The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Put that down, little girl,” the skeleton said in a tone of great vexation. “It burns me. Must be good quality to do that, as it’s so small.”

  “Back off,” Kitty snarled. Somewhere behind her was the cloister door.

  “Now, am I likely to do that? I’m on a charge, you know. In fact, I’m on two. Protect Gladstone’s possessions, first of all. Check. Well done, Honorius. No problem there. Destroy all invaders of the tomb, second. Marks so far? Ten out of twelve. Not bad, but room for improvement. And you, little girl, are number eleven.” It made a sudden lunge; Kitty sensed the bony fingers swiping in the dark; with a cry, she ducked, held up the pendant. There was a brief flurry of green sparks and an animal howl.

  “Ow! Curse you! Put it down!”

  “Now, am I likely to do that?” Kitty felt a cold breeze behind her, took two more retreating steps and nearly collided with the open door. She edged around it, down the step and into the cloister.

  The skeleton was a shadowy form hunched in the archway. It shook a fist. “I should have brought my sword for you, Kitty,” it said. “I’ve half a mind to go back and fetch …” Then it stiffened and cocked its head. Something had caught its attention.

  Kitty backed steadily away along the corridor.

  “The stars … I’d quite forgotten.” The figure in the arch gave a sudden hop and stood on a ledge, looking up toward the sky. “So many of them … so bright and pearly blue.”

  Even from the far end of the cloister, several yards away and retreating fast, Kitty could hear it sniffing the air and muttering to itself, and letting out little cries of fascination and delight. It appeared to have entirely forgotten her existence.

  “No stone. No worms. What a change that would make! No mold, no deathly dustly silence. No none of it. So many stars … and so much space …”

  Kitty rounded the corner and made a dash for the cloister door.

  32

  Nathaniel’s limousine sped through the outer suburbs of South London, a region of heavy industry, of brickworks and alchemists’ factories, where a faint red smog hung permanently around the houses and glowed evilly in the waning sun. For greater speed and convenience, the magicians’ highway from the aerodrome had been raised on embankments and viaducts above the maze of polluted slums. The road was little used, and nothing but rooftops stretched around; at times the car appeared to be drifting alone across a sea of dirt-red waves. Nathaniel gazed out across this great expanse, deep in thought.

  The chauffeur was of the usual taciturn type, and despite Nathaniel’s best efforts, had revealed little of the previous night’s disaster. “I don’t know much myself, sir,” he said. “But there was crowds gathered in the street outside my flat this morning. A lot of panic among the commoners, sir. Very frightened, they were. A disturbance.”

  Nathaniel leaned forward. “What sort of disturbance?”

  “I believe a monster is involved, sir.”

  “A monster? Can you be specific? Not a big stone man, shrouded in darkness?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We’ll be at the abbey shortly. The ministers are meeting there.”

  Westminster Abbey? With great dissatisfaction, Nathaniel had settled back in the seat and composed himself to wait. All would be made clear in time. Quite possibly, the golem had struck again, in which case his account of events in Prague would be anxiously awaited. He sorted through everything he knew, trying to make sense of it, setting successes against setbacks in an effort to see whether he came out with credit. On balance, it was a close thing.

  On the credit side, he had landed a definite blow against the enemy: with the help of Harlequin, he had discovered the source of the golem parchments and had destroyed it. He had learned of the involvement of the terrible bearded mercenary and, behind him, some other shadowy figure who had, if the mercenary was to be believed, also been involved in the Lovelace conspiracy two years before. The existence of such a traitor was important news. Set against this, however, Nathaniel had not discovered who the traitor was. Of course, it was hard to see how he could have done so, since even the wretched Kavka hadn’t known the name.

  Here, Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering his rash promise to the old magician. The Czech spies, Kavka’s children, were—apparently—still alive in a British prison. If so, it would be extremely difficult for Nathaniel to secure their release. But what did it matter? Kavka was dead! It didn’t matter to him now one way or the other. The promise could quietly be forgotten. Despite this clear-cut logic, Nathaniel found it hard to dismiss the matter from his mind. He shook his head angrily and returned to more important matters.

  The traitor’s identity was a mystery, but the mercenary had given Nathaniel one important clue. His employer knew Nathaniel was coming to Prague and had instructed the mercenary to take action. But Nathaniel’s mission had been almost spontaneous, and kept very quiet. Hardly anyone was aware of it.

  Who, in fact, had known? Nathaniel counted them out on the fingers of one hand. Himself; Whitwell, of course—she’d sent him there in the first place; Julius Tallow—he’d been present at the meeting. Then there was the Second Secretary of the Foreign Office, who’d briefed Nathaniel before the flight—Whitwell had asked him to prepare the maps and documents. And that was it. Unless … hold on … a faint uncertainty nagged at Nathaniel. That encounter with Jane Farrar in the foyer, when she’d used the Charm … Had he let anything slip there? It was so hard to remember; her spell had fogged his mind a little…. No good. He couldn’t recall.

  Even so, the range of suspects was remarkably small. Nathaniel chewed the edge of a fingernail. He had to be very careful from now on. The mercenary had said something else, too: his employer had many servants. If the traitor was as close as Nathaniel now guessed, he had to watch his step. Someone among the powerful was operating the golem in secret, directing it through the watch-eye. They would not wish Nathaniel to investigate further. Attempts might well be made on his life. He would need Bartimaeus to stick close to him.

  Despite these concerns, Nathaniel was feeling fairly pleased with himself by the time the viaducts lowered and the car neared central London. When all was said and done, he had prevented a second golem’s being unleashed on the capital, and for that, he would surely receive full praise. Inquiries could be carried out and the traitor discovered. The first thing he would do would be to report to Whitwell and Devereaux. No doubt, they would drop everything and respond.

  This happy certainty had begun to ebb a little even before the car drew into Westminster Green. Nearing the Thames, Nathaniel began to notice certain unusual things: pockets of commoners standing in the street, deep in conference; here and there, what looked like debris in the road—smashed chimneys, chunks of masonry and broken glass. Westminster Bridge itself had a Night Police cordon across it, guards checking the driver’s pass before allowing him through. As they crossed the river, Nathaniel saw thick smoke rising from an office downstream: a clock-face on the side of the building had been smashed, the hands ripped off and embedded in the walls. Other groups of bystanders loitered on the embankment, in blatant disregard of vagrancy laws.

  The car swept past the Houses of Parliament and up to the great gray mass ofWestminster Abbey, where the final remnants of Nathaniel’s complacency shriveled down to nothing. The grass before the west end was covered with official vehicles—ambulances, Night Police vans, a host of gleaming limousines. Among them was one with Devereaux’s gold standard fluttering from the bonnet. The Prime Minister himself was here.

  Nathaniel alighted and, flashing his identity card to the guards on the door, entered the church. Inside, the activity was intense. Internal Affairs magicians swarmed about the nave with imps in attendance, measuring, recording, combing the stonework for information. Dozens of Security officials and gray-coated Night Police accompanied them; the air hummed with muttered conversations.

  A woman from Internal Affairs noticed him, gestured with her thumb. “They’re up in the no
rth transept, Mandrake, by the tomb. Whitwell’s waiting.”

  Nathaniel looked at her. “What tomb?”

  Her eyes were alive with contempt. “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.”

  Nathaniel walked up the nave, his black coat dragging limply behind. A great trepidation was upon him. One or two Night Police were standing guard beside a broken walking stick lying on the flagstones; they laughed openly as he passed.

  He emerged into the north transept, where statues of the Empire’s great magicians clustered in a thicket of marble and alabaster. Nathaniel had been here many times before, to look with contemplation upon the faces of the wise; it was with some shock then that he saw that half the statues were now defaced: heads had been ripped off and replaced back to front, limbs had been removed; one sorcerer wearing a particularly broad hat had even been turned upside down. It was an appalling act of vandalism.

  Dark-suited magicians thronged everywhere, carrying out tests and scribbling notes. Nathaniel wandered among them in a daze, until he arrived at an open space, where, sitting in a ring of chairs, Mr. Devereaux and his senior ministers were assembled. They were all present: the burly, brooding Duvall; the diminutive Malbindi; the bland-featured Mortensen; the corpulent Fry. Jessica Whitwell was there, too, scowling into space, arms folded. On a chair a little removed from the others sat Mr. Devereaux’s friend and confidante, the playwright Quentin Makepeace, his cheery face solemn and anxious. All were silent, gazing at a large luminous orb hovering several feet off the floor tiles. It was the viewing globe for a vigilance sphere, Nathaniel could see this at once; currently it depicted what appeared to be an aerial view of part of London. In the distance, and rather out of focus, a small figure was leaping from roof to roof. Small green explosions erupted where it landed. Nathaniel frowned, stepped closer to get a better look—

  “So, you’re back from chasing shadows, are you?"Yellowed fingers caught his sleeve; Julius Tallow stood beside him, sharp nose jutting, features arranged in an expression of distaste.

  “About time. All hell’s broken loose here.”

  Nathaniel pulled himself free. “What’s going on?”

  “Did you discover the mysterious mastermind behind the golem?” Tallow’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “How surprising. It might interest you to know, Mandrake, that while you were gallivanting abroad, the Resistance have struck again. Not some mystery golem, not a mystery traitor wielding forgotten powers, but the same human Resistance that you’ve been failing to deal with all this time. Not content with destroying half the British Museum the other night, they’ve now broken into Gladstone’s tomb and unleashed one of his afrits. Which, as you can see, is now happily at large across the city.”

  Nathaniel blinked, tried to take it all in. “The Resistance did this? How do you know?”

  “Because we’ve found the bodies. No giant clay golem was involved, Mandrake. You can give that idea up right now. And we’ll soon be out of our jobs. Duvall—”

  He drew back. Nathaniel’s master, Jessica Whitwell, had left her seat and was making her thin and stately way toward him. He cleared his throat.

  “Ma’am, I need to speak to you urgently. In Prague—”

  “I blame you for this, Mandrake.” She bore down on him, eyes flashing furiously. “Thanks to your distracting me with your demon’s lies, we look more incompetent than ever! I have been made to look a fool and have lost the Prime Minister’s favor. Duvall was given control of my Security department this morning. He has also taken charge of anti-Resistance operations.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but listen, please—”

  “Sorry? Too late now, Mandrake. The British Museum debacle was bad enough, but this was the last straw. Duvall has gotten just what he wanted. His wolves are everywhere now and he—”

  “Ma’am!” Nathaniel could no longer restrain himself. “I located the Czech magician who created the golem’s parchment. He was making a second one—for a traitor in our government!” He ignored Tallow’s expressions of incredulity.

  Ms. Whitwell regarded him. “Who is the traitor?”

  “I don’t yet know.”

  “Have you proof of your story? The parchment, for instance?”

  “No. It was all destroyed, but I think—”

  “Then,” Ms. Whitwell said, with crushing finality, “it is no good to me, and neither are you. London is in an uproar, Mandrake, and a scapegoat needs to be found. I intend to distance myself from you—and if Mr. Tallow has any sense, he will do the same.”

  She turned on her heel and marched back to her chair. Tallow followed, grinning at Nathaniel over his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Nathaniel shrugged and drifted closer to the swirling surveillance orb. The demi-afrit relaying the image was attempting to get closer to the bounding figure on the rooftops. The image zoomed in; Nathaniel caught sight of a black suit, white hair, a gold face…. Then, quick as thought, a green light shot from the figure: with an emerald flash, the sphere went dead.

  Mr. Devereaux sighed. “A third sphere gone. We’ll be running out soon. Right—any comments or reports?”

  Mr. Mortensen, the Home Office Minister, stood up and swept a lock of greasy hair over his scalp. “Sir, we must take action against this demon at once. If we don’t act, the name of Gladstone will be dragged through the mud! Is he not our greatest leader? The one to whom we owe our prosperity, our dominance, our self-belief? And now what is he? Nothing but a murderous bag of bones dancing across our capital, causing bedlam in its wake! The commoners will not be slow to notice this, you know; nor will our enemies abroad. I say—”

  Marmaduke Fry, the Foreign Minister, spoke. “We have had several instances of mass panic, which no amount of strong-arm stuff from Duvall’s police has been able to prevent.” He cast a sly side glance at the Chief of Police, who grunted angrily.

  “The creature is evidently deranged,” added the Information Minister, Ms. Malbindi, “and as Mortensen says, that adds to the embarrassment of the situation. We have our Founder’s remains capering on rooftops, dangling from flagpoles, dancing down the middle of Whitehall and, if our sources are to be believed, cartwheeling repeatedly through Camberwell Fish Market. Also the thing persists in killing people, apparently at random. Young men and girls, it goes for; mostly commoners, but also people of consequence. It claims it is looking for the ‘last two,’ whatever that means.”

  “The last two survivors of the raid,” Mr. Fry said. “That’s obvious enough. And one of ’em’s got the Staff. But our immediate problem is that the commoners know whose corpse they’re seeing.”

  From the edges of the group came Jessica Whitwell’s icy voice. “Let me get this clear,” she said. “Those really are Gladstone’s bones? It isn’t just some guise?”

  Ms. Malbindi raised two fastidious eyebrows. “They’re his bones all right. We’ve entered the tomb, and the sarcophagus is empty. There are plenty of bodies down there, believe you me, but our Founder is very much gone.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Mr. Makepeace spoke for the first time. “The guardian afrit has encased its own essence within the bones. Why? Who knows?”

  “Why is not important.” Mr. Devereaux spoke with heavy formality, driving a fist into his cupped palm. “Our first priority must be to get rid of it. Until it is destroyed, the dignity of our State is hopelessly compromised. I want the creature dead and the bones back in the ground. Every senior minister must put a demon on the case from this afternoon. That means all of you. Lesser ministers have conspicuously failed so far. The thing is Gladstone’s, after all; it has some power. Meanwhile, there is the issue of the Staff to consider.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Fry said. “In the long run this is much more important. With the American wars coming up—”

  “It mustn’t be allowed to get into enemy hands. If the Czechs got hold of it—”

  “Quite.” There was a brief silence.

  “Excuse me.” Nathaniel had been
listening to everything with silent respect, but his frustration now got the better of him. “This is Gladstone’s Staff of Office we’re talking about? The one he used to destroy Prague?”

  Mr. Devereaux looked at him coldly. “I am glad you have finally deigned to join us, Mandrake. Yes, it is the same Staff.”

  “So if its Command Words can be mastered, we might harness its energies for new campaigns?”

  “We—or our enemies. Presently its whereabouts are unknown.”

  “Are we sure?” Helen Malbindi asked. “The … skeleton, or afrit, or whatever it is—it doesn’t still have the Staff?”

  “No. It carries a bag on its back—which we suspect holds most of Gladstone’s treasures. But the Staff itself has vanished. One of the grave robbers must have it.”

  “I’ve sealed the ports and aerodromes,” Mr. Mortensen said. “Spheres are on watch along the coast.”

  “Pardon me,” Nathaniel asked. “But if this Staff has always been in the abbey, why have we not utilized it before?”

  Several of the magicians shifted in their seats. Mr. Duvall’s eyes flashed. “This is supposed to be a senior meeting of the Council, not a crèche. I suggest, Rupert, that this changeling be removed.”

  “A moment, Henry.” Mr. Devereaux seemed as annoyed as his ministers, but he still spoke civilly. “The boy has a point. The reason, Mandrake,” he said, “is for fear of a disaster such as this. On his deathbed, Gladstone swore vengeance on any who disturbed his tomb, and we all know that his power was not easily transgressed. Exactly what hexes he wrought or demons he employed were not known, but—”

  “I have done a little research into the business,” Quentin Makepeace said, interrupting with an easy smile. “Gladstone has always interested me. At the funeral, the tomb was sealed with a Pestilence inside—a potent little number, but nothing that could not easily be bypassed. But Gladstone had made preparations for his sarcophagus himself; contemporary sources say the aura of magic emanating from his body killed several imps officiating with the candles. If that was not warning enough, not long after his death several magicians in his government ignored his prohibitions and set out to collect the Staff. They froze the Pestilence, descended into the tomb: and were never seen again. Accomplices waiting outside heard something locking the door from within. No one since has been foolish enough to test the grand old man’s defenses. Until last night.”