Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (36 page)

The magician reached out, picked up the nearest cup and saucer and took a sip of tea. With ostentatious care, he placed the ensemble down upon the armrest of his chair and arranged it carefully. Kitty and her parents watched him in silence. “Very nice, Mrs. Jones,” he said at last. “A very tolerable beverage. Thank you for your worthy hospitality.” This pleasantry elicited only a small sob from Kitty’s mother.

Kitty did not look at her. Her gaze was fixed on the magician. “What do you want?” she said.

This time, he replied. “First to tell you that you are, as of this moment, under arrest.”

“On what charge?” Kitty knew her voice was shaking.

“Well, let me see …” The steepled fingers tapped together, beating out the list. “Terrorism; belonging to an outlaw group; treachery against Mr. Devereaux, his government and the Empire; wanton damage of property; conspiracy to murder; malicious theft; desecration of a sacred resting place … I could go on, but it would only distress your mother. It is a melancholy situation that two such honest, loyal parents should have been cursed with a daughter like you.”

“I don’t understand,” Kitty said levelly. “These are serious charges. What is your evidence?”

“You have been witnessed in the company of known criminals, members of the so-called Resistance.”

“Witnessed? What does that mean? Who says so?”

“Kathleen, you stupid girl, tell him the truth,” her father said.

“Shut up, Dad.”

“These known criminals,” the magician went on, “were found this morning, lying dead in a vault in Westminster Abbey, which they had previously ransacked. One of them was a Mr. Pennyfeather, whom I believe you work for.”

“I always knew he was a bad lot,” Kitty’s mother whispered.

Kitty took a deep breath. “I regret to hear this, but I can hardly be expected to know everything my employer got up to in his own private time. You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Mandrake.”

“Then you deny associating out of hours with this Pennyfeather?”

“Certainly I do.”

“What about his fellow traitors? Two youths: Fred and Stanley by name?”

“Many people worked for Mr. Pennyfeather part-time. I knew them, but not well. Is that it, Mr. Mandrake? I don’t believe you have
any
proof at all.”

“Well, if it comes to that …” The magician sat back in his chair and grinned. “One might ask why your clothes are so covered in white stains. It almost looks like grave-mold, when seen in a certain light. One might ask why you were not at your employer’s shop this morning, when it was your duty to open the doors. One might possibly draw attention to documents that I have just been reading in the Public Records Office. They relate to a certain trial:
Kathleen Jones versus Julius Tallow
—a most interesting case. You have a previous criminal record, Ms. Jones. Fined a considerable sum for an attack on a magician. And then, not least, there’s the witness who saw you fencing stolen goods in the company of the sadly deceased Fred and Stanley; a witness whom you attacked and left for dead.”

“And who
is
this precious witness?” Kitty snarled. “Whoever he is, he’s lying.”

“Oh, I think he’s
very
reliable.” The magician gave a little chuckle and pushed the hair back from the sides of his face. “Remember now?”

Kitty looked at him blankly. “Remember what?”

The magician’s forehead runkled. “Well—
Me,
of course.”

“You? Have we met before?”

“You don’t recall? Well, it was several years ago; I admit I was different then.”

“Less foppish, perhaps?” Kitty heard her mother give a faint moan of distress; the sound had as little effect on her as if it had been uttered by a stranger.

“Don’t cheek me, girl.” The magician recrossed his legs—with some difficulty, owing to the tightness of his trousers, and smiled thinly. “Mind you—why not? Fire off all the cheap comments you like. It won’t make any difference to your fate.”

Now that the end had come, Kitty found she had no fear; only an overwhelming sense of irritation at the jumped-up youth sitting opposite. She folded her arms and looked him fully in the face. “So go on, then,” she said. “Enlighten me.”

The boy cleared his throat. “Perhaps
this
will refresh your memory. Three years ago in North London … One cold December night … No?” He sighed. “An incident in a back alley?”

Kitty shrugged wearily. “I’ve had a lot of incidents in alleys. You must have a forgettable face.”

“Ah, but I never forgot
yours.”
His anger leaped to the surface now; he leaned forward in his seat, knocking the cup with an elbow, and spilling tea upon the chair. His eyes flashed guiltily at Kitty’s parents. “Oh—sorry.”

Kitty’s mother launched herself at the spot, dabbing with a napkin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Mandrake!
Please
don’t worry.”

“You see, Ms. Jones,” the magician went on, lifting the cup off the chair arm so that Kitty’s mother could dab around it more effectively, “I never forgot
you,
though I saw you only for a moment. Nor did I forget your colleagues, Fred and Stanley, since it was they who robbed me, they who tried to kill me.”

“Robbed you?” Kitty frowned. “What did they take?”

“A valuable scrying glass.”

“Oh …” A dim memory swam into Kitty’s mind. “You were that kid in the alley? The little spy. I remember you now—
and
your glass. That was a shoddy piece of work.”

“I made that!”

“We couldn’t even get it to start.”

Mr. Mandrake gathered himself with difficulty and spoke in a dangerously controlled voice. “I notice that you have stopped denying the charges.”

“Oh, yes,” Kitty said, and as she did so felt more consciously alive than she had done for many months. “They’re true, all right. All of what you said, and more. I’m only sorry it’s all over now. No wait—I deny one thing. You said I left you for dead in that alley. That isn’t so. Fred would have cut your throat, but I spared you. Heaven knows why, you miserable little sneak. I should have done the world a favor.”

“She doesn’t mean this!” Her father had jumped to his feet and was standing between them, as if his body would shield the magician from his daughter’s words.

“Oh, but she does, she does.” The boy was smiling, but his eyes danced with rage. “Go ahead, let her talk.”

Kitty had barely paused for breath. “I despise you
and
all the other magicians! You care nothing for people like us! We’re just here to … to provide your food and clean your houses and make your clothes! We slave away in your factories and workshops, while you and your demons live in luxury! If we cross your paths we suffer! Like Jakob did! You’re all callous and wicked and heartless and vain!”

“Vain?” The boy adjusted the tilt of his handkerchief. “How wonderfully hysterical. I’m just well turned out. Presentation’s important, you know.”

“Nothing’s
important to you—get
off
me, Mum.” In her fury, Kitty had risen; her mother, half-maddened by distress, was clutching at her from the side. Kitty pushed her away. “Oh” she snarled, “and if you want a tip on presentation, those trousers are far too tight.”

“Is that so?” The boy rose too, his coat billowing about him. “I’ve heard enough. You’ll be able to refine your sartorial opinions at leisure in the Tower of London.”

“No!” Kitty’s mother sank to the floor. “Please, Mr. Mandrake …”

Kitty’s father was standing as if his bones pained him. “Is there nothing we can do?”

The magician shook his head. “I’m afraid your daughter has long since chosen her path. I regret it for your sakes, since you are loyal to the State.”

“She has always been a headstrong girl,” Kitty’s father said quietly, “but I never realized she was wicked, too. That incident with Jakob Hyrnek should have taught us something, but we always hoped for the best, Iris and me. And now, with our armies going off to war in America, and threats as never before on every side, to find our girl’s a traitor, neck-deep in crime … Well, it’s broken me, it really has, Mr. Mandrake. I always tried to bring her up right.”

“I’m sure you did,” the magician said hastily. “Nevertheless—”

“I used to take her to watch the march-pasts, see the soldiers during the festivals. I had her on my shoulders on Imperial Day, when the crowds in Trafalgar cheered the Prime Minister for an hour. You might not remember that, Mr. Mandrake, you’re so young yourself, but it was a grand occasion. And now that little daughter of mine’s gone, and in her place is this surly vixen, who’s got no respect for her parents, her betters … or her country.” There was a catch in his voice as he finished.

“You really are an idiot, Dad,” Kitty said.

Her mother was still half-kneeling on the floor, beseeching the magician. “Not the Tower for her, Mr. Mandrake,
please.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones—”

“It’s all right, Mum—” Kitty did not hide her contempt. “You can get off your knees. He won’t be taking me to the Tower. I don’t see how he can.”

“Oh yes?” The boy looked amused. “You doubt that, do you?”

Kitty peered into the far corners of the room. “You seem to be alone.”

A faint smile. “Only in a manner of speaking. Now, then. An official car waits in the next street. Are you going to come with me quietly?”

“No, Mr. Mandrake, I am not.” Kitty launched herself forward; swung a fist. It caught the boy on his cheekbone with a dull crack; he capsized, sprawling into the chair. Kitty stepped over her prone mother and made for the door, but a firm grasp on her shoulder jerked her back. Her father: white-faced, eyes blank and staring.

“Dad—leave off!” She wrenched at his sleeve, but his grip was iron-strong.

“What have you done?” He looked at her as if she were something monstrous, an abomination. “What have you
done?”

“Dad … Just let me go. Please, just let me go.”

Kitty struggled, but her father only gripped the harder. From her position on the floor, her mother reached out to clutch Kitty’s leg halfheartedly, as if uncertain whether she intended supplication or restraint. Over in the chair, the magician, who had been shaking his head like a fuddled dog, turned his gaze toward them. His eyes, when they focused, were venomous. He spoke a few harsh syllables in a strange tongue and clapped his hands. Kitty and her parents stopped their struggle; a brackish vapor seeped from nowhere into the air. At its heart, a dark form: blue-black, with slender horns and leathery wings, appraising them with a wicked leer.

The magician rubbed the side of his jaw and flexed it. “The girl,” he said. “Secure her and don’t let go. You may grasp her hair as painfully as you wish.”

The creature chirruped harshly in answer, beat its wings, and flew out of its vapor nest. Kitty’s father gave a low moan; his grasp on Kitty’s shoulder loosened. Her mother flung herself back against the corner of the dresser and hid her face.

“Is that the best you can do?” Kitty said. “A mouler?
Please
.” She stretched out a hand, and before the startled creature could even reach her, seized it by its neck, swung it around her head a few times, and threw it back into the magician’s face, where it burst with a flatulent sound. An eruption of purple, bitter-smelling droplets peppered his suit and coat and the surrounding furnishings. He cried out in shock; reaching for his handkerchief with one hand, he made a mystic sign with the other. Instantly, a small red-faced imp appeared at his shoulder, bounded onto the dresser and opened its mouth. A bolt of orange flame shot out at Kitty, catching her on her chest and knocking her back against the door. Her mother screamed; her father cried out. The imp capered with triumph—and stopped, mid-caper. Kitty was straightening up, dusting off her smoldering jacket and staring at the magician with a grim smile. With a quick movement, she drew her throwing disc from her jacket and flourished it; the magician, who had lurched toward her in his fury, stepped hurriedly back. “You can wear the tightest trousers you please, Mr. Mandrake,” she said, “but the fact remains, you’re a conceited small-timer. If you follow me, I’ll kill you. Good-bye. Oh, and don’t worry, Mum, Dad”—she turned to look at each one calmly—“I won’t ruin your reputation any further. You won’t see me again.”

With that, and leaving parents, magician, and imp staring at her back, she turned, opened the door, and passed through. Then she walked slowly and deliberately up the hall and out of the front door into the warm evening. In the street, she chose a direction arbitrarily and walked off, never looking behind her. Only when she had rounded the nearest corner and had begun to run did her tears finally begin to flow.

36

N
athaniel’s fury at the failure of his swoop knew no bounds. He returned to Whitehall in a vicious temper, urging his chauffeur to ever greater speeds and beating the leather seat with his fist at any mild delay. He dismissed the car outside Internal Affairs, and, despite the lateness of the hour, stomped across the courtyard to his office. Here he snapped on the lights, threw himself into his chair, and began to think.

He had badly miscalculated, and the fact that he had been so close to success made his failure all the more galling. He had been absolutely right to check the Public Records in search of Kathleen Jones’s name: he’d uncovered the typescript of her trial—together with her home address—in less than an hour. He’d been right; to visit the parents, too. They were malleable fools, both of them, and his original plan—to get them to detain their daughter should she return home, while secretly informing him—would have worked out perfectly, had the girl not arrived back earlier than expected.

Yet even
that
would have been fine, had she not unexpectedly displayed some kind of personal defense against the minor demons. Perplexing … The parallels with the mercenary were obvious, of course; the real question was whether their powers were their own, or the product of some spell. His sensors had not detected anything.

If Bartimaeus had been with him, it might have shed some light on the source of the girl’s power and perhaps prevented her escape. It was a great pity the djinni was on the other mission.

Nathaniel regarded his jacket sleeve, now permanently marked with remnants of the mouler. He muttered a curse.
Conceited small-timer
… It was hard not to admire the girl’s strength of character. Nevertheless, Kitty Jones would pay dearly for that insult.

Alongside his anger, he was uneasy, too. He could, with great simplicity, have requested police backup, or asked Whitwell to provide vigilance sphere surveillance of the parents’ house. But he had not done so. He had wanted the success for himself and himself alone. Retrieving the Staff would have enhanced his status immeasurably—the Prime Minister would have lauded him to the skies. Perhaps he would have been promoted, allowed to explore the powers of the Staff … Duvall and Whitwell would have been left looking uncomfortably over their shoulders.

But the girl had gotten away—and should anyone learn about his failure, he would be held to account. The death of Tallow had left his colleagues prickly, agitated and even more paranoid than normal. It was not a good time to be found out. He had to locate the girl, and quickly.

At that moment, a ringing in his ear warned him of an approaching magic. He stood alert and, an instant later, saw Bartimaeus materializing in the midst of a blue cloud. It wore its gargoyle form. Nathaniel rubbed his eyes and composed himself.

“Well? You have something to report?”

“Lovely to see you, too.” The gargoyle reached down, plumped the cloud into the shape of a cushion, and sat with a sigh. “Yep.
Vent, vidi, vici
and all that. The afrit is no more. I’m knackered. Though not, possibly, as much as you. You look dreadful.”

“You disposed of the demon?” Nathaniel perked up. This was good news. It would count for much with Devereaux.

“Sure did. Drowned him in the Thames. Word is already spreading. And by the way, you were right—it
was
that Kitty who nicked the Staff. Have you caught her yet? No? Well, better stop making faces and get busy tracking her down. Hey …” The gargoyle peered closer. “You’ve got a bruise on your cheek. Someone’s been fighting!”

“No I haven’t. It’s not important.”

“Scrapping like a street kid! Was it over a girl? A matter of honor? Come on, you can tell me!”

“Just forget about it. Listen—I am pleased at your success. Now we must locate the girl.” Nathaniel prodded the bruise gingerly with a finger. It smarted.

The gargoyle sighed. “Easier said than done. Where, pray, do I start?”

“I don’t know. I need to think. For the moment, you are dismissed. I’ll summon you again in the morning.”

“Very well.” Gargoyle and cloud drifted backward into the wall and vanished.

When all was still once more, Nathaniel stood beside his desk deep in thought. Night pressed up against the office window; there was no sound from the street outside. He was very weary; his body cried out for its bed. But the Staff was too important to be lost so easily. Somehow, he must trace it. Perhaps a reference book might—

Nathaniel was brought up short by a sudden knocking on the courtyard door.

He listened, heart hammering in his chest. Another three knocks: gentle, but assertive.

Who would be calling at this hour? Visions of the terrible mercenary sprang into his mind; he shrugged them away, squared his shoulders, and approached the door.

Moistening his lips, he turned the handle and swung the door aside—

A short, roundish gentleman stood upon the step, blinking in the light that spilled out from the office. He was dressed in a flamboyant green velvet suit, white spats, and a mauve traveling coat that fastened at his neck. On his head was a small suede hat. He beamed at Nathaniel’s discomfiture.

“Hello, Mandrake, my boy. May I come in? It’s parky out.”

“Mr. Makepeace! Um, yes. Please come in, sir.”

“Thank you, my boy, thank you.” With a hop and a skip, Mr. Quentin Makepeace was inside. He took off his hat and tossed it across the room, to land with great precision upon a bust of Gladstone. He winked at Nathaniel. “We’ve had enough
of him,
one way and another, I think.” Chuckling at his little joke, Mr. Makepeace wedged himself into a chair.

“This is an unexpected honor, sir.” Nathaniel hovered uncertainly. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, no, Mandrake. Sit down, sit down. I’ve just popped in for a little chat.” He smiled broadly at Nathaniel. “I hope I have not disturbed you in your work?”

“Certainly not, sir. I was just thinking of heading home.”

“Very good, too. ‘Sleep is so vital, and yet so hard to come by,’as the Sultan says in the bathhouse scene—that’s Act II, Scene 3 of
My Love’s an Eastern Maid,
of course. Did you see it?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. I was too young. My previous master, Mr. Underwood, did not attend the theatre as a rule.”

“Ah, a crying shame.” Mr. Makepeace shook his head sadly. “With an education as defective as that, it’s a wonder you’ve turned out such a promising lad.”

“I’ve seen
Swans of Araby,
of course, sir,” Nathaniel said hastily. “A wonderful work. Very moving.”

“Mmm. It
has
been called my masterpiece by several critics, but I trust I shall outdo it with my next little effort. I have been inspired by the American troubles and turned my attention to the West. A dark continent we know so
little
about, Mandrake. My working title is
Petticoats and Rifles;
it involves a young backwoods lass …” As he was speaking, Mr. Makepeace made several intricate signs with his hands; from between his palms rose a scattering of orange sparks that floated up and outward to take up position at points about the room. No sooner were they stationary than the playwright stopped talking in mid-sentence and winked at Nathaniel. “See what I’ve done, boy?”

“A sensor web, sir. To detect watching ears or eyes.”

“Exactly so. And all, for the moment, is quiet. Now then, I didn’t come to talk to you about my oeuvre, fascinating though it is. I wanted to sound you out—you being a promising lad—about a certain proposition.”

“I would be honored to hear it, sir.”

“It goes without saying of course,” Mr. Makepeace said, “that the contents of this little talk will be for us alone. It could do us both great harm if a word of it were breathed beyond these four walls. You have a reputation for being just as intelligent as you are young and spry, Mandrake; I’m sure that you understand.”

“Of course, sir.” Nathaniel composed his features into a mask of polite attention. Beneath this, he was perplexed, if flattered. Why the playwright had now accosted him in such secrecy, Nathaniel could not imagine. Mr. Makepeace’s close friendship with the Prime Minister was widely spoken of, but Nathaniel had never thought that the author was much of a magician himself. In fact, on the basis of viewing a couple of the plays he had considered it unlikely: privately, Nathaniel considered them appalling potboilers.

“First, congratulations are in order,” Mr. Makepeace said. “The renegade afrit is gone—and I believe your djinni played a part in its removal. Well done! You may be sure the P. M. has taken notice. It is in fact on account of this that I have come to you this evening. Someone of your efficiency may be able to help me in a tricky problem.”

He paused, but Nathanel said nothing. It was best to be cautious when confiding in a stranger. Makepeace’s objectives were not yet clear.

“You were at the abbey this morning,” Mr. Makepeace went on, “and you listened to the debate among the Council. It would not have escaped your notice that our friend the Police Chief, Mr. Duvall, has attained great influence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As commander of the Graybacks, he has long been in a position of considerable power, and he makes no secret of his desire to gain more. He has already used the current disturbances to gain authority at the expense of your master, Ms. Whitwell.”

“I’ve noticed some such rivalry,” Nathaniel said. He did not think it prudent to say more.

“Very carefully put, Mandrake. Now, as a personal friend of Rupert Devereaux, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been viewing Duvall’s behavior with a good deal of concern. Ambitious men are dangerous, Mandrake. They destabilize things. Boorish, uncivilized individuals such as Duvall—it will shock you to learn he has never attended one of my premieres in his life—are the worst of all, since they have no respect for their colleagues. Duvall has been building up his power base for years, keeping in with the P.M., while undermining other senior figures at the same time. His vaunting ambition has long been obvious. Recent events, such as the unfortunate demise of our friend Tallow, have greatly unsettled our senior ministers, and this perhaps gives Duvall further opportunity to take advantage. In fact—and I don’t mind telling
you
this, Mandrake, since you’re so uncommonly clever and loyal—with the amount of power Duvall now has, I fear rebellion.”

Perhaps because of his background in theater, Mr. Makepeace had a peculiarly lively way of talking: his voice fluted high and tremulous, then dived to become low and resonating. Despite his caution, Nathaniel was fascinated; he leaned in closer.

“Yes, my boy, you heard correctly:
rebellion
is what I fear, and as Mr. Devereaux’s most loyal friend, I am anxious to prevent it. I am looking for allies in this regard. Jessica Whitwell is powerful, of course, but we do not get on. She is no great lover of the theater. But you, Mandrake, you are rather more my type. I’ve followed your career for quite some time, ever since that unfortunate Lovelace affair, in fact, and I think we might do admirably well together.”

“That is very kind of you, sir,” Nathaniel said slowly. His mind was afire:
this
was what he’d been waiting for—a direct line to the Prime Minister. Ms. Whitwell was no true ally; she’d already made it clear that she planned to sacrifice his career. Well, if he played this carefully, he might gain rapid advancement. Perhaps he didn’t need her protection, after all.

But this was dangerous territory. He had to be on his guard. “Mr. Duvall is a formidable opponent,” he said blandly. “It is a dangerous thing to act against him.”

Mr. Makepeace smiled. “How very true. But haven’t you already been doing something along those lines? I believe you paid a visit to the Public Records Office this afternoon—and then set off at speed to an obscure address in Balham.”

The words were casual, but they made Nathaniel stiffen with shock. “Forgive me,” he stammered, “how did you know—?”

“Word reaches me about many things, my boy. As a friend of Mr. Devereaux, I have long kept my eyes and ears open. Do not look so worried! I have no idea what you were up to, merely that it seemed a
personal
initiative.” His smile broadened. “Duvall is in charge of counterrevolutionary tactics now, but I don’t think you informed him of your activities?”

Nathaniel certainly had not. His head reeled; he needed to gain time. “Er, you mentioned us collaborating in some way, sir,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

Quentin Makepeace settled back into his chair. “Gladstone’s Staff,” he said. “That’s it, pure and simple. The afrit has been dealt with, and much of the Resistance is dead too, it seems. All well and good. But the Staff is a potent talisman; it confers great power on its bearer. I can tell you that, as we speak, Mr. Duvall is applying all his efforts to find the person who took it. Should he do so”—the magician fixed Nathaniel directly with his bright blue eyes—“he might decide to use it
himself,
rather than restore it to the government. I believe the situation is as serious as that. Much of London might be threatened.”

“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel said. “I have read about the Staff and I believe its energies can be easily accessed by a few simple incantations. Duvall might well use it.”