Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (14 page)

The judge stared at Kitty sternly. “Your wild accusation only increases the weight of evidence that has already built up so heavily against you.
Do not speak!”
Overcome with shock, Kitty had automatically opened her mouth again.

“Each time you speak you further damn your case,” the judge went on. “Quite patently, if your friend was confident with your story, he would be here in person. Equally patently, you were not hit by the Black Tumbler as you have just claimed, otherwise you could hardly—how shall I put it?—be so well turned out today.”

The judge paused to take a sip of water.

“I almost admire your audacity in taking your claim to the court,” she said, “together with your temerity in challenging such a prominent citizen as Mr. Tallow.” She gestured across at the magician, who wore the complacent expression of a stroked cat. “However, such considerations cannot carry the day in a court of law. Mr. Tallow’s case rests on his good reputation and the expensive garage bill required to pay for the damage that you caused. Your case rests on nothing except wild accusations, which I believe to be fabricated.” (Gasps from the crowd.) “Why? Simply because if you are mendacious with regard to the Tumbler—which you say hit you, when clearly it did not—there is no reason for the court to accept the rest of your story. Moreover, you can produce no witnesses, not even your friend, the other ‘injured party.’As your outbursts have proved, you are clearly of a passionate and turbulent nature, liable to erupt in a rage at the slightest opportunity. When I consider these points, it can only lead me to a glaring fact that I have done my best to ignore. It is this: when all is said and done, you are both a minor and a commoner, whose word can hardly stand against that of a trusted servant of the State.”

The judge at this point took a deep breath and a subdued cry of “Hear, hear,” rose from the public benches. One of the clerks looked up, muttered, “Well said, ma’am,” and buried his nose in his computer again. Kitty slumped in her chair, weighed down by leaden despair. She could not look at the judge, the clerks or, least of all, the odious Mr. Tallow. She stared instead at the shadows of the raindrops trickling across the floor. All she wished for now was to escape.

“In conclusion”—the judge assumed an expression of the utmost dignity—“the court finds against you, Miss Jones, and rejects your charge. If you were older, you would certainly not escape a custodial sentence. As it is, and since Mr. Tallow has already applied his own appropriate punishment to your gangland group, I will restrict myself to fining you for wasting the court’s time.”

Kitty swallowed.
Please
let it not be much, please let it not be—

“You are hereby fined one hundred pounds.”

Not too bad. She could cope with that. She had almost seventy-five pounds in her bank account.

“In addition, it is customary to transfer the winner’s costs across to the losing side. Mr. Tallow owes five hundred pounds for his late arrival. You must pay this, too. The total due to the court is therefore six hundred pounds.”

Kitty reeled in shock, feeling the tears coming strongly now. Furiously she fought them back. She would not cry. She
would
not. Not here.

She managed to turn the first sob into a loud, rumbling cough. At that moment the judge banged the gavel twice.

“Court dismissed.”

Kitty ran from the room.

14

K
itty had her cry in one of the little cobbled side roads running off the Strand. Then she wiped her face, bought a reviving bun from a Persian café on the corner opposite the Judicial Courts, and tried to work out what to do. She certainly could not pay the fine and doubted her parents could either. That meant she had a month in which to find six hundred pounds, or she—and perhaps her parents, too—would be bound for the debtors’ prison. She knew this, because before she had managed to exit the echoing courtrooms, one of the black-suited clerks had appeared, tugged respectfully at her elbow, and thrust an order for payment, with the ink still wet upon it, into her trembling fingers. It spelled out exactly what the penalties were.

The thought of informing her parents gave Kitty sharp pains in her chest. She couldn’t face going home; she would walk beside the river first.

The cobbled lane ran down from the Strand to the Embankment, a pleasant pedestrianized walkway following the bank of the Thames. It had stopped raining, but the cobbles were dark and flecked with water. On either side the usual shops stretched: Middle Eastern fast-food joints, tourist boutiques stuffed with kitsch memorabilia, herbalists whose cut-price baskets of dogwood and rosemary bulged halfway out into the street.

Kitty had nearly reached the Embankment when a rapid tapping behind her heralded the sudden appearance of a stick, followed by an ancient man, half hobbling, half stumbling out of control down the cobbled slope. She jumped back out of his way. To her surprise, instead of careering onward and ending up in the river, the man halted, with much scuffling and gasping, directly beside her.

“Ms. Jones?” The words wheezed out between each gasp of breath.

She spoke heavily. “Yes.” Some other clerk with a new demand.

“Good, good. Let—let me get my voice back.”

This took a few seconds, during which time Kitty observed him closely. He was a thin, bony, and aged gentleman, bald on top, with a semicircle of dirty-white hair acting as a ruff to the back of his skull. His face was painfully thin, but his eyes were bright. He wore a neat suit and a pair of green leather gloves; his hands wobbled as he leaned upon his stick.

At last: “Sorry about that. Afraid I’d lost you. Started along the Strand first. Turned back. Intuition.”

“What do you want?” Kitty had no time for intuitive old men.

“Yes. Getting to the point. Good. Well. I was in the gallery just now. Courtroom twenty-seven. Saw you in action.” He regarded her closely.

“So?”

“Wanted to ask. One question. Simple one. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, thank you.” Kitty made to move off, but the stick shot out with surprising speed and gently barred the way. Her anger fizzed inside her; in the mood she was in, kicking an old man down the street did not seem beyond possibility.
“Excuse
me,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Understand that. Really. Might be to your advantage, though. Listen, then decide. The Black Tumbler. Sitting at the back of the court. Bit deaf. Thought you said the Tumbler hit you.”

“I did. It did.”

“Ah. Knocked you out, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Flames and smoke all around you. Searing heat?”

“Yes. Now I—”

“But, Court didn’t accept it.”

“No. Now I really must go.” Kitty sidestepped the outstretched stick and trotted the last few yards down to the Embankment. But to her surprise and fury the old man kept up with her, continually jabbing his stick out at an angle so that it became entangled with her legs, or tripped her feet, or forced her to take outsize steps to avoid it. At last she could take it no longer; seizing the end of the stick, she yanked hard, jerking the gentleman off balance so that he collapsed against the river wall. Then she set off at a brisk pace, but once more heard the frantic tapping close behind her.

She wheeled around. “Now,
look
—”

He was hard on her heels, whey-faced, gasping. “Ms. Jones, please. I understand your anger. Truly. But I am on your side. What if I said—? What if I said that I could pay the fine? That the Court has levied? All six hundred pounds. Would that help?”

She looked at him.

“Ah. That interests you. I get a result.”

Kitty felt her heart beating wildly in confusion and anger. “What are you talking about? You’re trying to set me up. Get me arrested for conspiracy or—or something….”

He smiled; his skin stretched tight against his skull. “Ms. Jones. That is not the idea at all. I am not rushing you into anything. Listen. My name is Pennyfeather. Here is my card.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and handed a small business card to Kitty with a flourish. It was decorated with two crossed paintbrushes above the words
T. E. Pennyfeather, Artists’ Materials.
There was a telephone number in the corner. Uncertainly, Kitty took it.

“Good. I’m going now. Leave you to your walk. Good day for it. Sun coming out. Ring if interested. Within a week.”

For the first time, Kitty made an attempt at being polite, without quite knowing why. “But, Mr. Pennyfeather,” she said. “Why should you help me? It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, but it will. Ahh! What—?” His cry was occasioned by two young men—evidently magicians from the expense of their clothes—who, in striding down the street, laughing loudly and tucking into lentil takeaways from the Persian café, had barged right past him, knocking him almost into the gutter. They proceeded merrily, without a backward glance. Kitty stretched out a hand to steady the old man, but drew back at the flash of anger in his eyes. He righted himself slowly, leaning heavily on his stick and muttering under his breath.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Ah, those—they think they own the place. As—as perhaps they do. For the moment.” He looked along the Embankment; away into the blue distance people went about their business, visiting stalls or passing up into the cluttered side streets. On the river, four tethered coal barges drifted downstream, the bargees reclining and smoking on the side. The old man bared his teeth. “Few of these fools suspect what flies above them in the open air,” he said. “Or guess what hops behind them in the street. And if they guess, they dare not challenge it. They let the magicians strut among them; let them build their palaces upon the broken backs of the people; let them tread all notions of justice into the mud. But you and I—we have seen what the magicians do. And what they do it
with.
Perhaps we are not as passive as our fellows, eh?”

He smoothed down his jacket and grinned suddenly. “You must think for yourself. I will say no more. Only this: I believe your story. The whole of it—of course I do—but most particularly about the Black Tumbler. Who, after all, would be so stupid as to make that point up if they had no injury? Ah, this is what is so interesting. I will await your call, Ms. Jones.”

With that, the old man turned on his heel and made off at a brisk pace back up the side street, stick
tap-tap-tap
ping on the cobbles, ignoring the sharp entreaties of an herbalist standing in the doorway of his shop. Kitty watched him until he turned onto the Strand and out of sight.

Waiting in the darkness of the cellar, Kitty drifted through the events of long ago. How distant it all seemed; how naive she had been, standing in the courtroom demanding justice. She flushed angrily: the memory was painful even now. Justice from the magicians? The very idea was laughable. Clearly, direct action was the only feasible alternative. At least they were doing
something
now, showing their defiance.

She glanced at her watch. Anne had been gone in the secret chamber some time. In total, eleven new magical artifacts had been stolen on Founder’s Day—nine minor weapons and two jewels of unknown purpose. Now Anne was storing them away. Outside, the rain had intensified. During the short walk from the art shop to the deserted courtyard, they had all gotten soaked. Even in the cellar they were not safe from the water: a steady stream of drips was falling from a deep crack in the plaster ceiling. Directly below sat a black bucket of extreme age. It was almost brim-full.

“Empty it out, would you, Stanley?” Kitty said.

Stanley was sitting on the coal bin, shoulders hunched, head pressed on his knees. He hesitated just a moment longer than necessary; finally he jumped down, picked up the bucket and steered it, with some difficulty, to a grille beside the wall. He sluiced the water away.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t get that pipe fixed,” he growled, returning the bucket to its position. The maneuver had taken only a few seconds, but already a small puddle had gathered between the worn bricks of the cellar floor.

“Because we want the cellar to appear unused,” Kitty said. “That’s obvious.”

Stanley grunted. “The stuff’s sitting useless in there. It’s no place for it.”

From his station near the entrance arch, Fred nodded. He was fingering an open flick-knife in his hand. “Should let us go in,” he said.

At the far end of the little room, which was only dimly lit by a single bulb, a pile of logs had been precariously stacked. The wall behind it appeared solid, if a little crumbling, but they all knew how the mechanism worked: how a metal lever could be depressed into the floor; how, at the same time, the brickwork above the logs could be made to swing open at a touch. They knew the dull grating noise, the cold, chemical smell emanating from inside. But they didn’t know exactly what the secret recess contained, as only Anne, who was the quartermaster of the group, was allowed into their leader’s chamber. The others always remained outside, on guard.

Kitty shifted her back against the wall. “There’s no point using it all yet,” she said. “We need to save as much as possible, wait till we have more support.”

“Like that’s
ever
going to happen.” Stanley had not returned to the coal bin, but was pacing fretfully around the cellar. “Nick’s right. The commoners are like oxen. They’ll never do anything.”

“All those weapons in there,” Fred said wistfully. “We should be doing more with them. Like Mart did.”

“Didn’t do
him
much good,” Kitty remarked. “Prime Minister’s still alive, isn’t he? And where’s Mart? Food for the fishes.”

She’d intended it to wound, and it did. Stanley had been close friends with Martin. His voice rose a pitch, harsh and resentful: “He was unlucky. The sphere wasn’t strong enough, that’s all. He could have had Devereaux and half the cabinet. Where’s Anne? Why can’t she hurry up?”

“You’re kidding yourself.” Kitty pursued the point bitterly. “Their defenses were too strong. Mart never had a chance. How many magicians have we killed in all these years? Four? Five? And none of them any good. I’m telling you, weapons or not, we need a better strategy.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Stanley said. “When he gets back.”

“You
would,
you little sneak.” Kitty’s voice was scathing. Even so, the thought of it made her shiver.

“I’m hungry,” Fred said. He pressed the button on the hasp of his knife, flicked out the blade again.

Kitty looked at him. “You had a massive lunch. I saw you.”

“I’m hungry again.”

“Tough.”

“I can’t fight if I’ve not et.” Fred suddenly leaned forward; his fingers twisted, blurred; there was a whizzing noise in the air, and the flick-knife buried itself in the cement between two bricks, three inches above Stanley’s head. Stanley slowly raised his head and considered the quivering handle; his face was a little green.

“See?” Fred said. “Lousy shot.” He folded his arms. “That’s because I’m hungry.”

“It seemed pretty good to me,” Kitty said.

“Good? I missed him.”

“Give him his knife back, Stanley.” Kitty suddenly felt very tired.

Stanley was struggling unsuccessfully to pull the knife free of the wall when the hidden door opened above the log pile and Anne emerged. The small bag she had taken in with her was nowhere to be seen.

“Squabbling again?” she said tartly. “Come along, children.”

The walk back to the shop was just as wet as the outward journey, and the spirits of the group were lower than ever by the time they arrived. As they entered in a gout of spray and steam, Nick ran forward, his face shining with excitement.

“What is it?” Kitty asked. “What’s happened?”

“Just got word,” he said breathlessly. “From Hopkins. They’re coming back within the week. Going to tell us something of the first importance. A new job. Bigger than anything we’ve ever done.”

“Bigger than Westminster Hall?” Stanley sounded skeptical.

Nick grinned. “Saving Mart’s memory, bigger even than that. Hopkins’s letter doesn’t say what, but it’s going to shake everything up, he says. It’s what we’ve always wanted, every one of us. We’re going to do something that’ll transform our fortunes at a stroke. It’s dangerous, but if we do it right, he says, we’ll knock the magicians off their perch. London will never be the same again.”

“About time,” Anne said. “Stanley, go and put the kettle on.