Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

"We're closed."

"Message here for Mr. Sholto."

"He's out. Come back later."

"It can't wait, guv'nor. Urgent. When's he due back?"

"In an hour or so. The master has gone for lunch."

"Where's he gone?"

"He did not furnish me with that information." This foliot had a haughty, superior sort of manner; he evidently considered himself too good to talk to imps such as me.

"Don't matter. I'll wait." And with a wriggle and a slide I rounded the door, ducked under his arm, and entered the shop.

"Coo, this is posh, innit?"

The foliot hurried after me in a panic. "Get out! Get out! Mr. Pinn has given me strict instructions not to allow anyone—"

"Don't get so steamed up, matey, I won't nick nuffin."

The foliot positioned himself between me and the nearest rack of silver pocket watches. "I should think not! With one stamp of my foot I can call up a horla to devour any thief or intruder! Now please leave!"

"All right, all right." My shoulders slumped as I turned for the door. "You're too powerful for me. And too highly favored. It's not everyone gets to run a posh place like this."

"You're right there." The foliot was prickly, but also vain and weak.

"Bet you don't get any beatings, or the Red—hot Stipples neither."

"I certainly do not! I am a model of efficiency, and the master is very gracious to me."

I knew then what sort I was dealing with. He was a collaborator of the worst kind. I wanted to bite him. [48] Most of us enact our duties only under sufferance, simply because we are hurt if we do not cooperate. But a few, typically ones in cushy jobs like Sholto's servant, grow to enjoy their servile status, and no longer resent their situation. Often they do not even have to be summoned, but are happy to engage in prolonged work for their masters, heedless of the pain they suffer from being continually trapped in a physical body. The rest of us generally regard them with hatred and contempt. However, it did give me an angle to work on.

"Cor!" I said. "I should think he is gracious and all. Why? 'Cos he knows how lucky he is to have your help. Reckon he can't do without you. I bet you're good at lugging heavy stuff around. And you can reach high shelves with that tail of yours, or use it to sweep the floor—"

The foliot drew himself up. "You cheeky fungus! The master values me for a great deal more than that! I'll have you know he refers to me (in company, mark you) as his assistant! I mind the shop for him while he takes his lunch. I keep the accounts, I help research the items that are offered, I have many contacts—"

"Hold on—'the items'?" I gave a low whistle. "You mean to say he lets you handle the merchandise—all his magical stuff, amulets and the like? Never!"

At this, the repellent creature actually simpered. "He does indeed! Mr. Pinn trusts me implicitly."

"What—real powerful things, or just the bog—end of the market: you know—hands of glory, mouler glasses, and such?"

" Of course powerful things! Items that are most dangerous and rare! The master has to be sure of their powers, you see, and check they aren't forgeries—and he needs my assistance for that."

"No! What sort of stuff, then? Not anything famous?" I was nicely settled in now, leaning on the wall. The traitorous slave's head was swelling so much, [49] Literally swelling, I mean. Like a lime—green balloon slowly inflated by a foot pump. Some foliots (the simple sort) change size and shape to express their mood. he had completely forgotten about turfing me out.

"Huh, you've probably not heard of any of them. Well, let me see… The highlight last year was Nefertiti's ankle bracelet! That was a sensation! One of Mr. Pinn's agents dug it up in Egypt and brought it over by special plane. I was allowed to clean it—actually clean it! Think of that when you're next flying about in the rain. The Duke of Westminster snapped it up at auction for a considerable sum. They say"—here he leaned closer, dropped his voice—"that it was a present for his wife, who is distressingly plain. The anklet confers great glamour and beauty on the wearer, which was how Nefertiti won the pharaoh, of course. But then, you wouldn't know anything about that." [50] How wrong can you get? I brought the anklet to Nefertiti in the first place. And I might add that she was a stunner before she put it on. (By the way, these modern magicians were mistaken. The anklet doesn't improve a woman's looks; it forces her husband to obey her every whim. I half wondered how the poor old Duke was getting on.)

"Nah."

"What else did we have? The wolf pelt of Romulus, the flute of Chartres, Friar Bacon's skull… I could go on, but I'd only bore you."

"All a bit above my head, guv'nor. Here, listen, I'll tell you something I've heard of. The Amulet of Samarkand. My master's mentioned that a few times. Bet you never cleaned that."

But this casual comment had struck some sort of nerve. The foliot's eyes narrowed and his tail gave a quiver. "Who is your master, then?" he said abruptly. "And where's your message? I don't see you carrying any."

"Of course you don't. It's in here, ain't it?" I tapped my head with a claw. "As for my master, there ain't no secret about that. Simon Lovelace's the name. Perhaps you've seen him about."

This was a bit of a gamble, bringing the magician into the equation. But the foliot's manner had changed at the mention of the Amulet, and I didn't want to increase his suspicions by evading the question. Fortunately, he seemed impressed.

"Oh, it's Mr. Lovelace, is it? You're a new one for him, aren't you? Where's Nittles?"

"He lost a message last night. The master stippled him permanently."

"Did he? Always thought Nittles was too frivolous. Serves him right." This pleasant thought seemed to relax the foliot; a dreamy look came into his eye. "Real gent, Mr. Lovelace is, a perfect customer. Always dresses nice, asks for things politely. Good friend of Mr. Pinn, of course… So he was on about the Amulet, was he? Of course, that's not surprising, considering what happened to it. That was a nasty business and they've still not found the murderer, six months on."

This made me prick up my ears, but I didn't show it. I scratched my nose casually.

"Yeah, Mr. Lovelace said something bad had happened. Didn't say what, though."

"Well, he wouldn't to a speck like you, would he? Some people reckon it was the Resistance what did it, whatever that is. Or a renegade magician—that's more likely, perhaps. I don't know, you'd think with all the resources the State's got—"

"So what did happen to the Amulet? It got nicked, did it?"

"It got stolen, yes. And there was murder involved too. Grisly. Dear me, it was most upsetting. Poor, poor Mr. Beecham." And so saying, this travesty of a foliot wiped a tear from his eye. [51] You could see how far he'd gone over to the enemy by the way he described the death of a magician as "murder." And was upset! Honestly, it almost makes you long for the simple aggression of Jabor. "You asked me if we'd had the Amulet here? Well, of course not. It was far too valuable to be presented on the open market. It's been government property for years, and for the last thirty of them it was kept under guard at Mr. Beecham's estate in Surrey. High security, portals and all. Mr. Beecham used to mention it occasionally to Mr. Pinn when he came to see us. He was a fine man—hard but fair, very admirable. Ah, me."

"And somebody stole the Amulet from Beecham?"

"Yes, six months ago. Not one portal was triggered, the guards were none the wiser, but late one evening it was gone. Vanished! And there was poor Mr. Beecham, lying beside its empty case in a pool of blood. Quite dead! He must have been in the room with the Amulet at the time the thieves entered, and before he could summon help they'd cut his throat. What a tragedy! Mr. Pinn was most upset."