Part Three 5 page

Litter blowing in the wind. An upbeat scene.

And number 13, halfway down the street, a hovel indistinguishable from the rest in its griminess and melancholy, but with a glowing green nexus of force surrounding it on the sixth plane. Someone was in, and that someone did not want to be disturbed.

The bat made a quick sortie up and down the street, carefully avoiding the nexus where it curved up into the air. The rest of Golden Lane was dark and quiet, fully obsessed with its little activities of evening. I swooped quickly back the way I had come, down to the bottom of the hill to rouse my master.

"I've found the place," I said. "Mild defenses, but we should be able to get in. Hurry, while no one's around."

I've said it before, but humans are simply useless when it comes to getting about. The time it took for that boy to climb those measly 256 steps, the sheer number of huffs and puffs and gratuitous pauses for breath he needed, the remarkable color he became—I've never seen the like.

"I wish we'd brought a paper bag or something," I told him. "Your face is glowing so much it can probably be seen from the other side of the Vltava. It's not even a very big hill."

"What—What—kind of—defenses are there?" His mind was strictly on the job.

"Flimsy nexus," I said. "No problem. Don't you exercise at all?"

"No. No time. Too busy."

"Of course. You're too important now. I forgot."

After ten minutes or so, we reached the ruined tower and I became Ptolemy again. In this guise, I led the way to a place where a shallow incline dropped down onto the street. Here, while my master gasped and wheezed gently against the wall, we looked out at the hovels of Golden Lane.

"Appalling lack of condition," I commented.

"Yes. They should... knock them all down... and start again."

"I was talking about you."

"Which—which one is it?"

"Number thirteen? That one on the right, three along. White plaster front. When you've finished dying, we'll see what we can do."

A cautious walk along the shadows of the lane took us to within a few meters of the cottage. My master was all for marching up to the front door. I reached out an arm. "Stop right there. The nexus is directly in front of you. A fingertip farther and you'll set it off."

He stopped. "You think you can get inside?"

"I don't think, boy. I know. I was doing this kind of stuff when Babylon was a small-time cattle station. Stand aside, watch and learn."

I stepped up to the frail glowing net of filaments that blocked our way, bent my head close. I chose a small hole between the threads and blew gently toward it. My aim was true: the tiny sliver of Obedient Breath[4] passed into the hole and hung there, neither slipping through, nor withdrawing. It was too light to trigger the alarm. The rest was easy. I expanded the sliver slowly, gently; as it grew, it pried apart the filaments. In a few minutes, a large round hole had been created in the net, not far above the ground. I remodeled the Breath into the shape of a hoop and stepped nonchalantly through it. "There," I said. "Your turn."

[4] A type of conjuration formed by an expiration of air from the mouth and a magic sign. Not remotely connected to the Noisome Wind, which is created in a rather different way.

The boy frowned. "To do what? I still can't see anything."

With some exasperation, I refigured the Breath to make it visible on the second plane. "Happy now?" I said. "Just step carefully through that hoop."

He did so, but still seemed unimpressed. "Huh," he said. "You could be making this up for all I know."

"It's not my fault humans are so blind," I snapped. "Yet again you're taking my expertise for granted. Five thousand years of experience at your command, and not even a thank-you comes my way. Fine. If you don't believe there's a nexus there, I'll happily set it off for you. You'll see the magician Kavka come running."

"No, no." He was hasty now. "I believe you."

"Are you sure?" My finger hovered back toward the glowing lines.

"Yes! Calm down. Now—we'll creep in at a window and catch him unawares."

"Fine. After you."

He stepped grimly forward, straight into the lines of a second nexus I hadn't noticed.[5] A loud siren noise, seemingly consisting of a dozen bells and chiming clocks, went off in the house. The noise continued for several seconds. Nathaniel looked at me. I looked at Nathaniel. Before either of us reacted, the noise was discontinued, and a rattling noise sounded behind the cottage door. The door was flung open and a tall wild-eyed man wearing a skullcap rushed out,[6] shouting furiously.

[5] Very subtle, it was. Seventh plane only, the thinnest of thin threads. Anyone could have missed it.

[6] He didn't just have a skullcap on; he wore other clothes as well. Just in case you were getting excited.

Look, I'll get to the details later; it's a narrative momentum thing.

"I told you," he cried. "This is too early! It will not be ready until dawn! Will you not leave me in p—Oh." He took heed of us for the first time. "What the devil?"

"Close," I said. "Kind of depends on your point of view." I leaped forward and grappled him to the ground. In an instant, his hands were up behind his back and nicely tied by the cord of his dressing gown.[7] This was to prevent any quick hand gestures that might have summoned something to his aid.

[8] His mouth was stuffed with a section of Nathaniel's shirt, in case of uttered commands. This done, I bundled him to his feet and had him back indoors before my master could even open his mouth to speak an order. That's how fast a djinni can act when necessary.

[7] See? He had a dressing gown on. And pajamas, for that matter. All perfectly respectable.

[8] Also the rude ones, which might have upset the kid.

"Look at that!" I said proudly. "Not even any noticeable violence."

My master blinked. "You've ruined my shirt," he said. "You've torn it in half."

"Shame," I said. "Now close the door. We can discuss this inside."

With the door closed, we were able to take stock of our surroundings. Mr. Kavka's house could best be described by the term scholarly squalor. The entire floor, and every item of furniture on it, was covered with books and loose manuscripts: in places they formed intricate strata many inches thick. These in turn were covered with a thin crust of dust, scatterings of pens and quills, and numerous dark and pungent items, which had the nasty look of being leftovers from the magician's lunches over the preceding month or two. Beneath all this was a large worktable, a chair, a leather sofa and, in the corner, a primitive rectangular sink, with a single tap. A few stray parchments had migrated into the sink, too.

It seemed that the first floor of the cottage was entirely taken up by the one room. A window at the back looked down onto the hillside and the night: lights from the city far below shone dimly through the glass. A wooden ladder extended up through a hole in the ceiling, presumably to a bedchamber. It did not look as if the magician had gone that way for some time: on close inspection, his eyes were gray rimmed, his cheeks yellow with fatigue. He was also extremely thin, standing with crumpled posture, as if all energy had drained out of him.

Not a particularly imposing sight, then—either the magician or his room. Yet this was the source of the trembling on the seven planes: I felt it, stronger than ever. It made my teeth rattle in my gums.

"Sit him down," my master said. "The sofa will do. Push that rubbish out of the way. Right." He sat on the corner of the worktable, one leg on the floor, the other dangling casually. "Now," he continued, addressing his captive smoothly in Czech, "I haven't much time, Mr. Kavka. I hope you will cooperate with me."

The magician gazed at him with his tired eyes. He gave a noticeable shrug.

"I warn you," the boy went on. "I am a magician of great power. I control many terrifying entities. This being you see before you"—here I rolled my shoulders back and puffed my chest up menacingly—"is but the meanest and least impressive of my slaves." (Here I slumped my shoulders and stuck my stomach out.) "If you do not give me the information I desire, it will be the worse for you."

Mr. Kavka made an incoherent noise; he nodded his head and rolled his eyes.

The boy looked at me. "What's that mean, d'you think?"

"How do I know? I suggest taking out the gag and finding out."

"All right. But if he utters one syllable of any kind of spell, destroy him instantly!" To accompany this, the boy attempted an expression of terrible malignity that made him look as if he had an ulcer. I removed the gag. The magician coughed and spluttered for a time. He was no more coherent than before.

Nathaniel rapped his knuckles on an exposed bit of table. "Pay attention, Mr. Kavka! I want you to listen very carefully to all my questions. Silence, I warn you, will get you nowhere. To begin—"

"I know why you have come!" The voice erupted from the magician's mouth with all the force of a river in spate. It was defiant, aggrieved, endlessly weary. "You do not need to tell me. It is the manuscript! Of course! How could it be anything else, when I have applied my all to its mysteries for the last six months? It has eaten up my life during this time; see—it has robbed me of my youth! My skin shrivels with every scratch of the pen. The manuscript! It could be nothing else!"

Nathaniel was taken aback. "A manuscript? Well, possibly. But let me make myself cl—"

"I have been sworn to secrecy," Mr. Kavka continued; "I have been threatened with death—but what do I care now? Once was quite enough. Twice—that is impossible for any single man. See how my energy has withered—" He held up his bound wrists against the light; they were sticklike and shaking, the skin so thin the light shone through between the bones. "That is what he has done to me.

Before this, I burned with life."

"Yes—but what—"

"I know exactly who you are," the man continued, speaking over my master as if he did not exist. "An agent of the British government. I expected you in time, though not, I admit, someone so young and hopelessly inexperienced. If you had arrived a month ago, you might have saved me. As it is, it means little enough. I care not." He gave a heartfelt sigh. "It is behind you, on the table."

The boy looked back, reached out and picked up a paper. As he did so, he cried out in sudden pain; dropped it instantly. "Aahh! It's charged! A trick—"

"Don't show your youth and inexperience," I said. "You're embarrassing me. Can't you see what that is? Anyone with eyes could tell you it's the center of all the magical activity in Prague. It's no wonder it gave you a shock. Use that poncy handkerchief in your pocket and study it more closely.

Then tell me what it is."

I knew already, of course. I'd seen such things before. But it did me good to see that trumped-up boy shivering with fright, too startled to disobey my instructions, wrapping his hand in his flouncy handkerchief, and picking the document up again with the utmost care. It was a large-scale manuscript, cut from calfskin, no doubt stretched and dried in accordance with the old methods—a thick, creamy parchment, beautifully smooth and crackling with power. This power came, not from the material, but from the words upon it. They were written in an unusual ink, equal parts red and black,[9] and flowed beautifully from right to left, from the base of the page up toward the top; line upon line of intricate, calligraphic runes. The boy's eyes were wide with wonder. He sensed the artistry, the labor that had gone into this work, even if he could not read the marks. Perhaps he would have articulated this astonishment if he'd been able to get a word in. But the magician, old Kavka, was still singing like a canary, good and true.

[9] I speculate that these symbolize the power of earth (black) and the blood of the magician (red), which gives that earth its life. But this is only speculation: I am not privy to golem magic.

"It isn't finished yet," he said. "You can see that. Another half-line needs to be added. A full night's work before me: a night that will be my last in any case, since he will surely kill me, if the ink itself does not drain my blood. You see the space at the top—that small, square box? His employer will write his own name there. That is the only blood he needs to expend to control the creature. It works out very well for him, oh yes. Less so for poor Kavka."

"What is his name?" I asked. Best to get right to the point, I find.

"The employer?" Kavka laughed—a harsh sound, like an insane old bird. "I do not know. I have never met him."

The boy was still staring at the manuscript in a daze. "This is for another golem" he said slowly.

"It'll be put in its mouth to animate it. He's giving the paper his lifeblood, which will feed into the golem...." He looked up at Kavka, with horrified wonder on his face. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "It's killing you."

I made an urgent gesture. "That's not what we need to know," I said. "We've got to find out who. Time's running out and dawn's not far off."

But the magician was talking again, a faint dullness in his gaze suggesting he no longer saw us clearly. "Because of Karl, of course," he said. "And Mia. I have been promised their safe return if I create these things. You must understand that I do not believe this, but I cannot give up the one small hope I have. Perhaps he will honor it. Perhaps not. Probably they are already dead." He broke into a hideous, wracking cough. "In truth—I fear this must be so."

The boy was blank. "Karl, Mia? I don't understand."

"They are the only family I have," the magician said. "How sad it is they have been lost. It is an unjust world. But when you are offered a chink of light, you climb toward it—even you, a cursed Briton, must understand that. I could not ignore the only chance I had to see their faces again."

"Where are they, your family?" Nathaniel asked.

"Hah!" The magician stirred at this; a brief light flared in his eyes. "How do I know? Some godforsaken prison ship? The Tower of London? Or are their bones already burned and buried? That is your province, English boy—you tell me. You are from the British government, I suppose?"

My master nodded.

"The person you seek wishes your government no good." Kavka coughed again. "But then—you know this. That is why you are here. My government would kill me, if it knew what I had done. They do not want a new golem created in case it brings another Gladstone down upon Prague, wielding that terrible Staff."

"I take it," the boy said, "that your relatives are Czech spies? They went to England?"

The magician nodded. "And were captured. I heard nothing of them. Then a gentleman came calling, said his employer would restore them to me, alive, if I revealed the secrets of the golem, if I created the necessary parchment. What could I do? What would any father do?"

Uncharacteristically, my master was silent. Uncharacteristically, I was, too. I looked at Kavka's emaciated face and hands, his dulling eyes, saw in them the endless hours spent stooped over his books and papers, saw him pouring his life into the page on the small off chance that his family might be returned to him.

"The first parchment I completed a month ago," Kavka said. "That was when the messenger altered his demands. Two golems were required now. In vain, I argued that it would kill me, that I would not live to see Mia and Karl again.... Ah, he is cruel. He would not listen."

"Tell us about this messenger," the boy said suddenly, "and if your children are alive, I will return them to you. I guarantee it."

The dying man made a great effort. His eyes focused on my master; their dimness was replaced by a searching strength. He appraised Nathaniel carefully. "You are very young to be making such promises," he whispered.

"I am a respected member of the government," Nathaniel said. "I have power—"

"Yes, but can you be trusted?" Kavka gave a heavy sigh. "You are British, after all. I will ask your demon—" He did not look away from Nathaniel as he spoke. "What do you say? Is he trustworthy?"

I puffed out my cheeks, blew hard. "Tricky one. He's a magician. By definition he'd sell his own grandmother for soap. But he's marginally less corrupt than some of them. Possibly. A bit."

Nathaniel looked at me. "Thanks for that ringing endorsement, Bartimaeus."

"You're welcome."

But rather to my surprise, Kavka was nodding. "Very well. I leave it to your conscience, boy. I will not live to see them in any case. In truth, I am worn away. I care not a fig for you or him—you can go on tearing each other's throats out until all Britain lies ravaged. But I will tell you what I know, and let that be an end." He began to cough weakly, his chin low against his chest. "Be assured of one thing. I will not complete this manuscript now. You will not have two golems enlivening the streets of London."

"Now, that is a pity," a deep voice said.

Nathaniel

Quite how he had arrived there, Nathaniel could not have said. Neither external nexus had been triggered, and not one of them—Nathaniel, Kavka, even Bartimaeus—had heard him enter the house itself. Yet there he was, leaning casually against the loft ladder, brawny arms folded across his chest.

Nathaniel's mouth opened. No words came out—nothing but a horrified gasp of recognition.

The bearded mercenary. Simon Lovelace's hired assassin.

After the fighting at Heddleham Hall some two years earlier, the mercenary had evaded capture.

Government agents had hunted for him high and low, in Britain and across the Continent, but without success—no trace was ever found. In time, the police moved on; they closed their files and gave up the search. But Nathaniel could not forget. One terrible image was seared on his memory: the mercenary emerging from the shadows of Lovelace's study, carrying the Amulet of Samarkand, his coat stained with the blood of a murdered man. For years, the image had hung like a cloud in Nathaniel's mind.

And now the assassin stood two meters away, cold eyes surveying them each in turn.

As before, he radiated a malign vitality. He was tall and muscular, blue-eyed and heavy of brow.

He appeared to have trimmed his beard a little, but wore his black hair longer, halfway down his neck. His clothes were jet-black—a loose shirt, a padded tunic, trousers broad above the knee, high boots that swelled about the calf. His swaggering confidence battered against Nathaniel like a fist.

Nathaniel was immediately conscious of his own paltry strength, of the weakness of his limbs.

"Don't bother introducing us, Kavka," the man said. His voice was lazy, deep, and slow. "We three are old acquaintances."

The old man gave a long, sad sigh, which was hard to interpret. "It would be pointless in any case. I know none of your names."

"Names have never been an issue for us."

If the djinni was startled, it gave no sign. "You got your boots back, I see," it said.

The dark brows knotted. "I said that you'd pay for that. And so you will. You and the boy."

Until this moment, Nathaniel had been sitting on Kavka's desk, transfixed by shock. Now, in a concerted effort to assert some authority, he pushed forward and stood upright, hands on hips.

"You're under arrest," he said, glaring fiercely at the mercenary as he spoke.

The man returned his gaze with such baleful unconcern that Nathaniel felt himself shrinking and cowering where he stood. In fury, he cleared his throat. "Did you hear what I said?"

The man's arm moved—so fast that Nathaniel barely registered it—and a sword rested in his hand. It pointed lazily in Nathaniel's direction. "Where is your weapon, child?"

Nathaniel jutted out his chin defiantly and jerked a thumb toward Bartimaeus. "There," he said.

"He's an afrit at my sole command. One word from me and he'll tear you apart."

The djinni seemed a little taken aback. "Er, yes," it said doubtfully. "That's right."

A glacial smile spread beneath the beard. "This is the creature you had with you before. It failed to kill me then. What makes you think it'll have more luck this time?"

"Practice makes perfect," the djinni said.

"How true." Another flicker of movement, another blur about his person—and in his other hand he held an S-shaped metal disc. "I have practiced long with this," the mercenary said. "It will cut through your essence and still return to my outstretched hand."

"By that point, you wouldn't have a hand left to catch with" Nathaniel said. "He's fast, my afrit is. Like a striking cobra. He'd have you before that thing left your grasp." He glanced between djinni and mercenary. Neither looked overly convinced.

"No demon is as fast as me," the mercenary said.

"Is that so?" Nathaniel replied. "You just try him."

Bartimaeus raised a hasty finger. "Now look here—"

"Give him your best shot."

"I might just do that."

"See what happens to you."

"Hey, steady on," the djinni said. "This macho posturing is all very well, but leave me out of it, please. Why don't you two have an arm wrestle, or compare biceps or something? Work your tensions out that way."

Nathaniel ignored him. "Bartimaeus," he began, "I order you—"

At that moment something unexpected happened. Kavka stood up.

"Stay where you are!" The mercenary's eyes swiveled, the sword point shifted.

Kavka did not seem to have heard. He swayed slightly where he was, then tottered forward, away from the sofa, across the paper-strewn floor. His bare feet made little crunching noises as he trod upon the parchments. In a couple of steps he had reached the table. A bone-thin arm shot out and seized the golem manuscript from Nathaniel's loose grasp. He stood back, hugging it to his chest.

The mercenary made as if to hurl his disc, but paused. "Put that down, Kavka!" he growled.

"Think of your family—think of Mia."

Kavka's eyes were closed; he was swaying again. He raised his face toward the ceiling. "Mia?

She is lost to me."

"Complete that paper tonight, and you will see her tomorrow, I swear it!"

The eyes opened. They were dull, but lucid. "What matter? I will be dead by dawn. My life force is already drained away."

A look of intense irritation had appeared on the mercenary's face. He was not the kind of man who enjoyed negotiation. "My employer assures me that they are safe and well," he said. "We can remove them from prison tonight and fly them to Prague by morning. Think hard—do you wish all this work to be wasted?"

Nathaniel glanced at the djinni. It was shifting position slowly. The mercenary did not appear to have noticed. Nathaniel cleared his throat, sought to distract him further. "Don't listen to him, Kavka,"

he said. "He's lying."

The mercenary flashed Nathaniel a look. "It is a matter of intense displeasure to me," he said,

"that you were not caught this afternoon in the square. I gave the police the most careful instructions, yet still they bungled it. I should have tackled you myself."

"You knew we were here?" Nathaniel said.

"Of course. Your timing was most inappropriate. Another day or two and it would have been irrelevant—I'd have been back in London with the completed manuscript. Your investigations would have come to nothing. As it was, I needed to keep you occupied. Hence my tip-off to the police."

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "Who told you I'd be coming?"

"My employer, of course," the mercenary said. "I told the Czechs and they followed that bumbling British agent around all day, knowing he would eventually lead them to you. Incidentally, they believe you to be in Prague to plant a bomb. But all that is academic now. They let me down."

He had the sword and disc outstretched as he spoke, his eyes flicking between Nathaniel and the magician. Nathaniel's head was awhirl—hardly anyone had known he was coming to Prague, yet somehow the mercenary had been informed. Which meant... No, he had to concentrate. He saw Bartimaeus still inching sideways, subtle as a snail. A little farther and the djinni would be out of view, in just the right position to attack.

"I see you found another foul traitor to replace Lovelace," he snapped.

"Lovelace?" The man's brows flickered with mild amusement. "He was not my main employer even then. He was nothing but a sideshow, an amateur, much too eager for success. My master encouraged him, as far as it went, but Lovelace was not his only tool. Nor am I his only servant now."

Nathaniel was beside himself with fury. "Who is it? Who do you work for?"

"Someone who pays well. Surely that is obvious. You are a strange little magician."

At that moment, the djinni, which had shuffled successfully to the fringes of the mercenary's gaze, raised its hand to strike. But in the same instant, Kavka acted. All this while, he had been standing beside Nathaniel, holding the golem parchment in his hands. Now, without a word, his eyes tight shut, he tensed suddenly, and ripped the manuscript in half.

The effect was unexpected.

An outpouring of magical force surged from the torn parchment and blasted around the cottage like an earthquake. Nathaniel was tossed into the air amid a maelstrom of flying objects: djinni, mercenary, table, sofa, paper, pens, splashing ink. For a split second Nathaniel could see the three visible planes shaking at different rates: everything was multiplied three times. The walls shuddered, the floor tipped. The electric light crackled and went out. Nathaniel crashed heavily against the floor.

The surge poured away, through the floorboards, down into the earth. The manuscript's charge was gone. The planes steadied, the reverberations died. Nathaniel raised his head. He was slumped beneath the upturned sofa, looking toward the window. The lights of the city still shone through it, but seemed oddly higher than before. It took a moment to grasp what had happened. The entire cottage had tipped, and was perched right on the edge of the hill. The floorboards ran down in a gentle gradient toward the window. As he watched, many little objects came sliding past, to rest up against the tilted wall.

The room was quite dark and filled with the rustling noise of gently settling paper. Where was the mercenary? Where was Bartimaeus? Nathaniel lay very still beneath the sofa, eyes wide as a rabbit's in the night.

He could see Kavka well enough. The old magician was lying faceup on his tilted sink with a dozen sheets of paper floating down upon him in a makeshift shroud. Even from a distance, Nathaniel could see that he was dead.

The weight of the sofa pressed heavily upon one of Nathaniel's legs, pinning it to the floor. He dearly wanted to shift it off, but knew it was too risky. He lay quiet, watched and listened.

A footstep; a figure coming slowly into view. The mercenary paused beside the body on the sink, inspected it for a moment, uttered a quiet curse, and moved on to rummage through the scattered furniture near the window. He went slowly, legs tensed against the gradient of the floor. He no longer held his sword, but something silvery shone in his right hand.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 480