When we were in a remote enough area, I made the change from pigeon to gargoyle; then I swooped down upon the unlucky imp, and bundled us to earth among some scrubby trees. This done, I held him by a foot and gave him a decent shaking.

"Leggo!" he squealed, flailing back and forth with his four clawed paws. "I'll have you! I'll cut you to ribbons, I will!"

"Will you, my lad?" I dragged him into a thicket and fixed him nicely under a small boulder. Only his snout and paws protruded.

"Right," I said, sitting myself cross—legged on top of the stone and plucking the envelopes from a paw. "First I'm going to read these, then we can talk. You can tell me what and all you know about Simon Lovelace."

Affecting not to notice the frankly shocking curses that sounded up from below, I considered the envelopes. They were very different. One was plain and completely blank: it bore no name or mark and had been sealed with a small blob of red wax. The other was more showy, made of soft yellowish vellum, its seal had been pressed with the shape of the magician's monogram, SL. It was addressed to someone named R. Devereaux, Esq.

"First question," I said. "Who's R. Devereaux?"

The imp's voice was muffled but insolent. "You're kidding! You don't know who Rupert Devereaux is? You stupid or something?"

"A small piece of advice," I said. "Generally speaking, it isn't wise to be rude to someone bigger than you, especially when they've just trapped you under a boulder."

"You can stick your advice up—"

* * * * * * * * * *[44]

"I'll ask again. Who is Rupert Devereaux?"

"He's the British Prime Minister, O Most Bounteous and Merciful One."

"Is he?[45] Lovelace does move in high circles. Let's see what he's got to say to the Prime Minister, then…"

Extending the sharpest of my claws I carefully prised the sealing wax off the envelope with minimum damage and placed it on the boulder beside me for safekeeping. Then I opened the envelope.

It wasn't the most thrilling letter I've ever intercepted.

Just your typical groveling magician—speak, the kind of sycophantic twaddle that leaves an oily sensation on the tongue. And isn't greatly informative either. Still, at least I had no difficulty in guessing what "something extremely urgent" was—that could only be the missing Amulet, surely. Also, it was noticeable that he needed to sort it out before a "big event" next week—a conference of some kind. Perhaps that was worth investigating. As for Amanda: she could only be the woman I had seen with Lovelace on my first trip to the villa. It would be useful to learn more about her.

I replaced the letter carefully in the envelope, took up the sealing wax, and, by judiciously applying a tiny burst of heat, melted its underside. Then I stuck the seal down again and—presto! Good as new.

Next, I opened the second envelope. Inside was a small slip of paper, inscribed with a brief message.

Now, this was more like it! Much more suspicious: no addressee, no signature at the bottom, everything nice and vague. And, like all the best secret messages, its true meaning was concealed. Or at least, it would have been for any human numbskull who'd chanced to read it. I, on the other hand, instantly saw through all the tripe about lost tickets. Lovelace was quietly discussing his missing amulet again. It looked as if the kid was right: perhaps the magician did have something to hide. It was time to ask my friend the imp a few straight questions.

"Right," I said, "this blank envelope. Where are you taking it?"

"To the residence of Mr. Schyler, O Most Awful One. He lives in Greenwich."

"And who is Mr. Schyler?"

"I believe, O Light of All Djinn, that he is Mr. Lovelace's old master. I regularly take correspondence between them. They are both ministers in the Government."

"I see." This was something to go on, if not much. What were they up to? What was this «performance» that might have to be canceled? From the clues in both letters, it seemed that Lovelace and Schyler would meet to discuss their affairs this evening at Parliament. It would be well worth being there to hear what they had to say.

In the meantime, I resumed my enquiries. "Simon Lovelace. What do you know about him? What's this conference he's organizing?"

The imp gave a forlorn cry. "O Brilliant Ray of Starlight, it grieves me, but I do not know! May I be toasted for my ignorance! I simply carry messages, worthless as I am. I go 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 Make—peace, 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, 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."