"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 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—pate 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[47] 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.
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 a—knocking 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 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.[48] However, it did give me an angle to work on.
"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,[49] he had completely forgotten about turfing me out.
"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."[50]
48
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.
49
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.
50
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.)