Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (22 page)

22

N
athaniel’s plane was due to leave the Box Hill aerodrome at six-thirty sharp. His official car would arrive at the Ministry an hour earlier, at five-thirty. This meant that he had approximately half a day to prepare himself for the most important assignment of his brief career in government: his trip to Prague.

His first task was to deal with his servant and proposed traveling companion. On his return to Whitehall, he found a free summoning chamber and, with a clap of the hands, summoned Bartimaeus once more. When it materialized, it had rid itself of its panther guise, and was in one of its favored forms: a young dark-skinned boy. Nathaniel noted that the boy was not wearing its usual Egyptian-style skirt; instead, it was lavishly dolled up in an old-fashioned tweed traveling suit, with spats, gaiters and, incongruously, a leather flying helmet, complete with goggles, loose upon its head.

Nathaniel scowled. “And you can lose those for starters. You’re not flying.”

The boy looked wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I’m traveling incognito, and that means no demons waltzing through customs.”

“What, do they put us in quarantine now?”

“Czech magicians will be scanning all incoming flights for magic, and they’ll subject a British plane to the finest scrutiny of all. No artifact, book of magic, or idiot demon will get through. I shall have to be a ‘commoner’for the duration of my flight;
you
I’ll have to summon once I’ve arrived.”

The boy raised its goggles, the better to look skeptical. “I thought the British Empire ruled the roost in Europe,” it said. “You broke Prague years ago. How come they’re telling you what to do?”

“They’re not. We control the balance of power in Europe still, but officially we have a truce with the Czechs now. For the moment, we’re guaranteeing no magical incursions into Prague. That’s why this trip has to be done subtly.”

“Speaking of subtle …” The boy gave a broad wink. “I did pretty well earlier, eh?”

Nathaniel pursed his lips. “Meaning what?”

“Well, I was on my best behavior this morning—didn’t you notice? I could have given your masters plenty of lip, but I restrained myself to help you out.”

“Really? I thought you were your normal irritating self.”

“Are you kidding? I was so oily, my feet practically slipped from under me. I can still taste that false humility on my tongue. But that’s better than being popped into one of dear Jessica’s Mournful Orbs again.” The boy shuddered.
“My
sucking up only lasted a few minutes, though. It must be horrible kowtowing to them
perpetually,
as
you
do, and knowing that you could stop that game at any time you wished, and go your own way—except that you haven’t got the bottle to do it.”

“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.”