The Amulet of Samarkand

else?" I managed to skid the van to a halt a few millimeters away from the ornamental shrubbery and got out. The flunky approached.
    "Mr. Squalls?"
    "That's me, guv'nor. This here's... my son."
    "You're late. The cook has need of your items. Please bring them to the kitchen with all speed."
    "Yes, guv'nor." An uneasy feeling ran through my essence and rippled the bristles on the back of my neck. The cook... No, it wouldn't be. He'd be elsewhere, surely. I opened the van door. "Son—snap to it, or you'll feel the back of my hand!"
    I took a certain bleak pleasure in loading the boy up with as many jars of Syrian olives and giant land snails as I could, then propelled him on his way. He staggered off under his load, not unlike Simpkin in Pinn's shop.[5] I selected a small tub of larks' tongues and followed him through the doors and into a cool, whitewashed passage. Various servants of every shape, sex, and size were racing about like startled hares, engaged in a hundred tasks; everywhere there was a great clattering and hubbub. A scent of baked bread and roasting meats hung in the air, emanating from a wide arch that led on to the kitchen.
     
    [5] Don't think I'd forgotten Simpkin. On the contrary. I have a long memory and a fertile imagination. I had plans for him.
     
    I peered through the arch. Dozens of white-clothed under-cooks, chopping, basting, rinsing, slicing... Something turned on the spit in the fireplace. Stacks of vegetables were piled high on tables beside open pastry cases being filled with jellied fruits. It was a hive of activity. Orchestrating it all was a sizeable head chef, who at that moment was shouting at a small boy wearing a blue uniform.
    The chef's sleeves were rolled up. He had a thick white bandage wrapped round one arm.
    I checked the seventh plane.
    And ducked back out of sight. I knew those tentacles far too well for there to be any doubt.
    My master had entered the kitchen, placed his precarious load on a nearby work surface and was coming out again, none the wiser. As he rounded the door I thrust the larks' tongues into his hand.
    "Take those too," I hissed. "I can't go in."
    "Why?"
    "Just do it."
    He had the sense to obey, and quickly, for the servant in the dark uniform had reappeared in the corridor, and was observing us intently. We headed back out again for the next load.
    "The head cook," I whispered, as I pulled a crate of boar pâté to the back of the van, "is the djinni Faquarl. Don't ask me why he likes that disguise, I've no idea. But I can't go in. He'll spot me instantly."
    The boy's eyes narrowed. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
    "You'll just have to trust me on this one. There—you can manage another sack of ostrich steaks, can't you? Oops. Perhaps not." I helped him to his feet. "I'll unload the van; you take the stuff in. We'll both think what to do."
    During the course of several round-trips for the boy, we thrashed out a plan of campaign. It took a fair bit of thrashing to reach agreement. He wanted us both to slip past the kitchen to explore the house, but I was extremely reluctant to go anywhere near Faquarl. My idea was to unload, ditch the van in the trees somewhere and creep back to start our investigations, but the kid would have none of this. "It's all right for you," he said. "You can cross the lawns like a gust of poisonous wind or something; I can't—they'll catch me before I'm halfway. Now that I'm at the house, I've got to go in."
    "But you're a grocer's boy. How will you explain that when you're seen?"
    He smiled an unpleasant smile. "Don't worry. I won't be a grocer's boy for long."
    "Well, it's too risky for me to pass the kitchen," I said. "I was lucky just now. Faquarl can usually sense me a mile off. It's no good; I'll have to find another way in."
    "I don't like it," he said. "How will we meet up?"
    "I'll find you. Just don't get caught in the meantime."
    He shrugged. If he was terrified out of his wits, he was doing a good job of hiding it. I piled the last baskets of plovers' eggs into his hands and watched him waddle off into the house. Then I shut the van doors, left the keys on the driver's seat and considered the position. I soon abandoned my idea of disposing of the van in the trees: that was more likely to attract attention than just quietly leaving it here. No one was worrying about the florist's van, after all.
    There were too many windows in the house. Something could be watching from any of them. I walked toward the door