Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “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.”

  “And Whitwell’s different, is she? I didn’t notice any great love between you.”

  “Enough. I must pack, and I have to visit the Foreign Office before I go.” Nathaniel looked at his watch. “I shall require you again in … twelve hours’time, at my hotel in Prague. Until I summon you again, I bind you into a nexus here. Remain silent and invisible, in this circle, beyond the knowledge or senses of all sentient things, until I send for you.”

  The boy shrugged. “If I must.”

  “You must.”

  The figure in the pentacle shimmered and faded slowly, like the memory of a dream. When it was entirely gone, Nathaniel worked a couple of backup charms, to prevent anyone unknowingly releasing the djinni if they chose to use the circle, and left hurriedly. He had a busy few hours ahead of him.

  Before departing for his home to pack, Nathaniel called in at the Foreign Office, a building not dissimilar to the British Museum in size, bulk, and brooding gray power. Here, much of the day-to-day running of the Empire took place, magicians relaying advice and instructions by means of telephone and messenger to their counterparts in smaller offices across the world. As he climbed the steps to the revolving door, Nathaniel looked up at the roof. Even on the three planes that he was able to observe, the sky above the building was thick with the hurrying of insubstantial forms: fleet couriers carrying orders in magically coded envelopes, larger demons acting as their escorts. As always, the sheer scale of the great Empire, which could be sensed only in sights such as this, left him awestruck and a little preoccupied. In consequence, he had some trouble with the revolving entrance door; in pushing vigorously the wrong way, he unfortunately sent an elderly, gray-haired lady sprawling backward into the foyer on the other side, her armload of papers streaming out across the marbled floor.

  After negotiating the door successfully, Nathaniel hurried forward and with a dozen flustered apologies, helped his victim to her feet before beginning the task of scooping up the papers. As he did so, accompanied by a continuous volley of reedy complaints from the old woman, he saw a familiar slim form emerge from a door on the opposite side of the foyer and make her way across. Jane Farrar, Duvall’s apprentice, as elegant and glisteningly dark-haired as ever.

  Nathaniel’s face went scarlet; he speeded up frantically, but there were many papers to gather and the foyer was not large. Long before he had finished, and while the old lady was still spiritedly telling Nathaniel what she thought of him, Ms. Farrar had arrived on the scene. He glimpsed her shoes out of the corner of one eye: she had halted and was watching. He could well imagine her air of detached amusement.

  With a deep breath, he stood and thrust the papers into the old woman’s hands. “There. Once again, I’m sorry.”

  “I should think so, too—of all the careless, arrogant, most pestilential little—”

  “Yes, let me help you through that door …”

  With a firm hand he spun her around and, with a guiding shove between her shoulder blades, set her speedily on her way. Brushing himself down, he turned and blinked, as if in vast surprise.

  “Ms. Farrar! What a pleasure this is.”

  She smiled a lazy, secret smile. “Mr. Mandrake. You seem a little out of breath.”

  “Do I? Well, I am rather urgently engaged this afternoon. And then that poor old woman’s legs gave way, so I tried to help …” Her cool eyes appraised him. “Well … I’d better be getting along….”

  He moved aside, but Jane Farrar suddenly stepped a little closer. “I know you’re busy, John,” she said, “but I would love to pick your brains about something, if I might be so bold.” She twizzled a strand of long, black hair idly with a finger. “What luck for me. I’m so glad we met by chance. I heard through the grapevine that you managed to summon a fourth-level djinni recently. Is that really true?” She looked at him with wide, dark eyes, brimming with admiration.

  Nathaniel took a slight step back. He felt perhaps a little hot, certainly a little flattered, but still very unwilling to discuss matters as private as his choice of demon. It was unfortunate that the incident at the British Museum had been so public—speculation would be rife about his servant now. But it was never wise to be unguarded: safe, secret, secure. He gave a harried smile. “It is true. You were not misinformed. It’s nothing too difficult, I assure you. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  Jane Farrar gave a little sigh and adjusted a strip of hair becomingly behind one ear. “You are clever,” she said. “You know, I’ve tried to do exactly that—to raise a demon of the fourth level—but I must be getting muddled somehow, because I just can’t do it. I can’t think what the problem is. Couldn’t you come along with me now, and run me through the incantations? I’ve got a summoning circle all of my own. It’s in my apartment, not far from here. It’s very private—we wouldn’t be disturbed.…” She tilted her head slightly to one side and smiled. Her teeth were very white.

  Nathaniel was conscious of a bead of sweat trickling in an ungainly fashion down the side of his forehead. He contrived to smooth his hair back and brush the drip away in what he hoped was a casual motion. He felt distinctly odd: languorous, yet fired up and energetic all at once. After all—it would be an easy thing to help Ms. Farrar. Summoning a djinni was pretty straightforward when you’d done it a few times. It was no big deal. He suddenly realized he rather desired her gratitude.

  She touched his arm gently with slender fingers. “What do you say, John?”

  “Um …” He opened and shut his mouth, frowning. Something was holding him back. Something about time, or lack of it. What was it? He’d come to the Ministry to—to do what, exactly? It was so hard to recall.

  She gave a little pout. “Are you worried about your master? She’ll never find out. And I won’t tell mine. I know we’re not supposed to….”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just—”

  “Well then.”

  “No—I’ve got to do something today … something important.” He tried to tear his eyes away from hers; he couldn’t concentrate, that was the problem, and his heart was beating far too noisily for his memory to make itself heard. She was wearing a delightful fragrance, too, not your normal Rowan Tree Rub-On, but a perfume much more oriental and flowery. It was very nice, but a bit overpowering. The scent of her proximity muddled him.

  “What is that something?” she asked. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

  “Um, I’m going somewhere.… To Prague …”

  She pressed a little closer. “Are you? What for?”

  “To investigate … er …” He blinked, shook his head. Something was wrong.

  “Tell you what,” she said, “we could sit together and have a nice talk. You could tell me everything you’re planning.”

  “I suppose …”

  “I’ve got a lovely long couch.”

  “Have you?”

  “We can cozy up together and drink iced sherbet and you can tell me all about this demon you summon, this Bartimaeus. I’d be so impressed.”

  As she spoke the name, a little warning note sounded in his mind, cutting through his luxurious befuddlement. Where had she learned Bartimaeus’s name? It could only be from Duvall, her master, who had himself learned it that very morning in the summoning chamber. And Duvall—Duvall was no friend of his. He would want to stymie anything Nathaniel was doing, even his trip to Prague…. He stared at Jane Farrar with growing suspicion. Realization came flooding back, and for the first time he noticed his sensor web emitting a dull pulse in his ear, warning him of the presence of a subtle magic on his person. A Charm, or perhaps a Glamour … Even as he thought this, the luster of her hair seemed to fade a little, the sparkle in her eyes flickered and dimmed
.

  “I—I’m sorry, Ms. Farrar,” he said huskily. “Your invitation is very kind, but I must decline. Please give my regards to your master.”

  She regarded him silently, the look of doe-eyed admiration replaced, fleetingly, by one of bottomless contempt. A moment later, the familiar, measured coolness had returned to Jane Farrar’s face. She smiled. “He will be pleased to receive them.”

  Nathaniel gave a short bow and left her. When he glanced back, from the other side of the foyer, she had already gone.

  He was still a little disoriented by this encounter five minutes later, when he emerged from a lift on the third floor of the Ministry, crossed a broad, echoing corridor, and arrived at the Second Secretary’s door. He adjusted his cuffs, composed himself for a moment, knocked, and entered.

  It was a high-ceilinged room of oak-paneled walls; light streamed in from elegantly tapering windows overlooking the busy traffic of Whitehall. The room was dominated by three great wooden tables, their upper surfaces inlaid with stretches of stippled green leather. Upon these were a dozen unfurled maps of varying size: some of pristine paper, others of ancient, cracking vellum, all pinned carefully onto the leather tabletops. A small bald man, the Second Secretary of the Foreign Office, was stooped over one such map, tracing some detail with his finger. He glanced up and nodded affably.

  “Mandrake. Good. Jessica said you’d be calling. Come in. I’ve got the Prague maps ready for you.”

  Nathaniel crossed over to stand beside the Secretary, whose diminutive frame barely reached the level of his shoulder. The man’s skin was yellow-brown, the color of sun-stained parchment, and had a dry and dusty quality. He stabbed a finger down upon the map. “Now, that’s Prague: a fairly recent map, as you can see—it shows the trenches left by our troops in the Great War. You’re familiar with the city in principle, I take it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nathaniel’s efficient mind smoothly accessed the relevant information. “The castle district is on the West Bank of the Vltava, the Old Town on the East. The old magical quarter used to be near the castle, didn’t it, sir?”

  “That’s right.” The finger shifted. “Over here, hugging the hill. Golden Lane was where most of the Emperor’s magicians and alchemists were based—until Gladstone’s lads marched in, of course. Nowadays, what magicians the Czechs do have are barracked out of the town center in the suburbs, so there’s little, if anything, going on near the castle. It’s all run down there, I believe. The other old magical center”—the finger moved east across the river—“is the ghetto, here. That was where Loew created the first golems, back in Rudolf’s day. Others in that area continued the practice up until the last century, so I imagine it’s there, if anywhere, that the appropriate lore will have been guarded.” He glanced up at Nathaniel. “You realize this is a fool’s errand, don’t you, Mandrake? If they’ve had the ability to create golems all this time, why haven’t they been doing so? Heaven knows, we’ve defeated them in battle often enough. No, I can’t see it, myself.”

  “I’m only acting on information received, sir,” Nathaniel said, respectfully. “Prague seems the appropriate place to begin.” His neutral tone and posture concealed the fact that he agreed wholeheartedly with everything the Secretary had said.

  “Mm. Well, you know best.” The Second Secretary’s voice made it clear he thought Nathaniel didn’t. “Now … see this packet? That contains your fake passport for the trip. You’ll be traveling as Derek Smithers, a young apprentice working for “Watt’s Wine Company of Marylebone. Your pack contains documents confirming that, should Czech customs get fussy.”

  “Derek … Smithers, sir?” Nathaniel did not look too enthused.

  “Yes. Only name we could get. Poor lad died of dropsy last month, at about your age; we’ve since appropriated his identity for government service. Now, you’re officially going to Prague with a view to importing some of their excellent beer. I’ve put a list of brewers in your packet for you to memorize on the flight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. Above all, you’ve got to be low-key on this mission, Mandrake. Don’t draw attention to yourself in any way. If you have to use magic, do it quietly and do it quickly. I hear you might be using a demon. If so, keep it under control.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “The Czechs are not to know that you’re a magician. Part of our current treaty with them is that we promise not to conduct any magical activities in their territories. And vice versa.”

  Nathaniel frowned. “But sir, I heard that Czech infiltrators have been active in Britain recently. Surely they’re breaking the treaty.”

  The Secretary flashed an irritated side-glance at Nathaniel and tapped his fingers on the map. “That is so. They are quite untrustworthy. Who knows, they may even be behind this ‘golem incident’of yours, too.”

  “In that case—”

  “I know what you’re about to say, Mandrake. Of course, there’s nothing we’d like better than to march our armies into Wenceslas Square tomorrow and show the Czechs what’s what, but we can’t do that right now.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “Because of the American rebels. We’re unfortunately a trifle stretched just at this moment. Won’t last long. We’ll mop up the Yankees and then turn our attention back to Europe. But just at this point, we don’t want anything causing ructions. Got that?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Besides, we’re breaking the truce in a dozen ways as well. That’s diplomacy for you. In truth, the Czechs have been getting above themselves for the last ten years. Mr. Devereaux’s campaigns in Italy and central Europe were inconclusive, and the Prague Council has begun to probe our Empire for weaknesses. They’re nipping at us the way a flea does a dog. Never mind. All will come right in time….” The Second Secretary wore an expression in which hardness and complacency were equally mingled. He turned his attention to the map again. “Now then, Mandrake,” he said, briskly, “you’ll be wanting a contact in Prague, I suppose. Someone to help you get your bearings.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Do you have someone there, sir?”

  “We do. One of our top agents…. His name is Harlequin.”

  “Harlequin …” In his mind’s eye, Nathaniel saw a slender, masked figure, stealing with a dancing step among the shadows, carrying an air of carnival and menace in its wake….

  “Indeed. That is his agent’s title. His real name I cannot tell you; possibly it is unknown even to himself. If you’re visualizing a slender, masked gentleman, colorfully costumed, and spry of foot, then think again. Our Harlequin is a plump, elderly man of funereal temperament. Also, he is given to wearing black.” The Secretary made a face of refined distaste. “Prague does that to you, if you stay there too long. It is a melancholy city. Several of our agents have been driven to suicide over the years. Harlequin seems sound enough so far, but he is a trifle morbid in his sensibilities.”

  Nathaniel swept his hair out of his eyes. “I’m sure I can handle that, sir. How will I meet him?”

  “At midnight this evening, leave your hotel and make your way to the cemetery in the ghetto—that is here, by the way Mandrake … see? Just along from the Old Town Square. You are to wear a soft cap, with a blood-red feather in it, and stroll among the tombstones. Harlequin will find you. You will recognize him by the distinctive candle that he carries.”

  “A distinctive candle.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What—is it particularly long or wonky, or what?”

  “He did not furnish me with that information.”

  Nathaniel made a face. “Pardon me, but it all seems a bit … melodramatic, doesn’t it, sir? All these cemeteries and candles and blood-red feathers. Couldn’t he just give me a ring in my hotel room when I’ve had a shower, and meet me in a café downstairs?”

  The Secretary smiled bleakly. He passed the packet across to Nathaniel and made his way behind the farthest table to a plush leather chair, in which he sat with a sma
ll sigh. He swiveled it to face the windows, where watery clouds could be seen hanging low over London. It was raining far off to the west: smudged marks in the sky angled down into unseen folds of the city. The Secretary gazed out for a time without speaking.

  “Behold the modern city,” he said at last, “built to the finest modern templates. Look at the proud buildings of Whitehall: none of them more than a hundred and fifty years old! Of course there are tatty, unreconstructed areas still—that is inevitable, with so many commoners about—but the heart of London, where we work and live, is entirely forward-looking. A city of the future. A city worthy of a great empire. Your Ms. Whitwell’s apartment, Mandrake—a fine building; it exemplifies the modern trend. There should be many more like that. Mr. Devereaux plans to bulldoze much of Covent Garden next year, rebuild all those little timber-framed houses as glorious visions of concrete and glass….”

  The chair swiveled back toward the room; he gestured at the maps. “Prague now—that’s different, Mandrake. By all accounts it is a peculiarly gloomy sort of spot, far too nostalgic for the glories of its vanished past. Bit of a morbid fixation on things that are dead and gone: the magicians, the alchemists, the great Czech Empire. Well, any doctor could tell you that’s an unhealthy sort of outlook—if Prague were a human, we’d lock her in a sanatorium. Now, I daresay we could shake Prague out of her daydreams if we chose, Mandrake, but we don’t choose. No. Far better to have her mind muddled and mysterious, rather than clear-cut and farsighted like London’s. And people such as Harlequin, who keep an eye on things there for us, have to think in the same way as the Czechs do. Or they wouldn’t be any good to us, would they? Harlequin is a better spy than most, Mandrake. Hence his colorful instructions. I suggest you follow them to the letter.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll certainly do my best.”

  23

  I could tell it was Prague as soon as I materialized. The shabby ostentation of the gold chandelier hanging from the hotel-room ceiling; the ornate and grimy moldings around the uppermost edges of the walls; the dusty folds of the drapery above the small four-poster bed; the melancholy tingle in the air—all pointed only one way. As did the expression of foul distemper upon my master’s face. Even as he mumbled out the last syllables of the summoning, he was looking around the room as if he half-expected it to rise up and bite him.