Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand Read online

  Under the eyes of his master and his tutors, Nathaniel’s education progressed rapidly. He delighted in reporting his daily achievements to Mrs. Underwood and basking in the warmth of her praise. In the evenings, he would gaze out of his window toward the distant yellow glow that marked the tower of the Parliament buildings, and dream of the day when he would go there as a magician, as one of the ministers of the noble government.

  Two days after his ninth birthday, his master appeared in the kitchen while he was eating breakfast.

  “Leave that and come with me,” the magician said.

  Nathaniel followed him along the hall and into the room that served as his master’s library. Mr. Underwood stood next to a broad bookcase filled with volumes of every size and color, ranging from heavy leather-bound lexicons of great antiquity to battered yellow paperbacks with mystic signs scrawled on the spines.

  “This is your reading matter for the next three years,” his master said, tapping the top of the case. “By the time you’re twelve, you must have familiarized yourself with everything it contains. The books are written in Middle English, Latin, Czech, and Hebrew for the most part, although you’ll find some Coptic works on the Egyptian rituals of the dead too. There’s a Coptic dictionary to help you with those. It’s up to you to read through all this; I haven’t time to coddle you. Mr. Purcell will keep your languages up to speed. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir?”

  “What, boy?”

  “When I’ve read through all this, sir, will I know everything I need? To be a magician, I mean, sir. It seems such an awful lot.”

  His master snorted; his eyebrows ascended to the skies.

  “Look behind you,” he said.

  Nathaniel turned. Behind the door was a bookcase that climbed from floor to ceiling; it overflowed with hundreds of books, each one fatter and more dusty than the last, the sort of books that, one could tell without even opening them, were printed in minute script in double columns on every page. Nathaniel gave a small gulp.

  “Work your way through that lot,” his master said dryly, “and you might be getting somewhere. That case contains the rites and incantations you’d need to summon significant demons; and you won’t even begin to use them till you’re in your teens, so cast it out of your mind. Your case"—he tapped the wood again—"gives you the preparatory knowledge and is more than enough for the moment. Right, follow me.”

  They proceeded to a workroom that Nathaniel had never visited before. A large number of bottles and vials clustered there on stained and dirty shelves, filled with liquids of varying color. Some of the bottles had floating objects in them. Nathaniel couldn’t tell whether it was the thick, curved glass of the bottles that made the objects look so distorted and strange.

  His master sat on a stool at a simple wooden worktable and indicated for Nathaniel to sit alongside him. He pushed a narrow box across the table. Nathaniel opened it. Inside was a small pair of spectacles. A distant memory made him shudder sharply.

  “Well, take them out, boy; they won’t bite you. Right. Now look at me. Look at my eyes; what do you see?”

  Unwillingly, Nathaniel looked. He found it very difficult to peer into the fierce, fiery brown eyes of the old man, and as a result his brain froze. He saw nothing.

  “Well?”

  “Um, um … I’m sorry, I don’t …”

  “Look around my irises—see anything there?”

  “Um …”

  “Oh, you dolt!” His master gave a cry of frustration and pulled the skin below one eye down, revealing its red underbelly. “Can’t you see it? A lens, boy! A contact lens! Around the middle of my eye! See it?”

  Desperately, Nathaniel looked again, and this time he did see a faint circular rim, thin as a pencil line around the iris, sealing it in.

  “Yes, sir,” he said eagerly. “Yes, I see it.”

  “About time. Right.” His master sat back on the stool. “When you are twelve years old, two important things will happen. First, you will be given a new name, which you shall take as your own. Why?”

  “To prevent demons getting power over me by discovering my birth name, sir.”

  “Correct. Enemy magicians are equally perilous, of course. Secondly, you will get your first pair of lenses, which you can wear at all times. They will allow you to see through a little of the trickery of demons. Until that time you will use these glasses, but only when instructed to, and on no account are they to be removed from this workroom. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. How do they help see through things, sir?”

  “When demons materialize, they can adopt all manner of false shapes, not just in this material realm, but on other planes of perception too—I shall teach you of these planes anon, do not question me on them now. Some demons of the higher sort can even become invisible; there is no end to the wickedness of their deceptions. The lenses, and to a lesser extent the glasses, allow you to look on several planes at once, giving you a chance of seeing through their illusions. Observe—”

  Nathaniel’s master reached over to a crowded shelf behind him and selected a large glass bottle that was sealed with cork and wax. It contained a greenish briny liquid and a dead rat, all brownish bristles and pale flesh. Nathaniel made a face. His master considered him.

  “What would you say this was, boy?” he asked.

  “A rat, sir.”

  “What kind?”

  “A brown one. Rattus norvegicus, sir.”

  “Good. Latin tag too, eh? Very good. Completely wrong, but good nevertheless. It isn’t a rat at all. Put on your glasses and look again.”

  Nathaniel did as he was told. The spectacles felt cold and heavy on his nose. He peered through the filmy pebble-glass, taking a moment or two to focus. When the bottle swam into view, he gasped. The rat was gone. In its place was a small black-and-red creature with a spongy face, beetle’s wings, and a concertina-shaped underside. The creature’s eyes were open and bore an aggrieved expression. Nathaniel took the spectacles off and looked again. The brown rat floated in the pickling fluid.

  “Gosh,” he said.

  His master grunted. “A Scarlet Vexation, caught and bottled by the Medical Institute of Lincoln’s Inn. A minor imp, but a notable spreader of pestilence. It can only create the illusion of the rat on the material plane. On the others, its true essence is revealed.”

  “Is it dead, sir?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Hmm? Dead? I should think so. If not, it’ll certainly be angry. It’s been in that jar for at least fifty years—I inherited it from my old master.”

  He returned the bottle to the shelf. “You see, boy,” he went on, “even the least powerful demons are vicious, dangerous, and evasive. One cannot withdraw one’s guard for a moment. Observe this.”

  From behind a bunsen burner, he drew a rectangular glass box that seemed to have no lid. Six minute creatures buzzed within it, ceaselessly butting against the walls of their prison. From a distance they seemed like insects; as he drew closer, Nathaniel observed that they had rather too many legs for this to be so.

  “These mites,” his master said, “are possibly the lowest form of demon. Scarcely any intelligence to speak of. You do not require your spectacles to see their true form. Yet even these are a menace unless properly controlled. Notice those orange stings beneath their tails? They create exquisitely painful swellings on the victim’s body; far worse than bees or hornets. An admirable method of chastising someone, be it annoying rival … or disobedient pupil.”

  Nathaniel watched the furious little mites butting their heads against the glass. He nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”

  “Vicious little things.” His master pushed the box away. “Yet all they need are the proper words of command and they will obey any instruction. They thus demonstrate, on the smallest scale, the principles of our craft. We have dangerous tools that we must control. We shall now begin learning how to protect ourselves.”

  Nathaniel soon found that it would be a long time bef
ore he was allowed to wield the tools himself. He had lessons with his master in the workroom twice a week, and for months he did nothing except take notes. He was taught the principles of pentacles and the art of runes. He learned the appropriate rites of purification that magicians had to observe before summoning could take place. He was set to work with mortar and pestle to pound out mixtures of incense that would encourage demons or keep unwanted ones away. He cut candles into varying sizes and arranged them in a host of different patterns. And not once did his master summon anything.

  Impatient for progress, in his spare time Nathaniel devoured the books in the library case. He impressed Mr. Purcell with his omnivorous appetite for knowledge. He worked with great vigor in Ms. Lutyens’s drawing lessons, applying his skill to the pentacles he now traced under the beady eye of his mister. And all this time, the spectacles gathered dust on the workroom shelf.

  Ms. Lutyens was the only person to whom he confided his frustrations.

  “Patience,” she told him. “Patience is the prime virtue. If you hurry, you will fail. And failure is painful. You must always relax and concentrate on the task in hand. Now, if you’re ready I want you to sketch that again, but this time with a blindfold.”

  Six months into his training, Nathaniel observed a summoning for the first time. To his deep annoyance, he took no active part. His master drew the pentacles, including a secondary one for Nathaniel to stand in. Nathaniel was not even allowed to light the candles and, what was worse, he was told to leave the spectacles behind.

  “How will I see anything?” he asked, rather more pettishly than was his habit with his master; a narrow-eyed stare instantly reduced him to silence.

  The summoning began as a deep disappointment. After the incantations, which Nathaniel was pleased to find he largely understood, nothing seemed to happen. A slight breeze blew through the workroom; otherwise all was still. The empty pentacle stayed empty. His master stood close by, eyes shut, seemingly asleep. Nathaniel grew very bored. His legs began to ache. Evidently this particular demon had decided not to come. All at once, he noticed with horror that several of the candles in one corner of the workroom had toppled over. A pile of papers was alight, and the fire was spreading. Nathaniel gave a cry of alarm and stepped—

  “Stay where you are!”

  Nathaniel’s heart nearly stopped in fright. He froze with one foot lifted. His master’s eyes had opened and were gazing at him with an awful anger. With a voice of thunder, his master uttered the seven Words of Dismissal. The fire in the corner of the room vanished, the pile of papers with them; the candles were once again upright and burning quietly. Nathaniel’s heart quailed in his breast.

  “Step outside the circle, would you?” Never had he heard his master’s voice so scathing. “I told you that some remain invisible. They are masters of illusion and know a thousand ways to distract and tempt you. One step more and you’d have been on fire yourself. Think of that while you go hungry tonight. Get up to your room!”

  Further summonings were less distressing. Guided only by his ordinary senses, Nathaniel observed demons in a host of beguiling shapes. Some appeared as familiar animals—mewling cats, wide-eyed dogs, forlorn, limping hamsters that Nathaniel ached to hold. Sweet little birds hopped and pecked at the margins of their circles. Once, a shower of apple blossom cascaded from the air, filling the room with a heady scent that made him drowsy.

  He learned to withstand inducements of all kinds. Some invisible spirits assailed him with foul smells that made him retch; others charmed him with perfume that reminded him of Ms. Lutyens’s or Mrs. Underwood’s. Some attempted to frighten him with hideous sounds—with squelchy rendings, whisperings, and gibbering cries. He heard strange voices calling out beseechingly, first high-pitched, then plummeting deeper and deeper until they rang like a funeral bell. But he closed his mind to all these things and never came close to leaving the circle.

  A year passed before Nathaniel was allowed to wear his spectacles during each summoning. Now he could observe many of the demons as they really were. Others, slightly more powerful ones, maintained their illusions even on the other observable planes. To all these disorientating shifts in perception Nathaniel acclimatized calmly and confidently. His lessons were progressing well, his self-possession likewise. He grew harder, more resilient, more determined to progress. He spent all his spare waking hours poring through new manuscripts.

  His master was satisfied with his pupil’s progress and Nathaniel, despite his impatience with the pace of his education, was delighted with what he learned. It was a productive relationship, if not a close one, and might well have continued to be so, but for the terrible incident that occurred in the summer before Nathaniel’s eleventh birthday.

  10

  In the end, dawn came.

  The first grudging rays flickered in the eastern sky. A halo of light slowly emerged over the Docklands horizon. I cheered it on. It couldn’t come fast enough.

  The whole night had been a wearisome and often humiliating business. I had repeatedly lurked, loitered, and fled, in that order, through half the postal districts of London. I had been manhandled by a thirteen-year-old girl. I had taken shelter in a bin. And now, to cap it all, I was crouching on the roof of Westminster Abbey, pretending to be a gargoyle. Things don’t get much worse than that.

  A rising shaft of sunlight caught the edge of the Amulet, which was suspended round my lichen-covered neck. It flashed, bright as glass. Automatically I raised a claw to cup it, just in case sharp eyes were on the lookout, but I wasn’t too worried by then.

  I had remained in that bin in the alley for a couple of hours, long enough to rest and become thoroughly ingrained with the odor of rotting vegetables. Then I’d had the bright idea of taking up stony residence on the abbey. I was protected there by the profusion of magical ornaments within the building—they masked the Amulet’s signal.1 From my new vantage point I’d seen a few spheres in the distance, but none of them came near. At last the night had ebbed away, and the magicians had become weary. The spheres in the sky winked out. The heat was off.

  As the sun rose, I waited impatiently for the expected summons. The boy had said he would call me at dawn, but he was no doubt sleeping in like the layabout adolescent he was.

  In the meantime I ordered my thoughts. One thing that was crystal clear was that the boy was the patsy of an adult magician, some shadowy influence who sought to deflect blame for the theft onto the kid. It wasn’t hard to guess this—no child of his age would summon me for so great a task on his own. Presumably the unknown magician wished to deal a blow to Lovelace and gain control over the Amulet’s powers. If so, he was risking everything. Judging by the scale of the hunt I had just evaded, several powerful people were greatly concerned by its loss.

  Even alone, Simon Lovelace was a formidable proposition. The fact that he was able to employ (and restrain) both Faquarl and Jabor proved as much. I did not relish the urchin’s chances when the magician caught up with him.

  Then there was the girl, that nonmagician whose friends withstood my magic and saw through my illusions. Several centuries had gone by since I had last encountered humans of their sort, so to find them here in London was intriguing. Whether or not they understood the implications of their power was difficult to say. The girl didn’t even seem to know exactly what the Amulet was, only that it was a prize worth having. She certainly wasn’t allied to Lovelace or the boy. Strange … I couldn’t see where she fit into this at all.

  Oh well, it wasn’t going to be my problem. Sunlight hit the roof of the abbey. I allowed myself a short, luxurious flex of my wings.

  At that moment, the summons came.

  A thousand fishhooks seemed to embed themselves in me. I was pulled in several directions at once. Resisting too long risked tearing my essence, but I had no interest in delay. I wished to hand over the Amulet and be done.

  With this eager hope in mind I submitted to the summons, vanishing from the rooftop….

 
; … and reappearing instantaneously in the child’s room. I looked around.

  “All right, what’s this?”

  “I order you, Bartimaeus, to reveal whether you have diligently and wholly carried out your charge—”

  “Of course I have—what do you think this is, costume jewelry?” I pointed with my gargoyle’s claw at the Amulet dangling on my chest. It waved and winked in the shuddering light of the candles. “The Amulet of Samarkand. It was Simon Lovelace’s. Now it is yours. Soon it will be Simon Lovelace’s again. Take it and enjoy the consequences. I was asking about this pentacle you’ve drawn here: what are these runes? This extra line?”

  The kid puffed out his chest. “Adelbrand’s Pentacle.” If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he smirked, an unseemly facial posture for one so young.

  Adelbrand’s Pentacle. That meant trouble. I made a big show of checking the lines of the star and circle, looking for minute breaks or wiggles in the chalk. Then I perused the runes and symbols themselves.

  “Aha!” I roared. “You’ve spelled this wrong! And you know what that means, don’t you …?” I drew myself up like a cat ready to pounce.

  The kid’s face went an interesting mix of white and red; his lower lip wobbled; his eyes bulged from their sockets. He looked very much like he wanted to run for it, but he didn’t, so my plan was foiled.2 Hastily he scanned the letters on the floor.

  “Recreant demon! The pentacle is sound—it binds you still!”

  “Okay, so I lied.” I reduced in size. My stone wings folded back under my hump. “Do you want this amulet or not?”

  “P-place it in the vessel.”

  A small soapstone bowl sat on the floor midway between the outermost arcs of the two circles. I removed the Amulet and with a certain amount of inner relief tossed it casually into the bowl. The boy bent toward it. Out of the corner of my eyes I watched him closely—if one foot, one finger, fell outside his circle, I would be on him faster than a praying mantis.