Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Okay,” Fred said. He returned to the corner, made a quick reconnaissance, nodded and disappeared around it. Kitty and Stanley peeled themselves away from the window and followed, dropping each other’s hands as if they had sprouted plague. The leather bag, which had been held under Kitty’s coat, reappeared in her grasp.

  The next road was narrower and there were no pedestrians nearby. On the left, dark and empty behind a black railing, lay the delivery yard for the carpet shop. Fred was slouching against the railing, looking up and down the street. “Search Sphere’s just passed down the end,” he said. “But we’re clear. Your turn, Stan.”

  The gate to the yard was padlocked. Stanley approached and examined it closely From an obscure portion of his clothing he drew a pair of steel pincers. A squeeze, a twist, and the chain snapped open. They entered the yard, Stanley in the lead. He was staring hard at the ground in front of them.

  “Anything?” Kitty said.

  “Not here. The back door’s got a fuzz over it: some kind of spell. We should avoid it. But that window’s safe.” He pointed.

  “Okay.” Kitty stole to the window, scanned inside. From what little she could see, the room beyond was a storeroom; it was piled with carpets, each rolled and tightly wrapped in linen. She looked at the others. “Well?” she hissed. “See anything?”

  “Of course, this,” Stanley said lightly, “is why it’s so stupid you being in charge. You’re helpless without us. Blind. Nope—there’s no traps.”

  “No demons,” Fred said.

  “Okay.” Kitty now had black gloves on her hands. She tensed a fist, drove it into the lowest pane of glass. A crack, a brief tinkling of glass upon the sill. Kitty reached through, flipped the latch, raised the window. She vaulted up and into the room, landing silently, eyes flicking side to side. Without waiting for the others, she passed among the pyramids of linen, breathing the rich fustiness of the shrouded carpets, arriving swiftly at a half-open door. From the bag, a torch: the beam of light illuminated a large, richly appointed office, with desks, chairs, paintings on the wall. In a corner, low and dark, a safe.

  “Hold it.” Stanley caught Kitty’s arm. “There’s a little glowing thread at foot-level—runs between the desks. Trip-spell. Avoid.”

  Angrily, she pulled herself free from his grip. “I wasn’t just going to go blundering in. I’m not stupid.”

  He shrugged. “Sure, sure.”

  Stepping high above the invisible thread, Kitty reached the safe, opened the bag, produced a small white sphere and laid it on the ground. Carefully, she retreated. Back at the door, she spoke a word; with a soft sigh and a rush of air, the sphere imploded into nothing. Its suction pulled nearby pictures off the walls, the carpet off the floor, the safe door off its hinges. Calmly, stepping over the invisible thread, Kitty returned to kneel by the safe. Her hands moved quickly, piling objects into her bag.

  Stanley was hopping with impatience. “What have we got?”

  “Mouler glasses, couple of elemental spheres … documents … and money. Lots of it.”

  “Good. Hurry up. We’ve got five minutes.”

  “I know.”

  Kitty shut the bag and left the office without haste. Fred and Stanley had already departed through the window, and were hovering impatiently outside. Kitty crossed the room, jumped out into the yard, and set off toward the gate. A moment later, with an odd intuition, she glanced over her shoulder—just in time to see Fred tossing something back into the storeroom.

  She stopped dead. “What the hell was that?”

  “No time to chat, Kitty.” Fred and Stanley hurried past her. “Play’s starting.”

  “What did you just do?”

  Stanley winked as they trotted out onto the road. “Inferno stick. Little present for them.” At his side, Fred was chuckling.

  “That wasn’t the plan! This was a raid only!” She could smell the smoke already, drifting on the air. They rounded the corner past the front of the shop.

  “We can’t take the carpets, can we? So why leave them to be sold to the magicians? Can’t have pity for collaborators, Kitty. They deserve it.”

  “We could get caught …”

  “We won’t. Relax. Besides, a little boring break-in won’t make the headlines, will it? But a break-in and fire will.”

  White with rage, fingers clenched on the handles of the bag, Kitty strolled beside them up the road. This wasn’t about publicity—this was Stanley challenging her authority again, more seriously than before. It was her plan, her strategy, and he’d deliberately undercut it. She’d have to take action now, no question. Sooner or later, he’d get them all killed.

  At the front of the Metropolitan Theatre, an intermittent bell was ringing, and the dregs of the audience were slipping back inside its doors. Kitty, Stanley, and Fred joined them without breaking pace, and a few moments later subsided in their seats once more. The orchestra was warming up again; onstage, the safety curtain had been raised.

  Still shaking with fury, Kitty placed her bag between her feet. As she did so, Stanley turned his head and grinned. “Trust me,” he whispered. “We’ll be front-page news now. There won’t be anything bigger than us tomorrow morning.”

  7

  Half a mile north of the dark waters of the Thames, the merchants of the world gathered daily in the City District to barter, buy, and sell. As far as the eye could see the market stalls stretched, huddled under the eaves of the ancient houses like chicks beneath their mother’s wing. There was no end to the richness on display: gold from southern Africa, silver nuggets from the Urals, Polynesian pearls, flakes of Baltic amber, precious stones of every hue, iridescent silks from Asia, and a thousand other wonders. But most valuable of all were the magical artifacts that had been looted from old empires and brought to London to be sold.

  At the heart of the City, at the junction of Cornhill and Poultry Streets, the supplicating cries of traders fell harshly on the ear. Only magicians were allowed into this central zone, and gray-uniformed police guarded the entrances to the fair.

  Each stall here was crammed with items that claimed to be extraordinary. A cursory survey might reveal enchanted flutes and lyres from Greece; pots containing burial dirt from the royal cemeteries of Ur and Nimrud; frail gold artifacts from Tashkent, Samarkand, and other Silk Road towns; tribal totems from the North American wastes; Polynesian masks and effigies; peculiar skulls with crystals embedded in their mouths; stone daggers, heavy with the taint of sacrifice, salvaged from the ruined temples of Tenochtitlán.

  It was to this place that, once a week, late on Monday evenings, the eminent magician Sholto Pinn would make his stately way, to survey the competition, such as it was, and purchase any trifles that took his fancy.

  Mid-June, and the sun was lowering behind the gables. Although the market itself, wedged between the buildings, was firmly encased in blue shadow, the street still reflected sufficient warmth for it to be a pleasant stroll for Mr. Pinn. He wore a white linen jacket and trousers, and a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. An ivory cane swung loosely in one hand; the other dabbed occasionally at his neck with an extensive yellow handkerchief.

  Mr. Pinn’s smart attire extended even to his polished shoes. This was despite the filth of the pavements, which were thick with evidence of a hundred hurried meals—discarded fruit, falafel wraps, nut and oyster shells, and scraps of fat and gristle. Mr. Pinn minded it not: wherever he chose to walk, the debris was swept away by an invisible hand.

  As he progressed, he inspected the stalls on either side through his thick glass monocle. He wore a habitual expression of bored amusement—protection against the approaches of the merchants, who knew him well.

  “Señor Pinn! I have here an embalmed hand of mysterious provenance! It was found in the Sahara—I suspect it to be the relic of a saint. I have resisted all comers, waiting for you …”

  “Please halt a moment, Monsieur; see what I have in this strange obsidian box …”

  “Observe this
scrap of parchment, these runic symbols …”

  “Mr. Pinn, sir, do not listen to these bandits! Your exquisite taste will tell you …”

  “… this voluptuous statue …”

  “… these dragons’ teeth …”

  “… this gourd …”

  Mr. Pinn smiled blandly, scanned the items, ignored the merchants’ cries, moved slowly on. He never purchased much; most of his supplies were flown directly to him from his agents working across the Empire. But even so, one could never tell. The fair was always worth a look.

  The row ended with a stall piled high with glass and earthenware. Most of the samples were quite obviously recent forgeries, but a tiny blue-green pot with a sealed stopper caught Mr. Pinn’s eye. He addressed the attendant casually. “This item. What is it?”

  The seller was a young woman wearing a colorful headscarf. “Sir! It is a faience pot from Ombos in Old Egypt. It was found in a deep grave, under a heavy stone, next to the bones of a tall, winged man.”

  Mr. Pinn raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Do you have this marvelous skeleton?”

  “Alas, no. The bones were dispersed by an excitable crowd.”

  “How convenient. But the pot: it has not been opened?”

  “No, sir. I believe it contains a djinni, or possibly a Pestilence. Buy it, open it, and see for yourself!”

  Mr. Pinn picked up the pot and turned it over in his fat white fingers. “Hmm,” he murmured. “It seems oddly heavy for its size. Perhaps a compressed spell….Yes, the item is of some small interest. What is your price?”

  “For you, sir—a hundred pounds.”

  Mr. Pinn gave a hearty chuckle. “I am indeed wealthy, my dear; I am also not to be trifled with.” He snapped a finger, and with a rattling of pottery and a scrabbling of cloth, an unseen person clambered swiftly up one of the poles that supported the stall, skittered across the tarpaulin, and dropped lightly down upon the woman’s back. She screamed. Mr. Pinn did not look up from the pot in his hand. “Bartering is all very well, my dear, but one should always begin at a sensible level. Now, why don’t you suggest another figure? My assistant, Mr. Simpkin, will readily confirm if your price is worth considering.”

  A few minutes later the woman, blue-faced and choking from the grip of invisible fingers around her neck, finally stammered out a nominal sum. Mr. Pinn flipped a few coins onto the counter and departed in good humor, carrying his prize securely in his pocket. He left the fair and strode away down Poultry Street to where his car was waiting. Anyone blocking his path was brushed aside cursorily by the invisible hand.

  Mr. Pinn heaved his bulk into the car and signaled the chauffeur to move off. Then, settling back into his seat, he spoke into thin air. “Simpkin.”

  “Yes, master?”

  “I shall not be working late tonight. Tomorrow is Gladstone’s Day, and Mr. Duvall is giving a dinner in our founder’s honor. Regretfully, I must attend this dollop of tedium.”

  “Very good, master. Several crates arrived from Persepolis shortly after lunch. Do you wish me to start unpacking them?”

  “I do. Sort and label anything of lesser importance. Leave unopened any parcel stamped with a red flame; that mark indicates a major treasure. You will also find a crate of stacked sandalwood slabs—take care with that; it contains a hidden box with a child mummy from the days of Sargon. Persian customs are increasingly vigilant and my agent must become ever more inventive in his smuggling. Is that all clear?”

  “Master, it is. I shall obey with zeal.”

  The car drew up before the golden pillars and bright displays of Pinn’s Accoutrements. A rear door opened and closed, but Mr. Pinn remained inside. The car drew away into the Piccadilly traffic. A short while later, a key rattled in the lock of the shop’s front door; it opened, then drew softly shut again.

  Minutes later, an extensive system of blue warning nodes extended up around the building on the fourth and fifth planes, coiled together at the top of the house and sealed itself. Pinn’s Accoutrements was secured for the night.

  Evening drew on. Traffic lessened on Piccadilly and few pedestrians passed the shop. Simpkin the foliot picked up a hooked rod in his tail and drew hinged wooden shutters down across the windows. One of them squeaked a little as it descended. With a tut of annoyance, Simpkin removed his semblance of invisibility, revealing himself to be small and lime green, with bow legs and a fussy expression. He located a can behind the counter and extended his tail up to oil the hinge. Then he swept the floor, emptied the bins, adjusted the mannequin display and, with the shop tidied to his satisfaction, dragged several large crates in from the backroom.

  Before settling down to his task, Simpkin double-checked the magical alarm system with great care. Two years previously a vicious djinni had succeeded in getting in under his watch and many precious items had been destroyed. He had been lucky that the master had forgiven him, far luckier than he deserved. Even so, the memory of his punishments still made his essence tremble. It must never happen again.

  The nodes were intact and vibrated warningly whenever he stepped near the walls. All was well.

  Simpkin gained entry to the first crate, and began removing the wool-and-sawdust packing. The first item he came to was small and wrapped in tarry gauze; with expert fingers he removed the gauze and surveyed the object dubiously. It was a doll of sorts, made of bone, straw, and shell. Simpkin scratched a note in the accounts with a long goose quill. Mediterranean Basin, 4,000 years old approx. Curiosity value only. Of insignificant worth. He placed it on the counter and continued delving.

  Time passed. Simpkin was on the penultimate crate. It was the one stuffed with sandalwood, and he was carefully picking through it in search of the smuggled mummy when he first heard the rumbling sounds. What were they? Car traffic? No—they stopped and started too abruptly. Perhaps rolls of distant thunder?

  The noises grew louder and more disquieting. Simpkin laid down his quill and listened, his round head slightly to one side. Strange, disjointed crashes … punctuated by heavy thudding. Where did they come from? Somewhere beyond the shop, that was obvious, but from which direction?

  He hopped to his feet and cautiously approaching the nearest window, raised the shutters briefly. Beyond the blue security nodes, Piccadilly was dark and empty. There were few lights on in the houses opposite and little traffic. He could see nothing to explain the sounds.

  He listened again. They were stronger now; in fact, they seemed to be coming from somewhere behind him, back within the recesses of the building…. Simpkin lowered the shutter, his tail swishing uneasily. Retreating a little, he stretched behind the counter and retrieved a large and knobbly club. With this in hand, he padded to the storeroom door and peered inside.

  The room was as normal: filled with stacks of crates and cardboard boxes and shelves of artifacts being prepared for show or sale. The electric light in the ceiling hummed gently. Simpkin returned to the shop floor, frowning in puzzlement. The noises were quite loud now—something, somewhere, was being smashed. Should he perhaps alert the master? No. An unwise thought. Mr. Pinn disliked being bothered unnecessarily. It was best not to disturb him.

  Another reverberating crash and the sound of breaking glass; for the first time, Simpkin’s attention was drawn to the right-hand wall of Pinn’s, which joined on directly to a delicatessen and wine merchant’s. Very strange. He stepped forward to investigate. At that moment three things happened.

  Half the wall exploded inward.

  Something large stepped into the room.

  All light in the shop went out.

  Transfixed in the center of the floor, Simpkin could see nothing—neither on the first plane, nor on any of the other four to which he had access. A swath of ice-cold darkness had engulfed the shop, and deep within it, something moved. He heard a footstep, then a horrendous crashing noise from the direction of Mr. Pinn’s antique porcelain. Another step followed, then a ripping and a rending that could come only from the racks of suits that Simpkin
had so carefully hung that very morning.

  Professional distress overcame his fear: he let out a groan of fury and, flexing the club, scraped it accidentally against the counter.

  The footsteps stopped. He sensed something peering in his direction. Simpkin froze. Darkness coiled about him.

  He flicked his eyes back and forth. From memory, he knew he was only a few meters away from the nearest shuttered window. If he stepped backward now, perhaps he could reach it before—

  Something stepped across the room toward him. It came with a heavy tread.

  Simpkin tiptoed backward.

  There was a sudden splintering noise midway across the room. He halted, wincing. That was the mahogany cabinet that Mr. Pinn was so fond of! Regency period, with ebony handles and lapis lazuli inlays! What a terrible disaster!

  He forced himself to concentrate. Only a couple of yards more to the window. Keep going … he was almost there. The heavy tread came after him, each step a ringing concussion against the floor.

  A sudden clatter and screeching of torn metal. Oh—now that was too much! Those racks of protective silver necklaces had taken him an age to sort!

  In his outrage, he paused again. The footsteps were closer now. Simpkin hurriedly tottered a little farther and his searching fingers touched the metal shutters. He felt the warning nodes vibrating beyond it. All he had to do was break his way through.

  But Mr. Pinn had instructed him to remain within the shop at all times, to protect it with his life. True, it was not an official charge, made in a pentacle. He hadn’t had one of those for years. So he could disobey it, if he chose…. But what would Mr. Pinn say if he left his post? The idea didn’t bear thinking about.