Jonathan Stroud - The Amulet of Samarkand

"I'm sure he was. That's terrible, guv'nor, a most terrible thing." I looked as mournful as an imp can be, but hidden inside I was crowing with triumph. This was just the tasty bit of information I had been searching for. So Simon Lovelace had indeed had the Amulet stolen—and he'd had murder committed to get it. The black—bearded man that Nathaniel had seen in Lovelace's study must have gone there fresh from killing Beecham. Moreover, whether he was working on his own, or as part of some secret group, Lovelace had stolen the Amulet from the Government itself, and was thus engaged in treason. Well, if this didn't please the kid, I was a mouler.

One thing was for sure: the boy Nathaniel had got himself into deep waters when he'd ordered me to pinch the Amulet, far deeper than he knew. It stood to reason that Simon Lovelace would stop at nothing to get the thing back—and silence anyone who knew that he'd had it in the first place.

But why had he stolen it from Beecham? What made him risk the wrath of the State? I knew the Amulet by reputation—but not the exact nature of its power. Perhaps this foliot could help me on the matter. "That Amulet must be quite something," I said. "Useful piece, is it?"

"So my master informs me. It is said to contain a most powerful being—something from the deepest areas of the Other Place, where chaos rules. It protects the wearer against attack by—

The foliot's eyes strayed behind me and he broke off with a sudden gasp. A shadow enveloped him, a broad one that swelled as it extended out across the polished floor. The tinkling bell sounded as the door to Pinn's Accoutrements opened, briefly allowing the din of Piccadilly traffic into the shop's comfortable hush. I turned round slowly.

"Well, well, Simpkin," Sholto Pinn said, as he pushed shut the door with an ivory cane. "Entertaining a friend while I'm out, are we? While the cat's away…"

"N—n—no, master, not at all." The sniveling wretch was touching his forelock and bowing and retreating as best he could. His swollen head was visibly shriveling.

What an exhibition. I stayed where I was, cool as a cucumber, leaning against the wall.

"Not a friend?" Sholto's voice was low, rich, and rumbling; it somehow made you think of sunlight shining on age—blackened wood, of jars of beeswax polish and bottles of fine red port. [52] No? Oh, well. It's the poet in me, I think. It was a good—humored voice, seemingly always on the cusp of breaking into a throaty chuckle. A smile played on his thin, wide lips, but the eyes above were cold and hard. Close up he was even larger than I'd expected, a great white wall of a man. With his fur coat on, he might have been mistaken in bad light for a mammoth's backside.

Simpkin had edged away against the front of the counter. "No, master. H—he is a messenger for you. H—h—he brings a message."

"You stagger me, Simpkin! A messenger with a message! Extraordinary. So why didn't you take the message and send him on his way? I left you with plenty of work to do."

"You did, master, you did. He has only just arrived!"

"More extraordinary than ever! With my scrying glass, I have been watching you both chattering away like fishwives for the last ten minutes! What explanation can there be? Perhaps my eyesight is fading at last in my advanced old age." The magician drew his monocle out of a waistcoat pocket, screwed it into position over his left eye [53] With the aid of their lenses, magicians can see clearly onto the second and third planes and blearily onto the fourth. Sholto was no doubt checking me out on these. Fortunately my imp—form extended to the fourth, so I was safe. and took a couple of steps forward, idly swinging his cane. Simpkin flinched but made no answer.

"Well then." The cane suddenly swung in my direction. "Your message, imp, where is it?"

I touched my forelock respectfully. "I entrusted it to my memory, sir. My master considered it too important to be inscribed on paper."

"Is that so?" The eye behind the monocle looked me up and down. "And your master is…"

"Simon Lovelace, sir!" I gave a smart salute and stood to attention. "And if you'll give me leave, sir, I shall relay his message now, then depart. I do not wish to take up any more of your time."

"Quite so." Sholto Pinn drew closer and fixed me keenly with both eyes. "Your message—please proceed."

"Simply this, sir. 'Dear Sholto, Have you been invited along to Parliament tonight? I've not—the Prime Minister seems to have forgotten me and I feel rather snubbed. Please respond with advice A.S.A.P. All the best for now, Simon. Word for word, that is, sir, word for word." This sounded plausible enough to me, but I didn't want to push my luck. I saluted again and set off for the door.

"Snubbed, eh? Poor Simon. Mmm." The magician considered a moment. "Before you go, what is your name, imp?"

"Erm—Bodmin, sir."

"Bodmin. Mmm." Sholto Pinn rubbed one of his chins with a thick, jeweled finger. "You're doubtless keen to get back to your master, Bodmin, but before you go I have two questions."

Reluctantly I drew to a halt. "Oh—yes, sir."

"What a polite imp you are, to be sure. Well, first—why would Simon not write down such a harmless note? It is hardly seditious and might well become mangled in the memory of a lesser demon such as yourself."

"I have a very fine memory, sir. Renowned for it, I am."

"Even so, it is out of character… No matter. My other question…" And here Sholto moved a step or two closer and sort of loomed. He loomed very effectively. In my current shape I didn't half feel small. "My other question is this: why did Simon not ask my advice in person fifteen minutes ago, when I met him for a prearranged lunch?"

Ah. Time to leave.

I made a leap for the exit, but quick as I was, Sholto Pinn was quicker. He banged his cane on the floor and tilted it forward. A yellow ray of light shot from the end and collided with the door, sending out globular plasms that froze instantly against anything they touched. I somersaulted over them through a cloud of icy vapor and landed on the top of a display stand chock—full of satin undergarments. The staff let out another beam; before it hit I was already in midair, leaping over the head of the magician and landing hard on the top of his counter, scattering papers in every direction.

Then I spun and fired off a Detonation—it collided directly with the magician's back, propelling him forward straight into the frozen display stand. He had a protective field around him—I could see it as pretty yellow sparkles when I flipped through the planes—but though there wasn't the hole in him I wanted, he was badly winded. He subsided gasping into a mess of icy boxer shorts. I set off for the nearest window, intending to bust my way out into the street.

I had forgotten Simpkin. Stepping smartly from behind a rack of cloaks, he swung a giant staff (with a tag marked Extra—large) directly at my head. I ducked; the staff smashed into the glass front of the counter. Simpkin drew back to repeat the blow; I leaped at him, wrested the staff from his claws and gave him a clout that reversed the topography of his features. With a grunt he fell back into a pile of silly hats, and I proceeded on my way.

Between two mannequins, I spied a nice open stretch of window, made of clear, curved glass that refracted the incoming sunlight into gentle rainbow colors. It looked very pretty and expensive. I fired a Detonation through it, sending a cloud of powdered glass shards pluming out into the street, and dived for the hole.

Too late. As the window broke, a trap was triggered.

The mannequins turned round.

They were made of dark polished wood—the kind of shop dummy that has no human features, just a slender smooth oval where the face should be. The barest suggestion of a nose perhaps, but no mouth, no eyes. They were modeling the latest fashionable wizard gear: his—'n'—hers black suits with slim white pinstripes and razor—sharp lapels; lemon—white shirts with high, well—starched collars; daringly colorful ties. They wore no shoes: from each trouser—leg projected only a simple nub of wood.