The Golem's Eye

can give that idea up right now. And we'll soon be out of our jobs. Duvall—"
    He drew back. Nathaniel's master, Jessica Whitwell, had left her seat and was making her thin and stately way toward him. He cleared his throat.
    "Ma'am, I need to speak to you urgently. In Prague—"
    "I blame you for this, Mandrake." She bore down on him, eyes flashing furiously. "Thanks to your distracting me with your demon's lies, we look more incompetent than ever! I have been made to look a fool and have lost the Prime Minister's favor. Duvall was given control of my Security department this morning. He has also taken charge of anti-Resistance operations."
    "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but listen, please—"
    "Sorry? Too late now, Mandrake. The British Museum debacle was bad enough, but this was the last straw. Duvall has gotten just what he wanted. His wolves are everywhere now and he—"
    "Ma'am!" Nathaniel could no longer restrain himself. "I located the Czech magician who created the golem's parchment. He was making a second one—for a traitor in our government!" He ignored Tallow's expressions of incredulity.
    Ms. Whitwell regarded him. "Who is the traitor?"
    "I don't yet know."
    "Have you proof of your story? The parchment, for instance?"
    "No. It was all destroyed, but I think—"
    "Then," Ms. Whitwell said, with crushing finality, "it is no good to me, and neither are you. London is in an uproar, Mandrake, and a scapegoat needs to be found. I intend to distance myself from you—and if Mr. Tallow has any sense, he will do the same."
    She turned on her heel and marched back to her chair. Tallow followed, grinning at Nathaniel over his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, Nathaniel shrugged and drifted closer to the swirling surveillance orb. The demi-afrit relaying the image was attempting to get closer to the bounding figure on the rooftops. The image zoomed in; Nathaniel caught sight of a black suit, white hair, a gold face.... Then, quick as thought, a green light shot from the figure: with an emerald flash, the sphere went dead.
    Mr. Devereaux sighed. "A third sphere gone. We'll be running out soon. Right—any comments or reports?"
    Mr. Mortensen, the Home Office Minister, stood up and swept a lock of greasy hair over his scalp. "Sir, we must take action against this demon at once. If we don't act, the name of Gladstone will be dragged through the mud! Is he not our greatest leader? The one to whom we owe our prosperity, our dominance, our self-belief? And now what is he? Nothing but a murderous bag of bones dancing across our capital, causing bedlam in its wake! The commoners will not be slow to notice this, you know; nor will our enemies abroad. I say—"
    Marmaduke Fry, the Foreign Minister, spoke. "We have had several instances of mass panic, which no amount of strong-arm stuff from Duvall's police has been able to prevent." He cast a sly side glance at the Chief of Police, who grunted angrily.
    "The creature is evidently deranged," added the Information Minister, Ms. Malbindi, "and as Mortensen says, that adds to the embarrassment of the situation. We have our Founder's remains capering on rooftops, dangling from flagpoles, dancing down the middle of Whitehall and, if our sources are to be believed, cartwheeling repeatedly through Camberwell Fish Market. Also the thing persists in killing people, apparently at random. Young men and girls, it goes for; mostly commoners, but also people of consequence. It claims it is looking for the 'last two,' whatever that means."
    "The last two survivors of the raid," Mr. Fry said. "That's obvious enough. And one of 'em's got the Staff. But our immediate problem is that the commoners know whose corpse they're seeing."
    From the edges of the group came Jessica Whitwell's icy voice. "Let me get this clear," she said. "Those really are Gladstone's bones? It isn't just some guise?"
    Ms. Malbindi raised two fastidious eyebrows. "They're his bones all right. We've entered the tomb, and the sarcophagus is empty. There are plenty of bodies down there, believe you me, but our Founder is very much gone."
    "Strange, isn't it?" Mr. Makepeace spoke for the first time. "The guardian afrit has encased its own essence within the bones. Why? Who knows?"
    "Why is not important." Mr. Devereaux spoke with heavy formality, driving a fist into his cupped palm. "Our first priority must be to get rid of it. Until it is destroyed, the dignity of our State is hopelessly compromised. I want the creature dead and