I made a face. “They’re using silver bullets.4 The Shield’s not safe. Come on—” I turned, reached out for the scruff of his neck, and in the same movement, made a necessary change. The slim, elegant form of Ptolemy grew and roughened; skin turned to stonework, dark hair to green lichen. All across the square, the soldiers had a fine view of a swarthy, bow-legged gargoyle stumping off at speed, dragging an angry adolescent beside him.
“Where are you going?” the boy protested. “We’re cut off out here!”
The gargoyle gnashed its horny beak. “Quiet. I’m thinking.”
Which was hard enough to do in all that kerfuffle. I sprinted back into the center of the square. From every street, soldiers were advancing slowly, rifles at the ready, boots thudding, regalia rattling. Up on the roofs, the foliots chittered eagerly and began to stalk forward, down the steep inclines, claws on tiles clicking like the sound of a thousand insects. The gargoyle slowed and stopped. More bullets whizzed past us. Dangling as he was, the boy was vulnerable. I swung him up in front of me; stone wings descended about him, blocking off the line of fire. This had the extra advantage of muffling his complaints.
A silver bullet ricocheted off my wing, stinging my essence with its poison touch.
We were surrounded on all sides: silver at street level, foliots up high. Which left only one option. The middle way.
I retracted a wing briefly, held the boy up so he had a quick view of the square. “Take a look,” I said. “Which house do you think has the thinnest walls?”
For a moment, he was uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened. “You’re not—”
“That one? With the pink shutters? Yes, maybe you’re right. Well, let’s see …”
And with that, we were off, careering through a shower of bullets—me, beak forward, eyes narrowed; him, gasping, trying to curl up into a ball and shield his head with his arms all at once. On foot, gargoyles can put together a pretty fine turn of speed, provided we pump our wings as we run, and I’m pleased to say we left a thin scorched trail on the stones behind us as we went.
A brief description of my objective: a quaint four-story building, square, broad, with tall arches at its base marking out a shopping arcade. Behind it rose the bleak spires of Tyn Church.5 The owner of this house loved it. Each window had twin shutters that had recently been repainted a delightful pink. Long, low flower boxes sat on every sill, crammed to bursting with pink-white peonies; frilly net curtains hung chastely across the inside of each window. It was all remarkably twee. The shutters didn’t quite have hearts carved in their wood, but it was a close thing.
Soldiers ran forward from two side streets; they converged to cut us off.
Foliots skittered off gutters and descended on looping parachutes of arm skin.
I thought, on balance, the second floor was the one to aim for, midway between our enemies.
I ran, I jumped, my wings creaked and flapped; two tons of gargoyle launched proudly into the air. Two bullets rose to meet us; also, a small foliot, somewhat ahead of his fellows, descended into our path. The bullets shot by on either side; for his part, the foliot was met by a stony fist, which concertinaed him into something round and flat, resembling an aggrieved pie plate.
Two tons of gargoyle hit a window on the second floor.
My Shield was still in force. The boy and I were thus largely protected from the glass and timber, the bricks and plaster exploding all around us. This didn’t stop him from crying out in woe, which was more or less what the old lady sitting in her Bath chair did as we flew past her at the topmost point of our arc. I had a brief glimpse of a genteel bedroom, in which ornamental lacework was given undue prominence; then we were out of her life once more, exiting swiftly through the opposite wall.
Down we fell, down into the cool shadows of a backstreet in a storm of bricks, through a tangle of washing that some thoughtless individual had hung on a line outside his window. We landed heavily, the gargoyle absorbing most of the impact in his hoary calves, the boy flung from his grasp and rolling off into the gutter.
I got wearily to my feet; the boy did likewise. The outcry behind us was muffled now, but neither soldiers nor foliots would be long in coming. A narrow street led away into the heart of the Old Town. Without a word, we took it.
Half an hour later, we were slumped in the shady overgrowth of an untended garden, catching our breath. No sounds of pursuit had been heard for many minutes. I had long since returned to Ptolemy’s more unobtrusive form.
“So,” I said. “That not-drawing-attention-to-ourselves business. How are we doing?”
The boy didn’t answer. He was looking at something gripped tightly in his hands.
“I suggest we forget Harlequin,” I said. “If he’s got any sense, he’ll be emigrating to Bermuda after all this fuss. You’ll never track him down again.”
“I don’t need to,” my master said. “Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. He’s dead.”
“Eh?” My famed eloquence had been sorely tested by events. It was at this point that I realized the boy was still holding his hot dog. It was looking a trifle forlorn after its adventure, the sauerkraut having been largely replaced by a scrumptious coating of plaster, wood, splinters of broken glass, and flower petals. The boy was staring at it intently.
“Look, I know you’re hungry,” I said. “But that’s going a bit far. Let me find you a burger or something.”
The boy shook his head. With dusty fingers he pried apart the bread. “This,” he said slowly, “is what Harlequin promised us. Our next contact in Prague.” A sausage?
“No, you fool. This …” From underneath the hot dog, he drew out a small piece of card, somewhat bent and ketchup-stained. “Harlequin was the hot-dog seller,” he continued. “That was his disguise. And now he’s died for his country, so avenging him is part of our mission. But first—this is the magician we must find.”
He held out the card. Scrawled on it were just four words:
Kavka,
13 Golden Lane
28
To my great relief, the boy appeared to learn something from our close shave in the Old Town Square. I saw no more of the casual English tourist now; instead, for the rest of that dark, uncomfortable evening, he allowed me to guide him through Prague’s maze of crumbling alleys in the appropriate manner—the stealthy, painstaking progress of two spies abroad in an enemy land. We made our way north with infinite patience, dodging the foot patrols that were now radiating out from the square by enmeshing ourselves under Concealments or, on occasion, entering derelict buildings to skulk as the soldiery tramped by. We were aided by darkness and the comparative scarcity of magical pursuit. A few foliots tripped across the rooftops, flashing out questing Pulses, but I diverted these easily without detection. Beyond that, there was nothing: no demi-afrits unleashed, no djinn of any capacity. Prague’s leaders were heavily reliant on their unobservant human troops, and of this I took full advantage. Less than an hour after we had begun our flight, we had crossed the Vltava on the back of a vegetable lorry and were making our way on foot through a region of gardens toward the castle.
In the great days of the Empire, the low hill on which the castle stood had been illuminated, each day at dusk, by a thousand lanterns; these changed color, and occasionally position, at the Emperor’s whim, casting multifarious light upon the trees and houses clinging to its slopes.1 Now the lamps were broken and rusted to their posts. Except for a few feeble orange spots that marked out windows, Castle Hill was dark before us, enfolded by night.
We came at length to the base of a steep flight of cobbled steps. Up above was Golden Lane—I glimpsed its lights glinting high against the stars, on the very edge of the cold black slab of hill. Beside the bottom of the steps was a low wall, and behind this was a midden; I left Nathaniel lurking there, while I flew, as a bat, on a quick reconnaissance up the steps.
The eastern steps had changed little, since that distant day when my master’s death had released me from his s
ervice. Too much to hope that an afrit would leap out to grab my current master now. The only presences I could detect were three fat owls, hidden in the avenues of dark trees on either side of the way. I double-checked; they were owls even on the seventh plane.
Far off across the river, the hunt was still in operation. I could hear soldiers’ whistles shrilling with sad futility, a sound that gave a thrill to my essence. Why? Because Bartimaeus was too fast for them, that’s why; because the djinni they wanted was far away already, flitting and flapping the 256 steps up Castle Hill. And because somewhere ahead of me in the night silence was the source of the disturbance that I still felt tingling on each plane—the odd, unidentified magical activity. Things were going to get interesting.
The bat passed the tumbled husk of the old Black Tower, once occupied by the Elite Guard, but home now to no one but a dozen sleeping ravens. Beyond it was my objective. A street, narrow and unassuming, walled by a series of humble cottages—all tall stained chimneys, small windows, cracked plaster-fronts, and plain wooden doors leading straight onto the road. The place was always like this, even in the great years. Golden Lane worked under different rules.
The roofs, always sagging, were now beyond repair—a mess of warped frames and loose tiles. I settled on an exposed rib of wood on the endmost cottage and surveyed the street. In the days of Rudolf, greediest of the emperors, Golden Lane was a center of great magical effort, the objective of which was nothing less than the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone.2 Each house was rented to a different alchemist and, for a time, the tiny cottages hummed with activity.3 Even after the search was abandoned, the street remained home to foreign magicians working for the Czechs. The government wanted them close beside the castle, where it could keep an eye on them. And so the situation remained, right through to the bloody night when Gladstone’s forces took the city.
No foreign magicians dwelled here now. The buildings were smaller than I remembered, huddled together like seabirds on a headland. I sensed the old magics, still seeped into the stonework, but little that was new. Except … the faint tremoring on the planes was stronger now, its source much closer. The bat looked about carefully. What could it see? A dog, ferreting in a hole at the foot of one old wall. A lit window, fringed by thin curtains; inside it, an old man hunched beside a fire. A young woman, in the glare of a streetlight, walking carefully along the cobblestones in high-heeled shoes, perhaps making for the castle. Blank windows, shut casements, roof holes, and broken chimneys. Litter blowing in the wind. An upbeat scene.
And number 13, halfway down the street, a hovel indistinguishable from the rest in its griminess and melancholy, but with a glowing green nexus of force surrounding it on the sixth plane. Someone was in, and that someone did not want to be disturbed.
The bat made a quick sortie up and down the street, carefully avoiding the nexus where it curved up into the air. The rest of Golden Lane was dark and quiet, fully obsessed with its little activities of evening. I swooped quickly back the way I had come, down to the bottom of the hill to rouse my master.
“I’ve found the place,” I said. “Mild defenses, but we should be able to get in. Hurry, while no one’s around.”
I’ve said it before, but humans are simply useless when it comes to getting about. The time it took for that boy to climb those measly 256 steps, the sheer number of huffs and puffs and gratuitous pauses for breath he needed, the remarkable color he became—I’ve never seen the like.
“I wish we’d brought a paper bag or something,” I told him. “Your face is glowing so much it can probably be seen from the other side of the Vltava. It’s not even a very big hill.”
“What—What—kind of—defenses are there?” His mind was strictly on the job.
“Flimsy nexus,” I said. “No problem. Don’t you exercise at all?”
“No. No time. Too busy.”
“Of course. You’re too important now. I forgot.”
After ten minutes or so, we reached the ruined tower and I became Ptolemy again. In this guise, I led the way to a place where a shallow incline dropped down onto the street. Here, while my master gasped and wheezed gently against the wall, we looked out at the hovels of Golden Lane.
“Appalling lack of condition,” I commented.
“Yes. They should … knock them all down … and start again.”
“I was talking about you.”
“Which—which one is it?”
“Number thirteen? That one on the right, three along. White plaster front. When you’ve finished dying, we’ll see what we can do.”
A cautious walk along the shadows of the lane took us to within a few meters of the cottage. My master was all for marching up to the front door. I reached out an arm. “Stop right there. The nexus is directly in front of you. A fingertip farther and you’ll set it off.”
He stopped. “You think you can get inside?”
“I don’t think, boy. I know. I was doing this kind of stuff when Babylon was a small-time cattle station. Stand aside, watch and learn.”
I stepped up to the frail glowing net of filaments that blocked our way, bent my head close. I chose a small hole between the threads and blew gently toward it. My aim was true: the tiny sliver of Obedient Breath4 passed into the hole and hung there, neither slipping through, nor withdrawing. It was too light to trigger the alarm. The rest was easy. I expanded the sliver slowly, gently; as it grew, it pried apart the filaments. In a few minutes, a large round hole had been created in the net, not far above the ground. I remodeled the Breath into the shape of a hoop and stepped nonchalantly through it. “There,” I said. “Your turn.”
The boy frowned. “To do what? I still can’t see anything.”
With some exasperation, I refigured the Breath to make it visible on the second plane. “Happy now?” I said. “Just step carefully through that hoop.”
He did so, but still seemed unimpressed. “Huh,” he said. “You could be making this up for all I know.”
“It’s not my fault humans are so blind,” I snapped. “Yet again you’re taking my expertise for granted. Five thousand years of experience at your command, and not even a thank-you comes my way. Fine. If you don’t believe there’s a nexus there, I’ll happily set it off for you. You’ll see the magician Kavka come running.”
“No, no.” He was hasty now. “I believe you.”
“Are you sure?” My finger hovered back toward the glowing lines.
“Yes! Calm down. Now—we’ll creep in at a window and catch him unawares.”
“Fine. After you.”
He stepped grimly forward, straight into the lines of a second nexus I hadn’t noticed.5 A loud siren noise, seemingly consisting of a dozen bells and chiming clocks, went off in the house. The noise continued for several seconds. Nathaniel looked at me. I looked at Nathaniel. Before either of us reacted, the noise was discontinued, and a rattling noise sounded behind the cottage door. The door was flung open and a tall wild-eyed man wearing a skullcap rushed out,6 shouting furiously.
“I told you,” he cried. “This is too early! It will not be ready until dawn! Will you not leave me in ?—Oh.” He took heed of us for the first time. “What the devil?”
“Close,” I said. “Kind of depends on your point of view.” I leaped forward and grappled him to the ground. In an instant, his hands were up behind his back and nicely tied by the cord of his dressing gown.7 This was to prevent any quick hand gestures that might have summoned something to his aid.8 His mouth was stuffed with a section of Nathaniel’s shirt, in case of uttered commands. This done, I bundled him to his feet and had him back indoors before my master could even open his mouth to speak an order. That’s how fast a djinni can act when necessary.
“Look at that!” I said proudly. “Not even any noticeable violence.”
My master blinked. “You’ve ruined my shirt,” he said. “You’ve torn it in half.”
“Shame,” I said. “Now close the door. We can discuss this inside.”
> With the door closed, we were able to take stock of our surroundings. Mr. Kavka’s house could best be described by the term scholarly squalor. The entire floor, and every item of furniture on it, was covered with books and loose manuscripts: in places they formed intricate strata many inches thick. These in turn were covered with a thin crust of dust, scatterings of pens and quills, and numerous dark and pungent items, which had the nasty look of being leftovers from the magician’s lunches over the preceding month or two. Beneath all this was a large worktable, a chair, a leather sofa and, in the corner, a primitive rectangular sink, with a single tap. A few stray parchments had migrated into the sink, too.
It seemed that the first floor of the cottage was entirely taken up by the one room. A window at the back looked down onto the hillside and the night: lights from the city far below shone dimly through the glass. A wooden ladder extended up through a hole in the ceiling, presumably to a bedchamber. It did not look as if the magician had gone that way for some time: on close inspection, his eyes were gray rimmed, his cheeks yellow with fatigue. He was also extremely thin, standing with crumpled posture, as if all energy had drained out of him.
Not a particularly imposing sight, then—either the magician or his room. Yet this was the source of the trembling on the seven planes: I felt it, stronger than ever. It made my teeth rattle in my gums.
“Sit him down,” my master said. “The sofa will do. Push that rubbish out of the way. Right.” He sat on the corner of the worktable, one leg on the floor, the other dangling casually. “Now,” he continued, addressing his captive smoothly in Czech, “I haven’t much time, Mr. Kavka. I hope you will cooperate with me.”
The magician gazed at him with his tired eyes. He gave a noticeable shrug.
“I warn you,” the boy went on. “I am a magician of great power. I control many terrifying entities. This being you see before you”—here I rolled my shoulders back and puffed my chest up menacingly—“is but the meanest and least impressive of my slaves.” (Here I slumped my shoulders and stuck my stomach out.) “If you do not give me the information I desire, it will be the worse for you.”
Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye Page 27
