underwood was on his knees beside the ruins of his tea service. He shook so hard he could barely stand.
    "Which way to your study, Arthur?" Simon Lovelace said.

29
     
    Nathaniel
     
    Nathaniel stood alone on the landing, gripping the banister as if he feared to fall. A murmur of voices came from the dining room below; it rose and fell, but he hardly registered it. The panic rushing in his head drowned out all other