"Was he a demon?"

"By that crude remark I assume you mean a noble entity from the Other Place? Nope. Man."

"And what did the magician say?"

"He was a bit more forthcoming. Quite voluble in fact. 'Do you have it? That's how he began. Then he said, 'How did you? No, I don't want to know the details. Just give it to me. He was all breathless and eager. Then he got the cash out."

"Was that it? What was the object? Did either of them say?"

"Don't know that I recall—no, wait! Wait! You don't need to get nasty with me—I'm doing what you asked, ain't I? When the big guy handed over the package, he said something…"

"What?"

"So quiet, almost didn't catch it…"

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'The Amulet of Samarkand is yours, Lovelace. That's what he said."

It took Nathaniel almost another six months before he felt himself to be ready. He mastered new areas of his craft, learned new and greater Commands, and went swimming every morning before lessons to increase his stamina. By these means he grew strong in body and mind.

Never again was he able to spy directly on his enemy. Whether or not its presence had been detected, the imp was unable to get close again.

No matter. Nathaniel had the information that he needed.

He sat in the garden as spring turned into summer, devising and refining his plan. It pleased him. It had the merit of simplicity and an even greater one in that nobody in all the world guessed at his power. His master was only just ordering his lenses now; he had spoken absently of perhaps trying out a basic summons in the winter. To his master, his tutors, even to Mrs. Underwood, he was an apprentice of no great talent. This would remain the case while he stole Simon Lovelace's amulet.

The theft was only the beginning, a test of his own power. After that, if all went well, he would set his trap.

All that remained was to find himself a servant who could do what he required. Something powerful and resourceful enough to carry out his plan, but not so potent that it would threaten Nathaniel himself. The time for mastering the great entities was not yet here.

He read through his master's works of demonology. He studied track records through the ages. He read about the lesser servants of Solomon and Ptolemy.

Finally, he chose: Bartimaeus.

I knew there was going to be a decent scrap when we got back to the attic, so this time I prepared for it properly. First, I had to decide what shape to take. I wanted something that would really goad him—make him totally lose his cool—and, strange as it may seem, that ruled out most of my more scary forms. In fact, it meant appearing as a person of some kind. It's odd, but being insulted by a flickering specter or being called names by a fiery winged serpent isn't half as annoying for a hardened magician as hearing it from the mouth of something that seems to be human. Don't ask me why. It's just something to do with the way people's minds work.

I figured that the best I could do was appear as another boy of about the same age, someone who would rouse all the kid's feelings of direct competition and rivalry. That was no problem. Ptolemy was fourteen when I knew him best. Ptolemy it would be.

After that, all that remained was to revise my best counter—spells and look forward with pleasure to being able to return home shortly.

Perceptive readers might have noticed a new optimism in my attitude toward the kid. They would not be wrong. Why? Because I knew his birth name.[33]

Give him his due, however: he came out fighting. No sooner had he got up to his room than he put on his coat, hopped into his circle, and summoned me in a loud voice. He didn't have to shout so; I was right beside him, scuttling along the floor.

An instant later, the small Egyptian boy appeared in the circle opposite, wearing his London gear. I flashed a grin.

"Nathaniel, eh? Very posh. Doesn't really suit you. I'd have guessed something a bit more down—market—Bert or Chuck, maybe."

The boy was white with rage and fear; I could see panic in his eyes. He controlled himself with an effort and put on a lying face.

"That's not my true name. Even my master doesn't know it."

"Yeah, right. Who are you trying to kid?"

"You can think what you want. I charge you now—"

I couldn't believe it—he was trying to send me off again! I laughed in his face, adopted a puckish pose with hands on hips, and interrupted in sophisticated style.

"Go boil your head."

"I charge you now—"

"Yah, boo, sucks!"

The boy was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so angry.[34] He stamped his foot like a toddler in the playground. Then—as I hoped—he forgot himself and went for the obvious attack. It was the Systemic Vise again, the bully's favorite.

He spat out the incantation, and I felt the bands drawing in.[35]

"Nathaniel." Under my breath I spoke his name and then the words of the appropriate counter—spell.

The bands immediately reversed their loop. They expanded outward, away from me, out of the circle like ripples in a pond. Through his lenses, the boy saw them heading in his direction. He gave a yelp and, after a moment's panic, found the words of cancellation. He gabbled them out; the bands vanished.

I flicked a nonexistent piece of dust from the sleeve of my jacket and winked at him.

"Whoops," I said. "Nearly took your own head off there."

If the boy had paused, he would have realized what had happened, but his rage was too great. He probably thought he had made some error, spoken something out of turn. Breathing deeply, he searched through his repertoire of nasty tricks. Then he clapped his hands and spoke again.

I wasn't expecting anything as potent as the Stimulating Compass. From each of the five points of the pentacle I was in, a glowing column of electricity shot up, jarring and crackling. It was as if five lightning bolts had been momentarily trapped; in another instant, each column had discharged into a horizontal beam that pierced me with the force of a javelin. Arcs of electricity coursed around my body; I screamed and jerked, carried off the floor by the force of the charge.

Through gritted teeth I spoke it—"Nathaniel!" —then a counter—spell as before. The effect was immediate. The charge left me, I slumped to the ground. Small lightning bolts shot off in all directions. The boy dived just in time—an electric charge that would have killed him beautifully speared straight through his flailing coat as he hit the floor. Other bolts collided with his bed and desk; one zapped into his vase of flowers, slicing the glass cleanly in two. The rest vanished into the walls, peppering them with small, asterisk—shaped burn marks. It was a delightful sight.

The kid's coat had fallen over his face. Slowly he raised his head and peered out from under it. I gave him a friendly thumbs—up.

"Keep going," I grinned. "One day, if you work hard and stop making all these stupid mistakes, you might make a real grown—up wizard."

The kid said nothing. He got painfully to his feet. By pure fluke, he had dived pretty much straight down and so was still safe within his pentacle. I didn't mind. I was looking forward to whatever mistake he would make next.

But his brain was working again. He stood still for a minute and took stock.

"Better get rid of me quickly," I said, in a helpful sort of way. "Old man Un derwood will be coming to see what all the noise is about."

"No, he won't. We're too high up."