Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  The clay fell forward onto the tabletop. Then, with a horrible intentness, it moved, shuffling side to side in weak and painful spasms, like a limbless torso wriggling. It moved among the debris of the breakfast, knocking plates and bones aside; it nudged against the nearest vigilance sphere nexus, which instantly flickered and went out; it clawed its way directly toward the motionless form of the Police Chief, Henry Duvall.

  The room was very silent now, save for the quiet choking of Marmaduke Fry.

  Mr. Duvall, his face ashen, retreated from the table. He pressed back against his chair, which knocked against the wall.

  The clay had left almost half its remaining substance amid the scattered plates and cutlery. It reached the opposite side of the table, reared up, swayed like an earthworm, flowed down upon the floor. With sudden speed it darted forward.

  Mr. Duvall jerked back, lost his balance, subsided into his chair. His mouth opened and shut, but made no sound.

  The sinuous mass of clay reached his jackboots. Summoning the last of its energy, it rose up in a blunt and swaying tower, to teeter for an instant over the Police Chief’s head. Then it crashed down upon him, shedding the last vestiges of Kavka’s magic as it did so. The clay split, fragmenting into a shower of tiny particles that spattered down upon Duvall and the wall behind him and sent a small oval piece of material tumbling gently down his chest.

  Silence in the room. Henry Duvall gazed down, blinking through a clinging veil of clay From its lodging place on his lap, the golem’s eye stared blankly back.

  47

  The uproar that attended my master’s unmasking of Henry Duvall was as tumultuous as it is tedious to relate. For a long while bedlam reigned; word spread in ripples out from the magicians’ chamber, across the heart of Whitehall and into the extremities of the city, where even the lowliest commoners wondered at it. The downfall of one of the great is always attended by much excitement, and this was no exception. One or two impromptu street parties were held that very evening and, on the rare occasions when they dared show their faces in the ensuing weeks, members of the Night Police were treated with overt derision.

  In the immediate term, confusion was the order of the day. It took an age to place Duvall under arrest—this was through no fault on his part, since he seemed stunned by the direction events had taken, and made no effort to resist or escape. But the wretched magicians lost no time in clamoring to take his place, and for some while squabbled like vultures over who had the right to take charge of the police. My master did not take part in the fray; his actions had done the talking.

  In the end, the Prime Minister’s lackeys summoned a fat afrit, who had been lurking sheepishly in the lobby out of the way of the golem, and with its help achieved order. The ministers were dismissed, Duvall and Jane Farrar taken into custody, and the excited onlookers shepherded out of the building.1 Jessica Whitwell loitered till the last, shrilly proclaiming her part in Nathaniel’s success, but finally she, too, reluctantly departed.

  The Prime Minister and my master were left alone.

  Exactly what passed between them, I don’t know, as I was sent along with the afrit to restore order in the streets outside. When I returned, some hours later, my master was sitting in a side room alone, eating breakfast. He no longer had the Staff.

  I took the semblance of the minotaur again, sat myself in the chair opposite, and tapped my hooves idly on the floor. My master eyed me, but said nothing.

  “So,” I began. “All well?” A grunt. “Are we restored to favor?” A brief nod. “What’s your status now?”

  “Head of Internal Affairs. Youngest minister ever.”

  The minotaur whistled. “Aren’t we clever.”

  “It’s a start, I suppose. I’m independent from Whitwell now, thank goodness.”

  “And the Staff? Did you get to keep it?”

  A sour expression. He speared his black pudding. “No. It’s gone into the vaults. For ‘safe-keeping,’ allegedly. No one’s allowed to use it.” His face brightened. “It might be brought out in time of war, though. I was thinking, maybe later in the American campaigns …” He took a sip of coffee. “They’ve not started too well, apparently. We’ll see. Anyway, I need time to refine my approach.”

  “Yeah, like see if you can make it work.”

  He scowled. “Of course I can. I just left out a couple of restrictive clauses and a directional incantation, that’s all.”

  “In plain language, you fluffed it, mate. What’s happened to Duvall?”

  My master chewed meditatively. “He’s been taken to the Tower. Ms. Whitwell is head of Security again. She will be supervising his interrogation. Pass the salt.”

  The minotaur passed it.

  If my master was pleased, I had reason to be satisfied, too. Nathaniel had vowed to release me once the matter of the mystery attacker was solved, and solved it undoubtedly had been, although I felt there were still one or two issues that defied ready explanation. However, this was no business of mine. I awaited my dismissal with easy confidence.

  And waited.

  Several days passed during which the boy was too busy to listen to my demands. He took control of his department; he attended high-level meetings to discuss the Duvall affair; he moved out of his old master’s apartment and, using his new salary and a gift from the grateful Prime Minister, purchased a swanky townhouse in a leafy square not far from Westminster. This last required me to carry out a number of dubious chores, which I haven’t time to go into here.2 He attended parties at the Prime Minister’s residence at Richmond, held functions for his new employees, and spent his evenings at the theater, watching abysmal plays for which he had acquired an inexplicable taste. It was a hectic lifestyle.

  Whenever possible, I reminded him of his obligations.

  “Yes, yes,” he would say, on his way out in the mornings. “I’ll deal with you presently. Now, for my reception-room curtains, I require an ell of oyster-gray silk; make the purchase from Fieldings, and get a couple of extra cushions while you’re at it. I could do with some Tashkent enameling in the bathroom, too.”3

  “Your six weeks,” I said pointedly, “are almost up.”

  “Yes, yes. Now, I really must go.”

  One evening he returned home early. I was belowstairs, supervising the tiling of his kitchen,4 but somehow tore myself away to press my case once more. I found him in his dining room, an ostentatious space currently without furniture. He was staring at the empty fireplace and the cold blank walls.

  “You need a proper pattern in here,” I said. “Wallpaper to suit your age. What about a car motif, or steam trains?”

  He wandered to the window, his feet tapping on the hollow boards. “Duvall confessed today,” he said at last.

  “That’s good,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  He was looking out at the trees of the square. “I suppose …”

  “Because with my magical powers I detect that you don’t seem wildly satisfied.”

  “Oh …Yes.” He turned to me, forced a smile. “It clears up a lot of things, but most of them we knew already. We’d found the workshop in the cellar of Duvall’s house—the pit where the golem was made, the crystal through which he controlled the eye. He worked the creature, no question.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Today he acknowledged all that. He said he’d long wanted to expand his role, diminish Ms. Whitwell and the others. The golem was his method: it created chaos, undermined the other ministers. After a few attacks, with no solution found and everyone in disarray, Devereaux was only too happy to give him more authority. The police were given more powers; Duvall got the Security post. From there, he’d have been better placed to overthrow Devereaux in time.”

  “Sounds fairly clear,” I agreed.

  “I don’t know …” The boy screwed down the corners of his mouth. “Everyone’s satisfied: Whitwell’s back in her old job; Devereaux and the other ministers are heading back to their silly feasts; Pinn’s reconstructing his sh
op already. Even Jane Farrar’s been set free, as there’s no evidence she knew about her master’s treachery. They’re all happy to put it out of their minds. But I’m not sure. Several things don’t add up.”

  “Such as?”

  “Duvall claimed that he wasn’t alone in this. He says someone put him up to it, a scholar named Hopkins. He says this Hopkins brought him the golem’s eye, taught him how to use it. He says this Hopkins put him in touch with the bearded mercenary, and encouraged Duvall to send him out to Prague to track down the magician Kavka. When I started investigating, Duvall contacted the mercenary in Prague and told him to stop me. But Hopkins was the brains of the whole thing. This rings true to me—Duvall wasn’t bright enough to have worked it all out alone. He was the leader of a bunch of werewolves, not a great magician. But can we find this Hopkins? No. No one knows who he is, or where he lives. He’s nowhere to be seen. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t.”

  “That’s what the others think. They reckon Duvall was trying to shift the blame. And everyone assumes he was involved in the Lovelace conspiracy, too. The mercenary proves it, they say. But I don’t know.…”

  “Hardly likely,” I said. “Duvall was trapped with the others in the great pentacle at Heddleham Hall, wasn’t he? He wasn’t part of that conspiracy. Sounds like Hopkins might have been, though. He’s the connection, if you can find him.”

  He sighed. “That’s a big if.”

  “Perhaps Duvall knows more than he’s telling. He might spill more beans.”

  “Not now.” The boy’s face sagged insensibly; he suddenly looked tired and old. “On being returned to his cell after this afternoon’s interrogation, he transformed into a wolf, overcame his guard, and broke through a barred window.”

  “And escaped?”

  “Not exactly. It was five floors up.”

  “Ah.”

  “Quite.” The boy was by the great bare mantelpiece now, fingering the marble. “The other question is the Westminster Abbey break-in and the matter of the Staff. Duvall agreed he’d sent the golem to steal it from me the other day—it was too good an opportunity to miss, he said. But he swore he had nothing to do with the Resistance, and nothing to do with breaking into Gladstone’s tomb.” He tapped his hands on the stone. “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied, like the others. If only the girl hadn’t died. She could have told us more.…”

  I made an affirmative sort of noise, but said nothing. The fact that Kitty was alive was a mere detail—it wasn’t worth mentioning. Nor was the fact that she’d told me a good deal about the abbey break-in, and that a gentleman named Hopkins was somehow involved with it. It wasn’t my business to tell Nathaniel this. I was nothing but a humble servant. I just did what I was told. Besides, he didn’t deserve it.

  “You spent time with her,” he said abruptly. “Did she talk much to you?” He eyed me quickly, turned away.

  “No.”

  “Too frightened, I suppose.”

  “Au contraire. Too disdainful.”

  He grunted. “Shame she was so willful. She had some … admirable qualities.”

  “Oh, you noticed those, did you? I thought you were too busy reneging on your promise to give much thought to her.”

  His cheeks flushed red. “I had little choice, Bartimaeus—”

  “Don’t give me anything about choice,” I snapped. “She could have chosen to let you die.”

  He stamped his foot. “I’m not going to have you criticizing my actions—”

  “Actions nothing. It’s your morals I object to.”

  “Still less my morals! You’re the demon, remember? Why should it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” I was standing, arms folded now. “It doesn’t matter at all. The fact that a humble commoner was more honorable than you’ll ever be is hardly my affair. You do what you like.”

  “I will!”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine!”

  For a few moments there, we’d both been winding ourselves up into full-blown fury, ready to go at it hammer and tongs, but somehow our hearts weren’t in it.

  After an interlude of his staring at a corner of the fireplace and my gazing at a crack in the ceiling, the boy broke the silence. “If it’s of any interest to you,” he growled, “I’ve spoken to Devereaux and have gotten Kavka’s children released from prison. They’re back in Prague now. Cost me a few favors to get that done, but I did it.”

  “How noble of you.” I was in no mood to pat his back.

  He scowled. “They were low-level spies anyway. Not worth keeping.”

  “Of course.” Another silence. “Well,” I said finally. “All’s well that ends well. You’ve got everything you wanted.” I gestured across the empty room. “Look at the size of this place! You can fill it with all the silk and silver you desire. Not only that, you’re more powerful than ever; the Prime Minister is once more in your debt; and you’re out from under Whitwell’s thumb.”

  He looked a little happier at this. “That’s true.”

  “Of course, you’re also completely friendless and alone,” I went on, “and all your colleagues fear you and will want to do you harm. And if you get too powerful, the Prime Minister will get paranoid and find an excuse to bump you off. But hey, we’ve all got troubles.”

  He eyed me balefully. “What a charming insight.”

  “I’m full of them. And if you don’t want any more, I advise you to dismiss me on the instant. Your six weeks are up, and that marks the end of my current bond. My essence aches and I’m tired of white emulsion.”

  He gave a sudden curt nod. “Very well,” he said. “I will honor our agreement.”

  “Eh? Oh. Right.” I was a little taken aback. In all honesty, I’d expected the usual bartering before he agreed to let me go. It’s like making a purchase in an Eastern bazaar: haggling is inevitably the order of the day. But perhaps his betrayal of the girl had lodged in my master’s mind.

  Whatever the reason, he silently led me up to his workroom on the second floor of the house. It was decked out with the basic pentacles and paraphernalia.

  We completed the initial procedure in stony silence.

  “For your information,” he said cattily, as I stood within the pentacle, “you do not leave me entirely alone. I am off to the theater this evening. My good friend Quentin Makepeace has invited me to a gala premiere of his latest play.”

  “How desperately thrilling.”

  “It is.” He did a dismal job of trying to look pleased. “Well, are you ready?”

  “Yep.” I performed a formal salute. “I bid the magician John Mandrake farewell. May he live long and never summon me again.… By the way, notice something there?”

  The magician paused with his arms raised and his incantation at the ready. “What?”

  “I didn’t say ‘Nathaniel.’That’s because I see you more as Mandrake now. The boy who was Nathaniel’s fading, almost gone.”

  “Good,” he said crisply. “I’m glad you see sense at last.” He cleared his throat. “So. Farewell, Bartimaeus.”

  “Farewell.” He spoke. I went. I didn’t have time to tell him he’d kind of missed the point.

  48

  Mrs. Hyrnek had said her good-byes up beyond the customs house, and Kitty and Jakob walked alone together down to the quay. The ferry was nearing departure; smoke rose from the funnels and a brisk breeze was furling the sails. The last of the travelers were ascending a gaily canopied gangway near the stern, while farther forward a troop of men carried the luggage aboard. Raucous gulls swooped in the sky.

  Jakob was wearing a white hat with a broad brim, tipped far forward to shade his face, and a dark brown traveling suit. He carried a small leather case in one gloved hand.

  “You’ve got your papers?” Kitty said.

  “For the tenth time, yes.” He was still a little tearful after the parting from his mother, and this made him irascible.

  “It’s not a lo
ng voyage,” she said peaceably. “You’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “I know.” He tugged at the hat brim. “Think I’ll pass through?”

  “Oh yes. They’re not looking for us, are they? The passport’s only a precaution.”

  “Mmm. But with my face—”

  “They won’t give it a second look. Trust me.”

  “Okay. Are you sure you won’t …?”

  “I can always follow on. Are you going to give that guy your case?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Go and do it, then. I’ll wait.” With only the briefest of hesitations, he moved away. Kitty watched him pass slowly through the hurrying crowds, and was pleased to see that no one so much as glanced at him. The ship’s whistle blew, and somewhere nearby a bell rang. The quay was alive with activity now, with sailors, cargo men and merchants hurrying past, with final orders being given, letters and packets being exchanged. On the deck of the ferry, many of the embarkees were standing at the rail, faces shining with excitement, talking happily to one another in a dozen languages. Men and women from distant lands—from Europe, Africa, Byzantium, and the East… Kitty’s heart beat fast at the thought, and it made her sigh. More than a little, she wished to join them. Well, perhaps she would in time. She had other things to do first.

  On that terrible morning, they had fled, the two of them, to the Hyrnek factory, where Jakob’s brothers concealed them in a disused room hidden behind one of the printing machines. There, amid the noise and fug and the stench of leather, Kitty’s wounds were tended, and their strength revived. Meanwhile, the Hyrnek family prepared for the inevitable repercussions, for the searches and the fines. A day passed. The police did not arrive. Word came of the golem’s march through London, of the downfall of Duvall, of the boy Mandrake’s promotion. But of them—the fugitives—they heard nothing at all. There were no searches, no reprisals. Each morning, magicians’ orders arrived at the factory as usual. It was most curious. Kitty and Jakob appeared to have been forgotten.