The Amulet of Samarkand

where I'm directed and bring replies by return, never deviating from my course and never pausing—unless I am so fortunate as to be waylaid by your good grace and squashed under a stone."
    "Indeed. Well, who is Lovelace closest to? Who do you carry messages to most often?"
    "O Most Glorious Person of High Repute, perhaps Mr. Schyler is his most frequent correspondent. Otherwise, no one stands out. They are mainly politicians and people of stature in London society. All magicians, of course, but they vary greatly. Only the other day, for instance, I carried messages to Tim Hildick, Minister for the Regions, to Sholto Pinn of Pinn's Accoutrements and to and from Quentin Makepeace, the theatrical impresario. That is a typical cross-section."
    "Pinn's Accoutrements—what's that?"
    "If anyone else asked that question, O He Who is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool; in you it is a sign of that disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue. Pinn's Accoutrements is the most prestigious supplier of magical artifacts in London. It is situated on Piccadilly. Sholto Pinn is the proprietor."
    "Interesting. So if a magician wanted to buy an artifact he would go to Pinn's?"
    "Yes."
    "What?"
    "I'm sorry, Miraculous One, it's difficult to think of new titles for you when you ask short questions."
    "We'll let it pass this time. So, other than Schyler, no one stands out among all his contacts? You're sure?"
    "Yes, Exalted Being. He has many friends. I cannot single one out."
    "Who's Amanda?"
    "I could not say, O Ace One. Perhaps she is his wife. I have never taken messages to her."
    " ' O Ace One.' You really are struggling, aren't you? All right. Two last questions coming up. First: have you ever seen or delivered messages to a tall, darkbearded man wearing a travel-stained cloak and gloves? Glowering, mysterious. Second: What servants does Simon Lovelace employ? I don't mean squirts like yourself, but potent ones like me. Look sharp and I might remove this pebble before I go."
    The imp's voice was doleful. "I wish I could satisfy your every whim, Lord of All You Survey, but first, I fear I have never set eyes on such a bearded person, and second, I do not have access to any of the magician's inner chambers. There are formidable entities within; I sense their power, but fortunately I have never met them. All I know is that this morning the master installed thirteen ravenous krels in his grounds. Thirteen! One would be bad enough. They always go for my leg when I arrive with a letter."
    I debated for a moment. My biggest lead was the Schyler connection. He and Lovelace were up to something, no doubt about it, and if I eavesdropped at Parliament that evening, I might very well find out what. But that meeting was hours away; in the meantime, I thought I would call in on Pinn's Accoutrements of Piccadilly. For sure, Lovelace hadn't got his Amulet there, but I might learn something about the bauble's recent past if I checked the place out.
    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.
     
    [5] Besides, it would have given me a stitch when flying.
     
    "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 myself, 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