Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye (45 page)

The skeleton shattered.

Fragments of bone shot out across the cobblestones like a squall of hail.

“Strange …” Bartimaeus was seated cross-legged on the ground. He had the look of a fascinated spectator. “That was really very strange. Honorius didn’t need to do that, you know. It was totally foolhardy, a suicidal act—though brave, of course. Despite being mad, he
must
have known it would destroy him, don’t you think? Golems negate our magic, pulverize our essences, even when encased in bone. Very odd. Perhaps he was tired of this world after all. Do
you
understand it, Kitty Jones?”

“Kitty …” This was Jakob, plucking urgently at her sleeve. “The exit’s clear. We can slip away.”

“Yes …” She snatched another look across at Mandrake. Eyes closed, he was still reciting the words of some spell.

“Come
on
…”

The golem had been stationary since the destruction of the skeleton. Now it moved again. Its watch-eye glittered, swiveled, fixed upon Mandrake and the Staff.

“Looks like Mandrake’s for it.” Bartimaeus’s voice was neutral, matter-of-fact.

Kitty shrugged and began to inch after Jakob, along the edge of the wall.

Just then, Mandrake looked up. At first he seemed oblivious of the coming danger; then his gaze fell upon the advancing golem. His face broadened into a smile. He held the Staff out before him and spoke a single word. A nebulous light of pinks and purples drifted around the body of the Staff, rising toward its top. Kitty paused in her inching. A soft reverberation, a humming—as of a thousand bees trapped underground—a tremble in the air; the ground shook slightly.

“He
can’t
have,” Bartimaeus said. “He
can’t
have mastered it. Not the first time.”

The boy’s smile widened. He pointed Gladstone’s Staff toward the golem, which paused uncertainly. Colored lights played about the carvings on the Staff; the boy’s face was alive with their radiance and a terrible joy. In a deep, commanding voice, he uttered a complex charm. The Flux about the Staff flared. Kitty screwed up her eyes, half looked away; the golem rocked back on its heels. The Flux wobbled, sputtered, shot back down the Staff and along the magician’s arm. His head jerked back; he was lifted bodily off his feet and straight into the wall behind him with a melancholy thud.

The boy sprawled on the ground, tongue lolling. The Staff clattered from his hand.

“Ah.” Bartimaeus nodded sagely. “He
hadn’t
mastered it. Thought as much.”

“Kitty!” Jakob was already some way off along the wall. He was gesticulating furiously. “While there’s still time.”

The giant clay figure had resumed its stately progress toward the prone figure of the magician. Kitty made to follow Jakob, then turned back to Bartimaeus.

“What’s going to happen?”

“Now? After my master’s little error? Simple enough. You’ll run off. The golem will kill Mandrake, grab the Staff, and take it to whichever magician’s watching through that eye.”

“And you? You won’t help him?”

“I’m powerless against the golem. I’ve tried once already. Besides, when you were escaping just now, my master overruled all his previous charges—which included my duty to protect him. If Mandrake dies,
I
go free. It’s hardly in my interest to help the idiot out.”

The golem was drawing abreast of the limousine now, nearing the body of the chauffeur. Kitty looked again at Mandrake, lying unconscious by the wall. She bit her lip and turned away.

“I
don’t have free will most of the time, you see,” the demon said behind her loudly. “So when I do, I’m hardly likely to act in a way that injures myself, if I can help it. That’s what makes me superior to muddled humans like you. It’s called common sense. Anyway, off you go,” it added. “Your resilience might well not work against the golem. It’s refreshing to see you doing exactly what I would do and getting out while the going’s good.”

Kitty blew her cheeks out and took a few steps more. She looked back over her shoulder again. “Mandrake wouldn’t have helped
me,”
she said.

“Exactly.
You’re a smart girl. Off you go and leave him to die.”

She looked at the golem. “It’s too big. I could never tackle it.”

“Especially once it’s past that limousine.”

“Oh,
hell.”
Then Kitty was running, not toward the stricken Jakob, but out across the cobblestones, toward the lumbering giant. She ignored the pain and numbness in her shoulder, ignored her friend’s despairing shouts; most of all, she ignored the voices in her head ridiculing her, screaming out the danger, the futility of her action. She put her head down, increased her speed. She was no demon, no magician—she was better than they were. Greed and self-interest were
not
her only concerns. She scampered around the back of the golem, close enough to see the rough smears on the surface of the stone, to smell the terrible wet earthen taint that drifted in its wake. She leaped onto the bonnet of the limousine, ran along it, level with the torso of the monster.

The sightless eyes stared forward, like those of a dead fish; above them, the third eye sparkled with malign intelligence. Its gaze was fixed firmly upon Mandrake’s body; it did not perceive Kitty, at its side, jumping with all her strength to land upon the golem’s back.

The extreme cold of the surface made her gasp with pain: even with her resilience, it was like plunging into an icy stream—her breath left her, every nerve stung. Her head swam with the earthen stench, bile rose in her throat. She flung her good arm around the golem’s shoulder, clung desperately. Each footstep threatened to shake her free.

She had expected the golem to reach up and tear her off, but it did not do so. The eye did not see her; its controller could not feel her weight on the creature’s body.

Kitty reached forward with her wounded arm; her shoulder throbbed, making her cry out. She bent her elbow, reached around the front of the face, feeling for the great gaping mouth. That was what the demon had said: a manuscript, a paper, lodged inside. Her fingers touched the ice-cold stone of the face; her eyes rolled, she almost blacked out.

It was no good. She couldn’t reach the mouth—

The golem stopped. With surprising suddenness, its back began to bend. Kitty was flung forward, almost headfirst over its shoulders. She had a brief glimpse of the lumpen hand below reaching out and down toward the unconscious boy: it would seize him by the neck, snap it like a twig.

Still the back bent. Kitty began to topple; her grip failed. Her fingers slapped frantically against the great flat face and, all at once, lit upon the cavity of the mouth; they thrust inside. Rough cold stone … jagged snags that might almost have been teeth … something else, of a soft coarseness. She grasped at it, and in the same moment, lost all purchase on the creature’s back. She tumbled forward over its shoulder, landing heavily on the prone figure of the boy.

She lay on her back, opened her eyes, and screamed.

The golem’s face was right above her: the gaping mouth, the sightless eyes, the third eye fixed upon her, alive with fury. As she watched, the fury dimmed. The intelligence went out. The eye in the forehead was nothing but a clay oval, intricately carved, but dull and lifeless.

Kitty raised her head stiffly, looked at her left hand.

A scroll of yellow parchment was clutched between her finger and thumb.

Painfully, Kitty propped herself up on her elbows. The golem was completely frozen, one fist inches from John Mandrake’s face. The stonework was cracked and pitted; it might have been a statue. It no longer radiated extreme cold.

“Mad. Quite mad.” The Egyptian boy was standing beside her, hands on hips, shaking its head gently. “You’re as mad as that afrit was. Still”—it indicated the magician’s body—“at least you got a soft landing.”

Behind the demon, she saw Jakob approaching diffidently, wide-eyed. Kitty groaned. Her shoulder wound was bleeding again, and every muscle in her body seemed to ache. With laborious care she righted herself and stood, hauling herself up by pulling on the golem’s outstretched hand.

Jakob was gazing down at John Mandrake. Gladstone’s Staff lay across his breast. “Is he dead?” He sounded hopeful.

“He’s still breathing, more’s the pity.” The demon sighed; looked sidelong at Kitty. “By your foolhardy actions you’ve condemned me to further toil.” It glanced into the sky. “I would take issue with you, but there were some search spheres here earlier. I think the golem’s cloud caused them to retreat, but they’ll be back—and soon. It would be best if you depart with haste.”

“Yes.” Kitty took a few steps, then remembered the parchment in her hand. With sudden disgust she loosened her fingers; it drifted to the cobblestones.

“What about the Staff?” Bartimaeus said. “You
could
take it, you know. No one’s here to stop you.”

Kitty frowned, glanced back at it. It was a formidable object, she knew that much. Mr. Pennyfeather would have taken it. So would Hopkins, the benefactor, Honorius the afrit, Mandrake himself… Many others had died for it. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s no good to me.”

She turned away, began hobbling after Jakob toward the arch. She half expected the demon to call to her again, but it did not do so. In less than a minute, Kitty was at the arch. As she rounded it, she looked back and saw the dark-skinned boy still staring after her across the courtyard. A moment later he was out of view.

46

A
sudden ice-cold shock; Nathaniel gasped, sputtered, opened his eyes. The Egyptian boy stood over him, lowering a dripping pail. Freezing water ran into Nathaniel’s ears, nostrils, and open mouth; he tried to speak, coughed, retched, coughed again, and rolled onto his side, conscious of a wrenching pain in his stomach and a dull tingling in every muscle. He groaned.

“Rise and shine.” That was the djinni’s voice. It sounded extremely cheerful.

Nathaniel raised a shaking hand to the side of his head. “What happened? I feel … terrible.”

“You
look
it too, believe me. You were hit by a considerable magical backlash through the Staff. Your brains and body will be even more addled than usual for a while, but you’re lucky to be alive.”

Nathaniel tried to lever himself into a sitting position. “The Staff…”

“The magical energies have been gradually ebbing through your system,” the djinni went on. “Your skin’s been steaming gently and the end of each hair’s been glowing at the tip. A remarkable sight. Your aura’s gone haywire, too. Well, it’s a delicate process, ridding yourself of a charge like that. I wanted to wake you straightaway, but I knew I had to wait several hours to ensure you were safely recovered.”

“What! How long has it been?”

“Five minutes. I got bored.”

Recent memories flooded back into Nathaniel’s mind.

“The golem! I was trying to—”

“Overcome a golem? An almost impossible task for any djinni or magician, and doubly so when operating an artifact as subtle and powerful as that Staff. You did well to activate it at all. Be thankful it wasn’t charged enough to kill you.”

“But the golem! The Staff! … Oh no—” With sudden horror, Nathaniel realized the implications. With both of them gone, he’d have failed utterly, he would be helpless before his enemies. With great weariness, he put his head in his hands, scarcely troubling to stifle the beginnings of a sob.

A hard, firm toe jabbed him sharply on his leg. “If you had the wit to look around you,” the djinni said, “you might see something to your advantage.”

Nathaniel opened his eyes, peeled his fingers away. He looked; what he saw practically jolted him clear of the cobblestones. Not two feet from where he sat, the golem towered against the sky; it was bent toward him, its clawing hand so close he might touch it, the head lowered menacingly; but the spark of life had vanished from it. It had no more motion than a statue or a lamppost.

And propped up against one of its legs, so casually it might almost have been a gentleman’s cane: the Staff of Gladstone.

Nathaniel frowned and looked, and frowned some more, but the solution to this puzzle quite eluded him.

“I’d close your mouth,” the djinni advised him. “Some passing bird might use it as a nest.”

With difficulty, as his muscles seemed like water, Nathaniel got to his feet. “But how …?”

“Isn’t
it a poser?” The boy grinned. “How
do
you think it happened?”

“I must have done it, just before I lost control.” Nathaniel nodded slowly; yes, that was the only possible solution. “I was trying to immobilize the golem, and I must have succeeded, just as the backlash happened.” He began to feel rather better about himself.

The djinni snorted long and loud. “Guess again, sonny. What about the girl?”

“Kitty Jones?” Nathaniel scanned the courtyard. He had quite forgotten her. “She—she must have fled.”

“Wrong again. I’ll tell you, shall I?” The djinni fixed him with its black-eyed stare. “You knocked yourself out, like the idiot you are. The golem was approaching, doubtless planning to take the Staff and crush your head like a melon. It was foiled—”

“By your prompt action?” Nathaniel said. “If so, I’m grateful, Bartimaeus.”

“Me? Save you?
Please—someone I know might be listening. No. My magic is canceled out by the golem’s, remember? I sat back to watch the show. In fact … it was the girl and her friend.
They
saved you. Wait—don’t mock! I do not lie. The boy distracted it while the girl climbed on the golem’s back, tore the manuscript from its mouth, and threw it to the ground. Even as she did so, the golem seized her and the boy—incinerated them in seconds. Then its life force ebbed and it finally froze, inches from your sorry neck.”

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed in doubt. “Ridiculous! It makes no sense!”

“I know, I know. Why should she save you? The mind boggles, Nat, but save you she did. And if you don’t think it’s true, well—seeing’s believing.” The djinni brought a hand out from behind its back, held something out. “This is what she plucked from the mouth.” Nathaniel recognized the paper instantly; it was identical to the one he’d seen in Prague, but this time furled and sealed with a daub of thick black wax. He took it slowly, gazed across at the golem’s gaping mouth and back again.

“The girl …” He couldn’t accommodate the thought. “But I was taking her to the Tower; I’d hunted her out. No—she’d kill me, not save my life. I don’t believe you, djinni. You’re lying. She’s alive. She’s fled the place.”

Bartimaeus shrugged. “Whatever you say. That’s why she left the Staff with you when you were helpless.”

“Oh …” This was a point. Nathaniel frowned. The Staff was the Resistance’s great prize. The girl would never willingly give it up. Perhaps she
was
dead. He looked down at the manuscript again. A sudden thought occurred to him.

“According to Kavka, the name of our enemy will be written on the parchment,” he said. “Let’s look! We can find out who’s behind the golem.”

“I doubt you’ll have time,” the djinni said. “Watch out—there it goes!”

With a melancholy hiss, a yellow flame erupted from the surface of the scroll. Nathaniel cried out and dropped the parchment hastily to the cobblestones, where it juddered and burned.

“Once out of the golem’s mouth, the spell’s so strong it soon consumes itself,” Bartimaeus went on. “Never mind. You know what happens now?”

“The golem is destroyed?”

“Yes—but more than that. It returns to its master first.” Nathaniel stared at his slave with sudden understanding. Bartimaeus raised an amused eyebrow. “Might be interesting, you think?”

“Very much so.” Nathaniel felt a surge of grim elation. “You’re sure of this?”

“I saw it happen, long ago in Prague.”

“Well, then …” He stepped past the smoldering fragments of the parchment and hobbled over to the golem, wincing at the pain in his side. “Ahh, my stomach
really
hurts. It’s almost like someone fell on it.”

“Eerie.”

“No matter.” Nathaniel reached the Staff, picked it up. “Now,” he said, stepping clear of the golem’s bulk once more, “let’s see.”

The flames died away; the manuscript was nothing but ash drifting in the breeze. An odd dark scent hung in the air.

“Kavka’s lifeblood,” Bartimaeus said. “All gone now.” Nathaniel made a face.

As the last wisp of paper vanished, a shudder ran through the golems transfixed body; the arms wobbled, the head jerked spasmodically, the chest rose, then fell. A faint sighing, as of a dying breath, was heard. A moment’s silence; the stone giant was quite still. Then, with the wrenched creaking of an old tree in a storm, the great back rose, the outstretched arm fell against its side, the golem stood straight once more. Its head tilted, as if deep in thought. Deep in the forehead, the golem’s eye was blank and dead: the commanding intelligence rested there no longer. But still the body moved.

Nathaniel and the djinni stood aside as the creature turned and with weary steps began to trudge off across the courtyard. It paid no heed to them. It went at the same remorseless pace that it had always used; from a distance, it carried the same energy as before. But already a transformation was taking place: small cracks extended out across the surface of the body. They began in the center of the torso, where previously the stone had been smooth and strong, and radiated toward the limbs. Little pieces of clay broke from the surface and drifted to the cobblestones in the giant’s wake.

Behind the golem, Nathaniel and the djinni fell into step. Nathaniel’s body ached; he used Gladstone’s Staff as a crutch as he went along.

The golem passed under the arch and departed the mews. It turned left into the street beyond, where, ignoring the regulations of the highway, it proceeded to march directly down the center of the road. The first person to encounter it, a large, bald trader with tattooed arms and a trolley of root vegetables, uttered a piteous squeal on its appearance and scampered pell-mell into a side alley. The golem ignored him, Nathaniel and Bartimaeus likewise. The small procession marched on.

“Assuming that the golem’s master is a senior magician,” Bartimaeus remarked, “just
assuming,
mark you—we may be heading for Westminster right now. That’s the center of town. This is going to cause something of a stir, you know.”

“Good,”
Nathaniel said. “That’s exactly what I want.” With every passing minute, his mood was lightening; he could feel the anxiety and fear of the past few weeks beginning to drain away. The exact details of his escape from the golem that morning were still unclear in his mind, but this mattered little to him now; after the low point of the night before, when the massed ranks of the great magicians were set against him and the threat of the Tower hung above his head, he knew he was clear, he was safe once more. He had the Staff—Devereaux would fall at his feet for that—and better, he had the golem. None of them had believed his story; now they would be groveling with apologies—Duvall, Mortensen, and the rest. He would be welcomed into their circle at last, and whether Ms. Whitwell chose to forgive him or not would, in truth, matter very little. Nathaniel allowed himself a broad smile as he stumped along through Southwark, following the golem.

The fate of Kitty Jones was perplexing, but even here things had worked out well. Despite the prompting of practicality and logic, Nathaniel had felt uneasy with his breaking of his promise to the girl. It could not have been helped, of course—the vigilance spheres were observing them, so he could scarcely have allowed her to go free—but the business
had
weighed a little on his conscience. Now, he did not have to worry. Whether in helping him (he still found this difficult to credit) or in attempting to escape (more likely), the girl was dead and gone, and he did not need to waste time thinking about her. It was a shame in a way…. From what he had seen of her, she appeared to have had remarkable energy, talent, and willpower, far more than any of the great magicians, with their endless bickering and foolish vices. In some odd way, she had reminded Nathaniel a little of himself, and it was almost a pity she was gone.

The djinni walked in silence beside him, as if deep in thought. It did not seem much disposed to speak. Nathaniel shrugged. Who could guess what strange and wicked daydreams a djinni had? Better not to try.

As they went, they crushed small pieces of damp clay underfoot. The golem was shedding its material with increasing speed; clusters of holes were visible across its surface, and the outline of its limbs was a little uneven. It moved at its normal pace, but with a slightly bent back, as if growing old and frail.

Bartimaeus’s prediction, that the golem would cause something of a stir, was proved increasingly correct with every passing moment. They were now firmly on Southwark High Street, with its market stalls and cloth merchants and general air of shabby industry. As they went, the commoners fanned out screaming up ahead, driven like cattle to gross and excessive panic before the striding giant. People threw themselves into shops and houses, breaking down doors and smashing windows in their efforts to escape; one or two climbed lampposts; several of the thinnest jumped down manholes into drains. Nathaniel chuckled under his breath. The chaos was not altogether regrettable. It would do the commoners good to be stirred up a bit, have their complacency shaken out of them. They should
see
the kinds of dangers the government was protecting them against, understand the wicked magic that threatened them on all sides. It would make them less likely to listen to zealots like the Resistance in the future.

A large number of red spheres appeared over the rooftops and hovered silently above the road, regarding them. Nathaniel composed his face into an expression of sobriety, and glanced with what he hoped was patrician sympathy at the broken stalls and frightened faces all around.

“Your friends are watching us,” the djinni said. “Think they’re happy?”

“Envious, more like.”

As they passed the Lambeth rail terminal and headed west, the golem’s outline became noticeably more irregular, its shambling more exaggerated. A large piece of clay, perhaps a finger, detached itself and fell wetly to the ground.

Westminster Bridge was up ahead. There seemed little doubt now that Whitehall was their destination. Nathaniel’s mind turned to the confrontation to come. It would be a fairly senior magician, of that he had no doubt, one who had discovered his trip to Prague and so sent the mercenary after him. Beyond that, it was impossible to say. Time would quickly tell.