As a trial, he directed the imp to reveal what went on in his master's study. After a morning's observation, he discovered that Underwood spent most of his time on the telephone, attempting to keep abreast of political developments. He seemed to be paranoid that his enemies in Parliament were seeking his downfall. Nathaniel found this interesting in principle, but dull in the details, and soon left off spying on his master.
Next he observed Ms. Lutyens from afar. The mist swirled across the disc, cleared, and with a quickening heart, Nathaniel glimpsed her again as he remembered her so welclass="underline" smiling, working… and teaching. The disc's image shifted across to reveal a small, gap—toothed boy apprentice, drawing furiously in a sketchpad and evidently hanging on Ms. Lutyens's every word. Nathaniel's eyes burned hot with jealousy and grief. In a choked voice, he ordered the image to vanish, grinding his teeth at the laughter that bubbled up from the delighted imp.
Nathaniel then turned his attention to his main objective. Late one evening, he ordered the imp to spy on Simon Lovelace, but was disconcerted to see the baby's face appear in the burnished bronze instead.
"What are you doing?" Nathaniel cried. "I've given you the order—now obey!"
The baby wrinkled its nose and spoke in a disconcertingly deep voice. "Trouble is, this one's tricky, innit?" it said. "He's got barriers up. Not sure I can pass 'em. Might set off a spot of bother, if you know what I mean."
Nathaniel raised a hand and waved it menacingly. "Are you saying it's impossible?"
The baby winced and extended a pointed tongue gingerly out of the side of its mouth, as if licking old wounds. "Not impossible, no. Just difficult."
"Well, then."
The baby sighed heavily and vanished. After a short pause, a flickering image began to form in the disc. It blurred and leaped like a badly tuned television. Nathaniel cursed. He was about to speak the words of the Punitive Jab when he considered that this was probably the best the imp could do. He bent close to the disc and gazed into it, focusing on the scene within…
A man was sitting at a table, typing rapidly into a laptop computer.
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. It was Simon Lovelace, all right.
The imp's vantage point was from the ceiling, and Nathaniel had a good view of the room behind the magician, although it was a little distorted, as if seen through a fish—eye lens. The room was in shadow; the only light came from a lamp on Lovelace's desk. In the background was a set of dark curtains, stretching from ceiling to floor.
The magician typed. He wore a dinner jacket, with the tie hanging loose. Once or twice he scratched his nose.
Suddenly the baby's face cut in.
"Can't take much more of this," it sniffed. "I'm bored, innit, and like I say, if we stick around too long, there could be trouble."
"You'll stick with it till I say so," Nathaniel snarled. He spoke a syllable, and the baby scrunched up its eyes with pain.
"All right, all right! How could you do that to a wee babe, you monster!" The face flicked out and the scene reappeared. Lovelace was still seated, still typing. Nathaniel wished he could get a closer look at the papers on his desk, but magicians often had sensors on their person to detect unexpected magic in their vicinity. It would not be wise to stray too near. This was as good a view as he was going to—
Nathaniel jumped.
Someone else was in Simon Lovelace's room, standing in the shadows by the curtains. Nathaniel had not seen him enter; and nor, for that matter, had the magician, who was still typing away with his back to the intruder. The figure was a tall, massively built man, swathed in a long leather traveling cape that extended almost to the bottom of his boots. Both cape and boots were heavily stained with mud and wear. A thick black beard covered most of the man's face; above it, his eyes glinted in the darkness. Something about the look of them made Nathaniel's skin crawl.
Evidently the figure now spoke or made a noise, for Simon Lovelace suddenly started and wheeled round in his chair.
The image flickered, faded, reappeared again. Nathaniel cursed and pressed his face closer to the disc. It was as if the picture had jumped forward a moment or two in time. The two men were closer now—the intruder had moved to stand beside the desk. Simon Lovelace was talking to him eagerly. He held out his hand, but the stranger merely inclined his head toward the desk. The magician nodded, opened a drawer and, pulling out a cloth bag, emptied it upon the desktop. Bundles of banknotes spilled forth.
The bronze disc emitted a throaty voice, which spoke urgently. "Just thought I'd warn you, and please don't jab me again, but there's some kinda watcher coming. Two rooms away, heading in our direction. We need to pull out, boss, and do it swiftish."
Nathaniel bit his lip. "Stay where you are until the very last moment. I want to see what he's paying for. And memorize the conversation."
"It's your funeral, boss."
The stranger had extended a gloved hand from under his cape and was slowly replacing the banknotes inside the bag. Nathaniel was nearly hopping with frustration—at any moment the imp would leave the scene and he would be none the wiser.
Fortunately, his impatience was shared by Simon Lovelace, who held out his hand again, more decisively this time. The stranger nodded. He reached inside his cape and drew forth a small packet. The magician snatched it and feverishly tore the wrapping apart.
The imp's voice sounded. "It's at the door! We're pulling out."
Nathaniel just had time to see his enemy reach into the wrapping and draw forth something that sparkled in the lamplight—then the disc was wiped clean.
He uttered a terse command, and the baby's face reluctantly appeared.
"Ain't that all? I need a bit of shut—eye now, I can tell you. Whoof, that was a close one. We so nearly got fried."
"What did they say?"
"Well now, what did they say? I might have heard snatches, won't say I didn't, but my hearing's not what it was, what with my long confinement—"
"Just tell me!"
"Big fella didn't say much. Did you see those red stains on his cape, incidentally? V—e—r—y suspicious. Not ketchup, let's put it that way. Fresh too, I could smell it. What did he say now? 'I have it. That was one thing. And, 'I want my payment first. Man of few words, I'd call him."
"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.