"Quick!" The djinni's voice was urgent. "The door's open a crack—slip inside!"

The mercenary quickened his pace. "Stop that boy!"

But Nathaniel was already jamming a boot heel down hard on the servant's shoe. The man whooped with agony and his clutching hand jerked back. With a wriggle and a squirm, Nathaniel evaded his grasp and, pushing at the door, squeezed himself through.

The insect on his ear leaped up and down in agitation. "Shut it on them!"

He pushed with all his strength, but the servant was now applying his full weight on the other side. The door began to swing open.

Then the voice of the mercenary, calm and silky, sounded beyond the door.

"Don't bother," it said. "Let him go in. He deserves his fate."

The force on the door eased and Nathaniel was able to push it shut. Locks clicked into position within the wood. Bolts were drawn.

The small voice spoke against his ear. "Now, that was ominous," it said.

From the moment we got inside the fateful hall and its boundary was sealed, events happened fast. The boy himself probably never got a good look at the setup there before it changed forever, but my senses are more advanced, of course. I took it all in, every detail, in the briefest of instants.

First, where were we? By the locked door, on the very edge of the circular glass floor. This glass had been given a slightly rough surface, so that shoes gripped it, but it was still clear enough for the carpet below to be beautifully displayed. The boy was standing right above the edge of the carpet—a border depicting interlocking vines. Nearby, and at intervals around the whole hall, stood impassive servants, each one beside a trolley heavily laden with cakes and beverages. Within this was the semicircle of chairs that I had seen from the window, now groaning under the assembled bottoms of the magicians. They were sipping their drinks and half listening to the woman, Amanda Cathcart, who was standing on the podium in the center of the hall, welcoming them all there. At her shoulder, his face expressionless, was Simon Lovelace, waiting.

The woman was wrapping up her speech. "Last, I hope you will not mind my drawing your attention to the carpet on display below. We commissioned it from Persia, and I believe it is the biggest in England. I think you will find yourselves all included if you look carefully." (Murmured approval, a few cheers.) "This after—noon's discussion will last until six. We will then break for dinner in the heated tents on the lawn outside, where you will be entertained by some Latvian sword jugglers." (Enthusiastic cheering.) "Thank you. May I now hand you over to your true host, Mr. Simon Lovelace!" (Strained and ragged clapping.)

While she droned on, I was busy whispering in the boy's ear.[110] I was a head louse at this point, which is pretty much as small as I can go. Why? Because I didn't want the afrit to notice me until it couldn't be avoided. She was the only otherworld being currently in evidence (for politeness' sake, all the magicians' imps had been dismissed for the duration of the meeting) but she was bound to see me as a threat.

"This is our last chance," I said. "Whatever Lovelace is going to do, take it from me he'll do it now, before the afrit picks up the Amulet's aura. He's got it round his neck. Can you creep up behind him and pull it into view? That'll rouse the magicians."

The boy nodded. He began to sidle around the edge of the crowd. On the podium, Lovelace began an obsequious address: "Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, may I say how honored we are…"

We were now at the edge of the audience, with a clear run down the edge of the magicians' chairs toward the podium. The boy started forward at a canter, with me urging him on like a jockey does a willing (if stupid) horse.

But as he passed the first delegate, a bony hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of the neck.

"And where do you think you're going, servant?"

I knew that voice. For me it brought back displeasing memories of her Mournful Orb. It was Jessica Whitwell, all cadaverous cheeks and cropped white hair. Nathaniel struggled in her grip. I wasted no time, but motored over the top of his ear and down the soft white skin behind it, making for the grasping hand.

Nathaniel wriggled. "Let—me—go!"

"…it is a delight and a privilege…" As yet, Lovelace had heard nothing.

"How dare you seek to disrupt this meeting?" Her sharp nails dug cruelly into the boy's neck. The head louse approached her pale, thin wrist.

"You don't—understand—" Nathaniel choked. "Lovelace has—"

"Silence, brat!"

"…glad to see you here. Sholto Pinn sends his apologies, he is indisposed…"

"Put him in a Stricture, Jessica." This was a magician at the next chair along.

"Deal with him after."

I was at her wrist now. Its underside ran with blue veins.

Head lice aren't big enough for what I had in mind. I became a scarab beetle, with extra—sharp pincers. I bit with gusto.

The woman's shriek made the chandeliers jangle. She let go of Nathaniel, who stumbled forward, nearly jolting me from the back of his neck. Lovelace was interrupted—he spun round, eyes wide. All heads turned.

Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed. "Watch out!" he croaked (the grip on his neck had nearly throttled him). "Lovelace has got the Am—"

A web of white threads rose up around us and closed over Nathaniel's head. The woman lowered her hand and sucked on her bleeding wrist.

"—ulet of Samarkand! He's going to kill you all! I don't know how, but it's going to be horrible and—"

Wearily, the scarab beetle tapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Don't bother," I said. "No one can hear you. She's sealed us off."[111] He looked blank. "Not been in one before? Your lot do it to others all the time."

I was watching Lovelace. His eyes were locked on Nathaniel, and I caught doubt and anger flashing across them before he slowly turned back to his speech. He coughed, waiting for the magicians' chattering to die down. Meanwhile, one hand edged toward the hidden shelf in the lectern.

The boy was panicking now; he lashed out weakly at the rubbery walls of the Stricture.

"Keep calm," I said. "Let me check it: most Strictures have weak links. If I can find one I should be able to break us out." I became a fly and, starting at its top, began to circle carefully across the Stricture's membranes, looking for a flaw.

"But we haven't time…"

I spoke gently to quieten him. "Just watch and listen."

I didn't show it, but I was worried myself now. The boy was right: we really had no time.