The Golem's Eye

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