The Golem's Eye

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.

29
     
    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