The Golem's Eye

He was very out of shape; the flesh hung heavily on him, and his eyes were tired. He caught sight of the crow, and ran one hand through his hair in a distracted sort of way. A fleeting look of panic passed across his face, then dulled into resignation. He set down his tweezers on the desk.

  “What manner of demon are you?” he said.

  The crow was taken aback. “You wearing lenses or something?”

  The boy shrugged wearily. “My grandmama always said demons came as crows. And normal birds don’t slice their way through curtains, do they?”

  This last bit was admittedly true. “Well, if you must know,” I said, “I am a djinni of great antiquity and power. I have spoken with Solomon and Ptolemy, and hunted down the Sea Peoples in the company of kings. Currently, however, I am a crow. But enough about me.” I adopted a more efficient, businesslike tone. “You are the commoner Jakob Hyrnek?” A nod. “Good. Then prepare—”

  “I know who sent you.”

  “Er … You do?”

  “I’ve guessed this was coming for a long time.”

  The crow blinked in surprise. “Blimey. I found out only this morning.”

  “It makes sense. He’s decided to finish the job.” The boy shoved his hands deep into his dressing gown pockets and sighed feelingly.

  I was confused. “He has? What job was this? Listen—stop sighing like a girl and explain yourself.”

  “Killing me, of course,” Hyrnek said. “I assume you’re a more efficient demon than the last one. Although I have to admit he looked a lot more scary. You’re a bit drab and weedy. And small.”

  “Just hold hard a moment.” The crow rubbed its eyes with a wing tip. “There’s some mistake here. My master never heard of your existence until yesterday. He told me so.”

  It was the boy’s turn to do the perplexed bit. “Why would Tallow say that? Is he mad?”

  “Tallow?” The crow was practically cross-eyed with befuddlement. “Slow down! What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He sent the green monkey after me, of course. So I naturally assumed—”

  I held up a wing. “Let’s start again. I have been sent to find Jakob Hyrnek at this address. Jakob Hyrnek is you. Correct? Right. So far so good. Now, I know nothing about any green monkey—and let me tell you, incidentally, that looks aren’t everything. I may not seem much at present, but I’m a good deal more vicious than I appear.”

  The boy nodded sadly. “I thought you might be.”

  “Too right, buster. I’m nastier than any monkey you’re likely to come across, that’s for sure. Now, where was I? I’ve lost my thread … Oh, yes—I know nothing about the monkey and I certainly haven’t been summoned by Tallow. Which would be impossible in any case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was swallowed by an afrit last night. But that’s by the by—”

  Not to the boy, it wasn’t. At this news, his face lit up: his eyes widened, his mouth curved up and outward in a long, slow smile. His whole body, which had been slumped over his stool like a sack of cement, suddenly began to straighten and gain new life. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk so hard the knuckles cracked.

  “He’s dead? You’re sure?”

  “Saw it with these eyes. Well—not these ones, exactly. I was a serpent at the time.”

  “How did it happen?” He seemed uncommonly interested.

  “A summoning went wrong. The fool misread the words, or something.”

  Hyrnek’s grin broadened. “He was reading from a book?”

  “A book, yes—that’s generally where incantations are to be found. Now, can we please get back to the business at hand? I haven’t got all day.”

  “All right, but I’m very grateful to you for the information.” The boy did his best to compose himself, but kept grinning inanely and breaking into little chuckles. It really put me off my stride.

  “Look, I’m trying to be serious here. I warn you to take heed—oh hell!” The crow had taken a menacing step forward and stuck its foot into a glue pot. After a couple of tries, I managed to shake it off across the room, and began to scrape my toes clean against the corner of a wooden tray. “Now, listen,” I snarled as I scraped, “I’ve come here—not to kill you, as you surmised—but to take you away, and I advise you not to resist.”

  That knocked some sense into him. “Take me away? Where?”

  “You’ll see. Do you want to get dressed? I can spare you a little time.”

  “No. No, I can’t!” All of a sudden he was upset, rubbing at his face and scratching at his hands.

  I tried to be reassuring. “I won’t try to harm you—”

  “But I never go out. Never!”

  “You have no choice, sonny. Now, how about a pair of trousers? Those pajama bottoms look loose, and I fly at speed.”

  “Please.” He was desperate, pleading. “I never go out. I haven’t done so for three years. Look at me. Look at me. See?”

  I looked at him blankly. “What? So you’re a bit podgy. There’s worse than you out there walking the streets, and you’d solve the problem fast enough if you did some exercise instead of sitting on your backside here. Embossing spell books in your bedroom is no life for a growing boy. It’ll play hell with your eyesight, too.”

  “No—my skin! And my hands! Look at them! I’m hideous!” He was yelling now, thrusting his hands toward my beak, and flicking his hair back from his face.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “The coloring, of course! Look at it! All over me.” And sure enough, now that he came to mention it, I did see a series of vertical gray-black bands running up and down his face and across the backs of his hands.

  “Oh that,” I said. “What of it? I thought you’d done that intentionally.”

  Hyrnek gave a sort of silly, sobbing laugh at this, the kind that implies far too much time spent maundering in solitude. I didn’t allow him time to speak. “That’s a Black Tumbler, isn’t it?” I went on. “Well, the Banja people of Great Zimbabwe used to use that—among other spells—to make themselves look more attractive. It was considered very becoming for a young bridegroom to have a full body-coat of stripes before the wedding, and the women went in for it, too, on a more localized basis. Only the wealthy could afford it, of course, as the sorcerers charged the earth. Anyway, from their point of view you look extremely eligible.” I paused. “Except for your hair, which is pretty bad. But so’s my master’s, and it doesn’t stop him from flouncing about in broad daylight. Now, then”—amid all of that, I thought I’d heard a door slam somewhere in the house—“it’s time to go. No time for trousers, I fear; you’ll have to chance your luck with the updrafts.”

  I gave a hop along the desk. The boy slipped off his seat in sudden panic and began to back away. “No! Leave me alone!”

  “Sorry, can’t be done.” He was making too much noise; I could sense movement in a room below. “Don’t blame me—I haven’t got any choice.”

  The crow jumped onto the floor and began to change, swelling to ominous size. The boy screamed, turned, and flung himself at the door. An answering shout came from beyond it; it sounded maternal. I heard heavy feet hurrying up the stairs.

  Jakob Hyrnek wrestled with the handle, but never completed a single twist. A giant gold beak descended on the collar of his dressing gown; steel claws rotated in the carpet, slicing up the boards beneath. He was swung up and around, like a helpless cub dangling in its mother’s jaws. Mighty wings flapped once, overturning trays and sending gemstones pattering against the walls. A rush of wind; the boy was launched toward the window. A wing of scarlet feathers rose up to enclose him; glass shattered all around, cold air buffeted his body. He cried out, flailed wildly—and was gone.

  Anyone arriving at the gaping wall behind us would have seen nothing, heard nothing, except perhaps the shadow of a great bird flitting across the grass and some distant screams ascending into the sky.

  38

  That afternoon, Kitty walked past the Druids’ Coffeehouse three
times. On the first two occasions, she saw nothing and no one of interest, but on the third, her luck changed. Behind a gaggle of excitable European tourists, who took up several outlying tables, she discerned the calm figure of Mr. Hopkins, sitting quietly on his own, and stirring his espresso with a spoon. He seemed engrossed in his occupation, absently adding sugar cube after sugar cube to the dark black mix. But he never touched a drop.

  For a long time, Kitty watched him from the shadows of the statue in the center of the square. As always, Mr. Hopkins’s face was bland and quite expressionless: Kitty found it impossible to read what he was thinking.

  Her betrayal by her parents had left Kitty more exposed than ever, friendless and alone, and a second hungry night in the cellar had convinced her of the need to speak with the one ally she had any hope of finding. Nick, she firmly believed, would have gone deep into hiding; but Mr. Hopkins, always at one remove from the rest of the Resistance, might still be approachable.

  And here, sure enough, he was, waiting in the appointed place; yet Kitty still hung back, wracked with uncertainty.

  Perhaps it was not strictly Mr. Hopkins’s fault that the raid had gone so badly wrong. Perhaps none of the old documents he had studied had mentioned Gladstone’s servant. Nevertheless, Kitty could not help but associate his careful advice with the terrible outcome in the tomb. Mr. Hopkins had introduced them to the unknown benefactor; he had helped orchestrate the whole scheme. At the very least, his strategy had been woefully lacking; at worst—he had recklessly endangered them all.

  But with the others gone, and the magicians on her heels, Kitty had few options remaining. At last, she stepped out from behind the statue and crossed the cobblestones to Mr. Hopkins’s table.

  Without a greeting, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Mr. Hopkins looked up; his pale gray eyes appraised her. His spoon made little scratching noises against the edges of the cup as he stirred. Kitty stared at him impassively. A bustling waiter approached; Kitty made a cursory order and allowed him to depart. She did not say anything.

  Mr. Hopkins withdrew the spoon, tapped it on the cup’s rim and laid it carefully on the table. “I heard the news,” he said, abruptly. “I’ve been looking for you the last day and more.”

  Kitty uttered a mirthless laugh. “You’re not the only one.”

  “Let me say at once—” Mr. Hopkins broke off as the waiter reappeared, set a milkshake and an iced bun before Kitty with a flourish, and departed. “Let me say at once how … dreadfully sorry I am. It is an appalling tragedy.” He paused; Kitty looked at him. “If it is any consolation, my … informant was profoundly upset.”

  “Thank you,” Kitty said. “It isn’t.”

  “The information we had—and which we shared openly and completely with Mr. Pennyfeather—made no mention of a guardian,” Mr. Hopkins continued imperturbably. “The Pestilence—yes, but nothing else. Had we known, we would never of course have countenanced such a scheme.”

  Kitty studied her milkshake; she didn’t trust herself to speak. All of a sudden, she felt quite sick.

  Mr. Hopkins watched her for a moment. “Are all the others—” he began, then stopped. “Are you the only one—?”

  “I would have thought,” Kitty said bitterly, “that with an information network as sophisticated as yours, you would know by now.” She sighed. “Nick survived, too.”

  “Ah? Really? Good, good. And where is Nick?”

  “I have no idea. And I don’t care. He ran, while the others fought.”

  “Ah. I see.” Mr. Hopkins toyed with his spoon again. Kitty stared at her lap. She realized now that she did not know what to ask of him, that he was as nonplussed as she was. It was no good: she was quite alone.

  “It is of course inconsequential now,” Mr. Hopkins began, and something in his tone made Kitty look up at him sharply. “Given the nature of the tragedy that has taken place, it is inconsequential and irrelevant, of course, but I suppose—what with the unexpected dangers you encountered, and the misfortune of losing so many of your admirable companions—that you did not manage to bring anything of value out of the tomb?”

  This statement was so rambling and circuitous that it immediately had the opposite effect of what its cautious speaker intended. Kitty’s eyes widened in disbelief; her brows slowly lowered into a frown.

  “You’re right,” she said crisply “It is irrelevant.” She ate the iced bun in two mouthfuls and took a sip of her milkshake.

  Mr. Hopkins began stirring his coffee again. “But then, nothing was taken?” he prompted. “You were unable …” His voice trailed off.

  When Kitty had sat down at the table, she had had the vague intention of mentioning the staff to Mr. Hopkins; it was, after all, of no use to her, and it was possible that the benefactor, who had wanted it for his collection, might be prepared to give her some payment in return—money for survival was now uppermost on her mind. She had assumed, under the circumstances, that Mr. Hopkins would draw a decent line under the whole business; she had not expected to hear him pressing her so openly for booty from the haul. She thought of Anne, death hard on their trail in the darkened nave, agonizing about dropping her bag of treasures. Kitty’s lips became a hard line.

  “We loaded up with the contents of the tomb,” she said. “But we couldn’t escape. Perhaps Nick managed to get something out; I don’t know.”

  Mr. Hopkins’s pale eyes studied her. “But you yourself—you took nothing?”

  “I dropped my bag.”

  “Ah. Of course. I see.”

  “I had the cloak in it, among other things. You’ll have to apologize most profusely to your informant; that was one of the objects he wanted, wasn’t it?”

  The man made a noncommittal gesture. “I don’t recall. I don’t suppose you happen to know what became of Gladstone’s Staff, do you? I believe he did have his eyes on that.”

  “I imagine that was left behind.”

  “Yes…. Only there was no mention of its being located in the abbey, nor any sign of it in the skeleton’s possession as it traveled about London.”

  “Nick took it then.… I don’t know. What does it matter? It’s not valuable, is it? According to you.” Kitty spoke casually, but she was watching the other’s face as she did so. He shook his head.

  “No. Quite so. My informant will be disappointed, that is all. He did so have his heart set on it, and he would have paid lavishly to have it in his hands.”

  “We’re all of us disappointed,” Kitty said. “And most of us are dead. He can live with it.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Hopkins tapped his fingers against the tablecloth; he appeared to be thinking. “Well,” he said, brightly, “what of you, Kitty? What are your plans now? Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

  “Do you require help? Somewhere to stay?”

  “No, thank you. It would be better if we stayed out of each other’s way. The magicians have traced my family; I don’t want to put you—or your informant—at any risk.” Nor did Kitty wish to associate herself any longer with Mr. Hopkins. His evident unconcern at her colleagues’ deaths had startled her; now she wished to be as far removed from him as possible. “In fact” —she pushed her chair back—“I should probably leave now.”

  “Your concern does you credit. I obviously wish you continued fortune. Before you go, however”—Mr. Hopkins scratched his nose, as if wondering how to phrase something a little difficult—“I think perhaps you should hear something I’ve learned from one of my sources. It affects you quite closely.”

  Kitty paused in the act of rising. “Me?”

  “I’m afraid so. I heard this little more than an hour ago. It is very secret; most of the government doesn’t know about it themselves. One of the magicians hunting for you—his name is John Mandrake, I believe—has been researching your past. He has learned that some years back a Kathleen Jones appeared at the Judicial Courts, charged with assault.”

  “So?” Kitty kep
t her face still, but her heart was suddenly beating fast. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Indeed. Going through the record of the trial, he discovered that you had launched an unprovoked attack on a senior magician, for which you were fined. He regards this as one of the first attacks by the Resistance.”

  “Ridiculous!” Kitty exploded with fury. “It was an accident! We had no idea—”

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Hopkins went on, “he knows that you did not launch this attack alone.”

  Kitty sat very still. “What? He doesn’t think—”

  “Mr. Mandrake believes—whether rightly or wrongly is perhaps beside the point—that your friend … What was his name, now? Jakob something …”

  “Hyrnek. Jakob Hyrnek.”

  “That’s it. He believes Master Hyrnek is associated with the Resistance, too.”

  “That’s ridiculous—!”

  “Even so, at some point this morning, he sent his demon to take your friend away for questioning. Oh dear; I thought it might upset you.”

  It took Kitty a few seconds to gather herself. When she spoke, it was haltingly “But I haven’t even seen Jakob for years. He knows nothing.”

  “Mr. Mandrake will doubtless discover as much. Eventually.”

  Kitty’s head spun. She tried to gather her thoughts. “Where have they taken him? Is it … the Tower?”

  “I hope, my dear, that you aren’t thinking of doing anything rash,” Mr. Hopkins murmured. “Mr. Mandrake is considered one of the strongest of the young magicians. A talented boy; one of the Prime Minister’s favorites. It would not be advisable—”

  Kitty forced herself not to scream. Every moment that they delayed, Jakob might be being tortured; demons worse than the skeleton might be surrounding him, goading him with their claws … And he was wholly innocent; he had nothing to do with her at all. What a fool she was! Her reckless actions over the last few years had endangered someone for whom she would once have given her life.

  “I would try to forget young Hyrnek,” Mr. Hopkins was saying. “You can do nothing—”

  “Please,” she said. “Is it the Tower of London?”