The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  Nathaniel had long been eager to employ a servant of his own. He had first summoned a goblin-imp, which appeared in a yellow guff of brimstone; it was secured to his service, but Nathaniel soon found its tics and grimaces unendurable and dismissed it from his sight.

  Next he had tried a foliot: although it maintained a discreet appearance, it was compulsively mendacious, trying to twist every one of Nathaniel’s commands to its advantage. Nathaniel had been forced to frame even the simplest orders in complex legal language that the creature could not pretend to misconstrue. It was when he found himself taking fifteen minutes to order his servant to run a bath that Nathaniel’s patience expired; he blasted the foliot with hot Palpitations and banished it for good.

  Several more attempts followed, with Nathaniel recklessly summoning ever more powerful demons in his search for the ideal slave. He had the necessary energy and skill, but lacked the experience to judge the character of his choices before it was too late. In one of his master’s white-bound books, he had located a djinni named Castor, last summoned during the Italian Renaissance. It duly appeared, was courteous and efficient and (Nathaniel was pleased to note) effortlessly more elegant than the ungainly imps of his colleagues in the office. However, Castor possessed a fiery pride.

  One day, an important social function had been held at the Persian Consulate; it was an opportunity for everyone to display their servants, and thus their aptitude. At first all went well. Castor accompanied Nathaniel at his shoulder in the form of a fat, pink-faced cherub, even going so far as to wear a drape that matched its master’s tie. But its coy appearance aroused the distaste of the other imps, which whispered insults as they passed. Castor could not ignore such provocation; in a flash it bounded from Nathaniel’s side, seized a shish kebab from a platter and, without even pausing to remove the vegetables from the skewer, hurled it like a javelin through the chest of the worst offender. In the ensuing pandemonium, several other imps leaped into the fray; the second plane became awash with whirling limbs, brandished silverware, and contorted bog-eyed faces. It took the magicians many minutes to regain control.

  Fortunately Nathaniel had dismissed Castor on the instant, and despite an investigation, it was never satisfactorily resolved which demon had begun the fight. Nathaniel would have dearly liked to punish Castor for its actions, but summoning it again was far too risky. He reverted to less ambitious slaves.

  However, try as he might, nothing Nathaniel summoned had the combination of initiative, power, and obedience that he required. More than once, in fact, he was surprised to find himself thinking almost wistfully of his first servant …

  But he had resolved not to summon Bartimaeus again.

  Whitehall was filled with flocks of excitable commoners, straggling down to the river for the evening’s naval sail-past and fireworks display. Nathaniel made a face; all afternoon, while he had been hunched at his desk, the sounds of marching bands and happy crowds had filtered through the open window, breaking his concentration. But it was an officially sanctioned nuisance and he could do nothing about it. On Founder’s Day, ordinary people were encouraged to celebrate; the magicians, who were not expected to swallow propaganda so wholeheartedly, worked as usual.

  All around him were red and shiny faces, happy smiles. The commoners had already enjoyed hours of free eating and drinking at the special stalls set up throughout the capital, and had been captivated by the free shows arranged by the Ministry of Entertainment. Every park in central London contained wonders: stilt-walkers; fire-eaters from the Punjab; rows of cages—some with exotic beasts, some containing sullen rebels captured in the North American campaigns; piles of treasures collected from around the Empire; military displays; fetes and carousels.

  A few of the Night Police were in evidence along the street, although even they were doing their best to fit in with the general frivolity. Nathaniel saw several holding sticks of bright pink candy floss and one, teeth bared in an unconvincing smile, posing with an elderly lady for her husband’s tourist snap. The mood of the crowd seemed relaxed, which was a relief—the events in Piccadilly had not overly agitated them.

  The bright sun was still high over the sparkling waters of the Thames as Nathaniel crossed Westminster Bridge. He squinted up; through his contact lenses, among the wheeling gulls, he saw the demons hovering, scanning the crowds for possible attack. He bit his lip, kicked savagely at a discarded falafel wrap. It was exactly the kind of day the Resistance would choose for one of their little stunts: maximum publicity, maximum embarrassment for the government…. Was it possible the Piccadilly raid had been one of theirs?

  No, he couldn’t accept it. It was too different from their normal crimes, far more savage and destructive in its scale. And it wasn’t the work of humans, whatever that fool Tallow might say.

  He arrived on the south bank and turned left, away from the crowds, into a restricted residential area. Below the quay, the magicians’ pleasure yachts lay bobbing unattended, Ms. Whitwell’s Firestorm the largest and most streamlined of the lot.

  As he approached the apartment block, the blaring of a horn made him start. Ms. Whitwell’s limousine was parked against the curb, its motor ticking. A stolid chauffeur stared out in front. From a rear window, his master’s angular head protruded. She beckoned him.

  “At last. I sent an imp, but you’d left already. Get in. We’re going to Richmond.”

  “The Prime Minister—?”

  “Wants to see us directly. Hurry up.”

  Nathaniel trotted to the car at speed, heart hammering in his chest. A sudden demand for an audience like this did not bode well.

  Almost before he’d slammed the door, Ms. Whitwell signaled to the chauffeur. The car set off abruptly along the Thames embankment, jerking Nathaniel back in his seat. He composed himself as best he could, aware of his master’s eyes upon him.

  “You know what this is about, I suppose?” she said, dryly.

  “Yes, ma’am. This morning’s incident in Piccadilly?”

  “Naturally. Mr. Devereaux wants to know what we are doing about it. Notice I said ‘we,’John. As Security Minister, I’m responsible for Internal Affairs. I will be under some pressure over this. My enemies will seek to gain advantage over me. What will I tell them about this disaster? Have you made arrests?”

  Nathaniel cleared his throat. “No, ma’am.”

  “Who is to blame?”

  “We … are not altogether certain, ma’am.”

  “Indeed. I spoke to Mr. Tallow this afternoon. He blamed the Resistance quite clearly.”

  “Oh. Is … erm, is Mr. Tallow coming to Richmond, too, ma’am?”

  “He is not. I am bringing you because Mr. Devereaux has a liking for you, which may stand in our favor. Mr. Tallow is less presentable. I find him bumptious and incompetent. Hah, he cannot even be trusted to work a spell correctly, as his skin color attests.” She snorted down her pale, thin nose. “You are a bright boy, John,” she went on. “You understand that if the Prime Minister loses patience with me, I will lose patience with those below. Mr. Tallow is consequently a worried man. He trembles as he goes to bed. He knows that worse things than nightmares can come to a man as he sleeps. For the moment, he shields you from the full glare of my displeasure, but do not be complacent. Young as you are, you can be blamed for things quite easily. Already, Mr. Tallow seeks to displace responsibility onto you.”

  Nathaniel said nothing. Ms. Whitwell considered him for a while in silence, then turned to glare out at the river, where a flotilla of small naval vessels had begun to pass seaward with much fanfare. Some were ironclads bound for the far colonies, their wooden hulls encased with metal sheeting, others were smaller patrol boats, designed for European waters, but all had sails unfurled, flags waving. On the banks, crowds cheered, streamers were shot high above to fall into the river like rain.

  ***

  At that time, Mr. Rupert Devereaux had been Prime Minister for almost twenty years. He was a magician of secondary abilitie
s, but a consummate politician, who had succeeded in remaining in power through his ability to play his colleagues off one another. Several attempts had been made to overthrow him, but his efficient spy network had succeeded in almost every case in snaring the conspirators before they struck.

  Recognizing from the first that his rule depended, to some degree, on maintaining a lofty detachment from his lesser ministers in London, Mr. Devereaux had established his court at Richmond, some ten miles from the heart of the capital. Senior ministers were invited out to consult with him on a weekly basis; supernatural messengers maintained a constant flow of orders and reports, and so the Prime Minister kept himself informed. Meanwhile, he was able to indulge his inclination toward fine living, a habit for which the secluded nature of the Richmond estate was admirably suited. Among his other pleasures, Mr. Devereaux had developed a passion for the stage. For some years he had cultivated the acquaintance of the leading playwright of the day, Quentin Makepeace, a gentleman of boundless enthusiasm, who regularly attended Richmond to give the Prime Minister private one-man shows.

  As he grew older and his energies lessened, Mr. Devereaux rarely ventured forth from Richmond at all. When he did so—perhaps to review troops departing for the Continent, or to attend a first night theatrical performance—he was accompanied at all times by a bodyguard of ninth-level magicians and a battalion of horlas on the second plane. This caution had become more marked since the days of the Lovelace conspiracy, when Mr. Devereaux had very nearly died. His paranoia had grown up like a weed in good muck, twisting and twining itself tightly around all those who served him. None of his ministers could feel entirely secure with either their employment or their lives.

  The gravel road passed through a succession of villages made prosperous by Mr. Devereaux’s bounty, before ending at Richmond itself—a cluster of well-appointed cottages set about a broad green dotted with oaks and chestnut trees. At one side of the green was a tall brick wall, punctured by a wrought-iron gate that had been reinforced with the usual magical securities. Beyond this, a short drive between rows of box yew ended at the redbrick courtyard of Richmond House.

  The limousine hummed to a standstill before the entrance steps, and four scarlet-coated servants hurried forth in attendance. Although it was still daylight, bright lanterns hung above the porch and shone merrily in several of the tall windows. Somewhere far off, a string quartet played with melancholic elegance.

  Ms. Whitwell did not immediately signal for the car door to be opened.

  “It will be a full council,” she said, “so I needn’t tell you how to behave. No doubt Mr. Duvall will be at his most aggressive. He sees last night as a great opportunity to gain a decisive advantage. We must both be suitably composed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t let me down, John.”

  She tapped on the window; a servant leaped forward to open the car door. They passed together up shallow sandstone steps and into the foyer of the house. The music was stronger here, drifting lazily among the heavy drapes and Eastern furnishings, swelling occasionally, dying back again. The sound seemed quite close, but there was no sign of the musicians. Nathaniel did not expect to see them. On previous occasions when he had visited Richmond, similar music had always been playing; it followed you wherever you went, a permanent backdrop to the beauty of house and grounds.

  A manservant ushered them through a series of luxurious chambers, until they passed under a high white arch and into a long, open, sunlit room, evidently a conservatory appended to the house. On either side stretched brown flowerbeds, neat and empty and decorous, and studded with ornamental rosebushes. Here and there, invisible persons tilled the earth with rakes.

  Inside the conservatory, the air was warm, stirred only by a sluggish fan hanging from the ceiling. Below, on a semicircle of low couches and divans, reclined the Prime Minister and his retinue, drinking coffee from small, white Byzantine cups and listening to the complaints of an immense man in a white suit. Nathaniel’s stomach churned to see him there: this was Sholto Pinn, whose business had been ruined.

  “I regard it as the most despicable outrage,” Mr. Pinn was saying. “A gross affront. I have sustained such losses …”

  The couch nearest to the door was empty. Ms. Whitwell sat here, and Nathaniel, after a hesitation, did likewise. His quick eyes scanned the occupants of the room.

  First: Pinn. Ordinarily, Nathaniel regarded the merchant with suspicion and dislike, since he had been a close friend of the traitor Lovelace. But nothing had ever been proved, and clearly he was the injured party here. His lament rumbled on.

  “… that I fear I may never recover. My collection of irreplaceable relics is gone. All I have left is a faience pot containing a useless dried paste! I can scarcely …”

  Rupert Devereaux himself lounged on a high-backed couch. He was of average height and build, originally handsome, but now, thanks to his many and varied indulgences, slightly heavier around the jowls and belly. Expressions of boredom and annoyance flitted perpetually across his face as he listened to Mr. Pinn.

  Mr. Henry Duvall, the Chief of Police, sat nearby, arms folded, his gray cap resting squarely on his knees. He wore the distinctive uniform of the Graybacks, the elite cadre of the Night Police of which he was commander: a ruffed white shirt; a smog-gray jacket, squared, crisply pressed and decorated with bright red buttons; gray trousers tucked into long black boots. Bright brass epaulettes like claws gripped his shoulders. In such an outfit, his hulking frame appeared even bigger and broader than it was; silent and seated, he dominated the room.

  Three other ministers were present. A bland, middle-aged man with lank blond hair sat studying his nails—this was Carl Mortensen of the Home Office. Beside him, yawning ostentatiously, sat Helen Malbindi, the soft-spoken Information Minister. The Foreign Secretary, Marmaduke Fry, a man of capacious appetites, was not even pretending to listen to Mr. Pinn; he was engaged in loudly ordering an extra luncheon from a deferential servant.

  “… six croquette potatoes, green beans, sliced lengthways …”

  “… for thirty-five years I’ve built up my supplies. Each one of you has benefited from my experience …”

  “… and another cod roe omelette, with a judicious sprinkling of black pepper.”

  On the same couch as Mr. Devereaux, separated from him by a teetering pile of Persian cushions, sat a short, red-haired gentleman. He wore an emerald-green waistcoat, tight black trousers with sequins sewn into the fabric, and an enormous smile. He appeared to be enjoying the debate hugely. Nathaniel’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. Quentin Makepeace was the author of more than twenty successful plays, the latest of which, Swans of Araby, had broken box office records across the Empire. His presence in the company was somewhat incongruous, but not entirely unexpected. He was known to be the Prime Minister’s closest confidante, and the other ministers tolerated him with wary courtesy.

  Mr. Devereaux noted Ms. Whitwell’s arrival and raised an acknowledging hand. He coughed discreetly; instantly Mr. Pinn’s flow of grievances ceased.

  “Thank you, Sholto,” the Prime Minister said. “You are most articulate. We are all deeply moved by your predicament. Perhaps now we may get some answers. Jessica Whitwell is here, together with young Mandrake, whom I’m sure you all remember.”

  Mr. Duvall grunted, his voice heavy with irony “Who does not know the great John Mandrake? We follow his career with interest, particularly his efforts against the troublesome Resistance. I hope he brings news of a breakthrough in this case.”

  All eyes fixed upon Nathaniel. He gave a brief, stiff bow as courtesy required. “Good evening, sirs, madams. Erm, I have no firm news as yet. We have been carefully investigating the scene, and—”

  “I knew it!” The medals on the Police Chief’s chest swung and clicked with the force of his interruption. “You hear that, Sholto? ‘No firm news.’ Hopeless.”

  Mr. Pinn regarded Nathaniel through his monocle. “Indeed. Most disappo
inting.”

  “It is about time Internal Affairs was taken off this case,” Duvall continued. “We at the police could do a better job. It’s time the Resistance was crushed.”

  “Hear, hear.” Mr. Fry looked up briefly, then returned to the servant. “And a strawberry roulade for dessert …”

  “It certainly is,” Helen Malbindi said gravely “I have myself suffered some losses—a valuable collection of African spirit masks was taken recently.”

  “Some of my associates,” Carl Mortensen added, “were burgled, too. And the backroom of my Persian carpet supplier was set on fire last night.”

  From his corner, Mr. Makepeace smiled equably. “In truth, most of these crimes are terribly small scale, are they not? They do not truly hurt us. The Resistance are fools: they alienate the commoners with their explosions—people are frightened of them.”

  “Small scale? How can you say that,” Mr. Duvall cried, “when one of the most prestigious streets in London has been devastated? Our enemies around the world will be rushing home to communicate the good news—that the British Empire is too weak to prevent attacks on its own doorstep. That’ll go down well in the backwoods of America, I can tell you. And on Gladstone’s Day, above all.”

  “Which is a ridiculous extravagance, incidentally,” Morten-sen said. “A waste of valuable resources. I don’t know why we honor the old fool.”

  There was a chuckle from Mr. Makepeace. “You wouldn’t have said that to his face, Mortensen.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen …” The Prime Minister stirred himself. “We should not bicker. In one respect, Carl is correct. Founder’s Day is a serious business and must be done well. We befuddle the population with gaudy trivialities. Millions are taken from the Treasury to finance the free food and games. Even the Fourth Fleet has delayed embarking for America to provide a little extra spectacle. Anything that spoils the effect—and wounds Mr. Pinn into the bargain—needs to be quickly addressed. Currently, it is the job of Internal Affairs to investigate crimes of this nature. Now, Jessica, if you would care to report …”