Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (40 page)

41

W
erewolves in the street, Nathaniel back indoors. Which would
you
choose? Truth to tell, I was glad to get out and about for a bit.

His behavior was disconcerting me more and more. In the years since our first encounter, doubtless under Whitwell’s careful tutelage, he’d become an officious little beast, carefully obeying his orders with one eye always on promotion. Now he was deliberately going out on a limb, doing underhanded things, and risking much by so doing. This was no homegrown idea. Someone was putting him up to it; someone was pulling his strings. He’d been many things to me, Nathaniel had, most of them indescribable, but he’d never looked so much of a puppet as he did now.

And already it had all gone wrong.

The scene below was one of chaos. Wounded creatures lay here and there across the street amid piles of broken brick and glass. They writhed and growled and clutched their flanks, their contours altering with each spasm. Man, wolf, man, wolf … That’s the problem with lycanthropy: it’s so hard to control. Pain and strong emotion make the body shift.
¹

The girl had downed about five, I thought, not including the one blown to pieces by the Elemental Sphere. But several more were pacing redundantly in the road, and others, displaying a little more intelligence, were busily scaling drainpipes or searching for fire escapes to climb.

Nine or ten were left alive. Too many for any human to handle.

But she was still fighting: I saw her now, a little whirling figure on the rooftop. Something bright flashed in each hand—she was waving them high and low in little desperate feints and thrusts to keep three wolves at bay But with every turn she made, the black forms inched a little closer.

A scarab beetle, for all its many qualities, is not much cop in a fight. Besides, it would have taken about an hour to fly across to join the action. So I made my change, flapped my great red wings twice, and was upon them in a flash. My wings blocked out the moon, casting the four combatants on the roof into the blackest of shadows. For good measure, I uttered the fearsome cry of the roc as it swoops down upon the elephants to snatch away their young.
²

All this had the appropriate effect. One of the wolves leaped meter backward, its brindled fur fluffed in fright, and disappeared with a howl over the edge of the parapet. Another reared up on its hind legs and received a blow in the midriff from the roc’s clenched talons: it shot into the air like a fluffy football and vanished with a clatter behind a chimney.

The third, which was standing upright in parody of a man, was more nimble, quicker thinking. The roc’s arrival had caught the girl by surprise, too: gawping up in wonder at the splendor of my plumage, she lowered her knives. Without a sound, the wolf leaped at her throat.

Its teeth clashed together, sending bitter sparks flying into the night.

The girl was already several feet up and rising, suspended from my claws. Her hair streamed in front of her face, her legs dangled above the rapidly diminishing rooftop, the street and all its scurrying inhabitants. The noises of fury and disappointment receded and we were suddenly alone, suspended high above the infinite lights of the city, drawn upward by my protective wings into a place of calm tranquility.

“Ow! That’s my leg! Ow! Ah! Curse you, that’s silver! Stop it!”

The girl was stabbing a knife repeatedly into the scaly flesh just above my talons. Can you credit it? This same leg, remember, was preventing her from falling to a sooty destruction amid the smokestacks of east London. I ask you. I pointed this out to her with my usual elegance.

“There’s no need to swear, demon,” she said, desisting for a moment. Her voice was high and faint upon the wind. “And anyway, I don’t care. I want to die.”

“Believe me, if I could only help you out … Stop that!” Another prick of pain, another woozy sensation in my head. Silver does that to you; much more of it and we’d both be falling. I shook her vigorously, until her teeth rattled and her knives plummeted from her hand. But even that wasn’t the end of it: now she began twisting and wrenching back and forth in a fevered effort to loose my grip. The roc tightened its hold. “Will you
stop
wriggling, girl? I’m not going to drop you, but I
will
hold you headfirst over a tanner’s chimney.”

“I don’t care!”

“Or dunk you in the Thames.”

“I don’t care!”

“Or take you to Rotherhithe Sewage Works and—”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!” She seemed apoplectic with rage and grief, and even with my roc’s strength it was all I could do to prevent her from prying herself free.

“Kitty Jones,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the lights of north London—we were nearing our destination now—“do you not want to see Jakob Hyrnek again?”

She went quiet then, all limp and thoughtful, and we flew on for a while in a state of blessed silence. I used the respite to circle for a time, keeping a weather eye out for pursuing spheres. But all was still. We flew on.

A voice sounded from somewhere below my wishbone. It was more measured than before, but the fire had not gone out of it. “Demon,” it said, “why didn’t you let the wolves devour me? I know that you and your masters plan to kill me in any case.”

“I can’t comment on that,” the roc said. “But feel free to thank me, if you wish.”

“Are you taking me to see Jakob now?”

“Yes. If all goes as planned.”

“And then?”

I was silent. I had a fairly good idea.

“Well? Speak up! And speak truthfully—if you
can.
”

In an attempt to change the subject, the roc affected disdain. “I’d be careful, love. It’s unwise to make catty remarks when suspended at high altitude.”
³

“Huh, you’re not going to drop me. You just said.”

“Oh. Yes. So I did.” The roc sighed. “The truth is I do not know what is planned for you. Now, shut your trap a minute. I’m coming in to land.”

We sank through the darkness, across the ocean of orange lights, down to the street where the boy and I had sheltered on the night of the Underwood fire. The ruined library was still there: I could see its bulk sandwiched among the lights of the smaller shops nearby. The building had deteriorated somewhat in the intervening years, and a considerable hole now yawned in one place, where a large glass skylight had fallen away. The roc diminished in scale as it approached, judged the angle carefully, and popped the girl feet first through the hole as if posting a letter. We descended into the cavernous space, lit here and there by shafts of moonlight. Only when we were a safe distance from the rubble of the floor did I let my burden go.
⁴
She dropped with a squeak and rolled briefly.

I alighted a little way off and appraised her properly for the first time. It was the same one, all right—the girl in the alley who had tried to pinch the Amulet. She looked older now, thinner, and more jaded, her face gray and drawn and her eyes wary. The last few years had been hard for her, I reckoned; the last few minutes positively cruel. One arm hung limp, its shoulder slashed and caked with blood. Even so, the defiance in her was palpable: she got carefully to her feet and, with chin studiedly aloft, stared at me from across a column of silver light.

“I don’t think much of
this,”
she snapped. “Can’t you interrogate me somewhere cleaner? I was expecting the Tower at least.”

“This is preferable, believe me.” The roc was sharpening a claw against the wall. I wasn’t in much of a mood for conversation.

“Well, get on with it, then. Where’s Jakob? Where are the magicians?”

“They’ll be along in a bit.”

“In a bit?
What kind of outfit is this?” She put her hands on her hips. “I thought you lot were meant to be terrifyingly efficient. This is all cockeyed.”

I raised my great plumed head. “Now,
listen
” I said. “Don’t forget that I’ve just saved you from the jaws of the Night Police. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss here, young lady.” The roc rapped its talons meaningfully on the floor and fixed her with the kind of look that sends Persian sailors diving overboard.

She fixed me with the kind of look that curdles milk. “Get lost, demon! I defy you and your wickedness. You don’t frighten me!”

“No?”

“No. You’re just a useless imp. Your feathers are mangy and covered in mold.”

“What?” The roc made a hurried inspection. “Rubbish! That’s the moonlight giving them that sheen!”

“It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen out. I’ve seen pigeons with better plumage.”

“Now, listen—”

“I’ve destroyed demons with
real
power!” she cried. “Think I’ll be impressed by an overgrown chicken?”

The cheek of the girl! “This noble roc,” I said with bitter dignity, “is not my only form. It is but one of a hundred thousand guises I can assume. For instance …” The roc reared up: I became, in quick succession, a ferocious red-eyed minotaur, frothing at the mouth; a granite gargoyle, champing its jaws; a thrashing serpent, spitting venom; a moaning ghost; a walking cadaver; a floating Aztec skull, gleaming in the dark. It was a motley assortment of nastiness,
⁵
if I say so myself. “Well?” the skull inquired, meaningfully. “Care to comment?”

She swallowed audibly. “Not bad,” she said, “but all those guises are big and showy. I bet you can’t do subtle.”

“Of course I can!”

“I bet you can’t go extra
small
—say small enough to … to get into that bottle over there.” She pointed at the end of a beer bottle poking out from under a pile of litter, while all the time watching me out of the corner of her eye.

That old one! If it’s been tried on me once, it’s been tried a hundred times. The skull shook itself slowly from side to side and grinned.
⁶
“Nice effort, but that didn’t work on me even in the old days.
⁷
Now,” I went on. “Why don’t you sit down and rest? You look dog-tired.”

The girl sniffed, pouted, and folded her arms painfully. I could see her looking around, weighing up the exits.

“And don’t try anything,” I advised. “Or I’ll brain you with a rafter.”

“Hold it in your teeth, will you?” Ooh, she was disdainful.

In answer, the skull faded and became Ptolemy. I altered without thinking—it’s always my preferred form
⁸
—but as soon as I did so, I saw her give a start and step back a pace. “You! The demon in the alley!”

“Don’t get so excited. You can’t blame me for that occasion.
You
jumped
me.
”

She grunted. “True. The Night Police nearly caught me then, too.”

“You ought to be more careful. What did you want the Amulet of Samarkand for anyway?”

The girl looked blank. “The what? Oh, the jewel. Well, it was magical, wasn’t it? We stole magical artifacts in those days. It was the whole point of our group. Robbing the magicians, trying to use their stuff ourselves. Stupid. Really stupid.” She kicked out at a brick. “Ow.”

“Do I take it you no longer espouse this policy?”

“Hardly Since it got us all killed.”

“Except you.”

Her eyes flashed in the dark. “You truly expect me to survive tonight?”

She had a point there. “You never know,” I said, heartily. “My master may attempt to spare you. He has already saved you from the wolves.”

She snorted. “Your master. Does he have a name?”

“John Mandrake is the one he uses.” I was banned by my vow from saying more.

“
Him?
That pretentious little fool!?”

“Oh, you’ve met him, then?”

“Twice. And the last time I did I punched his lights out.”

“Did
you? No wonder he kept quiet about it.” I was liking this girl more and more with every moment. In truth, she was a breath of fresh air. In all the long centuries of my toil, I’ve spent remarkably little time in the company of commoners—by instinct, magicians try to keep us shadowy and removed from ordinary men and women. I can count the number of commoners I’ve properly conversed with on the claws of one hand. Of course, by and large it isn’t a rewarding process—the equivalent of a dolphin chatting up a sea slug—but you do get the occasional exception. And this Kitty Jones was one. I liked her style.

I snapped my fingers and caused a small Illumination to fly up and lodge among the rafters. From a nearby heap of rubble, I pulled some planks and breeze blocks and arranged them as a chair. “Sit yourself down,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. That’s right. So … you punched John Mandrake, did you?”

She spoke with a certain grim satisfaction. “Yes. You seem amused.”

I stopped guffawing. “Oh, can you tell?”

“Odd, given that you and he are aligned in wickedness, given that you carry out his every whim.”

“Aligned in wickedness? Hey, there
is
a certain master-servant thing going on here, you know. I’m a slave! I’ve no choice in the matter.”

Her lip curled. “Just obeying orders, eh? Sure. That’s a
great
excuse.”

“It is when to disobey means certain destruction. You try the Shriveling Fire on
your
bones—see if you like it.”