Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (5 page)

“Well, sir, if the Old Parliament was so incompetent, how come the fat Emperor never invaded Britain, because he didn’t, did he, sir? And why—”

“I can answer only one question at a time, Kitty, I’m not a magician! Britain was lucky, that’s all. Prague was always slow to act; the Emperor spent much of his time drinking beer and engaging in terrible debauchery. But he would have turned his evil gaze to London eventually, believe you me. Fortunately for us, there
were
a few magicians in London in those days, to whom the poor powerless ministers sometimes came for advice. And one of them was Mr. Gladstone. He saw the dangers of our situation and decided on a preemptive strike. Can you remember what he did, children? Yes—Sylvester?”

“He persuaded the ministers to hand over control to him, sir. He went in to see them one evening and talked so cleverly that they elected him Prime Minister there and then.”

“That’s right, good boy, Sylvester, you’ll get a star. Yes, it was the Night of the Long Counsel. After a lengthy debate in Parliament, Gladstone’s eloquence won the day and the ministers unanimously resigned in his favor. He organized a defensive attack on Prague the following year, and overthrew the Emperor. Yes, Abigail?”

“Did he free the parakeets, sir?”

“I’m sure he did. Gladstone was a very kind man. He was sober and moderate in all his tastes and wore the same starched shirt each day, except on Sundays, when his mother cleaned it for him. After that, London’s power increased, while Prague’s diminished. And as Jakob might realize, if he weren’t slumped so rudely in his seat, that was when many Czech citizens, like his family, immigrated to Britain. Many of Prague’s best magicians came, too, and helped us create the modern State. Now, perhaps—”

“But I thought you said the Czech magicians were all wicked and corrupt, sir.”

“Well, I expect all the wicked ones were killed, don’t you, Kitty? The others were just misguided and saw the error of their ways. Now there’s the bell! Lunchtime! And no, Kitty, I’m not going to answer any more questions just now. Everyone stand up, put your chairs under your desks, and please leave
quietly!”

After such discussions in school, Jakob was frequently morose, but his moodiness rarely lasted long. He was a cheerful and energetic soul, slight and dark-haired, with an open, impudent face. He liked games, and from an early age spent many hours with Kitty, playing in the long grass of his parents’ garden. They kicked footballs, practiced archery, improvised cricket, and generally kept out of the way of his large and boisterous family.

Nominally, Mr. Hyrnek was the head of the household, but in practice, he, like everyone else, was dominated by his wife, Mrs. Hyrnek. A bustling bundle of maternal energy, all broad shoulders and capacious bosom, she sailed around the house like a galleon blown by an erratic wind, forever uttering raucous whoops of laughter, or calling out Czech curses after her four unruly sons. Jakob’s elder brothers, Karel, Robert, and Alfred, had all inherited their mother’s imposing physique, and their size, strength, and deep, resounding voices always awed Kitty into silence whenever they came near. Mr. Hyrnek was like Jakob, small and slight, but with leathery skin that reminded Kitty of a shriveled apple’s. He smoked a curved, rowan-wood pipe that left wreaths of sweet smoke hanging around the house and garden.

Jakob was very proud of his father.

“He’s brilliant,” he told Kitty, as they rested under a tree after a game of fives against the side wall of the house. “No one else can do what he does with parchment and leather. You should see the miniature spell-pamphlets he’s been working on lately—they’re embossed in gold filigree in the old Prague style, but reduced to the tiniest scale! He works in little outlines of animals and flowers, in perfect detail, then embeds tiny pieces of ivory and precious stones inside. Only Dad can do stuff like that.”

“They must cost a fortune when he’s finished,” Kitty said.

Jakob spat out a grass shoot he was chewing. “You’re joking, of course,” he said flatly. “The magicians don’t pay him what they should. Never do. He can barely keep the factory working. Look at all that—” He nodded up at the body of the house, with its slates skew-whiff on the roof, the shutters crooked and ingrained with dirt, the paint peeling on the veranda door. “Think we should be living in a place like this? Come off it!”

“It’s a lot bigger than my house,” Kitty observed.

“Hyrnek’s is the second biggest printer in London,” Jakob said. “Only Jaroslav’s is bigger. And
they
just churn stuff out, ordinary leather bindings, annual almanacs, and indexes, nothing special. It’s we who deal in the delicate work, the real
craft.
That’s why so many magicians come to us when they want their best books bound and personalized; they love the unique, luxurious touch. Last week, Dad finished a cover that had a pentacle fashioned in tiny diamonds on the front. Ludicrous, but there you go; that’s what the woman wanted.”

“Why don’t the magicians pay your dad properly? You’d think they’d worry he’d stop doing everything so well, make it lousy quality.”

“My dad’s too proud for that. But the real point is they’ve got him over a barrel. He’s got to behave, or they’ll close us down, give the business to someone else. We’re Czechs, remember; suspicious customers. Can’t be trusted, even though the Hyrneks have been in London for a hundred and fifty years.”

“What?” Kitty was outraged. “That’s ridiculous! Of course they trust you—they’d throw you out of the country, otherwise.”

“They tolerate us because they need our skill. But what with all the trouble on the Continent, they watch us all the time, in case we’re in league with spies. There’s a permanent search sphere operating in Dad’s factory, for instance; and Karel and Robert are always being followed. We’ve had four police raids in the last two years. The last time, they turned the house upside down. Grandmama was taking a bath; they dumped her out in the street in her old tin tub.”

“How
awful.”
Kitty threw the cricket ball high into the air and caught it in an outstretched palm.

“Well. That’s magicians for you. We hate them, but what can you do? What’s the matter? You’re twisting your lip. That means something’s bothering you.”

Kitty untwisted her lip hurriedly. “I was just thinking. You hate the magicians, but your whole family supports them: your dad, your brothers working in his workshop. Everything you make goes to them, one way or another. And yet they treat you so badly. It doesn’t seem right. Why doesn’t your family do something else?”

Jakob grinned ruefully. “My dad’s got a saying: ‘The safest place to swim is right behind the shark.’We make the magicians beautiful things and that makes them happy. It means they keep off our backs—just about. If we didn’t do that, what would happen? They’d be on us in a flash. You’re frowning again.”

Kitty was not sure she approved. “But if you don’t like the magicians, you shouldn’t cooperate with them,” she persisted. “It’s morally wrong.”

“What?” Jakob kicked out at her leg with genuine irritation. “Don’t give me that!
Your
parents cooperate with them.
Everyone
does. There’s no alternative, is there? If you don’t, the police—or something worse—pays a visit in the night and spirits you away. There’s no alternative to cooperation—is there?
I
s
there?”

“S’pose not.”

“No, there isn’t. Not unless you want to end up dead.”

5

T
he tragedy had occurred when Kitty was thirteen years old.

It was high summer. There was no school. The sun shone on the terrace tops; birds trilled, light spilled into the house. Her father hummed as he stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie. Her mother left her an iced bun for her breakfast, waiting in the fridge.

Jakob had called on Kitty early. She opened the door to find him flourishing his bat.

“Cricket,” he said. “It’s perfect for it. We can go to the posh park. Everyone will be at work, so there’ll be no one there to clear us out.”

“All right,” Kitty said. “But I’m batting. Wait till I get my shoes.”

The park stretched to the west of Balham, away from the factories and shops. It began as a rough area of waste ground, covered with bricks, thistles, and old rusted sections of barbed wire. Jakob and Kitty, and many other children, played there regularly. But if you followed the ground west, and clambered over an old metal bridge above a railway, you found the park becoming increasingly pleasant, with spreading beech trees, shady walks and lakes where wild ducks swam, all dotted across a great sward of smooth green grass. Beyond was a wide road, where a row of large houses, hidden by high walls, marked the presence of magicians.

Commoners were not encouraged to enter the pleasant side of the park; stories were told in the playgrounds of children who had gone there for a dare, and never come back. Kitty did not exactly believe these tales, and she and Jakob had once or twice crossed the metal bridge and ventured out as far as the lakes. On one occasion a well-dressed gentleman with a long black beard had shouted at them across the water, to which Jakob responded with an eloquent gesture. The gentleman himself did not appear to respond, but his companion, whom they had not previously observed—a person very short and indistinct—had set off running around the side of the lake toward them with surprising haste. Kitty and Jakob had only just made good their escape.

But usually, when they looked across the railway line, the forbidden side of the park was empty. It was a shame to let it go to waste, especially on such a delightful day when all magicians would be at work. Kitty and Jakob made their way there at good speed.

Their heels drummed on the tarmac surface of the metal bridge.

“No one about,” Jakob said. “Told you.”

“Is that someone?” Kitty shielded her eyes and peered out toward a circle of beeches, partly obscured by the bright sun. “By that tree? I can’t quite make it out.”

“Where? No…. It’s just shadows. If you’re chicken, we’ll go over by that wall. It’ll hide us from the houses across the road.”

He ran across the path and on to the thick green grass, bouncing the ball skillfully on the flat surface of the bat as he went. Kitty followed with more caution. A high brick wall bounded the opposite side of the park; beyond it lay the broad avenue, studded with magicians’ mansions. It was true that the center of the grass was uncomfortably exposed, overlooked by the black windows of the houses’ upper stories; it was also true that if they hugged close to the wall it would shield them from this view. But this meant crossing the whole breadth of the park, far from the metal bridge, which Kitty thought unwise. But it was a lovely day and there was no one about, and she let herself run after Jakob, feeling the breeze drift against her limbs, enjoying the expanse of blue sky.

Jakob came to a halt a few meters from the wall beside a silvered drinking fountain. He tossed the ball into the air and thwacked it straight up to an almighty height. “Here’ll do,” he said, as he waited for the ball to return. “This is the stumps. I’m in bat.”

“You promised me!”

“Whose bat is it? Whose ball?”

Despite Kitty’s protests, natural law prevailed, and Jakob took up position in front of the drinking fountain. Kitty walked a little way off, rubbing the ball against her shorts in the way that bowlers did. She turned and looked toward Jakob with narrow, appraising eyes. He tapped the bat against the grass, grinned inanely, and wiggled his bottom in an insulting manner.

Kitty began the run-up. Slowly at first, then building up pace, ball cupped in hand. Jakob tapped the ground.

Kitty swung her arm up and over and loosed the delivery at demonic speed. It bounced against the tarmac of the path, shot up toward the drinking fountain.

Jakob swung the bat. Made perfect contact. The ball disappeared over Kitty’s head, high, high into the air, so that it became nothing but a dot against the sky … and finally fell to earth halfway back across the park.

Jakob did a dance of triumph. Kitty considered him grimly. With a heavy, heartfelt sigh, she began the long trudge to retrieve the ball.

Ten minutes later, Kitty had bowled five balls and made five excursions to the other side of the park. The sun beat down. She was hot, sweaty, and irate. Returning at last with dragging steps, she pointedly tossed the ball on the grass and flopped herself down after it.

“Bit knackered?” Jakob asked considerately. “You almost got the last one.”

A sarcastic grunt was the only reply He proffered the bat. “Your go, then.”

“In a minute.” For a time, they sat in silence watching the leaves moving on the trees, listening to the sound of occasional cars from beyond the wall. A large flock of crows flew raucously across the park and settled in a distant oak.

“Good job my grandmama’s not here,” Jakob observed. “She wouldn’t like that.”

“What?”

“Those crows.”

“Why not?” Kitty had always been a little scared of Jakob’s grandmama, a tiny, wizened creature with little black eyes in an impossibly wrinkled face. She never left her chair in the warm spot of the kitchen, and smelled heavily of paprika and pickled cabbage. Jakob claimed she was 102 years old.

He flicked a beetle off a grass stalk. “She’d reckon they were spirits. Servants of the magicians. That’s one of their preferred forms, according to her. It’s all stuff she learned from
her
mum, who came over from Prague. She hates windows being left open at night, no matter how hot it gets.” He put on an aged, quivering voice.” ‘Close it up, boy! It lets the demons in.’She’s full of things like that.”

Kitty frowned. “You don’t believe in demons, then?”

“Of course I do! How else d’you think the magicians get their power? It’s all in the spell books they send over to get bound or printed. That’s what magic is all about. The magicians sell their souls and the demons help them in return—
if
they get the spells right. If they don’t, the demons kill ’em dead. Who’d be a magician? I wouldn’t, for all their jewels.”

For a few minutes, Kitty lay silently on her back, watching the clouds. A thought occurred to her. “So, let me get this right…” she began. “If your dad, and his dad before him, have always worked on spell books for magicians, they must have read a lot of the spells, right? So that means—”

“I can see where you’re going with this. Yeah, they must have seen stuff, enough to know to keep well clear of it, anyway. But a lot of it’s written in weird languages, and you need more than just the words; I think there are things to draw, and potions and all sorts of horrid extras to learn, if you’re going to master demons. It’s not something anybody decent wants to be part of; my dad just keeps his head down and makes the books.” He sighed. “Mind you, people have always assumed my family is in on it all. After the magicians fell from power in Prague, one of my grandpapa’s uncles was chased by a mob and thrown from a high window. Landed on a roof and died. Grandpapa came to England soon after and started the business again. It was safer for him here. Anyway …” He sat up, stretched. “Whether those crows are demons, I very much doubt. What would they be doing sitting in a tree? Come on—” He tossed her the bat. “Your turn, and I bet I get you out first ball.”

To Kitty’s vast frustration, this was exactly what he did. And the next time, and the next. The park rang with the metallic
bong
of cricket ball on drinking fountain. Jakob’s whoops resounded high and low. At last, Kitty threw down the bat.

“This isn’t
fair!”
she cried. “You’ve weighted the ball, or something.”

“It’s called sheer skill. My turn.”

“One more go.”

“All right.” Jakob tossed the ball with an ostentatiously gentle underarm throw. Kitty swung the bat with savage desperation, and to her vast surprise made contact so firmly that she jarred her arm up to her elbow.

“Yes! A hit! Catch that one if you can!” She began a dance of victory, expecting to see Jakob pelting off across the lawn … but he was quite stationary, standing in an uncertain posture and gazing up into the sky somewhere up behind her head.

Kitty turned and looked. The ball, which she had contrived to swipe high up over her shoulder, plummeted serenely out of the sky, down, down, down, behind the wall, out of the park, into the road.

There followed a terrible smash of breaking glass, a squeal of tires, a loud, metallic crump.

Silence. A faint hissing sound from behind the wall, as of steam escaping from a broken machine.

Kitty looked at Jakob. He looked at her.

Then they ran.

Hard across the grass they went, making for the distant bridge. They ran side by side, heads down, fists pumping, not looking back. Kitty was still holding the bat. It weighed her down; with a gasp she tossed it from her grip. At this, Jakob gave a gulping cry and skidded to a halt.

“You idiot! My name’s on it—” He darted back; Kitty slowed, turned to watch him pick it up. As she did so, she saw, in the middle distance, an open gate in the wall, leading to the road. A figure in black limped into view; it stood in the center of the gateway, looking into the park.

Jakob had seized the bat and was coming on again. “Hurry
up!”
she panted, as he fell in alongside. “There’s someone …” She gave up, hadn’t the breath to speak more.

“Almost there—” Jakob led the way past the edge of the lake, where flocks of wild fowl squawked and plumed out in fear across the water; under the shadows of the beech trees, and up a slight rise toward the metal bridge. “We’ll be safe … once we’re over … hide in the craters … aren’t far now …”

Kitty had a strong desire to look behind her; in her mind’s eye she saw the figure in black running after them across the grass. The image gave her a crawling sensation down the skin on her spine. But they were going too fast for it to catch them; it would be all right, they were going to get away.

Jakob ran up onto the bridge, Kitty following. Their feet pounded like jackhammers, sending up a hollow clatter and the hum of vibrating metal. Up to the top, down the other side …

Something stepped from nowhere onto the end of the bridge.

Jakob and Kitty both cried out. Their headlong rush came to an abrupt halt; they stopped dead, crashing hard against each other in their supreme, instinctive effort to avoid colliding with the thing.

It stood as tall as a man, and indeed carried itself as if this were so, standing upright on two long legs, with arms outstretched, and fingers clasping. But it was not a man; if anything, it looked more like a horribly distorted kind of
monkey,
oversized and very stretched. It had pale green fur across its body, except around its head and muzzle, where the fur grew dark green, almost black. The malevolent eyes were yellow. It cocked its head and smiled at them, flexing its tapering hands. A slender ribbed tail thrashed behind it like a whip, making the air sing.

For a brief moment, neither Jakob nor Kitty could speak or move. Then …

“Back, back, back!” This was Kitty; Jakob was dumbstruck, rooted to the spot. She grasped the collar of his shirt and pulled him, turning as she did so.

Hands in pockets, tie tucked neatly into a moleskin waistcoat, a gentleman in a black suit stood blocking the other exit from the bridge. He was not the slightest bit out of breath.

Kitty’s hand remained clawed in Jakob’s collar. She could not let him go. She faced one way, he the other. She felt his hand reach out and, scrabbling at the fabric of her T-shirt, clutch it fast. There was no sound but their terrified breathing and the swishing of the monster’s tail through the air. A crow passed overhead, cawing loudly. Kitty heard blood pounding in her ears.

The gentleman did not seem in a hurry to speak. He was fairly short, but stocky and of powerful build. His round face had, at its center, an uncommonly long, sharp nose and, even in those moments of abject terror, suggested to Kitty something of a sundial. The face seemed without expression.

Jakob was trembling at her side. Kitty knew he would not speak.

“Please sir—” she began hoarsely. “W-what do you want?”

There was a long pause; it appeared as if the gentleman was loath to address her. When he did, it was with terrifying softness. “Some years ago,” he said, “I purchased my Rolls-Royce at auction. It was in much need of repair, but even so, it cost me a considerable sum. Since then I have spent a great deal more on it, fitting new bodywork, tires, engine, and above all an original front windscreen of tinted crystal, to make my machine perhaps the finest example in London. Call it a hobby for me, a small diversion from my work. Only yesterday, after many months of searching, I located an original porcelain number-plate and affixed it to the bonnet. At last, my vehicle was complete. Today I took it out for a spin. What happens? I am attacked, from nowhere, by two commoners’ brats. You smash my windscreen, you make me lose control; I collide with a lamppost, destroying bodywork, tires, and engine, and shattering my number-plate in a dozen places. My car is ruined. It will never run again …” He paused for breath; a fat pink tongue flicked across his lips. “What do I want? Well, first I am curious to know what you have to say.”