The Amulet of Samarkand

his perceptive eye. He would not be taken in by my cunning fly guise for one fraction of a second.
     
    It was a pity I wasn't a spider. They can sit still for hours and think nothing of it. Flies are far more jittery. But if I changed here, the magician's slave would be certain to sense it. I had to force my unwilling body to lurk, and ignore the ache that was building up again, this time inside my chitin.
    The magician was talking. He did little else. The woman gazed at him with spaniel eyes so wide and silly with adoration that I wanted to bite her.
    "...It will be the most magnificent occasion, Amanda. You will be the toast of London society! Did you know that the Prime Minister himself is looking forward to viewing your estate? Yes, I have that on good authority. My enemies have been hounding him for weeks with their vile insinuations, but he has always remained committed to holding the conference at the Hall. So you see, my love, I can still influence him when it counts. The thing is to know how to play him, how to flatter his vanity.... Keep it to yourself, but he is actually rather weak. His speciality is Charm, and even that he seldom bothers with now. Why should he? He's got men in suits to do it for him...."
     
    The magician rattled on like this for several minutes, name-dropping with tireless energy. The woman drank her wine, nodded, gasped, and exclaimed at the right moments, and leaned closer to him along the sofa. I nearly buzzed with boredom.[3]
     
    [3] A human who listened to the conversation would probably have been slackjawed with astonishment, for the magicians account of corruption in the British Government was remarkably detailed. But I for one was not agog Having seen countless civilizations of far greater panache than this one crumble into dust, I could rouse little interest in the matter I spent the time fruitlessly trying to recall which unearthly powers might have been bound into Simon Lovelace's service. It was best to be prepared.
     
    Suddenly the imp became alert. Its head swiveled 180 degrees and peered at a door at the other end of the room. It tweaked the magician's ear gently in warning. Seconds later, the door opened and a black-jacketed flunky with a bald head stepped respectfully in.
    "Pardon me, sir, but your car is ready."
    "Thank you, Carter. We shan't be a moment."
    The flunky withdrew. The magician replaced his (still full) wineglass on the coffee table and took hold of the woman's hand. He kissed it gallantly. Behind his back the imp made faces of extreme disgust.
    "It pains me to have to go, Amanda, but duty calls. I will not be home this evening. May I call you? The theater, tomorrow night, perhaps?"
    "That would be charming, Simon."
    "Then that is settled. My good friend Makepeace has a new play out. I shall get tickets presently. For now, Carter will drive you home."
    Man, woman, and imp exited, leaving the door ajar. Behind them, a wary fly crept from its hiding place and sped soundlessly across the room to a vantage point that gave a view of the hall. For a few minutes there was activity, coats being brought, orders given, doors slammed. Then the magician departed his house.
    I flew out into the hall. It was wide and cold, and had a floor of black-andwhite tiles. Bright green ferns grew from gigantic ceramic pots. I circled the chandelier, listening. It was very quiet. The only sounds came from a distant kitchen, and they were innocent enough—just the banging of pots and plates and several loud belches, presumably emanating from the cook.
    I debated sending out a discreet magical pulse to see if I could detect the whereabouts of the magician's artifacts, but decided that it was far too risky. The sentry creatures outside might pick it up, for one thing, even if there was no further guard. I, the fly, would have to go hunting myself.
    All the planes were clear. I went along the hall, then—following an intuition— up the stairs.
    On the landing a thickly carpeted corridor led in two directions, each lined with oil paintings. I was immediately interested in the right-hand passage, for halfway along it was a spy. To human eyes it was a smoke alarm, but on the other planes its true form was revealed: an upside-down toad with unpleasantly bulbous eyes sitting on the ceiling. Every minute or so it hopped on the spot, rotating a little. When the magician returned, it would relate to him anything that had happened.
    I sent a small magic the toad's way. A thick oily