"They're in the reception room," Mrs. Underwood said as they entered the kitchen. "Let's look at you…" She wet her finger and hurriedly removed a pencil—lead smudge from the side of his forehead. "Very presentable. All right, in you go."

The room was full; he'd got that part right. It was warm with bodies, the smell of tea, and the effort of polite conversation. But by the time Nathaniel had closed the door and edged across to occupy the only space available, in the lee of an ornamental dresser, his magnificent visions of a company of great men had already evaporated.

They just didn't look the part.

There wasn't a cape to be seen. There were precious few beards on display, and none half as impressive as that of his own master. Most of the men wore drab suits with drabber ties; only a few sported daring additions, such as a gray waistcoat or a visible breast—pocket handkerchief. All wore shiny black shoes. It felt to Nathaniel as if he had strayed upon an undertakers' office party. None of them seemed like Gladstone, in strength or in demeanor. Some were short, others were crabbed and old, more than one was prone to pudginess. They talked among themselves earnestly, sipping tea and nibbling dry biscuits, and not one of them raised his voice above the consensus murmuring.

Nathaniel was deeply disappointed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and breathed deeply.

His master was inching himself through the throng, shaking hands and uttering an odd, short, barking laugh whenever a guest said something that he thought was intended to be funny. Catching sight of Nathaniel, he beckoned him over; Nathaniel squeezed between a tea plate and someone's protruding belly and approached.

"This is the boy," the magician said gruffly, clapping Nathaniel on the shoulder in an awkward gesture. Three men looked down at him. One was old, white—haired, with a florid sun—dried—tomato face, covered in tiny creases. Another was a doughy, watery—eyed individual in middle age; his skin looked cold and clammy, like a fish on a slab. The third was much younger and more handsome, with slicked—back hair, round glasses, and a xylophone—size array of gleaming white teeth. Nathaniel stared back at them in silence.

"Doesn't look like much," the clammy man said. He sniffed and swallowed something.

"He's learning slowly," Nathaniel's master said, his hand still patting Nathaniel on the shoulder in an aimless manner that suggested he was ill at ease.

"Slow, is he?" said the old man. He spoke with an accent so thick that Nathaniel could barely understand the words. "Yes, some boys are. You must persevere."

"Do you beat him?" the clammy man asked.

"Rarely."

"Unwise. It stimulates the memory."

"How old are you, boy?" the younger man said.

"Ten, sir." Nathaniel said politely. "Eleven in Nov—"

"Still a couple of years before he'll be any use to you, Underwood." The young man cut over Nathaniel as if he did not exist. "Costs a fortune, I suppose."

"What, bed and board? Of course."

"I'll bet he eats like a ferret, too."

"Greedy, is he?" said the old man. He nodded regretfully. "Yes, some boys are."

Nathaniel listened with barely suppressed indignation. "I'm not greedy, sir," he said in his politest voice. The old man's eyes flickered toward him, then drifted away again as if he had not heard; but his master's hand clamped down on his shoulder with some force.

"Well, boy; you must get back to your studies," he said. "Run along."

Nathaniel was only too happy to leave, but as he began to sidle off the young man in the glasses raised a hand.

"You've got a tongue in your head, I see," he said. "Not afraid of your elders."

Nathaniel said nothing.

"Perhaps you don't think we're your betters too?"

The man spoke lightly, but the sharpness in his voice was clear. Nathaniel could tell at once that he himself was not the point at issue and that the young man was challenging his master through him. He felt as if he ought to answer, but was so confused by the question that he did not know whether to say yes or no.

The young man misinterpreted his silence. "He thinks he's too good to talk to us at all now!" he said to his companions and grinned. The clammy man tittered wetly into his hand and the old, red—faced man shook his head. "Tcha," he said.

"Run along, boy," Nathaniel's master said again.

"Hold on, Underwood," the young man said, smiling broadly. "Before he goes, let's see what you've taught this whippet of yours. It'll be amusing. Come here, lad."

Nathaniel glanced across at his master, who did not meet his eye. Slowly and unwillingly he drew near to the group again. The young man snapped his fingers with a flourish and spoke at top speed.

"How many classified types of spirit are there?"

Nathaniel replied without a pause. "Thirteen thousand and forty—six, sir."

"And unclassified?"

"Petronius postulates forty—five thousand; Zavattini forty—eight thousand, sir."

"What is the modus apparendi of the Carthaginian subgroup?"

"They appear as crying infants, sir, or as doppelgangers of the magician in his youth."

"How should one chastise them?"

"Make them drink a vat of asses' milk."

"Hmmph. If summoning a cockatrice, what precautions should one take?"

"Wear mirrored glasses, sir. And surround the pentacle with mirrors on two other sides also, to force the cockatrice to gaze in the remaining direction, where its written instructions will be waiting."

Nathaniel was gaining in confidence. He had committed simple details such as these to memory long ago, and he was pleased to note that his unerringly correct answers were exasperating the young man. His success had also stopped the clammy man's snickering, and the old magician, who was listening with his head cocked to one side, had even nodded grudgingly once or twice. He noticed his master smiling, rather smugly. Not that I owe any of this to you, Nathaniel thought witheringly. I read all this. You've taught me next to nothing.

For the first time there was a pause in the barrage of the young man's questions. He appeared to be thinking. "All right," he said at last, speaking much more slowly now and rolling the words luxuriously over his tongue, "what are the six Words of Direction? Any language."

Arthur Underwood uttered a startled protest. "Be fair, Simon! He can't know that yet!" But even as he spoke, Nathaniel was opening his mouth. This was a formula contained in several of the books in his master's large bookcase, where Nathaniel was already browsing.

"Appare; Mane; Ausculta; Se Dede; Pare; Redi: Appear; Remain; Listen; Submit; Obey; Return." He looked into the young magician's eyes as he finished, conscious of his triumph. Their audience murmured their approval. His master now wore an unconcealed grin; the clammy man raised his eyebrows; and the old man made a wry face, quietly mouthing, "Bravo." But his interrogator just shrugged dismissively, as if the incident were of no account. He looked so supercilious that Nathaniel felt his self—satisfaction turn into a fiery anger.

"Standards must have dropped," said the young man, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at an imaginary spot on his sleeve, "if a backward apprentice can be congratulated for spouting something we all learned at our mothers' teats."

"You're just a sore loser," Nathaniel said.

There was a moment's hush. Then the young man barked a word, and Nathaniel felt something small and compact land heavily upon his shoulders. Invisible hands clenched into his hair and jerked it backward with vicious strength, so that his face stared at the ceiling, and he cried out with pain. He tried to raise his arms but found them pinioned to his sides by a hideously muscular coil that wrapped itself around him like a giant tongue. He could see nothing except the ceiling; delicate fingers tickled his exposed throat with horrible finesse. In panic, he cried out for his master.