Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (18 page)

“Evidently not to everyone.” The djinni swished its tail back and forth. “The golem’s actions were being controlled by somebody. He or she was observing through a watch-eye in the golem’s forehead. I saw the glint of his or her intelligence when the black clouds drew back.”

“Pah!” Mr. Duvall was unconvinced. “This is fanciful stuff. The demon lies!”

Nathaniel glanced at his master; her face was frowning. “Bartimaeus,” he said, “I charge you to speak truthfully. Can there be any doubting what you saw?”

The yellow eyes blinked slowly. “None. Four hundred years ago, I witnessed the activities of the first golem, which the great magician Loew created deep in the ghetto at Prague. He sent it out from its attic of shrouds and cobwebs to instill fear into the enemies of his people. It was itself a creature of magic, but it worked against the magic of the djinn. It wielded the essence of earth with a great weight: our spells failed in its presence, it made us blind and weak; it struck us down. The creature I fought last night was of the same kind. It killed one of my fellows. I do not lie.”

Duvall snorted. “I have not lived as long as I have by believing every tale a demon told. This is a blatant fabrication to protect its master.” He tossed his glass aside and, standing, glared around at the company. “But golem or not makes little difference. It is clear that Internal Affairs has lost all control of the situation. We shall see whether my department can do any better. I shall apply to the Prime Minister for an interview forthwith. Good day to you.”

He strode to the door, straight-backed, the leather on his jackboots squeaking. No one said a word.

The door closed. Ms. Whitwell remained still. The strip lights in the ceiling shone down harshly upon her; her face was more cadaverous even than usual. She stroked her pointed chin thoughtfully, the long nails making a slight scratching noise upon the skin. “We must consider this with care,” she said at last. “If the demon speaks truthfully, we have gained valuable insight. But Duvall is right to be skeptical, although he speaks from a desire to belittle our achievements. Creating a golem is a difficult business, considered nigh on impossible. What do you know of it, Tallow?”

The minister made a face. “Very little, madam, thank goodness. It is a primitive kind of magic that has never been practiced in our enlightened society. I have never cared to investigate.”

“Mandrake, what of you?”

Nathaniel cleared his throat; he always relished questions of general knowledge. “A magician needs two powerful artifacts, ma’am,” he said brightly. “Each with a different function. First, he or she requires a parchment inscribed with the spell that brings the golem to life; once the body has been formed of river clay, this parchment is inserted into the golem’s mouth to animate it.”

His master nodded. “Exactly. That is the spell that is considered lost. The Czech masters never wrote the secret down.”

“The second artifact,” Nathaniel continued, “is a special piece of clay, created by separate spells. It is placed in the monster’s forehead and helps focus its power. It acts as a watch-eye for the magician, much as Bartimaeus described. He or she can then control the creature through a common crystal orb.”

“Correct. So, if your demon speaks truthfully, we are looking for someone who has acquired both a golem’s eye and the animating parchment. Who might that be?”

“No one.” Tallow interlinked his fingers and, flexing, cracked the joints loudly, like a volley of rifle shots. “It is absurd. These objects no longer exist. Mandrake’s creature should be consigned to the Shriveling Fire. As for Mandrake, madam, this disaster is
his
responsibility.”

“You seem very confident about your facts,” the panther remarked, yawning loudly and displaying an impressive set of teeth. “It’s true that the parchments disintegrate when they are removed from the golem’s mouth. And by the terms of the spell, the monster must then return to its master and subside back into clay, so the body doesn’t survive either. But the golem’s eye is not destroyed. It can be used many times. So there may well be one here, in modern London. Why are you so yellow?”

Tallow’s jaw dropped in rage. “Mandrake—keep this thing under control, or I’ll make you suffer the consequences.”

Nathaniel removed his smirk promptly. “Yes, Mr. Tallow. Silence, slave!”

“Oooh, pardon me, I’m sure.”

Jessica Whitwell held up a hand. “Despite its insolence, the demon is correct on one account at least. Golem’s eyes
do
exist. I saw one myself, two years ago.”

Julius Tallow raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, madam? Where?”

“In the collection of someone we all have reason to remember. Simon Lovelace.”

Nathaniel gave a little start; a cold shiver ran between his shoulder blades. The name still had power over him. Tallow shrugged. “Lovelace is long dead.”

“I know …” Ms. Whitwell had an air of preoccupation. She sat back in her chair and swiveled it to face another pentacle similar to the one in which the panther sat. The room contained several, each of subtly different design. She snapped her fingers and her djinni appeared, this time in full bear’s guise. “Shubit,” she said, “visit the Artifact Vaults beneath Security. Locate the Lovelace collection; itemize it fully. Among it, you will find a carved eye of hardened clay. Bring it to me at speed.”

The bear bent its legs and vanished as it sprang.

Julius Tallow gave Nathaniel an unctuous smile.
“That’s
the kind of servant you need, Mandrake,” he said. “No glibness, no chatter. Obeys without question. I’d get rid of this smooth-tongued serpent, if I were you.”

The panther swished its tail. “Hey, we’ve all got problems, chum. I’m overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.”

“The traitor Lovelace had an interesting collection,” Ms. Whitwell mused, ignoring Tallow’s cries of fury. “The golem’s eye was one of several noteworthy items we confiscated. It will be interesting to inspect it now.”

With a clicking of hairy joints, the bear was back, landing lightly in the center of its circle. Its paws were empty, except for its cap, which it held in fully humble pose.

“Yep, that’s the kind of servant you need,” the panther said. “No chatter. Obedient. Absolutely useless. You wait: it’ll have forgotten its charge.”

Ms. Whitwell gave an impatient signal. “Shubit—you have been to the Lovelace collection?”

“Madam, I have.”

“Is a clay eye among the items?”

“No, madam. It is not.”

“Was it among the goods labeled in the inventory?”

“It was. Number thirty-four, madam. ‘A clay eye of nine centimeters width, decorated with cabalistic symbols. Purpose: golem’s watch-eye. Origin: Prague.’“

“You may depart.” Ms. Whitwell spun her chair back to face the others. “So,” she said. “There was such an eye. Now it is gone.”

Nathaniel’s face flushed with excitement. “It
can’t
be a coincidence, ma’am. Someone’s stolen it and put it to use.”

“But did Lovelace have the animating parchment in his collection?” Tallow asked irritably. “Of course not! So where’d that come from?”

“That,” Jessica Whitwell said, “is what we need to find out.” She rubbed her slender white hands together. “Gentlemen, we have a new situation. After tonight’s debacle, Duvall will press the Prime Minister for greater powers at my expense. I must go to Richmond now and prepare to speak against him. In my absence, I wish you, Tallow, to continue organizing surveillance. Doubtless, the golem—if that is what it is—will strike again. I now entrust this to you alone.”

Mr. Tallow nodded smugly. Nathaniel cleared his throat. “You, er, you no longer wish me to be involved, ma’am?”

“No. You are walking a tightrope, John. I entrusted you with great responsibility—and what happens? The National Gallery and British Museum are ransacked. However, thanks to your demon, we do have a clue to the nature of our enemy. Now we need to know the identity of whoever controls it. Is it a foreign power? A local renegade? The theft of the golem’s eye suggests that someone has discovered the means to create the animating spell. That must be where you start. Seek out the lost knowledge, and do so quickly”

“Very well, ma’am. Whatever you say.” Nathaniel’s eyes were glazed in doubt. He had not the first idea how to begin this task.

“We shall attack the golem through its master,” Ms. Whitwell said. “When we find the source of the knowledge, we will find the face of our enemy. And then we can act decisively.” Her voice was harsh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This djinni of yours seems useful….” She contemplated the panther, which was sitting washing its paws with its back to them, studiously ignoring the conversation.

Nathaniel made a grudging face. “It’s all right, I suppose.”

“It survived the golem, which is more than anything else has done. Take it with you.”

Nathaniel paused a moment. “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t think I understand. Where do you want me to go?”

Jessica Whitwell stood, ready to depart. “Where do you think? The historic home of all golems. The place, where, if anywhere, the lore must have been preserved. I wish you to go to Prague.”

18

K
itty rarely allowed considerations beyond the group to impinge upon her, but on the day after the rains ceased, she took a trip to see her parents again.

That evening, at their emergency meeting, the Resistance would learn about the great new hope, the biggest job they had ever undertaken. The details remained to be discovered, but an air of almost painful anticipation prevailed at the shop, a weight of excitement and uncertainty that made Kitty beside herself with agitation. Bowing to her restlessness, she departed early, bought a small bunch of flowers from a kiosk, and took the crowded bus to Balham.

The street was as quiet as ever, the little house trim and neat. She knocked loudly, fumbling for her keys in her bag while supporting the flowers as best she could between shoulder and chin. Before she located them, a shadow approached behind the glass and her mother opened the door, peering around it hesitantly.

Her eyes came alive. “Kathleen! How lovely! Come in, love.”

“Hi, Mum. These are for you.”

An awkward ritual of kissing and hugging ensued, mingled with the flowers being inspected and Kitty’s attempting to squeeze past into the hall. At last, with difficulty, the door was shut and Kitty was ushered up and along to the familiar small kitchen, where potatoes were bubbling on the cooker and her father was sitting at the table polishing his shoes. With hands still full of brush and shoe, he stood up, allowed her to kiss his cheek, then motioned her to an empty chair.

“We’ve got a hot pot on, love,” Kitty’s mother said. “It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Oh, that’s great. Cheers.”

“So …” After a moment’s consideration, her father placed his brush upon the table and laid the shoe sole-down beside it. He smiled at her broadly. “How’s life among the pots and paints?”

“It’s fine. Nothing special, but I’m learning.”

“And Mr. Pennyfeather?”

“He’s getting a little frail. Doesn’t walk so well now.”

“Dear, dear. And the business? Most importantly, do you have the magicians’ custom? Do they paint?”

“Not so much.”

“
That’s
where you have to direct your energies, girl. That’s where the money is.”

“Yes, Dad. We’re directing our energies at the magicians now. How’s work?”

“Oh, you know. I made a big sale at Easter.”

“Easter was months ago, Dad.”

“Business is slow. How about a cup of tea, Iris?”

“Not before lunch.” Her mother was busying herself collecting extra cutlery and setting the place before Kitty with reverent care. “You know, Kitty,” she said, “I don’t see why you don’t stop here with us. It’s not so far. And it would be cheaper for you.”

“Rent’s not high, Mum.”

“Yes, but food and that. You must spend so much on it, when we could cook for you. It’s a waste of money.”

“Mmm.” Kitty picked up her fork and tapped the table with it absently “How’s Mrs. Hyrnek?” she said. “And Jakob—have you seen him lately?”

Her mother had on a large pair of oven gloves and was kneeling before the oven; a gust of red-hot air, heavy with the fragrance of spiced meats, belched from its open door. Her voice echoed strangely as she rummaged within. “Jarmilla is well enough,” she said. “Jakob works for his father, as you know. I have not seen him. He does not go out. Alfred—could you fetch out the wooden mat? This is piping hot. That’s it. Now drain the potatoes. You should visit him, dear. He’d be glad for company, poor boy. Especially if it’s you. It’s a shame you don’t see him anymore.”

Kitty frowned. “That wasn’t what you
used
to say, Mum.”

“All that business was a
long
time ago…. You’re much steadier now. Oh, and the grandmother has died, Jarmilla says.”

“What? When?”

“Last month sometime. Don’t give me that look—if you came to see us more often, you’d have known about it earlier, wouldn’t you? Not that I can see it matters much to you in any case. Oh—
do
ladle it out, Alfred. It’ll go cold, else.”

The potatoes were overcooked, but the stew was excellent. Kitty ate ravenously and, to her mother’s delight, plowed through a second helping before her parents had finished their first. Then, while her mother told her news of people she had never met or didn’t remember, she sat quietly, fingering a small, smooth, and heavy object in her trouser pocket, lost in thought.

The evening following her trial had been deeply unpleasant for Kitty, as first her mother, then her father, had expressed their fury at the consequences. It was in vain that Kitty reminded them of her innocence, of the wickedness of Julius Tallow. It was in vain that she swore to somehow find the £600 necessary to placate the wrath of the Courts. Her parents were unmoved. Their argument boiled down to a few eloquent points: (1) They did not have the money. (2) They would have to sell their house. (3) She was a stupid, arrogant brat to think of challenging a magician. (4a) What had everyone told her? (4b) What had
they
told her? (5) Not to do it. (6) But she was too boneheaded to listen. And (7)
now
what were they going to do?

The encounter had finished predictably, with the mother weeping, the father raging, and Kitty rushing furiously to her room. It was only when she was there, sitting on the bed, staring hot-eyed at the opposite wall, that she remembered the old man, Mr. Pennyfeather, and his strange offer of assistance. It had entirely slipped her mind during the argument, and now, in the midst of her confusion and distress, it seemed altogether unreal. She thrust it to the back of her mind.

Her mother, bringing her a conciliatory cup of tea some hours later, found a chair wedged firmly against the door from within. She spoke through the thin plywood. “I forgot to tell you something, Kathleen. Your friend Jakob is out of the hospital. He went home this morning.”

“What! Why didn’t you say?” The chair was feverishly removed; a flushed face glared out from under a mane of unkempt hair. “I have to see him.”

“I don’t think that will be possible. The doctors—” But Kitty was already gone.

He was sitting up in bed, wearing a brand-new pair of blue pajamas that still had the creases in the sleeves. His variegated hands were folded in his lap. A glass bowl of grapes sat untouched upon the counterpane. Two bright white circles of fresh gauze were strapped across his eyes, and a short fuzz of hair was growing upon his scalp. His face was as she remembered, stained by its dreadful wash of gray and black.

As she entered, he broke into a small, twisted smile.

“Kitty! That was quick.”

Trembling, she approached the bed and took his hand. “How—how did you know it was me?”

“No one else comes up the stairs like a bull elephant the way you do. You all right?”

She glanced at her unblemished, pink-white hands. “Yes. Fine.”

“I
heard
about that.” He tried to maintain his smile, failed narrowly. “You’re lucky…. I’m glad.”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, knackered. Sick. Like a round of smoked bacon. My skin’s painful when I move. And itchy That’ll all pass, they say. And my eyes are healing.”

Kitty felt a surge of relief. “That’s great! When—?”

“Sometime. I don’t know….” He seemed suddenly weary, irritable. “Never mind all that. Tell me what’s been going on. I hear you’ve been to the Courts.”

She told him the whole story, except her encounter with Mr. Pennyfeather. Jakob sat upright in bed, smoky-faced and somber. At the finish, he sighed.

“You are so stupid, Kitty,” he said.

“Thanks for that.” She ripped a few grapes off the bunch and stuffed them savagely into her mouth.

“My mum told you not to. She said—”

“She and everyone else. They are all
so
right and I am
so
wrong.” She spat grape seeds into her palm and threw them into a bin beside the bed.

“Believe me, I’m grateful for what you tried to do. I’m sorry you’re suffering on my account now.”

“It’s no big deal. We’ll find the money.”

“Everyone knows the Courts are rigged—it’s not what you’ve done that counts there, it’s who you are and who you know.”

“All right! Don’t go on about it.” Kitty wasn’t in the mood for lectures.

“I won’t.” He grinned, a little more successfully than before. “I can feel your scowl through the bandages.”

They sat in silence for a while. At last, Jakob said, “Anyway, you needn’t think that Tallow will get off scot-free.” He rubbed the side of his face.

“Don’t rub. What do you mean?”

“It’s just so itchy! Meaning there are ways other than the Courts.…”

“Such as?”

“Ahh! It’s no good, I’ll have to sit on my hands. Well, come in close—something might be listening…. Right. Tallow, being a magician, will think he’s away and clear. He won’t give me another thought now, if he ever has. And he certainly won’t connect me with Hyrnek’s.”

“Your dad’s firm?”

“Well, whose else is it? Of course my dad’s firm. And that’s going to be costly for Tallow. Like a lot of other magicians, he gets his books of magic bound at Hyrnek’s. Karel told me: he’s checked the accounts. Tallow places orders with us every couple of years. Likes a maroon crocodile-skin binding, does Tallow, so we can add lack of taste to his other crimes. Well, we can afford to wait. Sooner or later, he’ll send in another book for us to treat, or order something up … Ah! I can’t bear it! I’ve got to scratch!”

“Don’t,
Jakob—have a grape instead. Take your mind off it.”

“It won’t do any good. I wake up scratching my face in the night. Mum has to wrap my hands in bandages. But it’s
killing
me now—you’ll have to call Mum for some cream.”

“I’d better leave.”

“In a minute. But, I was saying—it won’t just be the
binding
of Tallow’s book that gets changed next time.”

Kitty wrinkled her forehead. “What—the spells inside?”

Jakob gave a grim smile. “It’s possible to substitute pages, doctor sentences, or alter diagrams if you know what you’re doing. In fact, it’s more than possible—it’s downright easy for people my dad knows. We’ll sabotage a few likely incantations and then … we’ll see.”

“Won’t he notice?”

“He’ll simply read the spell, draw the pentacle, or whatever it is he does, and then … who knows? Nasty things happen to magicians when spells go wrong. It’s a precise art, my dad tells me.” Jakob settled back against the pillows. “It may be years before Tallow falls into the trap—but so what? I’m in it for the long haul. My face’ll still be ruined in four, five years’time. I can wait.” He turned his face away suddenly. “You’d better get Mum now. And don’t tell
anyone
what I’ve just told you.”

Kitty located Mrs. Hyrnek in the kitchen; she was sieving an odd, oily white lotion, thick with dark-green aromatic herbs, into a medicine jar. At Kitty’s news, she nodded, her eyes gray with weariness.

“I’ve made the lotion just in time,” she said, stoppering the jar hastily and seizing a cloth from the sideboard. “You’ll see yourself out, won’t you?” With this, she bustled from the room.

Kitty had taken no more than two trailing steps toward the hall when a low, short whistle halted her in her tracks. She turned: Jakob’s aged grandmama was sitting in her usual chair beside the stove, a large bowl of unshelled peas wedged upon her bony lap. Her bright black eyes glittered at Kitty; the numberless crinkles on her face shifted as she smiled. Kitty smiled back uncertainly. A withered hand was raised; a shriveled finger curled and beckoned, twice. Heart pounding, Kitty approached. Never, in all her many visits, had she spoken two words to Jakob’s grandmama; she had never even heard her speak. A ridiculous panic engulfed her. What should she say? She did not speak Czech. What did the old woman want? Kitty felt herself suddenly part of a fairy tale, a waif trapped in the kitchen of a cannibal witch. She—

“This,” Jakob’s grandmama said in a clear, crisp South London accent, “is for you.” She delved a hand somewhere into the pockets of her voluminous skirts. Her eyes did not leave Kitty’s face. “You should keep it close…. Ah, where is the beggar? Aha—yes. Here.”

Her hand, when she raised it to Kitty’s, was tightly clenched, and Kitty felt the weight of the object and its coldness in her palm before she saw what it was. A small metal pendant, fashioned in the shape of a teardrop. A little loop at the top showed where it could be affixed to a chain. Kitty did not know what to say.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s … beautiful.”

Jakob’s grandmama grunted. “Huh. It’s silver. More to the point, girl.”

“It—it must be very valuable. I … don’t think I should—”

“Take it. And wear it.” Two leathery hands enclosed Kitty’s, folding her fingers over the pendant. “You never know. Now, I have a hundred peas to shell. Perhaps a hundred and two—one for each year, eh? So. I must concentrate. Be off with you!”

The next few days saw repeated deliberations between Kitty and her parents, but the upshot was always the same—with all their savings pooled, they were still several hundred pounds short of the Court’s fine. Selling the house, with the uncertainty that entailed, seemed the only solution.

Except, possibly, for Mr. Pennyfeather.