Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (2 page)

“The Emperor’s getting out, is he?” I panted. Frantic imps were passing us, balancing cloth bundles on their heads.

“He’s more concerned about his beloved birds,” Queezle said. “Wants our afrits to airlift them to safety.” The green eyes flicked at me in rueful amusement.

“But all the afrits are dead.”

“Exactly. Well, almost there.”

We had arrived in the northern wing of the castle, where the magicians had their quarters. The taint of magic hung thick about the stones. Down a long flight of stairs the leopard and panther ran, out along a balcony overlooking the Stag Moat, and in through the arch that led to the Lower Workroom. This was a broad, circular room that took up almost the entire ground floor of the White Tower. I had been summoned here often over the centuries, but now the usual magical paraphernalia—the books, the incense pots, the candelabra—had been swept aside, to make way for a row of ten chairs and tables. On each table was a crystal orb, flickering with light; on each chair, a hunched magician peering into his or her respective orb. There was absolute silence in the room.

Our master was standing at a window, staring through a telescope into the dark sky.
⁷
He noticed us, made a gesture for silence, then beckoned us into a side room. His gray hair had turned white with the strain of the last few weeks; his hooked nose hung thin and pinched, and his eyes were as red as an imp’s
⁸
He scratched at the back of his neck. “You don’t need to tell me,” he said. “I know. How long have we got?”

The panther flicked its tail. “I’d give us an hour, no more.”

Queezle looked back toward the main room, where the silent magicians toiled. “You’re bringing out the golems, I see,” she said.

The magician nodded curtly. “They will cause great damage to the enemy.”

“It won’t be enough,” I said. “Even with ten. Have you seen the
size
of the army out there?”

“As ever, Bartimaeus, your opinion is ill considered and unlooked for. This is a diversion only. We plan to get His Highness away down the eastern steps. A boat is waiting at the river. The golems will ring the castle and cover our retreat.”

Queezle was still staring at the magicians; they stooped low over their crystals, mouthing continuous silent instructions to their creatures. Faint moving images in the crystals showed each one what his or her golem saw. “The British won’t bother with the monsters,” Queezle said. “They’ll find these operators and kill
them.”

My master bared his teeth. “By then the Emperor will be gone. And that, incidentally, is my new charge for both of you—to guard His Highness during his escape. Understood?”

I held up a paw. The magician gave a heartfelt sigh. “Yes, Bartimaeus?”

“Well, sir,” I said, “if I might make a suggestion. Prague’s surrounded. If we try to escape the city with the Emperor, we’ll all die horribly. So why don’t we just forget the old fool and slip away instead? There’s a little beer cellar on Karlova Street with a dried-up well. Not deep. The entrance is a bit small, but—”

He frowned. “You expect me to hide in there?”

“Well, it would be tight, but I reckon we could squeeze you in. Your pot belly might give us trouble, but it’s nothing a good shove wouldn’t fix—Ow!” My fur crackled; I broke off sharpish. As always, the Red-hot Stipples made me lose my train of thought.

“Unlike you,” the magician snarled, “I know the meaning of loyalty! I do not need to be compelled to act honorably toward my master. I repeat: you are both to guard his life with your own. Do you understand?”

We nodded reluctantly; as we did so, the floor shook with a nearby explosion.

“Then follow me,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

Back up the stairs we went, and through the echoing corridors of the castle. Bright flashes illuminated the windows; fearsome cries echoed all around. My master ran on his spindly legs, wheezing with each step; Queezle and I loped alongside. At last we came out onto the terrace where for years the Emperor had maintained his aviary. It was a large affair, delicately constructed from ornate bronze, with domes and minarets and feeding ledges, and doors for the Emperor to stroll between. The interior was filled with trees and potted shrubs, and a remarkable variety of parrots, whose ancestors had been brought to Prague from distant lands. The Emperor was besotted with these birds; in recent times, as London’s power grew and the Empire slipped from his hands, he had taken to sitting for long periods within the aviary, communing with his friends. Now, with the night sky rent by magical confrontation, the birds were in panic, swirling around the cage in a flurry of feathers, squawking fit to burst. The Emperor, a small plump gentleman in satin breeches and a crumpled white chemise, was little better off, remonstrating with his bird handlers and ignoring the advisors who massed about him.

The Chief Minister, Meyrink, pale, sad-eyed, was plucking at his sleeve. “Your Highness,
please.
The British are pouring up Castle Hill. We must get you to safety—”

“I
cannot
leave my aviary! Where are my magicians? Summon them here!”

“Sir, they are engaged in battle—”

“My afrits, then? My faithful Phoebus …”

“Sir, as I have already informed you several times—”

My master shouldered his way through. “Sir: I present Queezle and Bartimaeus, who will assist us in our departure, then save your wondrous birds as well.”

“Two cats, man? Two
cats?”
The Emperor’s mouth went all white and pursed.
⁹

Queezle and I rolled our eyes. She became a girl of unusual beauty; I took Ptolemy’s form. “Now, Your Highness,” my master said, “the eastern steps …”

Great concussions in the city; half the suburbs were now alight. A small imp came bowling over the parapet at the end of the terrace, its tail aflame. It skidded to a halt beside us. “Permission to report, sir. A number of savage afrits are fighting their way up to the castle. The charge is led by Honorius and Patterknife, Gladstone’s personal servants. They are very terrible, sir. Our troops have broken before them.” It paused, looked at its smoldering tail. “Permission to find water, sir?”

“And the golems?” Meyrink demanded.

The imp shuddered. “Yessir. They have just engaged with the enemy. I kept well away from the cloud, of course, but I believe the British afrits have fallen back a little, in disarray. Now, about the water—”

The Emperor gave a warbling cry. “Good, good! Victory is ours!”

“The advantage is only temporary,” Meyrink said. “Come sir, we must go.”

Despite his protests, the Emperor was bundled away from the cage, toward a wicket gate. Meyrink and my master were at the head of the group, the Emperor behind, his short frame hidden among the courtiers. Queezle and I brought up the rear.

A flash of light. Over the parapet behind us two black figures came leaping. Tattered cloaks whipped about them, yellow eyes burned in the depths of their cowls. They moved across the terrace in great drifting bounds, touching ground only rarely. In the aviary, the birds fell into sudden silence.

I looked at Queezle. “Yours or mine?”

The beautiful girl smiled at me, showing her sharp teeth. “Mine.” She fell back to meet the advancing ghuls. I ran on after the Emperor’s entourage.

Beyond the gate, a narrow path followed the moat north, under the castle wall. Down below, the Old Town was on fire; I could see the British troops running through the streets, and Prague’s people fleeing, fighting, falling before them. It all seemed far away; the only sound that came to us was a distant sighing. Flocks of imps drifted here and there like birds.

The Emperor ceased his loud complaints. The group hurried in silence through the night. So far, so good. We were at the Black Tower now, at the top of the eastern steps, and the way ahead was clear.

A flutter of wings; Queezle landed beside me, ashen-faced. She was wounded in the side. “Trouble?” I said.

“Not the ghuls. An afrit. But a golem came, destroyed it. I’m fine.”

Onward down the stairs in the side of the hill. Light from the burning castle was reflected in the waters of the Vltava below, giving it a melancholy beauty. We met no one, no one pursued us, and soon the worst of the conflict was left behind.

As the river neared, Queezle and I gave each other hopeful looks. The city was lost, as was the Empire, but escape here would allow us some small restoration of personal pride. Although we loathed our servitude, we also thoroughly disliked being beaten. It looked as if we were going to get away.

The ambush came when we were nearly at the bottom of the hill.

With a scuttle and a rush, six djinn and a band of imps hopped out onto the steps below. The Emperor and his courtiers cried out and fell back in disarray. Queezle and I tensed, ready to spring.

A light cough behind us. As one, we turned.

A slim young man stood five steps above. He had tight blond curls, big blue eyes, and wore sandals and a toga in the late Roman style. He had a rather sappy, coy expression on his face, as if he couldn’t hurt a fly. However, as an extra detail that I couldn’t help but notice, he also carried a monstrous scythe with a silver blade.

I checked him out on the other planes, in the faint hope that he might actually be an eccentric human on his way to a fancy-dress party. No such luck. It was an afrit of some potency. I swallowed. This wasn’t good at all.
¹⁰

“Mr. Gladstone’s compliments to the Emperor,” the young man said. “He requests the pleasure of his company. The rest of you rabble can make yourselves scarce.”

That sounded reasonable. I looked at my master beseechingly, but he furiously motioned me forward. I sighed, took a reluctant step toward the afrit.

The young man tsked loudly. “Oh, hop it, small-timer. You haven’t a chance.”

His derision stoked my fury. I pulled myself up. “Beware,” I said coldly. “You underestimate me at your peril.”

The afrit batted his eyelashes with an ostentatious lack of concern. “Indeed? Have you a name?”

“A name?” I cried. “I have
many
names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N’gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes!”

I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. “Nope. Never heard of you. Now if you’ll just—”

“I have spoken with Solomon—”

“Oh, please!” The afrit made a dismissive gesture. “Haven’t we all? Let’s face it, he got around.”

“I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak, and Prague—”

The young man smirked. “Prague? What, these ones here? The ones it took Gladstone five minutes to break down? Sure you didn’t work on Jericho, too?”

“Yes, he did,” Queezle put in. “One of his first jobs. He keeps quiet about it, but—”

“Look, Queezle—”

The afrit fingered his scythe. “Last chance, djinni,” he said. “Vamoose. You can’t win this one.”

I shrugged in a resigned sort of way. “We’ll see.”

And so, sad to say, we did. Very quickly, too. My first four Detonations were deflected by the twirling scythe. The fifth, which I’d made a real humdinger, rebounded directly at me, sending me crashing off the path and down the hill in a shower of essence. I tried to rise, but fell back in pain. My wound was too great; I could not recover in time.

Up on the path, the imps were pouring onto the courtiers. I saw Queezle and a burly djinni spin past, hands at each other’s throats.

With insulting nonchalance, the afrit ambled down the slope toward me. He winked and raised the silver scythe.

And at that moment, my master acted.

He’d not been a particularly good one, all told—he’d been too fond of the Stipples for starters—but from my point of view his last deed was the best thing he ever did.

The imps were all around him, vaulting over his head, ducking between his legs, reaching for the Emperor. He gave a cry of fury and from a pocket in his jacket produced a Detonation stick, one of the new ones made by the alchemists of Golden Lane in response to the British threat. They were shoddy, mass-produced rubbish, inclined to explode too fast, or often not at all. Either way, it was best, when using them, to throw them speedily in the general direction of the enemy. But my master was a typical magician. He wasn’t used to personal combat. He gabbled the Word of Command all right, but then proceeded to hesitate, holding the stick above his head and feinting at the imps, as if undecided which one to choose.

He hesitated a fraction too long.

The explosion tore half the stairs away. Imps, Emperor, and courtiers were blown into the air like dandelion seeds. My master himself vanished utterly, as if he had never been.

And with his death, the bonds that tethered me withered into nothing.

The afrit brought the scythe blade down, exactly where my head had lain. It drove uselessly into the ground.

Thus, after several hundred years and a dozen masters, my ties to Prague were broken. But as my grateful essence fled in all directions, and I looked down upon the burning city and the marching troops, on the wailing children and the whooping imps, on the death throes of one empire and the bloody baptism of the next, I must say I didn’t feel particularly triumphant.

I had a feeling it was all going to get a whole lot worse.