The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Fourteen,” Mr. Hopkins said. “And seven dialects.”

  “There! How about that? He does not have resilience as we do, sadly, but he can provide back-up support.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Mr. Hopkins said.

  Whenever Kitty tried to bring Mr. Hopkins to mind, she found it was an oddly difficult task. It wasn’t that he was unusual in any way—quite the opposite, in fact. He was extremely ordinary. His hair, perhaps, was straight and mousy, his face was smooth, clean-shaven. It was hard to say if he was old or young. He had no standout features, no funny quirks or unusual ways of speaking. All in all, there was something so instantly forgettable about the man that even in his company, as he was actually speaking, she would find herself switching off him, listening to the words, but ignoring the speaker. It was a decidedly curious thing.

  Mr. Hopkins was treated with some suspicion by the company at first, primarily because, lacking resilience, he did not go out on forays to bring artifacts home. Instead, his forte was information, and in this he quickly proved his worth to the group at large. His job at the library, together, perhaps, with his oddly unmemorable character, allowed him to eavesdrop on the magicians. As a result, he was often able to predict their movements, allowing raids to be carried out on their properties while they were away; he heard tell of artifacts newly sold by Pinn’s, enabling Mr. Pennyfeather to organize appropriate burglaries. Above all, Mr. Hopkins uncovered a wider range of incantations, allowing new weapons to be used in a wider range of Resistance attack. The accuracy of his tips was such that soon everyone came to rely on him implicitly. Mr. Pennyfeather was still the group’s leader, but Mr. Hopkins’s intelligence was their guiding light.

  Time passed. Kitty left school at the standard age of fifteen. She had what few qualifications the school provided, but saw no future in the joyless factory work or the secretarial jobs offered by the authorities. An agreeable alternative presented itself: at Mr. Pennyfeather’s suggestion, and to the satisfaction of her parents, she became an assistant working in his art shop. Among a hundred other tasks, she learned to keep the ledger, cut watercolor paper, and sort brushes into a dozen varieties of bristle. Mr. Pennyfeather did not pay well, but Kitty was content enough.

  At first, she enjoyed the danger of her activities with the company; she liked the warm and secret thrill she got when passing government workers struggling to paint over some grafittied slogan, or seeing an outraged headline in The Times complaining about the latest thefts. After a few months, to escape her parents’ scrutiny, she rented a small room in a rundown tenement five minutes from the shop. She kept long hours, working in the shop by day and with the company at night; her complexion grew pale, her eyes hardened by the perpetual threat of exposure and repeated loss. Each year brought further casualties: Eva killed by a demon at a house in Mayfair, her resilience unable to withstand its attack; Gladys lost during a warehouse blaze, when a dropped sphere started a fire.

  As the company contracted, there came a sudden sense that the authorities were striving to hunt them down. A new magician, named Mandrake, was active: demons in the guise of children were seen, making inquiries about the Resistance and offering magical goods for sale. Human informers appeared in pubs and cafés, flourishing pound notes in return for information. There was a beleaguered air to the meetings in the backroom of Mr. Pennyfeather’s shop. The old man’s health was waning; he was irritable and his lieutenants restless. Kitty could see that a crisis was coming.

  Then came the fateful meeting, and the biggest challenge of all.

  21

  “They’re here.”

  Stanley had been keeping watch at a grille in the door, peering out into the main room of the shop. He had been there some time, tense and still; now he sprang into action, pulled back the bolt and opened the door. He stepped aside, pulling his cap from his head.

  Kitty heard the familiar slow tapping of the stick approaching. She rose from her seat, arching her back to smooth out the aches and chill. Beside her, the others did likewise, Fred rubbing his neck and swearing under his breath. Of late, Mr. Pennyfeather had grown more insistent on these little courtesies.

  The only light in the backroom came from a lantern on the table; it was late, and they did not want to attract the attention of passing spheres. Mr. Hopkins, who came in first, paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust, then moved aside to guide Mr. Pennyfeather through the door. In the half-light, their leader’s shrunken form looked even more diminished than usual; he shuffled in like an animated skeleton. Nick’s reassuring bulk brought up the rear. All three entered the room, Nick closing the door softly behind them.

  “Evening, Mr. Pennyfeather, sir.” Stanley’s voice was less chipper than normal; to Kitty’s ears it carried a nauseating false humility. There was no reply. Slowly, Mr. Pennyfeather approached Fred’s wicker chair; each step seemed to give him pain. He sat. Anne moved across to place the lantern in a niche beside him; his face was wreathed in shadow.

  Mr. Pennyfeather rested his stick against his chair. Slowly, one finger at a time, he plucked his gloves from his hands. Mr. Hopkins stood beside him, neat, quiet, instantly forgettable. Anne, Nick, Kitty, Stanley, and Fred remained standing. This was a familiar ritual.

  “Well, well, sit, sit.” Mr. Pennyfeather placed his gloves on his knee. “My friends,” he began, “we have come a long way together. I need not dwell on what we have sacrificed, or”—he broke off, coughed—“for what end. It has lately been my opinion, reinforced by my good Hopkins here, that we lack the resources to carry the fight to the enemy. We do not have enough money, enough weapons, enough knowledge. I believe we can now rectify this.”

  He paused, made an impatient signal. Anne hurried forward with a glass of water.

  Mr. Pennyfeather gulped noisily. “That’s better. Now. Hopkins and I have been away, studying certain papers stolen from the British Library. They are old documents, nineteenth century. From them, we have discovered the existence of an important cache of treasures, many of considerable magical power. If we can gain possession of it, we stand to revolutionize our fortunes.”

  “Which magician has them?” Anne asked.

  “At present, they are beyond the magicians’ reach.”

  Stanley stepped forward eagerly. “We’ll travel wherever you want, sir,” he cried. “To France, or Prague, or … or the ends of the earth.” Kitty rolled her eyes skyward.

  The old man chuckled. “We do not have to go quite as far as that. To be precise, we only have to cross the Thames.” He allowed the ripple of bemusement to subside. “These treasures are not in some far temple. They are very close to home, somewhere we have all passed a thousand times. I will tell you—” He raised his hands to quell the rising hubbub. “Please, I will tell you. They are at the heart of the city, the heart of the magicians’ empire. I am talking about Westminster Abbey.”

  Kitty heard the others’ intakes of breath, and felt a shiver of excitement run up her spine. The abbey? But no one would dare—

  “You mean a tomb, sir?” Nick asked.

  “Indeed, indeed. Mr. Hopkins—if you would explain further?”

  The clerk coughed. “Thank you. The abbey is the burial site of many of the greatest magicians of the past—Gladstone, Pryce, Churchill, Kitchener, to name but a few. They lie entombed in secret vaults deep beneath the floors, and with them lie their treasures, items of power that the faltering fools of today can only guess at.”

  As always when Mr. Hopkins spoke, Kitty scarcely acknowledged him; she was toying with his words, with the possibilities they suggested.

  “But they laid curses on their tombs,” Anne began. “Terrible punishments await those who open them.”

  From the depths of his chair, Mr. Pennyfeather let out a wheezing laugh. “Today’s leaders—poor excuses for magicians, all—certainly avoid the tombs like the plague. They are cowards, every one. They quail at the thought of the revenge their ancestors might take, were they to disturb their bones.” />
  “The traps can be avoided,” Mr. Hopkins said, “with careful planning. We do not share the magicians’ almost superstitious fear. I have been looking among the records and I have discovered a crypt that contains marvels you could scarcely dream of. Listen to this …” From his jacket, the clerk produced a folded piece of paper. In dead silence, he opened it, drew a small pair of spectacles from his pocket and perched them on his nose. He read: “Six bars of gold, four jeweled statuettes, two emerald-headed daggers, a set of onyx globes, a pewter chalice, an—ah, this is the interesting bit—an enchanted pouch of black satin, filled with fifty gold sovereigns—” Mr. Hopkins glanced up at them over his spectacles. “This pouch is unremarkable to look at, but consider this—no matter how much gold is removed from the pouch, it never grows empty. An unending source of revenue for your group, I think.”

  “We could buy weapons,” Stanley muttered. “The Czechs would supply us with stuff, if we could pay.”

  “Money can get you anything,” Mr. Pennyfeather chuckled. “Go on, Clem, go on. That isn’t all, by any means.”

  “Let me see …” Mr. Hopkins returned to the paper. “The pouch … ah yes, and an orb of crystal, in which—and I quote—‘glimpses of the future and the secrets of all buried and hidden things can be descried.’”

  “Imagine that!” Mr. Pennyfeather cried. “Imagine the power that would give us! We could anticipate the magicians’ every move! We could locate lost wonders of the past, forgotten jewels …”

  “We’d be unstoppable,” Anne whispered.

  “We’d be rich,” Fred said.

  “If true,” Kitty remarked quietly.

  “There is also a small bag,” Mr. Hopkins went on, “in which demons may be trapped—that might prove useful, if we can discover its incantation. Also a host of other, lesser items, including, let me see, a cloak, a wooden staff, and sundry other personal effects. The pouch, the crystal ball, and the bag are the pick of the treasures.”

  Mr. Pennyfeather leaned forward in the chair, grinning like a goblin. “So, my friends,” he said. “What do you think? Is this a prize worth having?”

  Kitty felt it was time to inject a note of caution. “All very well, sir,” she said, “but how come these marvels haven’t been taken before? What’s the catch?”

  Her comment seemed to puncture the mood of elation slightly. Stanley scowled at her. “What’s the matter?” he said. “This job not big enough for you? You’re the one who’s been moaning on about needing better strategy.”

  Kitty felt Mr. Pennyfeather’s gaze upon her. She shivered, shrugged.

  “Kitty’s point is valid,” Mr. Hopkins said. “There is a catch, or rather a defense around the crypt. According to the records, a Pestilence has been fixed to the keystone of the vault. This is triggered by the opening of the door. Should anyone enter the tomb, the Pestilence balloons from the ceiling and smites all those in the vicinity”—he glanced back at the paper—“‘to rend the flesh from their bones.’“

  “Lovely,” Kitty said. Her fingers toyed with the teardrop pendant in her pocket.

  “Er … how do you propose we avoid this trap?” Anne asked Mr. Pennyfeather politely.

  “There are ways,” the old man said, “but at present they are beyond us. We do not have the magical knowledge. However, Mr. Hopkins here knows someone who might help.”

  Everyone looked at the clerk, who adopted an apologetic expression. “He is, or was, a magician,” Mr. Hopkins said. “Please”—his words had sparked a chorus of disapproval—“hear me out. He is disaffected with our regime for reasons of his own, and seeks the overthrow of Devereaux and the rest. He has the necessary skill—and artifacts—to enable us to escape the Pestilence. He also”—Mr. Hopkins waited until there was silence in the room—“has the key to the relevant tomb.”

  “Who is he?” Nick said.

  “All I can tell you is that he’s a leading member of society, a scholar, and a connoisseur of the arts. He is an acquaintance of some of the greatest in the land.”

  “What’s his name?” Kitty said. “This is no good.”

  “I’m afraid he guards his identity very carefully. As should we all, of course. I have not told him anything about you either. But if you accept his assistance, he wishes to meet with one of you, very soon. He will pass on the information we require.”

  “But how can we trust him?” Nick protested. “He could be about to betray us.”

  Mr. Hopkins coughed. “I do not think so. He has helped you before, many times. Most of the tip-offs I have given you have been passed on by this man. He has long wished to advance our aims.”

  “I examined the burial documents from the library,” Mr. Pennyfeather added. “They seem genuine. It is too much effort for a forgery. Besides, he has known of us for years, through Clem here. Why does he not betray us if he wishes the Resistance harm? No, I believe what he is saying.” He got unsteadily to his feet, his voice turning harsh, congested. “And it is my organization, after all. You would do well to trust my word. Now, are there any questions?”

  “Just this,” Fred said, snapping his flick-knife open. “When do we start?”

  “If all goes well, we shall raid the abbey tomorrow night. It just remains—” The old man broke off, doubled over in a sudden fit of coughing. His hunched back cast strange shadows on the wall. Anne stepped across and helped him sit. For a long moment he was too short of breath to speak again.

  “I am sorry,” he said finally. “But you see how my condition goes. My strength is lessening. In truth, my friends, Westminster Abbey is the best opportunity I have. To lead you all to—to something better. This will be a new beginning.”

  And an appropriate end for you, Kitty thought. This is your last chance to achieve something concrete before you die. I just hope your judgment holds up, that’s all.

  As if he had read her mind, Mr. Pennyfeather’s head twisted suddenly in her direction. “It just remains,” he said, “to visit our mysterious benefactor and discuss terms. Kitty, since you are so sprightly today, you will go to meet him tomorrow.”

  Kitty returned his gaze. “Very well,” she said.

  “Now, then.” The old man turned to regard them all, one by one. “I must say I am a little disappointed. None of you has yet asked the identity of the person whose tomb we are about to enter. Are you not curious?” He laughed, wheezing.

  “Er, whose is it, sir?” Stanley asked.

  “Someone with whom you will all be familiar from your school days. I believe he still figures prominently in most lessons. None other than the Founder of our State, the greatest and most terrible of all our leaders, the hero of Prague himself”—Mr. Pennyfeather’s eyes glittered in the shadows—“our beloved William Gladstone.”

  22

  Nathaniel’s plane was due to leave the Box Hill aerodrome at six-thirty sharp. His official car would arrive at the Ministry an hour earlier, at five-thirty. This meant that he had approximately half a day to prepare himself for the most important assignment of his brief career in government: his trip to Prague.

  His first task was to deal with his servant and proposed traveling companion. On his return to Whitehall, he found a free summoning chamber and, with a clap of the hands, summoned Bartimaeus once more. When it materialized, it had rid itself of its panther guise, and was in one of its favored forms: a young dark-skinned boy. Nathaniel noted that the boy was not wearing its usual Egyptian-style skirt; instead, it was lavishly dolled up in an old-fashioned tweed traveling suit, with spats, gaiters and, incongruously, a leather flying helmet, complete with goggles, loose upon its head.

  Nathaniel scowled. “And you can lose those for starters. You’re not flying.”

  The boy looked wounded. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m traveling incognito, and that means no demons waltzing through customs.”

  “What, do they put us in quarantine now?”

  “Czech magicians will be scanning all incoming flights for magic, and they’ll
subject a British plane to the finest scrutiny of all. No artifact, book of magic, or idiot demon will get through. I shall have to be a ‘commoner’for the duration of my flight; you I’ll have to summon once I’ve arrived.”

  The boy raised its goggles, the better to look skeptical. “I thought the British Empire ruled the roost in Europe,” it said. “You broke Prague years ago. How come they’re telling you what to do?”

  “They’re not. We control the balance of power in Europe still, but officially we have a truce with the Czechs now. For the moment, we’re guaranteeing no magical incursions into Prague. That’s why this trip has to be done subtly.”

  “Speaking of subtle …” The boy gave a broad wink. “I did pretty well earlier, eh?”

  Nathaniel pursed his lips. “Meaning what?”

  “Well, I was on my best behavior this morning—didn’t you notice? I could have given your masters plenty of lip, but I restrained myself to help you out.”

  “Really? I thought you were your normal irritating self.”

  “Are you kidding? I was so oily, my feet practically slipped from under me. I can still taste that false humility on my tongue. But that’s better than being popped into one of dear Jessica’s Mournful Orbs again.” The boy shuddered. “My sucking up only lasted a few minutes, though. It must be horrible kowtowing to them perpetually, as you do, and knowing that you could stop that game at any time you wished, and go your own way—except that you haven’t got the bottle to do it.”

  “You can stop right there. I’m not interested in your opinion.” Nathaniel was having none of this—demons often threw half-truths at magicians to disorientate them. It was best to close your ears to their wiles. “Besides,” he added, “Duvall, for one, is not my master. I despise him.”