The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Very well.” Gargoyle and cloud drifted backward into the wall and vanished.

  When all was still once more, Nathaniel stood beside his desk deep in thought. Night pressed up against the office window; there was no sound from the street outside. He was very weary; his body cried out for its bed. But the Staff was too important to be lost so easily. Somehow, he must trace it. Perhaps a reference book might—

  Nathaniel was brought up short by a sudden knocking on the courtyard door.

  He listened, heart hammering in his chest. Another three knocks: gentle, but assertive.

  Who would be calling at this hour? Visions of the terrible mercenary sprang into his mind; he shrugged them away, squared his shoulders, and approached the door.

  Moistening his lips, he turned the handle and swung the door aside—

  A short, roundish gentleman stood upon the step, blinking in the light that spilled out from the office. He was dressed in a flamboyant green velvet suit, white spats, and a mauve traveling coat that fastened at his neck. On his head was a small suede hat. He beamed at Nathaniel’s discomfiture.

  “Hello, Mandrake, my boy. May I come in? It’s parky out.”

  “Mr. Makepeace! Um, yes. Please come in, sir.”

  “Thank you, my boy, thank you.” With a hop and a skip, Mr. Quentin Makepeace was inside. He took off his hat and tossed it across the room, to land with great precision upon a bust of Gladstone. He winked at Nathaniel. “We’ve had enough of him, one way and another, I think.” Chuckling at his little joke, Mr. Makepeace wedged himself into a chair.

  “This is an unexpected honor, sir.” Nathaniel hovered uncertainly. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, no, Mandrake. Sit down, sit down. I’ve just popped in for a little chat.” He smiled broadly at Nathaniel. “I hope I have not disturbed you in your work?”

  “Certainly not, sir. I was just thinking of heading home.”

  “Very good, too. ‘Sleep is so vital, and yet so hard to come by,’as the Sultan says in the bathhouse scene—that’s Act II, Scene 3 of My Love’s an Eastern Maid, of course. Did you see it?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I was too young. My previous master, Mr. Underwood, did not attend the theatre as a rule.”

  “Ah, a crying shame.” Mr. Makepeace shook his head sadly. “With an education as defective as that, it’s a wonder you’ve turned out such a promising lad.”

  “I’ve seen Swans of Araby, of course, sir,” Nathaniel said hastily. “A wonderful work. Very moving.”

  “Mmm. It has been called my masterpiece by several critics, but I trust I shall outdo it with my next little effort. I have been inspired by the American troubles and turned my attention to the West. A dark continent we know so little about, Mandrake. My working title is Petticoats and Rifles; it involves a young backwoods lass …” As he was speaking, Mr. Makepeace made several intricate signs with his hands; from between his palms rose a scattering of orange sparks that floated up and outward to take up position at points about the room. No sooner were they stationary than the playwright stopped talking in mid-sentence and winked at Nathaniel. “See what I’ve done, boy?”

  “A sensor web, sir. To detect watching ears or eyes.”

  “Exactly so. And all, for the moment, is quiet. Now then, I didn’t come to talk to you about my oeuvre, fascinating though it is. I wanted to sound you out—you being a promising lad—about a certain proposition.”

  “I would be honored to hear it, sir.”

  “It goes without saying of course,” Mr. Makepeace said, “that the contents of this little talk will be for us alone. It could do us both great harm if a word of it were breathed beyond these four walls. You have a reputation for being just as intelligent as you are young and spry, Mandrake; I’m sure that you understand.”

  “Of course, sir.” Nathaniel composed his features into a mask of polite attention. Beneath this, he was perplexed, if flattered. Why the playwright had now accosted him in such secrecy, Nathaniel could not imagine. Mr. Makepeace’s close friendship with the Prime Minister was widely spoken of, but Nathaniel had never thought that the author was much of a magician himself. In fact, on the basis of viewing a couple of the plays he had considered it unlikely: privately, Nathaniel considered them appalling potboilers.

  “First, congratulations are in order,” Mr. Makepeace said. “The renegade afrit is gone—and I believe your djinni played a part in its removal. Well done! You may be sure the P. M. has taken notice. It is in fact on account of this that I have come to you this evening. Someone of your efficiency may be able to help me in a tricky problem.”

  He paused, but Nathanel said nothing. It was best to be cautious when confiding in a stranger. Makepeace’s objectives were not yet clear.

  “You were at the abbey this morning,” Mr. Makepeace went on, “and you listened to the debate among the Council. It would not have escaped your notice that our friend the Police Chief, Mr. Duvall, has attained great influence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As commander of the Graybacks, he has long been in a position of considerable power, and he makes no secret of his desire to gain more. He has already used the current disturbances to gain authority at the expense of your master, Ms. Whitwell.”

  “I’ve noticed some such rivalry,” Nathaniel said. He did not think it prudent to say more.

  “Very carefully put, Mandrake. Now, as a personal friend of Rupert Devereaux, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been viewing Duvall’s behavior with a good deal of concern. Ambitious men are dangerous, Mandrake. They destabilize things. Boorish, uncivilized individuals such as Duvall—it will shock you to learn he has never attended one of my premieres in his life—are the worst of all, since they have no respect for their colleagues. Duvall has been building up his power base for years, keeping in with the P.M., while undermining other senior figures at the same time. His vaunting ambition has long been obvious. Recent events, such as the unfortunate demise of our friend Tallow, have greatly unsettled our senior ministers, and this perhaps gives Duvall further opportunity to take advantage. In fact—and I don’t mind telling you this, Mandrake, since you’re so uncommonly clever and loyal—with the amount of power Duvall now has, I fear rebellion.”

  Perhaps because of his background in theater, Mr. Makepeace had a peculiarly lively way of talking: his voice fluted high and tremulous, then dived to become low and resonating. Despite his caution, Nathaniel was fascinated; he leaned in closer.

  “Yes, my boy, you heard correctly: rebellion is what I fear, and as Mr. Devereaux’s most loyal friend, I am anxious to prevent it. I am looking for allies in this regard. Jessica Whitwell is powerful, of course, but we do not get on. She is no great lover of the theater. But you, Mandrake, you are rather more my type. I’ve followed your career for quite some time, ever since that unfortunate Lovelace affair, in fact, and I think we might do admirably well together.”

  “That is very kind of you, sir,” Nathaniel said slowly. His mind was afire: this was what he’d been waiting for—a direct line to the Prime Minister. Ms. Whitwell was no true ally; she’d already made it clear that she planned to sacrifice his career. Well, if he played this carefully, he might gain rapid advancement. Perhaps he didn’t need her protection, after all.

  But this was dangerous territory. He had to be on his guard. “Mr. Duvall is a formidable opponent,” he said blandly. “It is a dangerous thing to act against him.”

  Mr. Makepeace smiled. “How very true. But haven’t you already been doing something along those lines? I believe you paid a visit to the Public Records Office this afternoon—and then set off at speed to an obscure address in Balham.”

  The words were casual, but they made Nathaniel stiffen with shock. “Forgive me,” he stammered, “how did you know—?”

  “Word reaches me about many things, my boy. As a friend of Mr. Devereaux, I have long kept my eyes and ears open. Do not look so worried! I have no idea what you were up to, merely that it seemed a p
ersonal initiative.” His smile broadened. “Duvall is in charge of counterrevolutionary tactics now, but I don’t think you informed him of your activities?”

  Nathaniel certainly had not. His head reeled; he needed to gain time. “Er, you mentioned us collaborating in some way, sir,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

  Quentin Makepeace settled back into his chair. “Gladstone’s Staff,” he said. “That’s it, pure and simple. The afrit has been dealt with, and much of the Resistance is dead too, it seems. All well and good. But the Staff is a potent talisman; it confers great power on its bearer. I can tell you that, as we speak, Mr. Duvall is applying all his efforts to find the person who took it. Should he do so”—the magician fixed Nathaniel directly with his bright blue eyes—“he might decide to use it himself, rather than restore it to the government. I believe the situation is as serious as that. Much of London might be threatened.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nathaniel said. “I have read about the Staff and I believe its energies can be easily accessed by a few simple incantations. Duvall might well use it.”

  “Indeed. And I think we should preempt him. If you find the Staff and return it to Mr. Devereaux yourself, your standing will be greatly enhanced, and Mr. Duvall will have suffered a setback. I will be content, too, since the Prime Minister will continue to help finance my works worldwide. What do you think of this proposal?”

  Nathaniel’s head was awhirl. “An … interesting plan, sir.”

  “Good, good. So, we are agreed. We must act swiftly” Mr. Makepeace leaned forward and clapped Nathaniel on the shoulder.

  Nathaniel blinked. In his comradely enthusiasm, Makepeace was taking his acceptance entirely for granted. The proposal was beguiling, of course, but he felt uncertain, outmaneuvered; he needed a moment to work out what to do. Yet he had no time. The magician’s knowledge of his activities had caught him horribly off guard, and he was no longer in control. Nathaniel made a reluctant decision: if Makepeace knew of his visit to Balham, there was no point concealing it anyway. “I have already conducted some investigations,” he said stiffly, “and I believe the Staff might be in the hands of a girl, one Kitty Jones.”

  The magician nodded approvingly. “I can see my high opinion of you was correct, Mandrake. Any idea where she might be?”

  “I—I nearly caught her at her parents’ house this evening, sir. I … missed her by minutes. I don’t believe she had the Staff on her at the time.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Makepeace scratched his chin; he made no attempt to cross-examine Nathaniel on the details. “And now she will have fled. She will be hard to trace … unless we can encourage her out of hiding. Did you arrest the parents? A few well-publicized tortures might draw the girl out.”

  “No, sir. I did consider it, but they were not close to her. I do not believe that she would give herself up for them.”

  “Even so, it is an option. But I have another possible idea, Mandrake. I have a contact who has one foot in London’s murky underworld. He is acquainted with more beggars, thieves, and cutpurses than you could cram into a theater. I shall talk to him tonight; see if he can give us word on this Kitty Jones. With a bit of luck, we shall be able to act tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you go home to get some sleep. And remember, we are playing for high stakes, my boy, and Mr. Duvall is a dangerous rival. Not a word of our little agreement to anyone.”

  37

  Midday, and the shadows were at their smallest. The sky above was eggshell blue, flecked with amiable clouds. The sun shone pleasantly upon the rooftops of the suburb. It was an upbeat hour, all told, a time for honest enterprises and decent work. As if in proof, a few industrious tradesmen passed along the street, wheeling their barrows from house to house. They doffed their caps to old ladies, patted the heads of little children, smiled politely as they introduced their wares. Bargains were struck, goods and money exchanged; the tradesmen strolled away, whistling temperance hymns.

  Hard to believe that anything wicked was about to happen.

  Perched in the depths of a tangled elderberry bush set back from the road, a hunched black form surveyed the scene. It was a mess of bedraggled feathers, with beak and legs protruding as if at random. A medium-sized crow: a bird of ill and unkempt omen. The bird kept its bloodshot eyes trained firmly on the upstairs windows of a large and rambling house at the other end of an overgrown garden.

  Once again, I was loitering with intent.

  The thing to remember about this summoning business is that nothing is ever strictly speaking your own fault. If a magician binds you to a task, you do it—and quickly—or suffer the Shriveling Fire. With that kind of injunction hanging over your head, you soon learn to discard any scruples. This means that during the five thousand years I’d been back and forth across the earth, I’d been unwillingly involved in a good many shabby enterprises.1 Not that I have a conscience, of course, but even we hardened djinn sometimes feel a little soiled by the things we’re called upon to do.

  This, on a small scale, was one such occasion.

  The crow squatted drably in his tree, keeping other fowl at bay by the simple expedient of letting off a Stench. I didn’t want any company just then.

  I shook my beak in mild despondency. Nathaniel. What was there to say? Despite our occasional2 differences, I’d once hoped that he might turn out slightly different from the normal run of magicians. He’d shown a lot of initiative in the past, for instance, and more than a crumb of altruism. It had been barely possible that he might follow his own path through life, and not just go down the old power/wealth/notoriety road that every one of his fellows chose.

  But had he? Nope.

  The signs now were worse than ever. Perhaps still unsettled by witnessing the demise of his colleague Tallow, my master had been curt to the point of rudeness when he summoned me that morning. He was at his palest and most taciturn. No friendly conversation for me, no tactful pleasantries. I received no further praise for my dispatch of the renegade afrit the night before, and despite changing into a few beguiling female shapes, didn’t get a single rise out of him. What I did get was a prompt new task—of the sort that fits squarely into the “nasty and regrettable” category. It was a departure for Nathaniel, the first time he’d sunk to these depths, and I must admit it surprised me.

  But a charge is a charge. So here I was, an hour or two later, loitering in a bush in Balham.

  Part of my instructions was to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, which was why I didn’t just bust my way through the ceiling.3 I knew my prey was home and probably upstairs; so I waited, with my little beady eyes fixed upon the windows.

  No magician’s house, this. Peeling paint, rotting window frames, weeds growing through holes in the tiled porch. A sizable property, yes, but unkempt and a little sad. There were even a few rusting children’s toys buried in the foot-high grass.

  After an hour or more of immobility, the crow was getting twitchy. Although my master had wanted discretion, he had also wanted speed. Before long I would have to stop dallying and get the business over with. But ideally I wanted to wait until the house had emptied, and my victim was alone.

  As if in answer to this need, the front door suddenly opened and a large and formidable woman sallied forth, clutching a canvas shopping bag. She passed directly beneath me and headed off down the street. I didn’t bother trying to hide. To her, I was just a bird. There were no nexuses, no magical defenses, no signs that anyone here could see beyond the first plane. It was hardly a proper test of my powers, in other words. The whole mission was sordid from beginning to end.

  Then—a movement in one window. A patch of dusty gray net curtains was shoved aside and a skinny arm reached through to unlatch the clasp and shove the casement up. This was my cue. The crow took off and fluttered up the garden, like a pair of black underpants blown upon the wind. It landed on the sill of the window in question, and with a shuffle of its scaly legs, inched along the dirty net curtains until it located a small vertical tear.
The crow shoved its head through and took a look inside.

  The room’s primary purpose was evident from the bed shoved up against the far wall: a rumpled duvet indicated that it had recently been occupied. But the bed was now half-obscured by a colossal number of small wooden trays, each one subdivided into compartments. Some held semiprecious stones: agate, topaz, opal, garnet, jade, and amber, all shaped, polished, and graded by size. Others held strips of thin metal, or wisps of carved ivory, or triangular pieces of colored fabric. All along one side of the room a rough worktop had been erected, and this was covered by more trays, together with racks of slender tools and pots of foul-smelling glue. In one corner, carefully stacked and labeled, sat a pile of books with new plain leather bindings of a dozen colors. Pencil marks on the bindings indicated where ornamentation was to be added, and in the center of the desk, bathed in a pool of light from two standing lamps, one such operation was in progress. A fat volume in brown crocodile-skin was having a star-pattern of tiny red garnets added to its front cover. As the crow on the windowsill watched, the final gem had a blob of glue applied to its underside and was set in place by a pair of tweezers.

  Deeply engaged in this work, and thus oblivious to my presence, was the youth I had come to find. He wore a rather worn-looking dressing gown and a pair of faded blue pajamas.

  His feet, which were crossed under his stool, were encased in a huge pair of stripy bed-socks. His black hair was shoulder length, and on a split hairs-general grease rating put even Nathaniel’s noxious mane in the shade. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with leather, glue, and odor of boy.

  Well, this was it. No time like the present, etc. Time to do the deed.

  The crow gave a sigh, took hold of the net curtain in its beak, and with one quick motion of the head, ripped the fabric in two.

  I stepped through onto the inner sill and hopped onto the nearest stack of books, just as the boy looked up from his work.