The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  There was a slight wriggling under the stone.

  “If you are finished, O Lenient One, might I be allowed to proceed on my way? I suffer the Red-hot Stipples if I am late delivering my messages.”

  “Very well.” It is not uncommon to swallow lesser imps that fall into one’s power, but that wasn’t really my style.5 I removed myself from the boulder and tossed it to one side. A paper-thin messenger folded himself in a couple of places and got painfully to his feet.

  “Here’re your letters. Don’t worry I haven’t doctored them.”

  “Nothing to do with me if you had, O Glorious Meteor of the East. I simply carry the envelopes. Don’t know nuffin about what’s in ’em, do I?” The crisis over, the imp was already reverting to his obnoxious type.

  “Tell no one about our meeting, or I’ll be waiting for you next time you set out.”

  “What, d’you think I’d go looking for trouble? No way. Well, if my drubbing’s over, I’m out of here.”

  With a few weary beats of his leathery wings, the imp rose into the air and disappeared over the trees. I gave him a few minutes to get clear, then I turned into a pigeon again and flew off rnyself, heading southward over the lonely heath to distant Piccadilly.

  17

  Pinn’s Accoutrements was the sort of shop that only the very rich or brave dare enter. Occupying an advantageous position at the corner of Duke Street and Piccadilly, it gave the impression that a palace of some kind had been dropped there by a gang of knackered djinn, and then been soldered on to the drabber buildings alongside. Its illuminated windows and fluted golden pillars stood out among the magicians’ book-shops and the caviar-and-pâté houses that lined the wide, gray boulevard; even when seen from the air, its aura of refined elegance stood out almost a mile away.

  I had to be careful when landing—many of the ledges had been spiked or painted with sticky lime to deter no-good pigeons such as me—but I finally settled on the top of a road sign with a good view of Pinn’s and proceeded to case the joint.

  Each window was a monument to the pretension and vulgarity to which all magicians secretly aspired: jeweled staffs rotated on stands; giant magnifying glasses were trained on sparkling arrays of rings and bracelets; automated mannequins jerked back and forth wearing swanky Italian suits with diamond pins in the lapels. On the pavement outside, ordinary magicians trudged along in their shabby work attire, gazed longingly at the displays and went away dreaming of wealth and fame. There were very few nonmagicians to be seen. It wasn’t a commoner’s part of town.

  Through one of the windows I could see a high counter of polished wood at which sat an immensely fat man dressed all in white. Perched precariously on a stool, he was busy issuing orders to a pile of boxes that wobbled and teetered beside him. A final command was given, the fat man looked away and the pile of boxes set off uncertainly across the room. A moment later they turned and I glimpsed a small stumpy foliot1 laboring beneath them. When he arrived at a set of shelves in one corner of the shop, he extended a particularly long tail and, with a series of deft movements, scooped the boxes one by one from the top of the pile and set them carefully on the shelf.

  The fat man I took to be Sholto Pinn himself, the owner of the shop. The messenger imp had said he was a magician, and I noticed that he had a gold-rimmed monocle stuffed against one eye. No doubt it was this that enabled him to observe his servant’s true shape, since on the first plane the foliot wore the semblance of a youth to prevent startling nonmagical passersby. As humans went, Sholto looked to be a formidable fellow; for all his size, his movements were fluid and powerful, and his eyes were quick and piercing. Something told me he would be difficult to fool, so I abandoned my first plan of adopting a human disguise and trying to draw information out of him.

  The small foliot looked a better bet. I waited patiently for my chance.

  When lunch time came, the trickle of well-heeled customers entering Pinn’s swelled a little. Sholto fawned and scraped; at his command the foliot scampered to and fro about the shop, gathering boxes, capes, umbrellas, or any other item that was required.

  A few sales were made, then the lunch hour drew to a close and the customers departed. Now Sholto’s thoughts turned to his belly. He gave the foliot a few instructions, put on a thick black overcoat, and left his shop. I watched him hail a cab and be driven off into the traffic. This was good. He was going to be some time.

  Behind him, the foliot had put up a CLOSED sign on the door and had retired to the stool beside the counter, where, in mimicry of Sholto, he puffed himself out importantly.

  Now was my chance. I changed my guise. Gone was the pigeon; instead a humble messenger imp, modeled on the one I’d beaten up at Hampstead, came a-knocking on Pinn’s door. The foliot looked up in surprise, gave me a glare and signaled for me to be gone. I knocked again, only louder. With a cry of exasperation, the foliot hopped off the stool, trotted across to the door, and opened it a crack. The shop bell tinkled.

  “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.2 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,3 he had completely forgot
ten 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.”4

  “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 permanendy.”

  “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.5 “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.”

  “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.6 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 eye7 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 forg
otten 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.