Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (26 page)

Mr. Pennyfeather spun around; Kitty’s knife leaped to her hand; silver discs appeared in those of Fred and Nick. “What
is
it?” Kitty hissed, above the banging of her heart.

A plaintive voice in the dark. “Right beside us—there … a ghost …”

“Ghosts don’t exist. Raise your lantern.”

With obvious reluctance, Stanley obeyed. In his trembling light, a stone plinth was revealed nestling in an alcove. It had an arch in its side, from which a skeleton had been carved emerging, wreathed in shrouds and flourishing a spear.

“Oh …” Stanley said, in a small voice. “It’s a statue.”

“You idiot,” Kitty whispered. “It’s just someone’s tomb. Could you have shouted
any
louder?”

“Come on.” Mr. Pennyfeather was already moving off. “We’re wasting time.”

As they left the nave and rounded a wide pillar to enter the north transept, the number of visible memorials cluttering the aisles increased. Nick and Stanley raised their lanterns to shed light upon the tombs; it was somewhere here that Gladstone’s was to be found. Many of the statues were life-size representations of the dead magicians: they sat in carved chairs, studying unrolled parchments; they stood heroically in long carved robes, their pale, sharp faces gazing sightlessly down upon the hurrying company. One carried a cage with a forlorn frog sitting within; this particular woman was depicted laughing. Despite her steely resolve, Kitty was unnerved. The sooner they left this place, the better.

“Here,” Mr. Pennyfeather whispered.

A modest statue in white marble—a man standing on a low, circular pedestal. His brow was furrowed, his face a model of stern preoccupation. He wore a flowing gown, and beneath it an old-fashioned suit with a high starched collar. His hands were loosely clasped in front of him. On the pedestal was one word, engraved deeply in the marble:

GLADSTONE

Something of the reputation of the name cast its power upon them. They held back from the statue, crowding close together at a respectful distance. Mr. Pennyfeather spoke softly: “The key to the tomb is in my pocket. The entrance is on the pillar there. A small bronze door. Kitty, Anne—you have the sharpest eyes. Find the door and locate the keyhole. According”—he suppressed a cough—“according to the records, it should be on the left-hand side.”

Kitty and Anne rounded the statue and approached the pillar, Anne training her pencil torch on the stonework ahead. With careful steps they walked around the column until the dull glint of metal showed within the light. They stepped close. The metal panel was small, only five feet high, and narrow, too. It was entirely bare of ornament, except for a seam of tiny studs around its margins.

“Found it,” Kitty whispered. A minuscule hole halfway up, on the left-hand edge. Anne held the torch close; the hole was plugged with cobwebs.

Mr. Pennyfeather led the others over: they stood gathered beside the pillar.

“Nicholas,” he said. “Get the Mantle ready.”

For perhaps two minutes, Kitty stood with them in the darkness, breathing steadily through the woolen fibers of her balaclava, waiting for Nick to prepare. Occasionally a muffled drone indicated the passage of a limousine somewhere out in Parliament Square; otherwise, all was still—except for the sound of Mr. Pennyfeather coughing quietly into his gloves.

Nick cleared his throat. “Ready.” At that moment, they heard the scream of sirens, growing louder, then passing drearily over Westminster Bridge into the night. They faded. Finally, Mr. Pennyfeather gave a brief nod. “Now,” he said. “Stand close, or the Mantle will not protect you.”

Neither Kitty nor the others needed to be told. They crowded close into a rough circle, inward facing, their shoulders touching. In their midst, Nick held a neat ebony casket; with his other hand he flourished a small hammer. Mr. Pennyfeather nodded. “I have the key here. The moment the Mantle covers us, I will turn the key in the lock. When that happens, stand still—no matter what occurs.”

Nick raised the hammer and brought it down sharply on the lid of the ebony casket. The lid broke in two; the precise crack it made echoed like a pistol shot. A stream of yellow particles flew upward out of the casket, twirling and twinkling with their own light. They spiraled above the company to a height perhaps of fifteen feet, then arched out and downward like water from a fountain, hitting the stone floor, and disappearing into it. Particles continued to rise from the box, loop up, and rain down, forming a faint glimmering canopy that sealed them in, as if inside a dome.

Mr. Pennyfeather held the tiny golden key. With great speed, he reached out, taking care that his hand did not stray beyond the edge of the glittering dome, and inserted the key into the lock. He turned it, then withdrew his hand as fast as a rattlesnake.

They waited. No one moved a muscle. The sides of Kitty’s face were swathed in cold sweat.

Soundlessly, the small bronze door swung inward. Beyond was a black space, and out of this a glowing green bulb of light came slowly floating. As it drew level with the opening, it suddenly accelerated, expanding as it did so, with a peculiarly repellent hiss. An instant later, a bright green cloud had erupted out across the transept, illuminating all the statues and memorials like a livid flame. The company cowered within their protective Mantle as the Pestilence burned the air about them, rising to half the height of the transept walls. They were safe, provided they did not stir outside the dome; even so, a smell of such taint and decay drifted to their nostrils that they struggled not to gag.

“I hope,” Mr. Pennyfeather gasped, as the green cloud raged back and forth, “that the Mantle’s duration is longer than that of the Pestilence. If not—if not, Stanley, I fear the next skeletons you see will be our own.”

It was very hot inside the Mantle. Kitty felt her head beginning to swim. She bit her lip and tried to concentrate: fainting now would certainly prove fatal.

With surprising suddenness, the Pestilence blew itself out. The green cloud seemed to implode, as if—lacking victims—it had been forced to consume its own essence. One moment the whole transept was aglow with its unhealthy light; the next, it was sucked down into nothing and the darkness had returned.

A minute passed. Sweat dripped down Kitty’s nose. No one moved a muscle.

Then, abruptly, Mr. Pennyfeather began to laugh. It was a high, almost hysterical sound that set Kitty’s teeth on edge. It held a tone of exultation carried slightly beyond the normal bounds. Instinctively, she jerked backward, away from him, and stepped out of the Mantle. She felt a tingle as she passed through the yellow canopy, then nothing. She looked about her for a minute, then took a deep breath.

“Well, the tomb’s open,” she said.

27

E
vening was drawing closer; the proprietors of the smaller coffeehouses in the backstreets around the square were stirring themselves at last, lighting lamps that hung from door beams, and stacking up the wooden chairs that had spilled out across the pavement through the day. A peal of eventide bells was being tolled beneath the dark black spires of old Tyn Church, where my good friend Tycho lies entombed,
¹
and the streets murmured with Prague’s people walking home.

For much of the day, the boy had sat slumped at a white-clothed table outside a tavern, reading a succession of Czech newspapers and cheap pamphlets. If he looked up, he had a good view of the Old Town Square, into which the street opened a dozen yards away; if he looked down, he had an even better view of a medley of empty coffee cups and dishes strewn with sausage scraps and pretzel crumbs, the relics of his afternoon’s consumption.

I was sitting at the same table, wearing a large pair of dark glasses and a swanky coat similar to his. For token effect, I had placed a pretzel on my plate and broken it into a few pieces, to make it look like I was trying. But of course I ate and drank nothing.
²

The Old Town Square was one of the largest open areas in the east of the city, an uneven space of bright cobblestone, spotted with pedestrians and flower stalls. Flocks of birds drifted lazily down in front of the elegant five-story houses; smoke rose from a thousand chimneys. It was as peaceful a scene as could be wished for, yet I was not at ease.

“Will you stop
fidgeting?”
The boy slapped his pamphlet on the table. “I can’t concentrate.”

“Can’t help it,” I said. “We’re too exposed here.”

“Relax—we’re in no danger.”

I looked around furtively. “So you say. We should have stayed in the hotel.”

The boy shook his head. “I’d have gone mad if I’d stayed in that fleapit a moment longer. I couldn’t sleep in that bed for dust.
And
a tribe of bedbugs were feasting on me all night—I heard them popping off me every time I sneezed.”

“If you were dusty, you should have had a bath.”

He looked embarrassed. “Didn’t fancy that tub somehow. It was a bit too … hungry-looking. Anyhow, Prague’s safe enough; there’s hardly
any
magic here any more. You’ve seen nothing all the time we’ve been sitting here—no imp, no djinni, no spell—and we’re in the center of town! No one’s likely to see you for what you are. Relax.”

I shrugged. “If you say so. It won’t be me running around the walls with soldiers jabbing pikes into my trousers.”

He wasn’t listening. He’d picked up his pamphlet again and was frowning his way through it. I returned to my afternoon’s occupation: namely checking and double-checking the planes.

Here’s the thing: the boy was absolutely right—we’d seen nothing magical all day. This was not to say the authorities weren’t represented: a few soldiers in dark-blue uniforms with shiny jackboots and highly burnished caps
³
had
wandered repeatedly through the square. (Once, they had stopped at my master’s table and asked for our identification; my master produced his fake ID, while I performed a Glaze upon them, so they forgot the object of their query and wandered on.) But we’d seen none of the magical sorties that were par for the course in London: search spheres, foliots masquerading as pigeons, etc.… It all seemed very innocent.

Yet, having said that, I could feel strong magic somewhere in the vicinity, not far from where we were, operating vigorously on all the planes. Each one tingled with it, particularly the seventh, which is usually where the most trouble comes. It wasn’t aimed at us—yet; even so, it made me nervous, particularly because the boy—being human, young, and arrogant—sensed nothing and persisted in acting like a tourist. I didn’t like being in the open.

“We should have agreed to meet him in a lonely spot,” I persisted. “This is just too public.”

The boy snorted. “And give him the opportunity to come dressed as a ghul again? I think not. He can wear a suit and tie like everyone else.”

Six o’clock drew near. The boy paid our bill and stuffed pamphlets and newspapers hurriedly into his rucksack. “The hot-dog stand it is, then,” he said. “As before, hang back and protect me if anything happens.”

“Okay, boss. You’re not wearing a red feather this time. How about a rose, or a ribbon in your hair?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Just asking.”

We parted in the crowd; I peeled off, keeping close to the buildings on one side, while the boy continued on out into the center of the square. Since most of the home-goers for one reason or another kept to the edges, this made him look slightly isolated. I watched him go. A flock of sparrows erupted from the cobblestones near his feet and flapped away toward the rooftops high above. I scanned them anxiously, but there were no hidden watchers among them. All was well, for now.

A gentleman with a small struggling mustache and an enterprising nature had affixed a wheeled brazier to a bicycle and had cycled to a vantage point near the middle of the square. Here, he had set his coals alight, and was busily toasting spiced sausages for the hungry citizens of Prague. A small queue had formed, and to this my master attached himself, glancing casually around for the appearance of Harlequin.

I positioned myself nonchalantly by one of the perimeter walls and surveyed the square. I didn’t like it: too many windows ablaze with the light of the dying sun; it was impossible to tell who might be looking down from them.

Six o’clock came and went. Harlequin did not appear.

The sausage queue shortened. Nathaniel was last in line. He shuffled forward, fumbling in his pocket for some change.

I checked out the passersby in all the distant fringes of the square. A small knot stood gossiping below the town hall, but most people were still hurrying homeward, entering and departing down the roads that fed into the square.

If Harlequin was anywhere close, he gave no sign.

My feeling of unease grew. There was no magic visible, but still that tingling sensation on every plane.

Out of habit, I checked each exit road. There were seven…. That at least was good: plenty of avenues of escape, should the need arise.

Nathaniel was now second in the queue. A small girl was ahead of him, demanding extra ketchup on her sausage.

A tall man strode out across the square. He wore a suit and hat; he carried a battered satchel. I eyed him up. He seemed about the right height for Harlequin, though it was difficult to be sure.

Nathaniel had not yet noticed him. He was watching the small girl stagger off under the weight of her vast hot dog.

The man made for Nathaniel, walking fast.
Too
fast, perhaps—almost as if he had some unseen purpose …

I started forward.

The man passed close behind Nathaniel without giving him a glance. He marched away smartly over the cobbles.

I relaxed again. Perhaps the boy was right. I
was
a little jittery.

Now Nathaniel was purchasing his sausage. He appeared to be haggling with the vendor about the amount of extra sauerkraut.

Where
was Harlequin? The clock on the tower of the Old Town Hall showed twelve minutes past six. He was very late.

I heard a distant jingling, somewhere amid the pedestrians on the edges of the square—faint, rhythmic, like the bells on Lapland sleighs, heard far off across the snow. It seemed to come from all sides at once. It was familiar to me, yet somehow different from anything I had heard before.… I could not place it.

Then I saw the specks of blue weaving their way through the bystanders at the entrance to every one of the seven streets, and understood. Boots slapped on cobblestones, sunlight glinted on rifles, metal paraphernalia jangled on the chests of half of Prague’s armed forces as they shouldered their way into view. The crowd melted backward, voices rising in alarm. The soldiers stopped suddenly; solid lines blocked each street.

I was already running out across the square.

“Mandrake!” I shouted. “Forget Harlequin. We have to go.”

The boy turned, holding his hot dog. He noticed the soldiers for the first time. “Ah,” he said. “Tiresome.”

“Too right it is. And we can’t go over the roofs, either. We’re badly outnumbered there, too.”

Nathaniel looked up, treating himself to a grandstand view of several dozen foliots, which had evidently scrabbled up the roofs on the far side, and were now crouching on the uppermost tiles and chimneys of every house in the square, leering down at us and making offensive gestures with their tails.

The hot-dog seller had seen the army cordons; with a yelp of fright, he leaped onto the saddle of his bicycle and veered furiously away across the cobblestones, leaving a trail of sausages, sauerkraut, and hissing red-hot coals behind him.

“They’re only human,” Nathaniel said. “This isn’t London, is it? Let’s break our way through them.”

We were running now, toward the nearest street—Karlova.

“I thought you didn’t want me to use any violence or obvious magic,” I said.

“Those niceties are past. If our Czech friends want to start something, we can—oh.”

We still had the cyclist in view when it happened. As if crazed with fear, uncertain what to do, he had made two random sorties back and forth across the square; suddenly, head down, feet pumping, he changed tack, charging straight at one of the army lines. One soldier raised a rifle; a shot rang out. The cyclist gave a twitch, his head slumped to one side, his feet slipped from the pedals and jerked and juddered against the ground. Still carried by its own momentum, the bicycle continued forward at a great pace, brazier crashing and banging behind it, until it plowed straight into the breaking line of soldiers and overturned, spilling body, sausages, hot coals, and cold cabbage over the nearest men.

My master halted, panting hard. “I need a Shield,” he said. “Now.”

“As you wish.”

I raised a finger, willed the Shield around us both: it hung there shimmering, visible on the second plane—an uneven, potato-shaped orb that shifted when we moved. “Now,” the boy said savagely, “a Detonation. We’ll blast our way through.”

I looked at him. “Are you
sure
about that? These men aren’t djinn.”

“Well, just knock them aside somehow. Bruise them gently. I don’t care. As long as we get through unscathed—”

A soldier disentangled himself from the mess of sprawling limbs and took swift aim. A shot: a bullet whistled across the thirty-yard space, straight through the Shield and out again, parting Nathaniel’s hair on the crown of his head en route.

The boy glared at me. “And what sort of Shield do you call this?”

I made a face. “They’re using silver bullets.
⁴
The Shield’s not safe. Come on—” I turned, reached out for the scruff of his neck, and in the same movement, made a necessary change. The slim, elegant form of Ptolemy grew and roughened; skin turned to stonework, dark hair to green lichen. All across the square, the soldiers had a fine view of a swarthy, bow-legged gargoyle stumping off at speed, dragging an angry adolescent beside him.

“Where are you going?” the boy protested. “We’re cut off out here!”

The gargoyle gnashed its horny beak. “Quiet. I’m thinking.”

Which was hard enough to do in all that kerfuffle. I sprinted back into the center of the square. From every street, soldiers were advancing slowly, rifles at the ready, boots thudding, regalia rattling. Up on the roofs, the foliots chittered eagerly and began to stalk forward, down the steep inclines, claws on tiles clicking like the sound of a thousand insects. The gargoyle slowed and stopped. More bullets whizzed past us. Dangling as he was, the boy was vulnerable. I swung him up in front of me; stone wings descended about him, blocking off the line of fire. This had the extra advantage of muffling his complaints.

A silver bullet ricocheted off my wing, stinging my essence with its poison touch.

We were surrounded on all sides: silver at street level, foliots up high. Which left only one option. The middle way.

I retracted a wing briefly, held the boy up so he had a quick view of the square. “Take a look,” I said. “Which house do you think has the thinnest walls?”

For a moment, he was uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened. “You’re not—”

“That
one? With the pink shutters? Yes, maybe you’re right. Well, let’s see …”

And with that, we were off, careering through a shower of bullets—me, beak forward, eyes narrowed; him, gasping, trying to curl up into a ball and shield his head with his arms all at once. On foot, gargoyles can put together a pretty fine turn of speed, provided we pump our wings as we run, and I’m pleased to say we left a thin scorched trail on the stones behind us as we went.

A brief description of my objective: a quaint four-story building, square, broad, with tall arches at its base marking out a shopping arcade. Behind it rose the bleak spires of Tyn Church.
⁵
The owner of this house loved it. Each window had twin shutters that had recently been repainted a delightful pink. Long, low flower boxes sat on every sill, crammed to bursting with pink-white peonies; frilly net curtains hung chastely across the inside of each window. It was all remarkably twee. The shutters didn’t quite have hearts carved in their wood, but it was a close thing.