The Amulet of Samarkand

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' bookshops 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 foliot[1] 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.
     
    [1] Foliot: a cut-price djinni.
     
    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 aknocking 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