Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  The buffalo looked over its shoulder, eyes wide. “Such powers! You read my mind!”

  “But this just might. The American campaign does exist. There’s no list, I admit, but if you don’t help me and I lose my life, I’ll make sure before I go that your name is recommended to the troops out there. Then you can blab my birth name far and wide for all the good it’ll do you. I won’t be around to suffer. So those are your options,” he concluded, folding his arms once more, “a simple bit of surveillance or exposure to battle. Up to you.”

  “Is that so?” I said.

  He was breathing hard; his hair had flopped down in front of his face. “Yes. You betray me at your peril.”

  The buffalo turned around and gave him a long, hard stare. In truth, a bit of surveillance was infinitely preferable to joining a war—battles have a nasty habit of getting out of control. And furious though I was with the youth, I had always found him a marginally more sympathetic master than most of them. Whether he was so still was far from clear. As little time had passed, it was possible he had not been wholly corrupted. I unzipped the front of the bubble and leaned out of it, hoof on chin. “Well, seems like you’ve won again,” I said quietly. “Seems like I’ve got no choice.”

  He shrugged. “Not much, no.”

  “In that case,” I went on, “the least you can do is fill me in a little. I can see you’ve gone up in the world. What’s your posting?”

  “I work for Internal Affairs.”

  “Internal Affairs? Wasn’t that Underwood’s department?” The buffalo raised an eyebrow. “Aha…. Someone’s following in his old master’s footsteps.”

  The boy bit his lip. “I’m not. That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Maybe someone’s still a little bit guilty about his death….”5

  The boy flushed. “Rubbish! It’s a complete coincidence. My new master suggested I take the job.”

  “Ah yes, of course. The fragrant Ms. Whitwell. A delightful creature.”6 I appraised him closely, warming to my task. “Did she advise you on your fashion sense as well? What’s with those comical skin-tight trousers, anyway? I can read the label on your underpants right through them. As for those cuffs—”

  He bristled. “This shirt was very expensive. Milanese silk. Big cuffs are the latest fashion.”

  “They look like lacy toilet plungers. It’s a wonder you don’t get blown backward in a draft. Why don’t you cut them off and make them into a second suit? It couldn’t be worse than the one you’re wearing. Or they’d make a pretty Alice band for your hair.”

  It was notable that these jibes about his clothes seemed to annoy him more than the Underwood one. His priorities had certainly shifted over the years. He struggled to master his fury, picking restlessly at his cuffs, repeatedly smoothing back his hair.

  “Look at you,” I said. “So many new little habits. I bet you’re copying them off one of your precious magicians.”

  His hand shot down from his hair. “No, I’m not.”

  “You probably pick your nose the way Ms. Whitwell does, you’re so desperate to be like her.”

  Bad though it was to be back, it was nice to see him writhe with fury once again. I let him hop about inside his pentacle for a moment or two. “Surely you hadn’t forgotten,” I said cheerily. “You summon me, the backchat comes free. It’s part of the package.”

  He groaned into his hands. “Suddenly death doesn’t seem quite so terrifying.”

  I felt a bit better now. At least our ground rules were firmly reestablished. “So tell me about this surveillance job,” I said. “You say it’s simple?”

  He composed himself. “Yes.”

  “And yet your job, your very life, hangs in the balance over it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So there’s nothing remotely dangerous or complex about it?”

  “No. Well …” He paused. “Not much.”

  The buffalo tapped its hoof grimly. “Go on …”

  The boy sighed. “There’s something out there in London that’s highly destructive. Not a marid, not an afrit, not a djinni. It leaves no magical traces. It tore up half of Piccadilly last night, causing terrible devastation. Pinn’s Accoutrements was destroyed.”

  “Really? What happened to Simpkin?”

  “The foliot? Oh, he perished.”

  “Tsk. That’s a shame.”7

  The boy shrugged. “I share some responsibility for security in the capital, and blame has come my way. The Prime Minister is furious, and my master refuses to protect me.”

  “Are you surprised? I warned you about Whitwell.”

  He looked sullen. “She’ll come to regret her disloyalty, Bartimaeus. Anyhow, we’re wasting time. I need you to keep watch and track down the aggressor. I am organizing other magicians to send their djinn out, too. What do you say?”

  “Let’s get it over with,” I said. “What is the charge and what are your terms?”

  He glowered at me from between his luscious locks. “I propose a similar contract to last time. You agree to serve me, without revealing my birth name. If you are zealous and keep abusive remarks to a minimum, your duration of service will be relatively short.”

  “I want a definite duration. No vagaries.”

  “All right. Six weeks. That’s a mere heartbeat to you.”

  “And my exact duties?”

  “General multipurpose protection of your master (me). Surveillance of certain sites in London. Pursuit and identification of an unknown enemy of considerable power. How’s that?”

  “Surveillance, okay. The protection clause is a bit of a drag. Why don’t we leave that out?”

  “Because then I won’t be able to trust you to keep me safe. No magician would ever take a chance on that.8 You’d stab me in the back first chance you got. So—do you accept?”

  “I do.”

  “Then prepare to accept your charge!” He raised his arms and jutted out his chin, a pose that failed to be as impressive as intended because his hair kept falling in front of his eyes. He looked every one of his fourteen years.

  “Hold on. Let me help. It’s late, you should be tucked up in bed.” The buffalo was now wearing the maiden’s spectacles perched upon its muzzle. “How about this …?” I intoned it in a bored, official voice: “‘I shall serve you once again for six full weeks. Under sufferance, I promise not to reveal your name during that time—’”

  “My birth name.”

  “Oh, all right—'your birth name during that time to any human who comes my way.’How about that?”

  “Not quite enough, Bartimaeus. It’s not a question of trust, more one of completeness. I suggest: ‘… during that time to any human, imp, djinni, or other sentient spirit, whether in this world or another, on any plane; nor to let slip the syllables of the name in such a way that an echo might be overheard; nor to whisper them into a bottle, cavity, or other secret place where their traces might be detected by magical means; nor to write them down or otherwise inscribe them, in any known language, so that their meaning can be descried.’“

  Fair enough. I repeated the words grimly. Six long weeks. At least he’d missed one implication of the phrasing I had chosen: once the weeks were up, I’d be free to talk. And talk I would, if I got the slightest chance.

  “Very well,” I said. “It is done. Tell me more about this unknown enemy of yours.”

  11

  On the morning after Founder’s Day, the weather took a marked turn for the worse. Drab gray clouds piled over London and a thin rain began to fall. The streets quickly emptied of all but essential traffic, and members of the Resistance, who would ordinarily have been abroad seeking out new targets, congregated at their base.

  Their meeting point was a small but well-stocked shop in the heart of Southwark. It sold paints and brushes and other such supplies, and was popular among artistically minded commoners. A few hundred yards north, beyond a row of decrepit stores, the great Thames flowed; beyond that was central London, wher
e magicians thronged. But Southwark was relatively poor, filled with small-time industry and commerce, and magicians rarely set foot in it.

  Which suited the inhabitants of the art shop very well.

  Kitty was standing behind the glass counter, sorting reams of paper by size and weight. On the counter to one side of her was a pile of parchment rolls, tied up with string, a small rack of scalpels, and six large glass jars, bristling with horsehair brushes. To the other side, rather too close for comfort, was Stanley’s bottom. He was sitting cross-legged on the counter, head buried in the morning paper.

  “They blame us, you know,” he said. “

  For what?” Kitty said. She knew quite well.

  “For that nasty business up in town.” Stanley bent the paper in half and folded it neatly on his knee. “And I quote: ‘Following the Piccadilly outrage, Internal Affairs spokesman Mr. John Mandrake has advised all loyal citizens to be alert. The traitors responsible for the carnage are still at large in London. Suspicion has fallen on the same group that carried out a series of earlier attacks in Westminster, Chelsea, and Shaftesbury Avenue.’ Shaftesbury Avenue … Hey, that’s us, Fred!”

  Fred only grunted. He was sitting in a wicker chair between two easels, leaning back against the wall so that it teetered and wobbled on two legs. He had been in the same position for almost an hour, staring into space.

  “‘The so-called Resistance is thought to be made up of disaffected youths,’” Stanley went on, “‘highly dangerous, fanatical and addicted to violence’—Blimey, Fred, is it your mother writing this? They seem to know you so well—‘they should not be approached. Please inform the Night Police’… blah de blah … ‘Mr. Mandrake will be organizing new nighttime patrol … curfew after 9 P.M. for public safety’…. The usual story.” He tossed the paper down upon the counter. “Sickening, I call it. Our last job barely gets a mention. The Piccadilly thing’s totally stolen our thunder. It’s not good enough. We need to take action.”

  He looked across at Kitty, who was busily counting sheets of paper. “Don’t you reckon, boss? We should load up with some of those goodies in the cellar; pay a visit to Covent Garden or somewhere. Cause a proper stir.”

  She raised her eyes, glowered at him under her brows. “No need, is there? Someone’s done it for us.”

  “Someone, yes.… Wonder who?” He lifted the back of his cap, scratched with precison. “I blame the Czechs, me.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  He was goading her again, rubbing up against her authority, testing for weaknesses. Kitty yawned. He’d have to try a bit harder than that. “Maybe,” she said lazily. “Or it might be the Magyars or the Americans … or a hundred other groups. No shortage of contenders. Whoever it was, they hit a public place and that isn’t our way, as you well know.”

  Stanley groaned. “You’re not still sore about the carpet fire, are you? Bor-ring. We wouldn’t have gotten a mention at all if it wasn’t for that.”

  “People were hurt, Stanley. Commoners.”

  “Collaborators, more like. Running to save their masters’rugs.”

  “Why can’t you just—” She subsided; the door had opened. A middle-aged woman, dark-haired, with a lined face, entered the shop, shaking droplets off her umbrella. “Hello, Anne,” Kitty said.

  “Hello, all.” The newcomer glanced around, sensing the tension. “Nasty weather having an effect? Bit of an atmosphere here. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. We’re fine.” Kitty attempted a relaxed smile. It wouldn’t do to spread the dispute further. “How did you get on yesterday?”

  “Oh, rich pickings.” Anne said. She hung her umbrella on an easel and strolled to the counter, ruffling Fred’s hair en route. She was dowdy of frame, a little rolling in her gait, but her eyes were quick and bright as a bird’s. “Every magician ever spawned was out at the river last night, watching the sail-past. Remarkable how few of them guarded their pockets.” She raised a hand and made a quick snatching motion with her fingers. “Nicked a couple of jewels with strong auras. The Chief will be interested. He can show them to Mr. Hopkins.”

  Stanley stirred. “Got ’em here?” he asked.

  Anne made a face. “I stopped at the mews on the way down and left them in the cellar. Think I’d bring them here? Go and make me a cup of tea, you stupid boy.”

  “It might be the last stuff we get for a while, though,” Anne continued, as Stanley hopped down from the counter and disappeared into the back of the shop. “That Piccadilly hit was sensational, whoever did it. Like lobbing a rock into a wasps’nest. Did you see the skies last night? Swarming with demons.”

  From his chair, Fred growled in agreement. “Swarming,” he said.

  “It’s that Mandrake again,” Kitty said. “The paper says.”

  Anne nodded grimly. “He’s nothing if not persistent. Those fake kids—”

  “Hold it.” Kitty nodded at the door. A thin, bearded man entered from the rain. He browsed awhile among the pencils and notebooks; Kitty and Anne busied themselves about the shop, and even Fred exerted himself to some menial task. Finally the man made his purchases and left.

  Kitty looked at Anne, who shook her head. “He was okay.”

  “When’s the Chief coming back?” Fred said, discarding the box he was carrying.

  “Soon, I hope,” Anne said. “He and Hopkins are researching something big.”

  “Good. We’re just stewing here.”

  Stanley returned, bearing a tray of cups of tea. With him was a thickset young man with tow-colored hair, one arm supported by a sling. He grinned at Anne, patted Kitty on the back, and took a cup from the tray.

  Anne was frowning at the sling. “How?” she said simply.

  “Got into a fight.” He took a swig of tea. “Last night, at the meeting house behind the Black Dog Pub. Commoners’ action group, so called. I was trying to get them interested in some real positive action. They were scared; refused point-blank. I got a bit angry, told them what I thought of them. Bit of a scrap.” He made a face. “It’s nothing.”

  “You idiot, Nick,” Kitty said. “You’re hardly going to recruit anyone that way.”

  He scowled. “You should have heard them. They’re terrified.”

  “Cowards,” Stanley slurped loudly from his cup.

  “Of what?” Anne asked.

  “You name it: demons, magicians, spies, spheres, magic of any kind, police, reprisals…. Useless.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder,” Kitty said. “They don’t have our advantages, do they?”

  Nick shook his head. “Who knows? They won’t take risks to find out. I dropped hints about the kinds of thing we did—mentioned that carpet shop the other night, for instance—but they just went all quiet, drank their beers, and refused to answer. There’s no commitment anywhere.” He plunked his cup down angrily on the counter.

  “We need the Chief back,” Fred said. “He’ll tell us what to do.”

  Kitty’s anger rose to the surface once more. “No one wants to get involved in stuff like the carpet job—it’s messy and dangerous and above all it affects commoners more than magicians. That’s the point, Nick: we’ve got to show them we’re doing more than just blowing stuff up. Show them we’re leading them somewhere—”

  “Listen to her,” Stanley crowed. “Kitty’s getting soft.”

  “Look, you little creep—”

  Anne clinked the edge of her cup twice against the glass counter, so hard it cracked. She was looking toward the shop door. Slowly, without following her gaze, everyone dispersed around the room. Kitty went behind the counter; Nick returned to the backroom; Fred picked up his box again.

  The shop door opened and a young thin man in a buttoned raincoat slipped around it. He removed his hood, revealing a shock of dark hair. With a slightly timid smile, he approached the counter, where Kitty was inspecting the receipts in the till. “Morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Good morning, miss.” The man scratched his nose. “
I work for the Security Ministry. I wonder if I might ask you a couple of questions.”

  Kitty put the receipts down and rewarded him with her full attention. “Fire away”

  The smile broadened. “Thank you. You may have read about some unpleasant incidents in the news recently. Explosions and other acts of terror not far from here.”

  The newspaper was beside her on the counter. “Yes,” Kitty agreed. “I did.”

  “These wicked acts have injured many ordinary decent people, as well as damaged the property of our noble leaders,” the man said. “It is imperative we find the perpetrators before they strike again.”

  Kitty nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “We are asking honest citizens to look out for anything suspicious—strangers in your area, odd activities, that sort of thing. Have you noticed anything untoward, miss?”

  Kitty considered. “It’s tricky. There are always strangers around here. We’re near the quays, of course. Foreign sailors, merchants … it’s hard to keep track.”

  “You haven’t seen anything specific that you can bring to mind?”

  Kitty thought hard. “I’m afraid not.”

  The man’s smile turned rueful. “Well, come to us if you do see anything. There are great rewards for informants.”

  “I most certainly shall.”

  His eyes studied her face; he turned away. A moment later, he had slipped out and was walking across the street to the next shop. Kitty noticed he had forgotten to pull his hood back over his head, despite the pouring rain.

  One by one, the others emerged from aisles and recesses. Kitty gave Anne and Fred questioning looks. They were both white-faced and perspiring. “I take it he wasn’t a man,” she said dryly. Fred shook his head.

  Anne said: “A thing with a beetle’s head, all black, with red mouth parts. Its feelers were right out, almost touching you. Ugh, how could you not tell?”

  “That’s not one of my talents,” Kitty said shortly.

  “They’re closing in,” Nick muttered. His eyes were wide; he spoke almost to himself. “We need to do something definite soon, or they’ll get us. Just one mistake is all it’ll take.…”