Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 1 (18 page)

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, dark-bearded 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 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 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.[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 claw. "As for my master, there ain't no secret about that. Simon Lovelace's the name. Perhaps you've seen him about."

This was a bit of a gamble, bringing the magician into the equation. But the

foliot's manner had changed at the mention of the Amulet, and I didn't want to increase his suspicions by evading the question. Fortunately, he seemed impressed.

"Oh, it's Mr. Lovelace, is it? You're a new one for him, aren't you? Where's

Nittles?"

"He lost a message last night. The master stippled him permanently."

"Did he? Always thought Nittles was too frivolous. Serves him right." This

pleasant thought seemed to relax the foliot; a dreamy look came into his eye. "Real gent, Mr. Lovelace is, a perfect customer. Always dresses nice, asks for things politely. Good friend of Mr. Pinn, of course... So he was on about the Amulet, was he? Of course, that's not surprising, considering what happened to it.