The Amulet of Samarkand

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.
     
    [2] Most of us enact our duties only under sufferance, simply because we are hurt if we do not cooperate. But a few, typically ones in cushy jobs like Sholto's servant, grow to enjoy their servile status, and no longer resent their situation. Often they do not even have to be summoned, but are happy to engage in prolonged work for their masters, heedless of the pain they suffer from being continually trapped in a physical body. The rest of us generally regard them with hatred and contempt.
     
    "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 forgotten about turfing me out.
     
    [3] Literally swelling, I mean. Like a lime-green balloon slowly inflated by a foot pump. Some foliots (the simple sort) change size and shape to express their mood.
     
    "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]
     
    [4] How wrong can you get? I brought the anklet to Nefertiti in the first place. And I might add that she was a stunner before she put it on. (By the way, these modern magicians were mistaken. The anklet doesn't improve a woman's looks; it forces her husband to obey her every whim. I half wondered how the poor old Duke was getting on.)
     
    "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