The Golem's Eye

  The young man gestured at the sofa. “Would you like to sit down, Ms. Jones?” he said politely. “We can discuss things in an agreeable manner if you wish.” The edges of his mouth twitched. “Or are you going to leap from the window at a single bound?”

  By articulating the very thought that was running through her mind, the magician—intentionally or not—caught Kitty off guard. Now was not the time. She flushed, pursed her lips, and sat on the sofa, where she regarded the magician as calmly as she could.

  So this was the Mandrake whose servants had pursued the Resistance for so many months. She would have known his profession a mile off; his clothes were the giveaway—a long black coat, a ridiculously tight black suit, shiny patent leather shoes. An outsize red handkerchief rose up from his breast pocket like a leaf of coral. His hair grew long about his face, which was thin and pale. Kitty realized for the first time how very young he truly was: still in his teens, certainly no older than she, perhaps considerably younger. As if to offset this, he had steepled his hands in an assertive manner, legs crossed, one foot twitching with the motion of a lapcat’s tail, and adopted a smile that would perhaps have been urbane, had his eagerness not kept showing through.

  His youth gave Kitty a little confidence. “What do you want, Mr. Mandrake?” she asked in a level voice.

  The magician reached out, picked up the nearest cup and saucer and took a sip of tea. With ostentatious care, he placed the ensemble down upon the armrest of his chair and arranged it carefully. Kitty and her parents watched him in silence. “Very nice, Mrs. Jones,” he said at last. “A very tolerable beverage. Thank you for your worthy hospitality.” This pleasantry elicited only a small sob from Kitty’s mother.

  Kitty did not look at her. Her gaze was fixed on the magician. “What do you want?” she said.

  This time, he replied. “First to tell you that you are, as of this moment, under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” Kitty knew her voice was shaking.

  “Well, let me see …” The steepled fingers tapped together, beating out the list. “Terrorism; belonging to an outlaw group; treachery against Mr. Devereaux, his government and the Empire; wanton damage of property; conspiracy to murder; malicious theft; desecration of a sacred resting place … I could go on, but it would only distress your mother. It is a melancholy situation that two such honest, loyal parents should have been cursed with a daughter like you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kitty said levelly. “These are serious charges. What is your evidence?”

  “You have been witnessed in the company of known criminals, members of the so-called Resistance.”

  “Witnessed? What does that mean? Who says so?”

  “Kathleen, you stupid girl, tell him the truth,” her father said.

  “Shut up, Dad.”

  “These known criminals,” the magician went on, “were found this morning, lying dead in a vault in Westminster Abbey, which they had previously ransacked. One of them was a Mr. Pennyfeather, whom I believe you work for.”

  “I always knew he was a bad lot,” Kitty’s mother whispered.

  Kitty took a deep breath. “I regret to hear this, but I can hardly be expected to know everything my employer got up to in his own private time. You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Mandrake.”

  “Then you deny associating out of hours with this Pennyfeather?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  “What about his fellow traitors? Two youths: Fred and Stanley by name?”

  “Many people worked for Mr. Pennyfeather part-time. I knew them, but not well. Is that it, Mr. Mandrake? I don’t believe you have any proof at all.”

  “Well, if it comes to that …” The magician sat back in his chair and grinned. “One might ask why your clothes are so covered in white stains. It almost looks like grave-mold, when seen in a certain light. One might ask why you were not at your employer’s shop this morning, when it was your duty to open the doors. One might possibly draw attention to documents that I have just been reading in the Public Records Office. They relate to a certain trial: Kathleen Jones versus Julius Tallow—a most interesting case. You have a previous criminal record, Ms. Jones. Fined a considerable sum for an attack on a magician. And then, not least, there’s the witness who saw you fencing stolen goods in the company of the sadly deceased Fred and Stanley; a witness whom you attacked and left for dead.”

  “And who is this precious witness?” Kitty snarled. “Whoever he is, he’s lying.”

  “Oh, I think he’s very reliable.” The magician gave a little chuckle and pushed the hair back from the sides of his face. “Remember now?”

  Kitty looked at him blankly. “Remember what?”

  The magician’s forehead runkled. “Well—Me, of course.”

  “You? Have we met before?”

  “You don’t recall? Well, it was several years ago; I admit I was different then.”

  “Less foppish, perhaps?” Kitty heard her mother give a faint moan of distress; the sound had as little effect on her as if it had been uttered by a stranger.

  “Don’t cheek me, girl.” The magician recrossed his legs—with some difficulty, owing to the tightness of his trousers, and smiled thinly. “Mind you—why not? Fire off all the cheap comments you like. It won’t make any difference to your fate.”

  Now that the end had come, Kitty found she had no fear; only an overwhelming sense of irritation at the jumped-up youth sitting opposite. She folded her arms and looked him fully in the face. “So go on, then,” she said. “Enlighten me.”

  The boy cleared his throat. “Perhaps this will refresh your memory. Three years ago in North London … One cold December night … No?” He sighed. “An incident in a back alley?”

  Kitty shrugged wearily. “I’ve had a lot of incidents in alleys. You must have a forgettable face.”

  “Ah, but I never forgot yours.” His anger leaped to the surface now; he leaned forward in his seat, knocking the cup with an elbow, and spilling tea upon the chair. His eyes flashed guiltily at Kitty’s parents. “Oh—sorry.”

  Kitty’s mother launched herself at the spot, dabbing with a napkin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Mandrake! Please don’t worry.”

  “You see, Ms. Jones,” the magician went on, lifting the cup off the chair arm so that Kitty’s mother could dab around it more effectively, “I never forgot you, though I saw you only for a moment. Nor did I forget your colleagues, Fred and Stanley, since it was they who robbed me, they who tried to kill me.”

  “Robbed you?” Kitty frowned. “What did they take?”

  “A valuable scrying glass.”

  “Oh …” A dim memory swam into Kitty’s mind. “You were that kid in the alley? The little spy. I remember you now—and your glass. That was a shoddy piece of work.”

  “I made that!”

  “We couldn’t even get it to start.”

  Mr. Mandrake gathered himself with difficulty and spoke in a dangerously controlled voice. “I notice that you have stopped denying the charges.”

  “Oh, yes,” Kitty said, and as she did so felt more consciously alive than she had done for many months. “They’re true, all right. All of what you said, and more. I’m only sorry it’s all over now. No wait—I deny one thing. You said I left you for dead in that alley. That isn’t so. Fred would have cut your throat, but I spared you. Heaven knows why, you miserable little sneak. I should have done the world a favor.”

  “She doesn’t mean this!” Her father had jumped to his feet and was standing between them, as if his body would shield the magician from his daughter’s words.

  “Oh, but she does, she does.” The boy was smiling, but his eyes danced with rage. “Go ahead, let her talk.”

  Kitty had barely paused for breath. “I despise you and all the other magicians! You care nothing for people like us! We’re just here to … to provide your food and clean your houses and make your clothes! We slave away in your factories and workshops, while you and your demons live in luxury!
If we cross your paths we suffer! Like Jakob did! You’re all callous and wicked and heartless and vain!”

  “Vain?” The boy adjusted the tilt of his handkerchief. “How wonderfully hysterical. I’m just well turned out. Presentation’s important, you know.”

  “Nothing’s important to you—get off me, Mum.” In her fury, Kitty had risen; her mother, half-maddened by distress, was clutching at her from the side. Kitty pushed her away. “Oh” she snarled, “and if you want a tip on presentation, those trousers are far too tight.”

  “Is that so?” The boy rose too, his coat billowing about him. “I’ve heard enough. You’ll be able to refine your sartorial opinions at leisure in the Tower of London.”

  “No!” Kitty’s mother sank to the floor. “Please, Mr. Mandrake …”

  Kitty’s father was standing as if his bones pained him. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  The magician shook his head. “I’m afraid your daughter has long since chosen her path. I regret it for your sakes, since you are loyal to the State.”

  “She has always been a headstrong girl,” Kitty’s father said quietly, “but I never realized she was wicked, too. That incident with Jakob Hyrnek should have taught us something, but we always hoped for the best, Iris and me. And now, with our armies going off to war in America, and threats as never before on every side, to find our girl’s a traitor, neck-deep in crime … Well, it’s broken me, it really has, Mr. Mandrake. I always tried to bring her up right.”

  “I’m sure you did,” the magician said hastily. “Nevertheless—”

  “I used to take her to watch the march-pasts, see the soldiers during the festivals. I had her on my shoulders on Imperial Day, when the crowds in Trafalgar cheered the Prime Minister for an hour. You might not remember that, Mr. Mandrake, you’re so young yourself, but it was a grand occasion. And now that little daughter of mine’s gone, and in her place is this surly vixen, who’s got no respect for her parents, her betters … or her country.” There was a catch in his voice as he finished.

  “You really are an idiot, Dad,” Kitty said.

  Her mother was still half-kneeling on the floor, beseeching the magician. “Not the Tower for her, Mr. Mandrake, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones—”

  “It’s all right, Mum—” Kitty did not hide her contempt. “You can get off your knees. He won’t be taking me to the Tower. I don’t see how he can.”

  “Oh yes?” The boy looked amused. “You doubt that, do you?”

  Kitty peered into the far corners of the room. “You seem to be alone.”

  A faint smile. “Only in a manner of speaking. Now, then. An official car waits in the next street. Are you going to come with me quietly?”

  “No, Mr. Mandrake, I am not.” Kitty launched herself forward; swung a fist. It caught the boy on his cheekbone with a dull crack; he capsized, sprawling into the chair. Kitty stepped over her prone mother and made for the door, but a firm grasp on her shoulder jerked her back. Her father: white-faced, eyes blank and staring.

  “Dad—leave off!” She wrenched at his sleeve, but his grip was iron-strong.

  “What have you done?” He looked at her as if she were something monstrous, an abomination. “What have you done?”

  “Dad … Just let me go. Please, just let me go.”

  Kitty struggled, but her father only gripped the harder. From her position on the floor, her mother reached out to clutch Kitty’s leg halfheartedly, as if uncertain whether she intended supplication or restraint. Over in the chair, the magician, who had been shaking his head like a fuddled dog, turned his gaze toward them. His eyes, when they focused, were venomous. He spoke a few harsh syllables in a strange tongue and clapped his hands. Kitty and her parents stopped their struggle; a brackish vapor seeped from nowhere into the air. At its heart, a dark form: blue-black, with slender horns and leathery wings, appraising them with a wicked leer.

  The magician rubbed the side of his jaw and flexed it. “The girl,” he said. “Secure her and don’t let go. You may grasp her hair as painfully as you wish.”

  The creature chirruped harshly in answer, beat its wings, and flew out of its vapor nest. Kitty’s father gave a low moan; his grasp on Kitty’s shoulder loosened. Her mother flung herself back against the corner of the dresser and hid her face.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Kitty said. “A mouler? Please.” She stretched out a hand, and before the startled creature could even reach her, seized it by its neck, swung it around her head a few times, and threw it back into the magician’s face, where it burst with a flatulent sound. An eruption of purple, bitter-smelling droplets peppered his suit and coat and the surrounding furnishings. He cried out in shock; reaching for his handkerchief with one hand, he made a mystic sign with the other. Instantly, a small red-faced imp appeared at his shoulder, bounded onto the dresser and opened its mouth. A bolt of orange flame shot out at Kitty, catching her on her chest and knocking her back against the door. Her mother screamed; her father cried out. The imp capered with triumph—and stopped, mid-caper. Kitty was straightening up, dusting off her smoldering jacket and staring at the magician with a grim smile. With a quick movement, she drew her throwing disc from her jacket and flourished it; the magician, who had lurched toward her in his fury, stepped hurriedly back. “You can wear the tightest trousers you please, Mr. Mandrake,” she said, “but the fact remains, you’re a conceited small-timer. If you follow me, I’ll kill you. Good-bye. Oh, and don’t worry, Mum, Dad”—she turned to look at each one calmly—“I won’t ruin your reputation any further. You won’t see me again.”

  With that, and leaving parents, magician, and imp staring at her back, she turned, opened the door, and passed through. Then she walked slowly and deliberately up the hall and out of the front door into the warm evening. In the street, she chose a direction arbitrarily and walked off, never looking behind her. Only when she had rounded the nearest corner and had begun to run did her tears finally begin to flow.

  36

  Nathaniel’s fury at the failure of his swoop knew no bounds. He returned to Whitehall in a vicious temper, urging his chauffeur to ever greater speeds and beating the leather seat with his fist at any mild delay. He dismissed the car outside Internal Affairs, and, despite the lateness of the hour, stomped across the courtyard to his office. Here he snapped on the lights, threw himself into his chair, and began to think.

  He had badly miscalculated, and the fact that he had been so close to success made his failure all the more galling. He had been absolutely right to check the Public Records in search of Kathleen Jones’s name: he’d uncovered the typescript of her trial—together with her home address—in less than an hour. He’d been right; to visit the parents, too. They were malleable fools, both of them, and his original plan—to get them to detain their daughter should she return home, while secretly informing him—would have worked out perfectly, had the girl not arrived back earlier than expected.

  Yet even that would have been fine, had she not unexpectedly displayed some kind of personal defense against the minor demons. Perplexing … The parallels with the mercenary were obvious, of course; the real question was whether their powers were their own, or the product of some spell. His sensors had not detected anything.

  If Bartimaeus had been with him, it might have shed some light on the source of the girl’s power and perhaps prevented her escape. It was a great pity the djinni was on the other mission.

  Nathaniel regarded his jacket sleeve, now permanently marked with remnants of the mouler. He muttered a curse. Conceited small-timer … It was hard not to admire the girl’s strength of character. Nevertheless, Kitty Jones would pay dearly for that insult.

  Alongside his anger, he was uneasy, too. He could, with great simplicity, have requested police backup, or asked Whitwell to provide vigilance sphere surveillance of the parents’ house. But he had not done so. He had wanted the success for himself and himself alone. Retrieving the Staff would have enhanced his
status immeasurably—the Prime Minister would have lauded him to the skies. Perhaps he would have been promoted, allowed to explore the powers of the Staff … Duvall and Whitwell would have been left looking uncomfortably over their shoulders.

  But the girl had gotten away—and should anyone learn about his failure, he would be held to account. The death of Tallow had left his colleagues prickly, agitated and even more paranoid than normal. It was not a good time to be found out. He had to locate the girl, and quickly.

  At that moment, a ringing in his ear warned him of an approaching magic. He stood alert and, an instant later, saw Bartimaeus materializing in the midst of a blue cloud. It wore its gargoyle form. Nathaniel rubbed his eyes and composed himself.

  “Well? You have something to report?”

  “Lovely to see you, too.” The gargoyle reached down, plumped the cloud into the shape of a cushion, and sat with a sigh. “Yep. Vent, vidi, vici and all that. The afrit is no more. I’m knackered. Though not, possibly, as much as you. You look dreadful.”

  “You disposed of the demon?” Nathaniel perked up. This was good news. It would count for much with Devereaux.

  “Sure did. Drowned him in the Thames. Word is already spreading. And by the way, you were right—it was that Kitty who nicked the Staff. Have you caught her yet? No? Well, better stop making faces and get busy tracking her down. Hey …” The gargoyle peered closer. “You’ve got a bruise on your cheek. Someone’s been fighting!”

  “No I haven’t. It’s not important.”

  “Scrapping like a street kid! Was it over a girl? A matter of honor? Come on, you can tell me!”

  “Just forget about it. Listen—I am pleased at your success. Now we must locate the girl.” Nathaniel prodded the bruise gingerly with a finger. It smarted.

  The gargoyle sighed. “Easier said than done. Where, pray, do I start?”

  “I don’t know. I need to think. For the moment, you are dismissed. I’ll summon you again in the morning.”