Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (10 page)

A manservant ushered them through a series of luxurious chambers, until they passed under a high white arch and into a long, open, sunlit room, evidently a conservatory appended to the house. On either side stretched brown flowerbeds, neat and empty and decorous, and studded with ornamental rosebushes. Here and there, invisible persons tilled the earth with rakes.

Inside the conservatory, the air was warm, stirred only by a sluggish fan hanging from the ceiling. Below, on a semicircle of low couches and divans, reclined the Prime Minister and his retinue, drinking coffee from small, white Byzantine cups and listening to the complaints of an immense man in a white suit. Nathaniel’s stomach churned to see him there: this was Sholto Pinn, whose business had been ruined.

“I regard it as the most despicable outrage,” Mr. Pinn was saying. “A gross affront. I have sustained such losses …”

The couch nearest to the door was empty. Ms. Whitwell sat here, and Nathaniel, after a hesitation, did likewise. His quick eyes scanned the occupants of the room.

First: Pinn. Ordinarily, Nathaniel regarded the merchant with suspicion and dislike, since he had been a close friend of the traitor Lovelace. But nothing had ever been proved, and clearly he was the injured party here. His lament rumbled on.

“… that I fear I may never recover. My collection of irreplaceable relics is gone. All I have left is a faience pot containing a useless dried paste! I can scarcely …”

Rupert Devereaux himself lounged on a high-backed couch. He was of average height and build, originally handsome, but now, thanks to his many and varied indulgences, slightly heavier around the jowls and belly. Expressions of boredom and annoyance flitted perpetually across his face as he listened to Mr. Pinn.

Mr. Henry Duvall, the Chief of Police, sat nearby, arms folded, his gray cap resting squarely on his knees. He wore the distinctive uniform of the Graybacks, the elite cadre of the Night Police of which he was commander: a ruffed white shirt; a smog-gray jacket, squared, crisply pressed and decorated with bright red buttons; gray trousers tucked into long black boots. Bright brass epaulettes like claws gripped his shoulders. In such an outfit, his hulking frame appeared even bigger and broader than it was; silent and seated, he dominated the room.

Three other ministers were present. A bland, middle-aged man with lank blond hair sat studying his nails—this was Carl Mortensen of the Home Office. Beside him, yawning ostentatiously, sat Helen Malbindi, the soft-spoken Information Minister. The Foreign Secretary, Marmaduke Fry, a man of capacious appetites, was not even pretending to listen to Mr. Pinn; he was engaged in loudly ordering an extra luncheon from a deferential servant.

“… six croquette potatoes, green beans, sliced lengthways …”

“… for thirty-five years I’ve built up my supplies. Each one of you has benefited from my experience …”

“… and another cod roe omelette, with a judicious sprinkling of black pepper.”

On the same couch as Mr. Devereaux, separated from him by a teetering pile of Persian cushions, sat a short, red-haired gentleman. He wore an emerald-green waistcoat, tight black trousers with sequins sewn into the fabric, and an enormous smile. He appeared to be enjoying the debate hugely. Nathaniel’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. Quentin Makepeace was the author of more than twenty successful plays, the latest of which,
Swans of Araby,
had broken box office records across the Empire. His presence in the company was somewhat incongruous, but not entirely unexpected. He was known to be the Prime Minister’s closest confidante, and the other ministers tolerated him with wary courtesy.

Mr. Devereaux noted Ms. Whitwell’s arrival and raised an acknowledging hand. He coughed discreetly; instantly Mr. Pinn’s flow of grievances ceased.

“Thank you, Sholto,” the Prime Minister said. “You are most articulate. We are all deeply moved by your predicament. Perhaps now we may get some answers. Jessica Whitwell is here, together with young Mandrake, whom I’m sure you all remember.”

Mr. Duvall grunted, his voice heavy with irony “Who does not know the great John Mandrake? We follow his career with interest, particularly his efforts against the troublesome Resistance. I hope he brings news of a breakthrough in this case.”

All eyes fixed upon Nathaniel. He gave a brief, stiff bow as courtesy required. “Good evening, sirs, madams. Erm, I have no firm news as yet. We have been carefully investigating the scene, and—”

“I knew it!” The medals on the Police Chief’s chest swung and clicked with the force of his interruption. “You hear that, Sholto? ‘No firm news.’ Hopeless.”

Mr. Pinn regarded Nathaniel through his monocle. “Indeed. Most disappointing.”

“It is about time Internal Affairs was taken off this case,” Duvall continued. “We at the police could do a better job. It’s time the Resistance was crushed.”

“Hear, hear.” Mr. Fry looked up briefly, then returned to the servant. “And a strawberry roulade for dessert …”

“It certainly is,” Helen Malbindi said gravely “I have myself suffered some losses—a valuable collection of African spirit masks was taken recently.”

“Some of my associates,” Carl Mortensen added, “were burgled, too. And the backroom of my Persian carpet supplier was set on fire last night.”

From his corner, Mr. Makepeace smiled equably. “In truth, most of these crimes are terribly small scale, are they not? They do not truly hurt us. The Resistance are fools: they alienate the commoners with their explosions—people are frightened of them.”

“Small scale? How can you say that,” Mr. Duvall cried, “when one of the most prestigious streets in London has been devastated? Our enemies around the world will be rushing home to communicate the good news—that the British Empire is too weak to prevent attacks on its own doorstep. That’ll go down well in the backwoods of America, I can tell you. And on Gladstone’s Day, above all.”

“Which is a ridiculous extravagance, incidentally,” Morten-sen said. “A waste of valuable resources. I don’t know why we honor the old fool.”

There was a chuckle from Mr. Makepeace. “You wouldn’t have said that to his face, Mortensen.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen …” The Prime Minister stirred himself. “We should not bicker. In one respect, Carl is correct. Founder’s Day is a serious business and must be done well. We befuddle the population with gaudy trivialities. Millions are taken from the Treasury to finance the free food and games. Even the Fourth Fleet has delayed embarking for America to provide a little extra spectacle. Anything that spoils the effect—and wounds Mr. Pinn into the bargain—needs to be quickly addressed. Currently, it is the job of Internal Affairs to investigate crimes of this nature. Now, Jessica, if you would care to report …”

Ms. Whitwell gestured at Nathaniel. “Mr. Mandrake has been conducting the case with Mr. Tallow. He has not yet had time to report to me. I suggest we hear him out.”

The Prime Minister smiled benignly at Nathaniel. “Go ahead, John.”

Nathaniel swallowed. His master was leaving him to fend for himself. Very well, then. “It’s too early to tell what caused this morning’s disruption,” he said. “Maybe—”

Sholto Pinn’s monocle popped out of his eye.
“’Disruption’?”
he roared. “This is a catastrophe! How
dare
you, boy?”

Nathaniel persevered doggedly. “It’s too early, sir,” he said, “to tell whether this was in fact the Resistance at all. It might well not be. It might be agents from a foreign power, or the pique of a homegrown renegade. There are odd aspects about the case—”

Mr. Duvall held up a hairy hand. “Ridiculous! It’s a Resistance attack for sure. It has all the hallmarks of their crimes.”

“No, sir.” Nathaniel forced himself to meet the police chief’s gaze. He was not going to kowtow any further. “Resistance attacks are small-scale, generally involving low-level magical attack—mouler glasses, Elemental Spheres. They are always conducted against political targets—against magicians, or the businesses that supply us—and have a whiff of opportunism about them. They are always hit-and-run. The Piccadilly incident was different. It was ferocious in its intensity and was sustained for many minutes. The buildings were wrecked from the
inside out
—the outer walls remaining largely intact. In short, I believe something was exerting high-level magical control over the destruction.”

Ms. Whitwell spoke then. “But there was no evidence of imps or djinn.”

“No, ma’am. We methodically combed the area, looked for clues, and found nothing. There were no
conventional
magical traces, which seems to rule out the presence of demons; nor was there any sign of human involvement. Those persons present during the attack were killed by strong magic of a sort, but we have been unable to identify its source. If I might speak freely—Mr. Tallow is ploddingly meticulous, but his methods throw up no new leads. Should our enemy strike again, I believe that we will continue to stumble along in his wake, unless we change our tactics.”

“We need more power to the Graybacks,” Mr. Duvall said.

“With respect,” Nathaniel said, “six of your wolves were not enough last night.”

There was a short silence. Mr. Duvall’s small black eyes appraised Nathaniel up and down. His nose was short, but unusually broad, his chin blue with stubble, protuberant as a snowplow. He said nothing, but the look in the eyes was clear.

“Well, that is plainly spoken,” Mr. Devereaux said finally. “So, what is
your
suggestion, John?”

This was it. He had to seize the chance. They were all waiting for him to fail. “I think there is every reason to believe last night’s assailant will strike again,” he said. “It has just attacked Piccadilly—one of the most popular tourist destinations in London. Perhaps it seeks to humiliate us, to spread uncertainty among visitors from abroad, to undermine our international standing. Whatever the reason, we need high-level djinn on patrol across the capital. I would station them near other prominent shopping areas, and tourist sites such as museums and galleries. Then, if anything happens, we will be in a position to act quickly.”

There were snorts of disapproval from the assembled ministers and a general outcry. The suggestion was ridiculous: vigilance spheres were already on patrol; the police were out in force, too; high-level djinn required much expenditure of energy…. Only the Prime Minister remained quiet—along with Mr. Makepeace, who sat back in his seat wearing an expression of great merriment.

Mr. Devereaux called for silence. “It seems to me the evidence is inconclusive. Is this outrage the work of the Resistance? Perhaps, perhaps not. Would more surveillance be useful? Who knows? Well, I have come to a decision. Mandrake, you have proved yourself more than capable in the past. Now do so again. Organize this surveillance and track down the perpetrator. Hunt out the Resistance, too. I want results. If Internal Affairs fails”—here he eyed Nathaniel and Ms. Whitwell meaningfully—“we will have to let other departments take over. I suggest you head off now and pick your demons with due care. For the rest of us—it is Founder’s Day, and we should be celebrating. Let us go to dinner!”

Ms. Whitwell did not speak until the purring car had left Richmond village far behind them. “You have made an enemy in Duvall,” she said at last. “And I don’t think the others care for you much either. But that is now the least of your worries.” She looked out at the dark trees, the rushing countryside at dusk. “I have faith in you, John,” she went on. “This idea of yours may bear some fruit. Talk to Tallow, get your department working, send out your demons.” She ran a long, thin hand through her hair. “I cannot concentrate on this problem myself. I have too much to do preparing for the American campaigns. But
if
you succeed in discovering our enemy,
if
you bring some pride back to Internal Affairs, you will be well rewarded …” The statement held the implication of its opposite. She left it hanging; she did not need to say the rest.

Nathaniel felt impelled to respond. “Yes, ma’am,” he said huskily. “Thank you.”

Ms. Whitwell nodded slowly. She glanced at Nathaniel and despite his admiration and respect for his master, despite his years living in her house, he suddenly felt that she was eyeing him dispassionately, as if from a great distance. It was the look that an airborne hawk might give a scrawny rabbit, while considering whether it was worth the plunge. Nathaniel was suddenly overly conscious of his youth and frailty, of his raw vulnerability beside her power.

“We do not have much time,” his master said. “For your sake, I hope you have a competent demon readily to hand.”

10

A
s always, of course, I tried to resist.

I exerted all my energies to counteract the pull, but the wrenching words were just too strong; each syllable was a harpoon spearing my substance, drawing it together, dragging me off. For three short seconds, the gentle gravity of the Other Place helped me hang back … then, all at once, its support weakened and I was torn away like a child from its mother’s breast.

With extreme suddenness, my essence was compacted, extended to an infinite length and, a moment later, expelled out into the world and the familiar, hated confinements of a pentacle.

Where, following the immemorial laws, I materialized instantly.

Choices, choices. What should I be? The summons was a powerful one—the unknown magician was certainly experienced, and thus unlikely to be cowed by a roaring buggane or a cobweb-eyed specter. So I decided upon a delicate, fastidious guise to impress upon my captor my formidable sophistication.

It was a snappy piece of work, if I say so myself. A large iridescent bubble, glimmering all over with a pearly sheen, rotated in midair. Soft fragrances of aromatic woods drifted forth, with—faintly, as if borne from a great distance—the ethereal music of harps and violins. Inside the bubble, with little round spectacles perched upon her shapely nose, sat a beautiful maiden.
¹
She peered calmly out.

And let off a cry of astonished fury.

“You!”

“Now, hold on, Bartimaeus—”

“You!”
The ethereal music cut off with an unpleasant squelch; the soft aromatic fragrances turned rank and sour. The beautiful maiden’s face grew crimson, her eyes bulged like a pair of poached eggs, the glass in the spectacles cracked. Her rosebud mouth opened to reveal sharp yellow teeth champing up and down with rage. Flames danced inside the bubble and its surface swelled dangerously, as if about to burst. It spun so fast, the air began to hum.

“Just listen for a minute—”

“We had an agreement! We each made a vow!”

“Now, strictly speaking, that’s not quite true—”

“No? Have you forgotten so soon? And it
is
soon, isn’t it? I lose track in the Other Place, but you look barely different from before. You’re still a kid!”

He drew himself up. “I am an important member of the government—”

“You’re not even shaving. What is it?—two years later, maybe three?”

“Two years, eight months.”

“So you’re fourteen now. And already you’re summoning me again.”

“Yes, but wait a minute—I never made a vow back then. I just let you go. I never said—”

“That you’d not call me back? That was the firm implication. I’d forget your true name, you’d forget mine. Deal. But now …” Inside the whirling bubble, the beautiful maiden’s face was fast regressing down an evolutionary slope—a prominent beetling brow had appeared, a jagged nose, red feral eyes … the little round glasses were somewhat out of place, and a claw reached up within the bubble, seized the glasses, and shoved them into the mouth, where sharp teeth crunched them into powder.

The boy raised a hand. “Just stop messing around and listen to me for a moment.”

“Listen
to you? Why should I do that, when the ache from last time has barely gone? I can tell you I was anticipating rather longer than two years—”

“Two years, eight months.”

“Two measly human years to get over the trauma of meeting you. Sure, I knew some idiot with a pointy hat would one day call me up again, but I hardly thought it would be the same idiot as last time!”

He pursed his lips. “I
don’t have
a pointy hat.”

“You’re a fool! I know your birth name and you bring me back into the world against my will. Well, that’s fine, because I’m going to crow it from the rooftops before I’m done!”

“No—you vowed—”

“My vow is over, finished, void, annulled, returned to sender marked unopened. Two can play at your game, boy.” The maiden’s face was gone. Instead, a bestial shape, all teeth and spiny hair, snapped at the bubble’s surface as if trying to break free.

“If you’ll just give me a minute to explain! I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor? Oh boy, this is going to be priceless! This I’ve
got
to hear.”

“In that case keep quiet for half a second and let me speak.”

“All right! Fine! I’ll be quiet.”

“Good.”

“I’ll be silent as the grave. Your grave, incidentally.”

“In that case—”

“And we’ll see if you can even remotely come up with an excuse worth hearing, because I doubt—”

“Will you shut up!”
The magician raised a sudden hand and I felt a corresponding pressure on the outside of the bubble. I stopped ranting sharpish.

He took a deep breath, smoothed back his hair and adjusted his cuffs unnecessarily. “Right,” he said. “I’m two years older, as you so correctly guessed. But I’m two years
wiser
as well. And I should warn you I won’t be using the Systemic Vise, if you misbehave. No. Have you ever experienced the Inverted Skin? Or the Essence Rack? Of course you have. With a personality like yours, it’s guaranteed.
²
Well, then. Don’t try my patience now.”

“We’ve been through all this before,” I said. “Remember? You know my name, I know yours. You fire a punishment at me, I fire it right back. Nobody wins. We both get hurt.”

The boy sighed, nodded. “True. Perhaps we should both calm down.” He crossed his arms and gave himself over to a few moments’grim contemplation of my bubble.
³

I regarded him bleakly in my turn. His face still had the old pale and hungry look, or at least the bit I could see did, since half of it was curtained by a veritable mane of hair. I swear he hadn’t been within a mile of a pair of scissors since I’d last set eyes on him; his locks cascaded around his neck like a greasy black Niagra.

As for the rest, he was less weedy than before, true, but he hadn’t so much gotten bulkier as been clumsily
stretched.
He looked as if some giant had grabbed his head and feet, yanked once, then gone off in disgust: his torso was narrow as a spindle, his arms and legs gangly and ill-fitting, his feet and hands quietly reminiscent of an ape’s.

The gangly effect was heightened by his choice of clothes: a swanky suit, so tight it looked as if it had been painted on, a ridiculous long black coat, dagger-sharp shoes, and a flouncy handkerchief the size of a small tent hanging from his breast pocket. You could tell he thought he looked terribly dashing.

There were some cast-iron insult opportunities here, but I bided my time. I took a quick look around the room, which appeared to be some formal summoning chamber, probably in a government building. The floor was laid with a kind of artificial wood, entirely smooth, without knots or defects, evidently perfect for pentacle construction. A glass-fronted cupboard in one corner held an array of chalks, rulers, compasses, and papers. Another beside it was filled with jars and bottles of several dozen incenses. Aside from these, the chamber was completely bare. The walls were painted white. A square window high in one wall looked onto a black night sky; a drab cluster of bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling illuminated the room. The only door was made of iron and was bolted on the inside.

The boy came to the end of his musing, adjusted his cuffs again, and furrowed his brow. He put on a slightly pained expression: he was either attempting to be solemn or had bad indigestion—exactly which was hard to say. “Bartimaeus,” he said ponderously, “listen well. Believe me, I profoundly regret summoning you again, but I had little choice. Circumstances have changed here, and we will both benefit from renewing our acquaintance.”

He paused, seeming to think I might have a constructive remark to make. Not a chance. The bubble remained dull and motionless.

“In essentials, the situation is simple,” he went on. “The government, of which I am now a part,
⁴
is planning a major land offensive in the American colonies this winter. The fighting is likely to be costly to both sides, but since the colonies are refusing to bow to London’s will, there sadly seems little choice but to authorize bloodshed. The rebels are well organized and have magicians of their own, some with power. To defeat them, we are sending out a large force of magician warriors, with their djinn and lesser demons in tow.”

I stirred at this. A mouth opened in the side of the bubble. “You will lose the war. Have you been to America? I dwelled there, off and on, for two hundred years. The whole continent is a wilderness—it goes on seemingly forever. The rebels will retreat, draw you into an endless guerrilla campaign, and bleed you dry.”

“We will not lose, but you are right that it will be difficult. Many men and many djinn will perish.”

“Many men, certainly.”

“The djinn fall just as fast. Has it not always been so? You’ve been in enough battles in your time. You know how it goes. And this is why I’m doing you a favor.

“The Senior Archivist has been through the records and has tabulated a list of demons that might be useful for the American campaign. Your name is among them.”

A great campaign? Lists of demons? Sounded unlikely to me. But I trod carefully, tried to draw more out of him. The bubble twitched, an action not unlike a shrug. “Good,” it said. “I liked America. Better than this hog-pit of London you call home. No foul urban mess—just great tracts of sky and grassland, with white-peaked mountains rising up forever …” To emphasize my satisfaction, I made a happy buffalo face appear inside the bubble.

The boy gave that old familiar thin-lipped smile that I’d known and disliked so heartily two years before. “Ah. You’ve not been to America for a while, have you?”

The buffalo eyed him askance. “Why?”

“There are cities there too now, ranged along the eastern seaboard. A couple even approach London in size. That’s where the trouble is. Beyond the cultivated strip is the wilderness you refer to, but we’re not interested in that. You’ll be fighting in the cities.”

The buffalo studied a hoof with feigned indifference. “Doesn’t bother me none.”

“No? Wouldn’t you rather work here for me? I can get you off the war list. It would be a fixed term, just a few weeks. Bit of surveillance duty. Far less dangerous than open warfare.”

“Surveillance?” I was scathing. “Ask an imp.”

“The Americans have afrits, you know.”

This had gone far enough. “Oh please,” I said. “I can handle myself. I managed to get through the battle of Al-Arish and the Siege of Prague without you there to hold my hand. Let’s face it, you must be in big trouble, or you’d never have brought me back. Especially given what I know—eh,
Nat?”

It seemed for an instant as if the boy was going to explode with fury, but he mastered himself in time. He blew wearily through his cheeks. “All right,” he said. “I admit it. I haven’t summoned you here just to do you a favor.”

The buffalo rolled its eyes. “Well now, there’s a shock.”

“I’m under pressure here at home,” the boy went on. “I need results fast. If not”—he clenched his teeth hard together—“I may be … disposed of. Believe me, I’d love to have summoned a de—a djinni with better manners than you, but there’s no time for me to research one properly.”

“Now,
that
has the ring of truth,” I said. “That American story is complete cobblers, isn’t it? Trying to earn my gratitude in advance. Well, tough. I’m not falling for it. I’ve got your birth name and I intend to use it. If you’ve got half a brain, you’ll dismiss me pronto. Our conversation is at an end.” To emphasize this, the buffalo head raised its muzzle skyward and swiveled haughtily inside the bubble.

The boy was hopping with agitation. “Oh, come
on,
Bartimaeus …”

“No! Beg all you like, this buffalo’s not listening.”

“I’ll
never
beg you!” Now his anger was unleashed in all its fury. Boy, it was an awesome torrent of petulance. “Listen closely,” he snarled. “If I don’t get help, I’ll not survive. That may not mean anything to you—”

The buffalo looked over its shoulder, eyes wide. “Such powers! You read my mind!”

“But
this
just might. The American campaign
does
exist. There’s no list, I admit, but if you don’t help me and I lose my life, I’ll make sure before I go that your name is recommended to the troops out there. Then you can blab my birth name far and wide for all the good it’ll do you. I won’t be around to suffer. So those are your options,” he concluded, folding his arms once more, “a simple bit of surveillance or exposure to battle. Up to you.”

“Is that so?” I said.

He was breathing hard; his hair had flopped down in front of his face. “Yes. You betray me at your peril.”

The buffalo turned around and gave him a long, hard stare. In truth, a bit of surveillance
was
infinitely preferable to joining a war—battles have a nasty habit of getting out of control. And furious though I was with the youth, I had always found him a marginally more sympathetic master than most of them. Whether he was so still was far from clear. As little time had passed, it was possible he had not been wholly corrupted. I unzipped the front of the bubble and leaned out of it, hoof on chin. “Well, seems like you’ve won again,” I said quietly. “Seems like I’ve got no choice.”