“But we never managed more than eleven! And London’s huge!”
“Eleven percent? That’s not too bad.”
“No. Eleven. That was it.”
The boy raised his eyebrows. “Blimey, your recruitment policy can’t have been too snappy. But then again, it’s early days. How long is it since Gladstone set up shop? Hundred and fifty years or so? Well, that’s your answer. Resilience to magic takes a long time to build up in the general population. Magicians had ruled in Rome for five hundred years before the revolutions came. That’s an awful lot of magic seeping through the city. Gradually more and more children are born with talents of one sort or another. What else can you do, for instance? See us?”
“No.” Kitty made a face. “Anne and Fred could do that. I’m just … good at surviving.”
The boy grinned. “That’s no mean talent. Don’t knock it.”
“Stanley could see magic in stuff as well—that’s how we knew you had that necklace.”
“What? Oh, the Amulet. Yep, that kind of sight’s another one. Well, there are probably all sorts of abilities bubbling up in London’s population right now. Must be hundreds of people with the power. But you’ve got to remember, most people won’t be aware they’ve got an ability at all. It takes time for the knowledge to spread. How did you find out?”
It was all Kitty could do to remember that this slight, polite, and very informative boy was actually a demon, something to be loathed and shunned. She opened her mouth to speak and hesitated. The boy rolled its eyes in annoyance and raised its hands. “Look, don’t think I’m going to tell anyone this, least of all my master. I don’t owe him anything. Still, far be it from me to force it out of you. I’m not a magician.” It sounded rather huffy.
“A demon hit me with a Black Tumbler.” Her small confidence took Kitty rather by surprise; she found herself saying it without thinking.
“Oh, yes. Tallow’s monkey. I forgot.” The boy stretched lazily. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know Tallow’s dead now. An afrit got him. Quite stylishly, too. No—I won’t give you the details. Not unless you tell me more about you. What happened after the Tumbler?” And Kitty, despite herself, was soon recounting her story.
At the finish, the demon shrugged ruefully. “You see, the problem with this Pennyfeather was that he was too much like the magicians, wasn’t he? Greedy, close, and clasping. Wanted to keep everything nice and secret, all for himself. Small wonder you had only eleven members. If you want to get a revolution going, my tip is to get the people on your side. All those explosions and thefts were never going to get you anywhere.”
Kitty scowled. The demon’s blithe assurance on the matter rankled. “I suppose not.”
“ ’Course they weren’t. Education’s the thing. Knowledge of the past. That’s why the magicians give you such ropy schooling. I bet you had endless triumphal stuff about why Britain’s so great.” He chuckled. “The funny thing is, the people’s growing resilience always comes as a surprise to the magicians, too. Each empire thinks it’s different, thinks it won’t happen to them. They forget the lessons of the past, even recent lessons. Gladstone only got to Prague so fast because half the Czech army was on strike at the time. It seriously weakened the Empire. But my master and his friends have already forgotten this fact. He hadn’t a clue why you escaped his mouler the other day. Incidentally, he really is taking ages to bring Hyrnek across. I’m beginning to think something might have happened to him. Nothing fatal, unfortunately, or I wouldn’t still be here.”
Jakob. Kitty had been so caught up in the demon’s words that the thought of her friend had half escaped her mind. She flushed. This was the enemy she was talking with—a killer, an abductor, an inhuman fiend. How could she have forgotten?
“You know,” the demon said in a companionable sort of way, “I was wondering about something. Why did you come looking for this Hyrnek? You must have known it was a trap. He said you hadn’t seen him for years.”
“I hadn’t. But it’s my fault he’s in this mess, isn’t it?” Kitty gritted the words out.
“Ye-e-s …” The demon made a face. “I just think it’s odd, that’s all.”
“What can you know about it, demon?!” Kitty was white with rage. “You’re a monster! How dare you even imagine what I’m feeling!” She was so furious, she almost lashed out.
The boy tutted. “Let me give you a friendly tip,” he said. “Now, you wouldn’t want to be called ‘female mudspawn,’ would you? Well, in a similar way, when addressing a spirit such as me, the word demon is in all honesty a little demeaning to us both. The correct term is djinni, though you may add adjectives such as noble and resplendent if you choose. Just a question of manners. It keeps things friendly between us.”
Kitty laughed harshly. “No one’s friendly with a demon!”
“Not normally, no. The cognitive differentials are just too great. But it has happened.…” It broke off thoughtfully.
“Yeah?”
“Take it from me.”
“Such as when?”
“Oh, long ago … It doesn’t matter.” The Egyptian boy shrugged.
“You’re making it up.”
Kitty waited, but the boy was studying its fingernails intently. It did not continue.
After a long pause, she broke the silence. “So why did Mandrake save me from the wolves? It doesn’t make sense.”
The boy grunted. “He wants the Staff. Obviously.”
“The staff? Why?”
“What do you think? Power. He’s trying to get it before the others.” The boy’s voice was terse. It appeared to be in a bad mood.
A dawning realization stole over Kitty. “You mean that staff’s important?”
“Of course. It’s Gladstone’s. You knew that, otherwise why break into his tomb?”
In her mind’s eye, Kitty saw the theater box again, and the gold key being tossed into view. She heard the voice of their benefactor, mentioning the Staff as if it were an afterthought. She saw Hopkins’s pale gray eyes gazing at hers, heard his voice, low amid the bustle of the Druids’ Coffeehouse, inquiring after the Staff. She felt the sickness of betrayal.
“Oh. You didn’t know.” The bright eyes of the djinni were watching her. “You were set up. Who by? That Hopkins?”
Kitty’s voice was faint. “Yes. And someone else—I never saw his face.”
“Pity. It was almost certainly one of the leading magicians. As to which, you can take your pick. They’re all as bad as one another. And they’ll always have someone else do their dirty work for them, djinni or human.” It blinked, as if a thought had struck it. “You don’t know anything about the golem, I suppose?” This word meant nothing to Kitty; she shook her head. “Didn’t think so. It’s a big, nasty magical creature—been causing chaos around London recently. Someone’s controlling it, and I’d dearly like to know who. Nearly killed me, for starters.”
The boy looked so put out as it said this that Kitty almost smirked. “I thought you were a noble djinni of awesome power?” she said. “How come this golem beat you?”
“It’s resistant to magic, that’s why. Saps my energy if I get close. You’d have a better chance of stopping it than me.” It made it sound as if this was the most ridiculous thing in the world.
Kitty bridled. “Thanks a lot.”
“I’m serious. A golem’s controlled by a manuscript hidden in its mouth. If you got close, and whipped the paper out, the golem would return to its master and disintegrate back into clay. I saw it happen once, in Prague.”
Kitty nodded absently. “That doesn’t sound too difficult.”
“Obviously, you’d have to penetrate the choking black mist that hangs about it….”
“Oh … right.”
“And avoid its swinging fists that can hammer through concrete …”
“Ah.”
“Other than that, you’d be laughing.”
“Well, if it’s so easy,” Kitty demanded hotly, “how come the magicians hav
en’t stopped it?”
The djinni gave a cold smile. “Because it would require personal bravery. They never do anything themselves. They rely on us the whole time. Mandrake gives me an order, I obey. He sits at home, I go out and suffer. That’s the way it works.”
The boy’s voice had grown old and tired. Kitty nodded. “Sounds tough.”
A shrug. “That’s the way it works. No choice. That’s why I’m interested in you coming out to rescue Hyrnek. Let’s face it, it was a stupid decision, and you didn’t have to make it. No one’s forcing you to do anything. You got it wrong, but for admirable reasons. Believe me, it makes a change to see that after hanging around with magicians for so long.”
“I didn’t get it wrong,” Kitty said. “How long has it been?”
“Five thousand years or more. Off and on. You get the odd break down the centuries, but just as one empire falls, there’s always another rising up. Britain’s only the latest.”
Kitty looked out into the shadows. “And Britain’ll fall too, in time.”
“Oh, yes. The cracks are already showing. You should read more, you’ll see the patterns. Aha … someone’s below. At last …”
The boy stood up. Kitty did likewise. To her ears now came scuffling sounds, a couple of whispered curses drifting up the staircase. Her heart began to beat fast. Once more, she wondered if she should run; once more, she quelled the instinct down.
The djinni looked across at her, grinned. Its teeth flashed very white. “You know, I’ve quite enjoyed our conversation,” it said. “I hope they don’t order me to kill you.”
Girl and demon stood together, waiting in the darkness. Steps ascended the stairs.
43
Nathaniel was escorted to Whitehall in an armored limousine, accompanied by Jane Farrar and three silent officers of the Night Police. Jakob Hyrnek sat to his left, a policeman to his right. Nathaniel noticed that the officer had great rips and tears in the trousers of his uniform, and that the nails on his great callused hands were torn. The air was thick with the smell of musk. He looked across at Jane Farrar, sitting impassively in the front seat, and found himself wondering whether she was a werewolf, too. Altogether, he doubted it: she seemed too controlled, too slight of build. But then again, you could never tell.
At Westminster Hall, Nathaniel and Jakob were taken straight to the great Reception Chamber, where the ceiling glowed with vigilance spheres and the Prime Minister and his lords sat around the polished table. Unusually, no edible delicacies were on display, indicating the perceived seriousness of the situation. Each minister had only a humble bottle of carbonated water and a glass. The Police Chief now sat in the chair of honor next to the Prime Minister, his face heavy with satisfaction. Ms. Whitwell was relegated to a seat on the margins. Nathaniel did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on the Prime Minister, looking for readable signs; but Mr. Devereaux was gazing at the table.
No one but the chief ministers were there. Mr. Makepeace was not present.
The escorting officers saluted at Police Chief Duvall and, at his signal, shuffled from the room. Jane Farrar stepped forward. She coughed delicately.
Mr. Devereaux looked up. He sighed the sigh of a man about to carry out a regretful task. “Yes, Ms. Farrar? You have something to report?”
“I do, sir. Has Mr. Duvall given you any details?”
“He has mentioned something of the matter. Please be brief.”
“Yes, sir. For some days, we have been observing the activities of John Mandrake. Several small discrepancies about his recent affairs made us attentive: he has displayed a certain vagueness and inconsistency in his actions.”
“I protest!” Nathaniel interrupted as suavely as he could. “My demon destroyed the renegade afrit—I can hardly be accused of vagueness there.”
Mr. Devereaux held up a hand. “Yes, yes, Mandrake. You will have your chance to speak. In the meantime, please be silent.”
Jane Farrar cleared her throat. “If I might expand, sir: in the last few days Mandrake has several times embarked on solitary trips across London, at a time of crisis when all magicians were required to remain at Westminster to receive orders. This afternoon, when he once more departed mysteriously, we sent vigilance spheres out to follow him. We traced him to a house in east London, where he met his demon and this unprepossessing youth. They took up station there, evidently waiting for someone. We decided to station officers from the Night Police nearby. Late this very evening, a girl approached the house; challenged by our officers, she proceeded to resist arrest. She was highly armed: two men were killed and four injured in the scuffle. However, our officers were about to effect capture when Mr. Mandrake’s demon appeared and helped the suspect escape. At this point, I felt it my duty to arrest Mr. Mandrake.”
The Prime Minister took a small sip of water. “This girl? Who is she?”
“We believe her to be a member of the Resistance, sir, a survivor of the abbey raid. It seems clear that Mandrake has been in contact with her for some time. Certainly, he helped her evade justice. I thought it proper that the matter be brought to your attention.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Devereaux’s black eyes scanned Nathaniel for a time. “When your forces encountered her, was the girl carrying Gladstone’s Staff?”
Jane Farrar pursed her lips. “No, sir, she was not.”
“Please sir, if I may—”
“You may not, Mandrake. Henry, you wish to comment?”
The Police Chief had been shuffling restlessly in his seat; now he leaned forward, placing his great thick hands palms-down on the table. He turned his head slowly from side to side, scanning the other ministers one by one. “I have had my doubts about this boy for some time now, Rupert,” he began. “When I first saw him I said to myself: ‘This Mandrake, he’s talented, all right, and outwardly industrious—but deep too, there’s something unfathomable about him.’Well now, we all know his ambition, how he’s wormed his way into poor Jessica’s affections, how she gave him power in Internal Affairs at a remarkably young age. So what was his brief in that office? To tackle the Resistance, destroy it if possible, and make the streets a safer place for us all. What has happened in recent months? The Resistance has gone from strength to strength, and their terror campaign has culminated in the ransacking of our Founder’s tomb. There is no end to the outrages they have committed: the British Museum, the emporiums of Piccadilly, the National Gallery—all have been attacked, and no one has been held accountable.”
Nathaniel stepped forward angrily. “As I’ve said many times, those had nothing to do with—”
An olive-green band of gelatinous substance materialized in midair before him and wound tightly around his head, gagging him painfully. Mr. Mortensen lowered his hand. “Go on, Duvall,” he said.
“Thank you.” The Police Chief made an expansive gesture. “Well, now. At first, Ms. Farrar and I assumed all this singular lack of success was down to simple incompetence on Mandrake’s part. Then we began to wonder: Could there be something more to it? Could this talented and ambitious youth be part of something more sinister? We began to keep an eye on him. After the museum’s destruction, he made a surreptitious journey to Prague, where—although his movements are a little uncertain—we believe he met with foreign magicians. Yes, you may well gasp, Ms. Malbindi! Who knows what damage this boy may have done, what secrets he may have exposed. At the very least, one of our best spies in Prague—a man who had served us well for many years—was killed during Mandrake’s visit.”
At this, many of the ministers set up a low muttering. Mr. Duvall drummed the table with his slablike fingers. “Mandrake has been touting an unlikely story about the London attacks, claiming that a golem—yes, you did hear correctly, Ms. Malbindi, a golem—might be behind them. Ridiculous as this is, he appears to have gulled poor Jessica easily enough, and the golem story served as his excuse to visit Prague. He came back without proof of his wild assertions, and—as we have just heard—has since been caught communing with t
he Resistance and defying our police. It’s clear enough that he wants Gladstone’s Staff; it may even be that he directed the traitors to the tomb in the first place. I suggest that we escort Mr. Mandrake forthwith to the Tower of London for proper interrogation. Indeed, I propose to take care of the matter personally.”
There was a murmur of assent. Mr. Devereaux shrugged. Of the ministers, Ms. Whitwell remained silent, stony-faced. The portly Foreign Minister, Fry, spoke: “Good. I never liked the boy. His hair is far too long and he has an insolent face. Do you have any methods in mind, Duvall?”
“Perhaps the Well of Remorse? I suggest suspending him up to his nose in it overnight. That usually makes traitors talk, if the eels have left them their tongues.”
Fry nodded. “Eels. That reminds me. What about a second supper?”
Mr. Mortensen leaned forward. “What about the Winch, Duvall? That often proves effective.”
“A Mournful Orb is the most tried-and-tested method, I find.”
“Perhaps a few hours in each?”
“Perhaps. Shall I remove the wretch, Rupert?”
The Prime Minster blew out his cheeks, sat back in his chair. He spoke hesitantly. “I suppose so, Henry. I suppose so.”
Mr. Duvall clicked his fingers; from the shadows stepped four Night Police, each one more muscular than the last. They marched in step across the room toward the prisoner, their leader producing a thin silver manacle from his belt. At this development, Nathaniel, who had been wriggling and gesticulating with vigor for some time, set up such an agitated protest that a small muffled yelp escaped his gag. The Prime Minster seemed to recall something; he held up a hand.
“One moment, Henry. We must allow the boy his defense.”
The Police Chief frowned with impatience. “Must we, Rupert? Beware. He is a plausible little devil.”
“7 shall decide that for myself, I think.” Mr. Devereaux glanced at Mortensen, who made a reluctant gesture. The gelatinous gag around Nathaniel’s mouth dissolved, leaving a bitter tang. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face.
Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye Page 42
