"He doesn't look too well," Nathaniel said.

"No indeed. Some dreadful accident. Perhaps some artifact went wrong, poor man…" Bolstered by her champagne, Mrs. Underwood continued to give Nathaniel a running guide to many of the great men and women arriving in the hall. It was the cream of government and society; the most influential people in London (and that of course meant the world). As she expanded on their most famous feats, Nathaniel became ever more glumly aware how peripheral he was to all this glamour and power. The self—satisfied feeling that had warmed him briefly in the car was now forgotten, replaced instead by a gnawing frustration. He caught sight of his master again several times, always standing on the fringes of a group, always barely tolerated or ignored. Ever since the Lovelace incident he had known how ineffectual Underwood was. Here was yet more proof. All his colleagues knew the man was weak. Nathaniel ground his teeth with anger. To be the despised apprentice of a despised magician! This wasn't the start in life that he wanted or deserved…

Mrs. Underwood jerked his arm urgently. "There! John—do you see him? That's him! That's him!"

"Who?"

"Rupert Devereaux. The Prime Minister."

Where he had come from, Nathaniel had no idea. But there suddenly he was: a small, slim man with light brown hair, standing at the center of a scrummage of competing dinner—jackets and cocktail dresses, yet miraculously occupying a solitary point of grace and calm. He was listening to someone, nodding his head and smiling slightly. The Prime Minister! The most powerful man in Britain, perhaps the world… Even at a distance, Nathaniel experienced a warm glow of admiration; he wanted nothing more than to get close and watch him, to listen to him speak. He sensed that the whole room felt as he did: that behind the surface of each conversation, everyone's senses were angled in that one direction. But even as he began to stare, the crowd closed in and the slender, dapper figure was hidden from his view.

Reluctantly, Nathaniel turned away. He took a resigned sip of his cordial—and froze.

Near the foot of the staircase, two magicians stood. Almost alone of all the guests in that vicinity they were taking no interest in the Prime Ministerial throng; they talked animatedly, heads close together. Nathaniel took a deep breath. He knew them both—indeed, their faces had been imprinted on his memory since his humiliation the year before. The old man with the florid, wrinkled skin, more withered and bent than ever; the younger man with the clammy complexion, his lank hair draping down over his collar. Lovelace's friends. And if they were present, would Lovelace himself be far away?

An uncomfortable prickling broke out in Nathaniel's stomach, a feeling of weakness that annoyed him greatly. He licked his dry lips. Calm down. There was nothing to fear. Lovelace had no way of tracing the Amulet to him, even if they met face to face. His searchers would actually have to enter Underwood's house before they could detect its aura. He was safe enough. No, he should seize this opportunity, like any good magician. If he drew close to his enemies, he might overhear what they had to say.

He glanced round; Mrs. Underwood's attention had been diverted. She was in conversation with a short, squat gentleman and had just broken into peals of laughter. Nathaniel began to sidle through the crowd on a trajectory that would bring him around to the shadows of the staircase, not far from where the two magicians stood.

Halfway across, he saw the old man break off in mid—sentence and look up toward the entrance gallery. Nathaniel followed his gaze. His heart jolted.

There he was: Simon Lovelace, red—faced and out of breath. Evidently he had only just arrived. He removed his overcoat in a flurry and tossed it to a servant, before adjusting the lapels of his jacket and hurrying for the stairs. His appearance was just how Nathaniel remembered it: the glasses, the hair slicked back, the energy of movement, the broad mouth flicking a smile on—off at everyone he passed. He trotted down the steps briskly, spurning the champagne that was offered him, making for his friends.

Nathaniel speeded up. In a few seconds, he had reached an empty patch of floor beside one sweeping banister of the staircase. He was now not far from the foot of the stairs, close to where the end of the banister curled round to form an ornate plinth, topped with a stone vase. Behind one side of the vase, he glimpsed the back of the clammy magician's head; behind the other, part of the old man's jacket. Lovelace himself had now descended the staircase to join them and was out of view.

The vase shielded Nathaniel from their sight. He eased himself against the rear of the plinth and leaned against it in what he hoped was a debonair fashion. Then he strained to distinguish their voices from the hubbub all around.

Success. Lovelace himself was speaking, his voice harsh and irritable. "…no luck whatsoever. I've tried every inducement possible. Nothing I've summoned can tell me who controls it."

"Tcha, you have been wasting your time." It was the thick accent of the older man. "How should the other demons know?"

"It's not my habit to leave any possibility untried. But no—you're right. And the spheres have been useless, too. So perhaps we have to change our plans. You got my message? I think we should cancel."

"Cancel?" A third voice, presumably the clammy man's.

"I can always blame the girl."

"I don't think that would be wise." The old man spoke softly; Nathaniel could barely hear the words. "Devereaux would be down on you even more if you canceled. He's looking forward to all the little luxuries you've promised to provide. No, Simon, we have to put a brave face on it. Keep searching. We've got a few days. It may yet turn up."

"It'll ruin me if it's all for nothing! Do you know how much that room's cost?"

"Calm down. You're raising your voice."

"All right. But you know what I can't stand? Whoever did it is here, somewhere. Watching me, laughing… When I discover who, I'll—"

"Keep your voice down, Lovelace!" The clammy man again.

"Perhaps, Simon, we should go somewhere a little more discreet…" Behind the plinth, Nathaniel jerked himself backward as if propelled by an electric charge. They were moving off. It would not do to come face to face with them here. Without pausing, he sidestepped away from the shadow of the staircase and took a few steps into the crowd. Once he had got far enough away to be safe, he looked back. Lovelace and his companions had scarcely moved: an elderly magician had imposed herself on their company and was jabbering away—to their vast impatience.

Nathaniel took a sip of his drink and composed himself. He had not understood all he had heard, but Lovelace's fury was pleasingly evident. To find out more, he would have to summon Bartimaeus. Perhaps his slave was even here right now, trailing Lovelace… Nothing showed up in his lenses, admittedly, but the djinni would have changed its form on each of the first four planes. Any one of these seemingly solid people might be a shell, concealing the demon within.

He stood, lost in thought for a time, at the edge of a small group of magicians. Gradually, their conversation broke in on him.

"…so handsome. Is he attached?"

"Simon Lovelace? Some woman. I don't recall her name."

"You want to stick clear of him, Devina. He's no longer the golden boy."

"He's holding the conference next week, isn't he? And he's so good—looking…"

"He had to suck up to Devereaux long and hard for that. No, his career's going nowhere fast."

"The P.M.'s sidelined him. Lovelace tried for the Home Office a year ago, but Duvall blocked it. Hates him, can't recall why."

"Duvall's got the P.M.'s ear, all right."