Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (24 page)

This graveyard was little more than fifty meters square, by far the smallest in the city. Yet it had been used for many centuries, over and over, and this contributed to its distinctive flavor. In fact, the sheer weight of burials in this restricted space had led to bodies being interred one on top of another, time and again, until the surface of the cemetery had risen six feet higher than the surrounding yard. The headstones were packed in likewise, with large ones overhanging small, small half-buried in the ground. With its higgledy-piggledy disregard for clarity and order, the cemetery was exactly the kind of place calculated to unsettle Nathaniel’s tidy mind.
⁵

“Well, get on with it, then,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing, is it? I couldn’t tell under that hat.”

“Turn yourself into a loathsome snake or plague rat, or whatever foul creature of the night you desire. I’m going in. Get ready to protect me if necessary.”

“Nothing will give me greater pleasure.”

I chose to be a long-eared bat this time, leather-winged, tufted of head. It’s a flexible guise, I find—fast-moving, quiet, and very much in keeping with the tone of midnight graveyards. I flittered off into the clotted wilderness of jumbled stones. As an initial precaution, I made a sweep of the seven planes: they were clear enough, though so steeped in magic that each one vibrated gently with the memories of past deeds. I noticed no traps or sensors, though a few protective hexes on buildings nearby implied that magicians of a sort still dwelled here.
⁶
There was no one about; at this late hour, the graveyard’s tangle of narrow paths was empty, swathed in black shadow. Rusty lamps nailed to the railings emitted half-hearted light. I found an overhanging headstone and hung elegantly from it, tucked inside my wings. I surveyed the main path into the cemetery.

Nathaniel stepped through the gate, his shoes crunching gently on the path. Even as he did so, the dozen clocks of the churches of Prague began to chime, marking the beginning of the secret, midnight hour.
⁷
The boy gave an audible sigh, shook his head disgustedly, and began to stroll tentatively along the path, one hand outstretched, feeling his way between the stones. An owl hooted close by, possibly as a harbinger of violent death, possibly commenting on the ridiculous scale of my master’s hat. The blood-red feather waved to and fro behind his head, glimmering faintly in the meager light.

Nathaniel paced. The bat hung motionless. Time passed as slowly as it always does when you’re hanging out in cemeteries. Once only was there movement in the street below the railing: a strange four-legged, two-armed creature with a kind of double head came shuffling out of the night. My master caught sight of it and halted in doubt. It passed beneath a lantern, to be revealed as a courting couple, heads resting together, arms entwined. They kissed assiduously, giggled a bit, moved off along the road. My master watched them go with an odd expression on his face. I think he was trying to look contemptuous.

From then on, his pacing, never particularly energetic, became distinctly half-hearted. He scuffed along, kicking unseen pebbles, and wrapping his long black coat about him in a hunched, uncaring sort of way. His mind did not seem to be on the job. Deciding he needed a pep talk, I fluttered over and hovered by a headstone.

“Perk it up,” I said, “you’re looking a bit lackluster. You’ll put this Harlequin bloke off if you’re not careful. Imagine you’re on a romantic assignation with some pretty, young girl magician.”

I couldn’t swear to it—it was dark and all—but I think he might have blushed. Interesting…. Perhaps this was fertile ground to furrow, in due time.

“This is
hopeless,”
he whispered. “It’s nearly half-past twelve. If he was going to show, we’d have seen something by now. I think … are you listening to me?”

“No.” The bat’s keen ears had picked up a scrabbling noise from way off across the graveyard. I rose a little higher, peered out into the dark. “This might be him. Feather at the ready, Romeo.”

I banked and swooped low among the stones, taking a circular course to avoid direct collision with whatever it was that was coming our way.

For his part, the boy adopted a more upright pose; with his hat at a rakish angle, hands casually behind his back, he dawdled along the path as if in deep, profound thought. He gave no sign that he noticed the increasingly persistent scuffling sounds, or the strange pale light that now approached him from among the gravestones.

24

F
rom the corner of his eye, Nathaniel saw the bat flitter away toward an age-old yew tree, which had somehow managed to survive centuries of burials in one corner of the cemetery. A particularly desiccated branch offered a good view of the path. The bat alighted under it and hung still.

Nathaniel took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and strolled forward as nonchalantly as he could. All the while, his eyes were fixed on something moving in the depths of the cemetery. Despite the profound skepticism he felt for the whole farrago, the dankness and solitude of this lonely place had infected his spirits. Against his wishes, he found his heart thudding painfully against his chest.

What was it that he saw before him? A pale corpse light drifting nearer, a greenish milky white in color, staining the stones it passed with an unhealthy radiance. Behind it came a moving shadow, hunched and shambling, weaving ever nearer through the stones.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes: on none of the three observable planes could he see any demonic activity. This thing, presumably, was human.

At last, the crunch of gravel indicated that the shadow had stepped out upon the path. It did not stop, but came smoothly onward, a ragged cloak or cape drifting drearily behind. As it drew close, Nathaniel noticed a pair of unpleasantly white hands protruding from the front of the cape, holding something that let off the feeble witch light. He tried hard to make out a face, too, but this was concealed by a heavy black hood that curved down like an eagle’s talon. Nothing else of the figure could be seen. He turned his attention to the object held in the pale hands, the thing that shed the strange, white glow. It was a candle, firmly wedged into …

“Euuch!” he said, in Czech. “That’s disgusting.”

The figure stopped short. A high, thin voice sounded indignantly from under the cowl. ‘"Ere, what d’you mean?” It coughed hastily; a deeper, slower, altogether more eerie voice emerged at once: “That is to say—What … do you mean?”

Nathaniel curled his lip. “That horrible thing you’re carrying. It’s foul.”

“Beware! It is an item of power.”

“It’s unhygienic, that’s what it is. Where did you get it?”

“I cut it down from a gallows myself, by the light of a gibbous moon.”

“I bet it isn’t even pickled. Yes! Look—there’s bits falling off it!”

“No, there aren’t. That’s drips of candlewax.”

“Well, maybe, but it’s still wrong to be carrying it around with you. I suggest you toss it behind those gravestones, then wash your hands.”

“Do you realize,” said the figure, who now had one fist wedged irritably against his hip, “that you are referring to an object that has the power to send my enemies into a stupor and can detect watchful magic at fifty paces? This is a valuable item. I’m not binning it.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “You ought to be locked up. That kind of behavior wouldn’t be tolerated in London, I can tell you.”

The figure gave a sudden start. “London? What’s that to me?”

“Well, you’re Harlequin, aren’t you? The agent.”

A long pause. “Might be.”

“Of course you are. Who else would be wandering through the graveyard at this time of night? I don’t need to see that icky candle thing to know it’s you, do I? Besides, you’re speaking Czech with a British accent. Enough of this! I need some information fast.”

The figure held up its free hand. “One moment! I don’t yet know who
you
are.”

“I’m John Mandrake, on government service. As you well know.”

“That’s not good enough. I must have proof.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “See that?” He pointed upward. “Blood-red feather.”

The figure considered it. “That looks brick-red to me.”

“It’s
blood-red.
Or it will be in a minute if you don’t stop this nonsense and get down to business.”

“Well … all right, then. But first …” The figure adopted an eerie stance. “I must check that no watchers are among us. Stand back!” It held up the object in its hand, spoke a word. Instantly, the pale fire flared outward, becoming a luminous hoop of light that hovered in the air between them. On another command, and with a sudden rushing, the hoop expanded, rippling out in all directions across the graveyard. Nathaniel glimpsed the bat drop like a stone from its perch upon the tree, just before the band of light passed by. What happened to the bat he did not see; the hoop continued out beyond the edge of the graveyard and swiftly faded into nothing.

The figure nodded. “It is safe to talk.”

Nathaniel pointed to the candle, which had resumed its previous dimensions. “I know that trick. That’s an Illuminated Circlet, triggered by an imp. You don’t need a dead man’s extremities to pull that off. This gothic stuff is all jiggery-pokery, suitable for gawping commoners. It won’t work on me, Harlequin.”

“Perhaps …” A gaunt hand disappeared inside the cowl and scratched something ruminatively. “Even so, I think you’re being overly fastidious, Mandrake. You’re ignoring the fundamental basis of our magic. It isn’t so clean and pure as you make out. Blood, ritual, sacrifice, death … they are at the heart of every incantation we utter. We all rely on ‘gothic stuff,’when all’s said and done.”

“Here in Prague, maybe,” Nathaniel said.

“Never forget, London’s power was built on Prague’s. So then …” Harlequin’s voice turned suddenly businesslike. “The imp that reached me said you were here on a top secret mission. What is it, and what information do you want from me?”

Nathaniel spoke quickly and with some relief, outlining the main events of the previous few days. The man under the hood heard him out in silence.

“A golem abroad in London?” he said, when Nathaniel drew to a halt. “Wonders
will
never cease. There’s your gothic stuff coming home to roost, whether you like it or not. Interesting …”

“Interesting
and
intelligible?” Nathaniel asked, hopefully.

“I don’t know about that. But I may have some details for you—quick! Duck down!” With the speed of a snake, he threw himself to the ground; without hesitation, Nathaniel did likewise. He lay with his face pressed against the graveyard soil, listening to the sound of jackboots echoing on the cobblestones outside. A faint scent of cigarette smoke drifted on the wind. The sounds faded. After another minute or so, the agent got slowly to his feet. “Patrol,” he said. “Fortunately, their sense of smell is deadened by those fags they smoke; we’re all right for now.”

“You were saying …” Nathaniel prompted.

“Yes. First, the issue of the golem’s eye. Several of these objects are kept in magical repositories belonging to the Czech government. The Prague Council prevents any access to them. As far as I know, they have not been used for magical purposes, but they are of high symbolic value, since the golems were instrumental in causing great damage to Gladstone’s army back in his first European campaign. Several years ago, one of the eyes was stolen, and the culprit never found. I speculate—and it is only speculation, mark you—that this missing eye is the one later found in the collection of your friend Simon Lovelace.”

“Pardon me,” Nathaniel said, stiffly, “but he was not my friend.”

“Well, he’s nobody’s friend
now,
is he? Because he failed. If he’d won, you’d all have been hanging on his every word and inviting him to dinner.” The agent gave a long, melancholy sniff of disparagement from somewhere within the hood. “Hang on to this a minute, I need a drink.”

“Euuch! It’s all cold and clammy. Hurry up!”

“Coming.” Harlequin’s hands were rummaging within his cloak in a complex sort of way. A moment later, they emerged, holding a dark green bottle with a cork stopper. He pulled out the cork and tilted the bottle into the depths of his cowl. A gulping noise ensued, followed by the smell of strong liquor.

“That’s
better.” Unseen lips smacked, cork returned to bottle, and bottle returned to pocket. “I’ll take that back. You didn’t damage it, did you? It
is
a bit fragile. Now,” Harlequin went on, “perhaps Lovelace intended to use the eye himself; if so, his plan was thwarted by his death. Someone else, maybe an associate of his—who knows?—has now stolen it from our government, and appears to have got the thing to work.…This is where it gets difficult.”

“They need the formative spell, too,” Nathaniel said. “It is written on a parchment and inserted into the golem’s mouth before it comes to life. That’s the bit that nobody’s known for all these years. No one in London, anyway.”

The agent nodded. “The secret
may
have been lost; equally, it may still be known in Prague, but just remain unused. The Council does not want to enrage London at present; the British are too strong. They prefer to send spies and small groups over to London to work quietly, gathering information. This golem of yours … it’s too dramatic a move for the Czechs—they would expect invasion to follow as a direct result. No, I think you are hunting for a maverick, someone working for their own individual ends.”

“So where do I look?” Nathaniel asked. He couldn’t help yawning as he spoke; he had been awake since the British Museum incident the previous night. It had been a taxing day.

“I must consider …” The agent remained lost in thought for a few moments. “I need time to make inquiries. We will meet again tomorrow night, when I will give you names.” He wrapped his cloak about himself with a dramatic sweep. “Meet me—”

Nathaniel interrupted him. “I hope you’re not going to say ‘in the shadow of the gibbet’or ‘at Execution Dock’or anything dreary like that.”

The figure drew itself up. “Ridiculous. The very idea.”

“Good.”

“I was going to suggest the old plague pits on Hybernska Street.”

“No.”

The agent seemed rather miffed. “All right,” he growled.

“Six o’clock at the hot-dog stand in the Old Town Square. That mundane enough for you?”

“That’ll do nicely.”

“Until then, then …” With a billow of the cloak and a creak of hidden knees, the figure turned and swept its way up the cemetery path, its corpse light flickering dimly into the distance. Soon the light was gone, and nothing but a fleeting shadow and a muffled curse when it knocked into a gravestone indicated it had ever been.

Nathaniel sat down on a headstone, waiting for Bartimaeus to show. The meeting had been satisfactory, if a little irritating; now he had plenty of time to rest before the following evening. His weary mind drifted. The memory of Jane Farrar came back to him. How pleasant it had been to have her so close.… It had affected him almost like a drug. He frowned—of
course
it was like a drug. She’d worked a Charm on him, hadn’t she? And he’d nearly fallen for it, completely ignoring his sensor’s warning. What
a fool
he was.

The girl had either wanted to delay him, or learn more about what he knew. Either way, she would be working for her master, Duvall, who evidently did not want Internal Affairs having any sort of success in this matter. When he got back, he would doubtless face more hostility of the same kind. Duvall, Tallow, Farrar … Even his master, Ms. Whitwell, was not to be relied on, if he didn’t produce the goods for her.

Nathaniel rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired.

“Bless,
you look ready to drop.” The djinni was sitting on an opposite gravestone, in its familiar boy guise. It was crossing its legs in identical fashion to Nathaniel, and pulling an extravagant yawn. “You should have been tucked up
hours
ago.”

“Did you hear everything?”

“Most of it. I missed a bit after he let loose that Circlet. It nearly hit me, and I had to take evasive action. Good job those tree roots had dislodged a few gravestones. I was able to drop into an underground cavity while the probe passed over.” The boy paused to shake a bit of gray dust out of its hair. “Not that I generally recommend graves as a place to hide. You never know what you might find. But the occupant of this particular one was quite hospitable. Let me cuddle up to him for a few moments.” It gave a knowing wink.

Nathaniel shuddered. “How perfectly foul.”

“Speaking of which,” the djinni said. “That candle the bloke was carrying. Was it really …?”

“Yes. I’m trying not to think about it. Harlequin is more than half-mad, which is no doubt what comes of living in Prague too long.” Nathaniel stood and buttoned up his coat. “But he does have his uses. He’s hoping to give us some contact names tomorrow night.”

“Good,” the boy said, busily buttoning its coat in a similar fashion. “Then perhaps we’ll have a bit of action. My recipe for informers is either to roast them over a slow flame or hang them by a leg out of a high window. That usually makes a Czech spill the beans.”

“There’ll be none of that if we can possibly avoid it.” Nathaniel began to walk down the path out of the graveyard. “The authorities mustn’t know we’re here, so we can’t draw attention to ourselves. That means no violence or obvious magic. Got that?”

“Of
course.” The
djinni smiled broadly as it fell in step beside him. “You know me.”