The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud

reading. The boy stood silently waiting. Now that I was free of the circle and thus not under his direct control, I had a chance to assess him more clinically. He had (of course) removed his raggedy coat and was soberly dressed in gray trousers and jumper. His hair had been wetted and was slicked back. A sheaf of papers was under his arm. He was a picture of quiet deference.
    He had no obviously defining features—no moles, no oddities, no scars. His hair was dark and straight, his face tended toward the pinched. His skin was very pale. To a casual observer, he was an unremarkable boy. But to my wiser and more jaundiced gaze there were other things to note: shrewd and calculating eyes; fingers that tapped impatiently on the papers he held; most of all a very careful face that by subtle shifts took on whatever expression was expected of it. For the moment he had adopted a submissive but attentive look that would flatter an old man's vanity. Yet continually he cast his eye around the room, searching for me.
    I made it easy for him. When he was looking in my direction, I gave a couple of small scuttles on the wall, waved a few arms, wiggled my abdomen in a cheery fashion. He saw me straight off, went paler than ever, bit his lip. Couldn't do anything about me though, without giving his game away.
    In the middle of my dance, Underwood suddenly grunted dismissively and slapped the back of his hand against his paper. "See here, Martha," he said. "Makepeace is filling the theaters again with his Eastern piffle. Swans of Araby... I ask you, did you ever hear of such sentimental claptrap? And yet it's sold out until the end of January! Quite bizarre."
    "It's all booked up? Oh, Arthur, I'd rather wanted to go—"
    "And I quote:'... in which a sweet-limbed missionary lass from Chiswick falls in love with a tawny djinni...'—it's not just romantic nonsense, it's damnably dangerous too. Spreads misinformation to the people."
    "Oh, Arthur—"
    "You've seen djinn, Martha. Have you seen one 'with dusky eyes that will melt your heart'? Melt your face, maybe."
    "I'm sure you're right, Arthur."
    "Makepeace should know better. Disgraceful. I'd do something about it, but he's in too deep with the Prime Minister."
    "Yes, dear. Would you like more coffee, dear?"
    "No. The P.M. should be helping out my Internal Affairs department rather than socializing his time away. Four more thefts, Martha, four in the last week. Valuable items they were, too. I tell you, we're going to the dogs." So saying, Un derwood lifted his mustache with one hand and expertly passed the lip of his cup beneath. He drank long and loudly. "Martha, this is cold. Fetch more coffee, will you?"
     
    With good grace the wife bustled off on her errand. As she exited, the magician tossed his paper to one side and deigned to notice his pupil at last.
    The old man grunted. "So. You're here, are you?"
    Despite his anxiety, the boy's voice was steady. "Yes, sir. You sent for me, sir."
    "I did indeed. Now, I have been speaking to your teachers, and with the exception of Mr. Sindra, all have satisfactory reports to make on you." He held up his hand to silence the boy's prompt articulations of thanks. "Heaven knows, you don't deserve it after what you did last year. However, despite certain deficiencies, to which I have repeatedly drawn your attention, you have made some progress with the central tenets. Thus"—a dramatic pause—"I feel that the time is right for you to conduct your first summons."
    He uttered this last sentence in slow resounding tones that were evidently designed to fill the boy with awe. But Nathaniel, as I was now so delighted to call him, was distracted. He had a spider on his mind.
    His unease was not lost on Underwood. The magician rapped the table peremptorily to attract his pupil's attention.
    "Listen to me, boy!" he said. "If you fret at the very prospect of a summons you will never make a magician, even now. A well-prepared magician fears nothing. Do you