"More extraordinary than ever! With my scrying glass, I have been watching you both chattering away like fishwives for the last ten minutes! What explanation can there be? Perhaps my eyesight is fading at last in my advanced old age." The magician drew his monocle out of a waistcoat pocket, screwed it into position over his left eye[53] and took a couple of steps forward, idly swinging his cane. Simpkin flinched but made no answer.

"Well then." The cane suddenly swung in my direction. "Your message, imp, where is it?"

I touched my forelock respectfully. "I entrusted it to my memory, sir. My master considered it too important to be inscribed on paper."

"Is that so?" The eye behind the monocle looked me up and down. "And your master is…"

"Simon Lovelace, sir!" I gave a smart salute and stood to attention. "And if you'll give me leave, sir, I shall relay his message now, then depart. I do not wish to take up any more of your time."

"Quite so." Sholto Pinn drew closer and fixed me keenly with both eyes. "Your message—please proceed."

"Simply this, sir. 'Dear Sholto, Have you been invited along to Parliament tonight? I've not—the Prime Minister seems to have forgotten me and I feel rather snubbed. Please respond with advice A.S.A.P. All the best for now, Simon. Word for word, that is, sir, word for word." This sounded plausible enough to me, but I didn't want to push my luck. I saluted again and set off for the door.

"Snubbed, eh? Poor Simon. Mmm." The magician considered a moment. "Before you go, what is your name, imp?"

"Erm—Bodmin, sir."

"Bodmin. Mmm." Sholto Pinn rubbed one of his chins with a thick, jeweled finger. "You're doubtless keen to get back to your master, Bodmin, but before you go I have two questions."

Reluctantly I drew to a halt. "Oh—yes, sir."

"What a polite imp you are, to be sure. Well, first—why would Simon not write down such a harmless note? It is hardly seditious and might well become mangled in the memory of a lesser demon such as yourself."

"I have a very fine memory, sir. Renowned for it, I am."

"Even so, it is out of character… No matter. My other question…" And here Sholto moved a step or two closer and sort of loomed. He loomed very effectively. In my current shape I didn't half feel small. "My other question is this: why did Simon not ask my advice in person fifteen minutes ago, when I met him for a prearranged lunch?"

Ah. Time to leave.

I made a leap for the exit, but quick as I was, Sholto Pinn was quicker. He banged his cane on the floor and tilted it forward. A yellow ray of light shot from the end and collided with the door, sending out globular plasms that froze instantly against anything they touched. I somersaulted over them through a cloud of icy vapor and landed on the top of a display stand chock—full of satin undergarments. The staff let out another beam; before it hit I was already in midair, leaping over the head of the magician and landing hard on the top of his counter, scattering papers in every direction.

Then I spun and fired off a Detonation—it collided directly with the magician's back, propelling him forward straight into the frozen display stand. He had a protective field around him—I could see it as pretty yellow sparkles when I flipped through the planes—but though there wasn't the hole in him I wanted, he was badly winded. He subsided gasping into a mess of icy boxer shorts. I set off for the nearest window, intending to bust my way out into the street.

I had forgotten Simpkin. Stepping smartly from behind a rack of cloaks, he swung a giant staff (with a tag marked Extra—large) directly at my head. I ducked; the staff smashed into the glass front of the counter. Simpkin drew back to repeat the blow; I leaped at him, wrested the staff from his claws and gave him a clout that reversed the topography of his features. With a grunt he fell back into a pile of silly hats, and I proceeded on my way.

Between two mannequins, I spied a nice open stretch of window, made of clear, curved glass that refracted the incoming sunlight into gentle rainbow colors. It looked very pretty and expensive. I fired a Detonation through it, sending a cloud of powdered glass shards pluming out into the street, and dived for the hole.

Too late. As the window broke, a trap was triggered.

The mannequins turned round.

They were made of dark polished wood—the kind of shop dummy that has no human features, just a slender smooth oval where the face should be. The barest suggestion of a nose perhaps, but no mouth, no eyes. They were modeling the latest fashionable wizard gear: his—'n'—hers black suits with slim white pinstripes and razor—sharp lapels; lemon—white shirts with high, well—starched collars; daringly colorful ties. They wore no shoes: from each trouser—leg projected only a simple nub of wood.

As I leaped between them, their arms shot out to bar the way. From the depths of each sleeve a silver blade extended and clicked into place in their finger—less hands. I was going too fast to stop, but I was still holding the extra—large staff. The blades swung toward me in two synchronized arcs. I raised the staff in front of my face just in time: the blades sank deep into it, almost cutting right through and jerking me to a sudden painful halt.

For a moment I felt the cold aura of the silver against my skin,[54] then I let go of the staff and flung myself back. The mannequins shook their blades; my staff fell to the floor in two halves. They bent their knees and sprang—

I back—flipped over the counter.

The silver blades bit into the parquet flooring where I had just stood.

I needed to change, and fast—the falcon form would probably do—but I also needed to defend myself. Before I could make up my mind quite how, they were upon me again, whistling through the air, wind ruffling their oversize collars. I dived to one side, crashing into a pile of empty gift boxes. One mannequin landed on the countertop, the other behind it, their smooth heads turning toward me.

I could feel my energy getting low. Too many changes, too many spells in too short a time. But I wasn't helpless yet. I cast an Inferno on the nearer mannequin—the one creeping along the counter. A burst of blue fire erupted from its crisp white shirtfront and began to spread quickly across the fabric. Its tie shriveled, its jacket smoldered. The mannequin ignored this, as it was bound to do;[55] it raised its blade again. I edged back. The mannequin bent its legs, ready to spring. Fire was licking across the torso; now the varnished timber body was itself ablaze.

The mannequin jumped high into the air and looped down onto me, the flames dancing behind it like an outstretched cloak. At the last moment I jumped aside. It hit the ground heavily. There was a painful crack: the weakened, burning wood had splintered in the impact. The mannequin gave a lopsided stride toward me, its body swaying at a grotesque angle—then its legs gave way. It collapsed in a fiery mess of blackening limbs.

I was about to do the same to its companion, which had hopped over the bonfire and was fast approaching, when a slight sound behind alerted me to the partial recovery of Sholto Pinn. I glanced back. Sholto was half sitting up, looking as if he'd been hit by a herd of buffalo. A pair of Y—fronts draped his forehead at a fetching angle. But he was still dangerous. He groped for his staff, found it, stabbed it in my direction. The yellow ray of light shot out once more—but I was already gone from the spot, and the plasms enveloped the second mannequin in mid bound. Its limbs helplessly frozen, it crashed to the floor, shattering a leg into a dozen pieces.