Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (42 page)

“Five thousand years or more. Off and on. You get the odd break down the centuries, but just as one empire falls, there’s always another rising up. Britain’s only the latest.”

Kitty looked out into the shadows. “And Britain’ll fall too, in time.”

“Oh, yes. The cracks are already showing. You should read more, you’ll see the patterns. Aha … someone’s below. At last …”

The boy stood up. Kitty did likewise. To her ears now came scuffling sounds, a couple of whispered curses drifting up the staircase. Her heart began to beat fast. Once more, she wondered if she should run; once more, she quelled the instinct down.

The djinni looked across at her, grinned. Its teeth flashed very white. “You know, I’ve quite enjoyed our conversation,” it said. “I hope they don’t order me to kill you.”

Girl and demon stood together, waiting in the darkness. Steps ascended the stairs.

43

N
athaniel was escorted to Whitehall in an armored limousine, accompanied by Jane Farrar and three silent officers of the Night Police. Jakob Hyrnek sat to his left, a policeman to his right. Nathaniel noticed that the officer had great rips and tears in the trousers of his uniform, and that the nails on his great callused hands were torn. The air was thick with the smell of musk. He looked across at Jane Farrar, sitting impassively in the front seat, and found himself wondering whether she was a werewolf, too. Altogether, he doubted it: she seemed too controlled, too slight of build. But then again, you could never tell.

At Westminster Hall, Nathaniel and Jakob were taken straight to the great Reception Chamber, where the ceiling glowed with vigilance spheres and the Prime Minister and his lords sat around the polished table. Unusually, no edible delicacies were on display, indicating the perceived seriousness of the situation. Each minister had only a humble bottle of carbonated water and a glass. The Police Chief now sat in the chair of honor next to the Prime Minister, his face heavy with satisfaction. Ms. Whitwell was relegated to a seat on the margins. Nathaniel did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on the Prime Minister, looking for readable signs; but Mr. Devereaux was gazing at the table.

No one but the chief ministers were there. Mr. Makepeace was not present.

The escorting officers saluted at Police Chief Duvall and, at his signal, shuffled from the room. Jane Farrar stepped forward. She coughed delicately.

Mr. Devereaux looked up. He sighed the sigh of a man about to carry out a regretful task. “Yes, Ms. Farrar? You have something to report?”

“I do, sir. Has Mr. Duvall given you any details?”

“He has mentioned something of the matter. Please be brief.”

“Yes, sir. For some days, we have been observing the activities of John Mandrake. Several small discrepancies about his recent affairs made us attentive: he has displayed a certain vagueness and inconsistency in his actions.”

“I protest!” Nathaniel interrupted as suavely as he could. “My demon destroyed the renegade afrit—I can hardly be accused of vagueness there.”

Mr. Devereaux held up a hand. “Yes, yes, Mandrake. You will have your chance to speak. In the meantime, please be silent.”

Jane Farrar cleared her throat. “If I might expand, sir: in the last few days Mandrake has several times embarked on solitary trips across London, at a time of crisis when all magicians were required to remain at Westminster to receive orders. This afternoon, when he once more departed mysteriously, we sent vigilance spheres out to follow him. We traced him to a house in east London, where he met his demon and this unprepossessing youth. They took up station there, evidently waiting for someone. We decided to station officers from the Night Police nearby. Late this very evening, a girl approached the house; challenged by our officers, she proceeded to resist arrest. She was highly armed: two men were killed and four injured in the scuffle. However, our officers were about to effect capture when Mr. Mandrake’s demon appeared and helped the suspect escape. At this point, I felt it my duty to arrest Mr. Mandrake.”

The Prime Minister took a small sip of water. “This girl? Who is she?”

“We believe her to be a member of the Resistance, sir, a survivor of the abbey raid. It seems clear that Mandrake has been in contact with her for some time. Certainly, he helped her evade justice. I thought it proper that the matter be brought to your attention.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Devereaux’s black eyes scanned Nathaniel for a time. “When your forces encountered her, was the girl carrying Gladstone’s Staff?”

Jane Farrar pursed her lips. “No, sir, she was not.”

“Please sir, if I may—”

“You may
not,
Mandrake. Henry, you wish to comment?”

The Police Chief had been shuffling restlessly in his seat; now he leaned forward, placing his great thick hands palms-down on the table. He turned his head slowly from side to side, scanning the other ministers one by one. “I have had my doubts about this boy for some time now, Rupert,” he began. “When I first saw him I said to myself: ‘This Mandrake, he’s talented, all right, and outwardly industrious—but deep too, there’s something unfathomable about him.’Well now, we all know his ambition, how he’s wormed his way into poor Jessica’s affections, how she gave him power in Internal Affairs at a remarkably young age. So what was his brief in that office? To tackle the Resistance, destroy it if possible, and make the streets a safer place for us all. What has happened in recent months? The Resistance has gone from strength to strength, and their terror campaign has culminated in the ransacking of our Founder’s tomb. There is no end to the outrages they have committed: the British Museum, the emporiums of Piccadilly, the National Gallery—all have been attacked, and no one has been held accountable.”

Nathaniel stepped forward angrily. “As I’ve said many times, those had nothing to do with—”

An olive-green band of gelatinous substance materialized in midair before him and wound tightly around his head, gagging him painfully. Mr. Mortensen lowered his hand. “Go on, Duvall,” he said.

“Thank you.” The Police Chief made an expansive gesture. “Well, now. At first, Ms. Farrar and I assumed all this singular lack of success was down to simple incompetence on Mandrake’s part. Then we began to wonder: Could there be something more to it? Could this talented and ambitious youth be part of something more sinister? We began to keep an eye on him. After the museum’s destruction, he made a surreptitious journey to Prague, where—although his movements are a little uncertain—we believe he met with foreign magicians. Yes, you may well gasp, Ms. Malbindi! Who knows what damage this boy may have done, what secrets he may have exposed. At the very least, one of our best spies in Prague—a man who had served us well for many years—was killed during Mandrake’s visit.”

At this, many of the ministers set up a low muttering. Mr. Duvall drummed the table with his slablike fingers. “Mandrake has been touting an unlikely story about the London attacks, claiming that a golem—yes, you did hear correctly, Ms. Malbindi, a
golem
—might be behind them. Ridiculous as this is, he appears to have gulled poor Jessica easily enough, and the golem story served as his excuse to visit Prague. He came back without proof of his wild assertions, and—as we have just heard—has since been caught communing with the Resistance and defying our police. It’s clear enough that he wants Gladstone’s Staff; it may even be that he directed the traitors to the tomb in the first place. I suggest that we escort Mr. Mandrake forthwith to the Tower of London for proper interrogation. Indeed, I propose to take care of the matter personally.”

There was a murmur of assent. Mr. Devereaux shrugged. Of the ministers, Ms. Whitwell remained silent, stony-faced. The portly Foreign Minister, Fry, spoke: “Good. I never liked the boy. His hair is far too long and he has an insolent face. Do you have any methods in mind, Duvall?”

“Perhaps the Well of Remorse? I suggest suspending him up to his nose in it overnight. That usually makes traitors talk, if the eels have left them their tongues.”

Fry nodded. “Eels. That reminds me. What about a second supper?”

Mr. Mortensen leaned forward. “What about the Winch, Duvall? That often proves effective.”

“A Mournful Orb is the most tried-and-tested method, I find.”

“Perhaps a few hours in each?”

“Perhaps. Shall I remove the wretch, Rupert?”

The Prime Minster blew out his cheeks, sat back in his chair. He spoke hesitantly. “I suppose so, Henry. I suppose so.”

Mr. Duvall clicked his fingers; from the shadows stepped four Night Police, each one more muscular than the last. They marched in step across the room toward the prisoner, their leader producing a thin silver manacle from his belt. At this development, Nathaniel, who had been wriggling and gesticulating with vigor for some time, set up such an agitated protest that a small muffled yelp escaped his gag. The Prime Minster seemed to recall something; he held up a hand.

“One moment, Henry. We must allow the boy his defense.”

The Police Chief frowned with impatience.
“Must
we, Rupert? Beware. He is a plausible little devil.”

“7 shall decide that for myself, I think.” Mr. Devereaux glanced at Mortensen, who made a reluctant gesture. The gelatinous gag around Nathaniel’s mouth dissolved, leaving a bitter tang. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face.

“Get on with it then,” Duvall said. “And mind, no lies.”

Nathaniel drew himself upright and passed his tongue across his lips. He saw nothing but hostility in the eyes of the senior magicians, except—and this was his only hope now—perhaps those of Mr. Devereaux himself. There he discerned something that might have been uncertainty, mixed with extreme irritation. Nathaniel cleared his throat. He had long prided himself on his bond with the Prime Minister. Now was the time to put it to the test.

“Thank you for the opportunity to speak, sir,” he began. He tried to give his voice an easy, calm assertion, but fear constricted it into a squeak. Simply the thought of the House of Persuasion, an area of the Tower of London given over to interrogation of prisoners, made him tremble. Bartimaeus had been right: by his actions, he had become vulnerable to his enemies. Now he had to out-talk them. “Mr. Duvall’s insinuations are groundless,” he said, “and Ms. Farrar is, to say the least, overeager. I hope that there is still time to make good the damage that they have done.”

He heard Jane Farrar snort discreetly somewhere beside him. Mr. Duvall emitted a snarl of protest that was cut off by a single look from the Prime Minister. Somewhat emboldened, Nathaniel pressed on. “My trip to Prague and the issue of the girl are two entirely separate things, sir. It is true that I believe many of the attacks in London to be the work of a golem; my investigations into that are not yet finished. Meanwhile I have been using this youth”—he nodded toward Hyrnek—“to lure the traitor Kitty Jones out of hiding. He is her old associate and I guessed she might attempt to save him. Once in my power, she would soon tell me the location of the Staff, which I could then deliver into your hands. The arrival of Ms. Farrar’s wolves completely ruined my ambush. I trust she will be firmly reprimanded.”

Jane Farrar gave a cry of anger. “
My
men had the girl trapped! Your demon spirited her away.”

“Of course.” Nathaniel was urbanity itself. “Because
your
men would have torn her to pieces. They were filled with bloodlust. How would we have secured the Staff then?”

“They were Imperial Police, directly accountable to Mr. Duvall here—”

“Quite so, and a more crude and haphazard organization would be hard to find.” Nathaniel went on the attack. “I acknowledge that I have been secretive, sir,” he said sweetly, addressing Mr. Devereaux full on, “but I knew this was a delicate operation. The girl is stubborn and willful. To locate the Staff I had to tread carefully: I had to offer her this boy’s safety for its return. I feared lest Mr. Duvall’s customary heavy-handedness would jeopardize everything. As, unfortunately, has been the case.”

The fury in the Police Chief’s eyes was remarkable to behold. His swarthy face went beetroot red, the veins in his neck and hands bulged like mooring ropes, and his fingernails—which seemed slightly longer than a moment previously—jabbed deep into the tabletop. He could barely speak for choking. “Guards! Take this vicious youth away. I shall attend upon him presently.”

“You forget yourself, Henry.” Mr. Devereaux spoke quietly, but the menace in his voice was clear. “
I
am judge and jury in this government; it is I who shall decide Mandrake’s fate. I am by no means satisfied that he is the traitor you claim. John,” he continued, “your demon has the girl, this Kitty Jones, in custody?”

“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel’s face was taut with tension. He was not free yet; the dark shadow of the Well of Remorse still hovered before him. He had to go carefully. “I sent her to a quiet location, where I might carry out my plan. I hope this long delay has not ruined everything.”

“And you planned to restore the Staff to me?” Devereaux regarded him out of the corner of one eye.

“Of course, sir! I hoped I would see it one day sitting next to the Amulet of Samarkand in the government vaults, sir.” He chewed his lip, waited. That was his trump card, of course—by retrieving the Amulet he had saved Devereaux’s life, and he did not want the Prime Minister to forget it now. “I can still do it, sir,” he added. “If I take this Hyrnek to the girl, and promise their mutual safety, I believe she will give me the Staff within the hour.”

“And the girl? She will go free?”

Nathaniel smirked. “Oh, no sir. Once I have the Staff, she and Hyrnek can be interrogated at leisure.” His smile promptly vanished as Jakob Hyrnek kicked out and made contact with his shin.

“The boy is a consummate liar.” Mr. Duvall had regained a little of his composure. “Please, Rupert, you are surely not going to be taken in …”

“I have made my decision.” The Prime Minister leaned forward, steepling his fingers into an arch. “Mandrake has proved himself valuable and loyal in the past; we must give him the benefit of the doubt. We shall take him at his word. Let him get the Staff. If he does, his secretiveness in the matter is forgiven. If he does not, I shall accept Henry’s version of events and consign him to the Tower. A happy compromise? Is everyone satisfied?” Smiling, he looked from Mr. Duvall’s louring disappointment to Nathaniel’s sickly green anxiety and back again. “Good. Mandrake can depart. Now, did someone mention food? A little Byzantine wine to begin!”