Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye Read online

  Two more masked figures, tiptoeing behind.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but did not have a chance to do so. One of her pursuers made a quick motion: something left its hand—a small, dark sphere. It hit the ground just at her feet, splintering into nothing. From the place where it vanished a black vapor rose, twirling, growing thick.

  Kitty was too frightened to move. She could only watch as the vapor formed itself into a small blue-black winged creature, with long, slender horns and wide red eyes. The thing hovered for an instant, tumbling head over heels in the air, as if uncertain what to do.

  The figure that had thrown the sphere pointed its hand at Kitty and cried out a command.

  The thing stopped twirling. A grin of wicked glee cracked its face almost in two.

  Then it lowered its horns, beat its wings into a frenzy, and with a shrill cry of delight, hurled itself at Kitty’s head.

  19

  In an instant, the thing was on her, with light glinting on its two sharp horns and its serrated mouth gaping wide. Blue-black wings beat in her face, small callused hands clawed at her eyes. She felt its foul breath on her skin; its keening cry deafened her. She beat at it madly with her fists, shouting out now, screaming….

  And with a loud, moist popping sound, the thing burst, leaving nothing but a shower of cold black droplets and a lingering bitter smell.

  Kitty collapsed against the nearest wall, chest heaving, looking wildly about her. There was no doubt—the thing had gone, and the three masked figures had vanished too. On either side, the alley was empty. Nothing stirred.

  She ran now, as fast as she could, careering out into the busy street and weaving, ducking, dodging her way among the crowd, up the gentle slope that led to Seven Dials.

  Seven roads met here at a cobbled roundabout, which was surrounded on all sides by rambling medieval buildings of black wood and colored plaster. In the center of the roundabout was a statue of a general on a horse, below which a relaxed crowd was sitting, enjoying the afternoon sun. Opposite him was another statue, this one of Gladstone in his attitude of the Lawgiver. He was dressed in robes and held an open scroll, with one arm raised as if he were declaiming to the multitudes. Someone—either drunk, or of anarchistic bent—had climbed the great man and placed an orange traffic cone upon his majestic head, giving him the look of a comedy storybook sorcerer. The police had not yet noticed.

  Directly behind Gladstone’s back was the Druids’ Coffeehouse, a meeting place for the young and thirsty. The ground floor walls of the building had been ripped out and replaced with rough stone pillars decorated with curling vines. A series of tables covered with white cloth spilled around the pillars onto the cobbled road in Continental fashion. Every table was occupied. Waiters in blue tunics hurried back and forth.

  Kitty came to a halt next to the statue of the general and caught her breath. She surveyed the tables. Three o’clock precisely. Was he …? There!—almost out of sight behind a pillar—the crescent of white hair, the shiny bald pate.

  Mr. Pennyfeather was sipping a café latte when she approached. His stick lay flat across the table. He saw her, smiled broadly, indicated a chair.

  “Ms. Jones! Right on time. Sit, if you please. What do you care for? Coffee? Tea? A cinnamon bun? They are very good.”

  Kitty ran a distraught hand through her hair. “Um, a tea. And chocolate. I need chocolate.”

  Mr. Pennyfeather clicked his fingers; a waiter drew close. “A pot of tea and an éclair. A large one. Now, Ms. Jones. You seem a little breathless. You have been running. Or am I wrong?”

  His eyes twinkled, his smile widened. Kitty leaned forward furiously. “It’s no laughing matter,” she hissed, with a glance at the nearby tables. “I’ve just been attacked! On my way to see you,” she added, to drive the point home.

  Mr. Pennyfeather’s amusement did not slacken. “Indeed? Indeed? That is most serious! You must tell me—ah! Here is your tea. What speed! And a most sizable éclair! Good. Have a bite, then tell me all.”

  “Three people trapped me in an alley. They threw something—a container, I think—and a demon appeared. It leaped at me and tried to kill me and—are you taking this seriously, Mr. Pennyfeather, or shall I get up and leave right now?” His continuing good humor was beginning to enrage Kitty, but at her words his smile vanished.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Jones. It is a grave matter. Yet you managed to escape. How did you do so?”

  “I don’t know. I fought back—hitting the thing when it was gouging at my face, but I didn’t do anything, really. It just burst like a balloon. The men disappeared, too.”

  She took a long drink of tea. Mr. Pennyfeather eyed her calmly, saying nothing. His face remained grave, but his eyes seemed delighted, full of life.

  “It’s that magician—Tallow!” Kitty went on. “I know it is. He’s trying to do me in after what I said in court. He’ll send another demon, now that one’s failed. I don’t know what to—”

  “Do have a bite of that éclair,” Mr. Pennyfeather said. “That is my first suggestion. Now then, when you are calm, I will tell you something.”

  Kitty ate the éclair in four bites, washed it down with tea and felt a little calmer. She looked about her. From where she was seated, she had a good view of most of the customers of the coffeehouse. Some were tourists, immersed in colorful maps and handbooks; the rest were young—students probably, along with a smattering of families out for the day. There seemed no immediate likelihood of another attack.

  “All right, Mr. Pennyfeather,” she said. “Fire away.”

  “Very well.” He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a neatly folded napkin. “I shall return to that … incident in a moment, but I have something else to say first. You will be wondering why I should be interested in your troubles. Well—in fact I am not so much interested in your troubles as interested in you. By the way, the six hundred pounds is safely here”—he smiled and tapped his breast pocket—“you shall have it at the end of this conversation. So. I was in the gallery at Court and heard your evidence about the Black Tumbler. No one else believed you—the judge in her arrogance, the rest in their ignorance. But I pricked up my ears. Why should you lie? I asked. No reason. Therefore it must be true.”

  “It was true,” Kitty said.

  “But no one who is hit by a Black Tumbler—even by its outer edge—can fail to escape its mark. I know this.”

  “How?” Kitty asked sharply. “Are you a magician?”

  The old man winced. “Please, you may insult me in any way you please—say I am bald, ugly, an old fool who smells of cabbage, or what you will, but do not call me that. It offends my soul. I am certainly not a magician. But it is not only magicians who have knowledge, Ms. Jones. Others of us can read, even if we are not steeped in wickedness like them. Do you read, Ms. Jones?”

  Kitty shrugged. “Of course. At school.”

  “No, no, that is not proper reading. The magicians write the books you see there; you cannot trust them. However, I digress. Trust me—the Black Tumbler taints everything it touches. It touched you, you say, but you were not tainted. That is a paradox.”

  Kitty thought of Jakob’s marbled face and felt a wave of guilt. “I can’t help that.”

  “This demon that attacked you just now. Describe it.”

  “Blackish wings. A big red mouth. Two thin, straight horns—”

  “A broad belly, covered in fur? No tail?”

  “That’s right.”

  He nodded. “A mouler. A minor demon of no great power. Even so, it should certainly have rendered you unconscious, owing to its disgusting smell.”

  Kitty wrinkled her nose. “It smelled bad for sure, but not that bad.”

  “Also, moulers do not usually burst. They latch on to your hair with their hands and remain attached until their master dismisses them.”

  “This one just popped.”

  “My dear Ms. Jones, you must forgive me if I am cheerful again. You see, I am delighted with wh
at you are telling me. It means, quite simply, that you possess something special: a resilience to magic.”

  He sat back in his chair, summoned a waiter and smilingly ordered another round of drinks and cakes, oblivious to Kitty’s look of bafflement. For the entire time it took for the food to arrive he did nothing but grin across the table at her, giggling to himself every now and then. Kitty forced herself to remain polite. The cash was still out of reach, in his coat pocket.

  “Mr. Pennyfeather,” she said at last. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you at all.”

  “It’s obvious, surely? Minor magic—we can’t be sure about more powerful stuff yet—has little or no effect on you.”

  Kitty shook her head. “Rubbish. The Black Tumbler knocked me out.”

  “I said little or no effect. You are not immune. Neither for that matter am I, but I have withstood the assault of three foliots at once, which I believe is quite unusual.”

  This meant nothing to Kitty. She looked blank. Mr. Pennyfeather made an impatient gesture. “What I am saying is that you and I—and several others, for we are not alone—are able to resist some of the magicians’ spells! We are not magicians, but neither are we powerless, unlike the rest of the commoners”—he spat the word out with undisguised venom—“in this poor, godforsaken country.”

  Kitty’s head was spinning, but she was still skeptical; she did not believe him yet.

  “It doesn’t make any sense to me,” she said. “I’ve never heard of this ‘resilience.’All I’m interested in is avoiding jail.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Pennyfeather placed his hand lightly inside his jacket. “In that case you may have the money on the instant and be on your way. Fine. But I think you want something more than this. I see it in your face. You want several things. You want revenge for your friend Jakob. You want to change the way things are done here. You want a country where men like Julius Tallow don’t flourish and walk tall. Not all countries are like this—some places have no magicians! None! Think of that next time you visit your friend in the hospital. I’m telling you,” he went on in a quieter voice, “you can make a difference. If you listen to me.”

  Kitty gazed into the mess at the bottom of her cup and saw Jakob’s ruined face reflected back. She sighed. “I don’t know …”

  “Be sure of one thing—I can help you with your vengeance.”

  She stared up at him. Mr. Pennyfeather was smiling at her, but his eyes had the same bright, angry gleam that she had seen when he had been jostled in the street.

  “The magicians have hurt you,” he said softly. “Together, we can wield the sword of retribution. But only if you assist me first. You help me. I help you. Fair bargain.”

  For an instant Kitty saw Tallow again, smirking across the courtroom, puffed up with self-confidence and the guaranteed protection of his friends. It made her shudder with disgust.

  “First tell me how you need my help,” she said.

  Somebody sitting two tables away coughed loudly, and, as if a heavy curtain had suddenly fallen away inside her mind, Kitty realized the danger she was in. There she was, sitting among strangers, overtly discussing treason.

  “We’re mad!” she hissed furiously. “Anyone might hear us! They’ll summon the Night Police and carry us away.”

  At this the old man actually laughed. “No one will overhear,” he said. “Do not fear, Ms. Jones. It is all under control.”

  Kitty scarcely listened. Her attention had been seized by a young, blond-haired woman sitting at a table behind Mr. Pennyfeather’s left shoulder. Though her glass was empty, she remained seated, engrossed in her book. Her head was down, her eyes modestly lowered; one hand toyed with the corner of a page. Suddenly Kitty became convinced that this was all a sham. She dimly recalled noticing the woman when she first sat down, sitting in a similar pose, and though Kitty had had her in full view all this while, she did not remember her once actually turning the page.

  Next moment, she was sure of it. As if Kitty’s gaze had brushed against her, the woman glanced up, caught her eyes, and gave her a cool little smile before returning to her book. There could be no doubt—she had been listening to everything!

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Pennyfeather’s voice sounded outside her panic.

  Kitty could hardly speak. “Behind you …” she whispered. “A woman … a spy, an informer. She’s heard it all.”

  Mr. Pennyfeather did not turn around. “Blond lady? Reading a yellow paperback? That would be Gladys. Don’t worry, she is one of us.”

  “One of—?” The woman looked up again and gave Kitty a broad wink.

  “To her left is Anne; on my right—just beyond this pillar—sits Eva. That’s Frederick on my left; Nicholas and Timothy are ranged behind you. Stanley and Martin couldn’t get a table, so they’re in the pub opposite.”

  In a daze, Kitty looked around. A middle-aged, black-haired woman grinned at her from behind Mr. Pennyfeather’s right shoulder; on Kitty’s right, a spotty, unsmiling youth glanced up from a dog-eared copy of Motorbike Trader. The woman beyond the pillar was obscured except for a black jacket hanging on her chair. Risking a crick in her neck, Kitty checked behind her, catching a glimpse of two more faces—young, serious—staring at her from other tables.

  “No need to worry, you see,” Mr. Pennyfeather said. “You’re among friends. No one beyond them could hear what we say, and there are no demons present or we’d know about it.”

  “How?”

  “Time enough for questions later. First I must make you an apology. I’m afraid you have met Frederick, Martin, and Timothy already.” Kitty looked blank again. It was fast becoming a habit. “In the alley,” Mr. Pennyfeather prompted.

  “The alley?” Wait a minute—

  “It was they who set the mouler on you. Not so fast! Do not leave! I am sorry that we scared you, but we had to be sure, you see. Sure that you were resilient like us. We had the mouler glass handy; it was a simple matter—”

  Kitty found her voice. “You swine! You’re as bad as Tallow! I could have been killed.”

  “No. I told you—the worst a mouler can do is knock you out. Its stench—”

  “And that isn’t bad enough?” Kitty rose to her feet in fury.

  “If you must go, don’t forget this.” The old man drew a thick white envelope from his jacket and tossed it contemptuously on the tabletop between the cups. “You’ll find the six hundred pounds there. Used notes. I don’t break my word.”

  “I don’t want it!” Kitty was livid, incandescent; she wanted to smash something.

  “Don’t be a fool!” The old man’s eyes flared. “Do you want to rot in the Marshalsea prison? That’s where debtors go, you know. That packet completes the first part of our bargain. Consider it an apology for the mouler. But it could be just the beginning….”

  Kitty snatched up the envelope, almost knocking the cups flying as she did so. “You’re crazy. You and your friends. Fine. I’ll take it. It’s what I came for anyway.” She was still standing. She pushed her chair back.

  “Shall I tell you how it began for me?” Mr. Pennyfeather was leaning forward now, his gnarled fingers pressing hard against the tablecloth, scrunching it up. His voice was low, urgent; he fought against his lack of breath in his eagerness to speak. “I was like you at first—the magicians meant nothing to me. I was young, happily married—what did I care? Then my dear wife, heaven rest her soul, attracted the attention of a magician. Not unlike your Mr. Tallow, he was: a cruel, strutting popinjay. He wished her for himself, tried to beguile her with jewels and fine Eastern clothes. But my wife, poor woman, refused his advances. She laughed in his face. It was a brave act, but foolish. I wish now—I have wished this for thirty years—that she had gone with him.

  “We lived in a flat above my shop, Ms. Jones; each day I worked late into the evening, sorting my stock and completing my accounts, while my wife retired to our rooms to prepare our meal. One night, I was sitting at my desk as usual. A fire was burning i
n the grate. My pen scratched on the paper. All at once, the dogs in the street began to howl; a moment later, my fire quivered and went out, leaving the hot coals hissing like the dead. I rose to my feet. Already I feared … well, what it was I did not know. And then—I heard my wife scream. Just once, a shriek cut off. I have never run so fast. Up the stairs, tripping in my haste, through our door, into our little kitchen …”

  Mr. Pennyfeather’s eyes no longer saw her. They gazed at something else, far off. Mechanically, hardly knowing what she did, Kitty sat down again and waited.

  “The thing that had done it,” Mr. Pennyfeather said at last, “had barely gone. I smelled its presence lingering. Even as I knelt beside my wife upon our old linoleum floor, the gas hobs on the cooker burst back to life, the stew in the pot resumed its bubbling. I heard the barking of dogs, windows down the road banging in a sudden breeze … then silence.” He ran a finger among the éclair crumbs on a plate, gathered them up and popped them in his mouth. “She was a good cook, Ms. Jones,” he said. “I remember that still, though thirty long years have passed.”

  On the other side of the coffeehouse, a waiter spilled a drink on a customer: the resulting uproar seemed to detach Mr. Pennyfeather from his memories. He blinked, looked at Kitty again. “Well, Ms. Jones, I shall cut my story short. Suffice it to say that I located the magician; for some weeks I followed him subtly, learning his movements, giving in neither to the ravings of grief nor the urges of impatience. In due time I had my chance; I waylaid him in a lonely spot and slew him. His corpse joined the bobbing filth floating down the Thames. However, before he died, he summoned three demons: one by one, their attacks on me all failed. It was in this manner that—somewhat to my surprise, for I was resolved to die in my revenge—I discovered my resilience. I do not pretend to understand it, but it is a fact. I have it; my friends have it; you have it. It is for each of us to decide whether we take advantage of this or not.”

  His voice ceased. He seemed all of a sudden worn out, his face lined and old.

  Kitty hesitated a few moments before replying. “All right,” she said, for Jakob’s sake, for Mr. Pennyfeather’s sake, and for the sake of his dead wife. “I won’t go yet. I’d like you to tell me more.”