The Golem's Eye

to see you, too." The gargoyle reached down, plumped the cloud into the shape of a cushion, and sat with a sigh. "Yep. Veni, vidi, vici and all that. The afrit is no more. I'm knackered. Though not, possibly, as much as you. You look dreadful."
    "You disposed of the demon?" Nathaniel perked up. This was good news. It would count for much with Devereaux.
    "Sure did. Drowned him in the Thames. Word is already spreading. And by the way, you were right—it was that Kitty who nicked the Staff. Have you caught her yet? No? Well, better stop making faces and get busy tracking her down. Hey..." The gargoyle peered closer. "You've got a bruise on your cheek. Someone's been fighting!"
    "No I haven't. It's not important."
    "Scrapping like a street kid! Was it over a girl? A matter of honor? Come on, you can tell me!"
    "Just forget about it. Listen—I am pleased at your success. Now we must locate the girl." Nathaniel prodded the bruise gingerly with a finger. It smarted.
    The gargoyle sighed. "Easier said than done. Where, pray, do I start?"
    "I don't know. I need to think. For the moment, you are dismissed. I'll summon you again in the morning."
    "Very well." Gargoyle and cloud drifted backward into the wall and vanished.
     
     
    When all was still once more, Nathaniel stood beside his desk deep in thought. Night pressed up against the office window; there was no sound from the street outside. He was very weary; his body cried out for its bed. But the Staff was too important to be lost so easily. Somehow, he must trace it. Perhaps a reference book might—
    Nathaniel was brought up short by a sudden knocking on the courtyard door.
    He listened, heart hammering in his chest. Another three knocks: gentle, but assertive.
    Who would be calling at this hour? Visions of the terrible mercenary sprang into his mind; he shrugged them away, squared his shoulders, and approached the door.
    Moistening his lips, he turned the handle and swung the door aside—
    A short, roundish gentleman stood upon the step, blinking in the light that spilled out from the office. He was dressed in a flamboyant green velvet suit, white spats, and a mauve traveling coat that fastened at his neck. On his head was a small suede hat. He beamed at Nathaniel's discomfiture.
    "Hello, Mandrake, my boy. May I come in? It's parky out."
    "Mr. Makepeace! Um, yes. Please come in, sir."
    "Thank you, my boy, thank you." With a hop and a skip, Mr. Quentin Makepeace was inside. He took off his hat and tossed it across the room, to land with great precision upon a bust of Gladstone. He winked at Nathaniel. "We've had enough of him, one way and another, I think." Chuckling at his little joke, Mr. Makepeace wedged himself into a chair.
    "This is an unexpected honor, sir." Nathaniel hovered uncertainly. "Can I get you anything?"
    "No, no, Mandrake. Sit down, sit down. I've just popped in for a little chat." He smiled broadly at Nathaniel. "I hope I have not disturbed you in your work?"
    "Certainly not, sir. I was just thinking of heading home."
    "Very good, too. 'Sleep is so vital, and yet so hard to come by,' as the Sultan says in the bathhouse scene—that's Act II, Scene 3 of My Love's an Eastern Maid, of course. Did you see it?"
    "I'm afraid not, sir. I was too young. My previous master, Mr. Underwood, did not attend the theatre as a rule."
    "Ah, a crying shame." Mr. Makepeace shook his head sadly. "With an education as defective as that, it's a wonder you've turned out such a promising lad."
    "I've seen Swans of Araby, of course, sir," Nathaniel said hastily. "A wonderful work. Very moving."
    "Mmm. It has been called my masterpiece by several critics, but I trust I shall outdo it with my next little effort. I have been inspired by the American troubles and turned my attention to the West. A dark continent we know so little about, Mandrake. My working title is Petticoats and Rifles; it involves a young backwoods lass..." As he was speaking, Mr. Makepeace made several intricate signs with his hands; from between his palms rose a scattering of orange sparks that floated up and outward to take up position at points about the room. No sooner were they stationary than the playwright stopped talking in mid-sentence and winked at Nathaniel. "See what I've done, boy?"
    "A sensor web, sir. To detect watching ears or eyes."
    "Exactly so. And all, for the moment, is quiet. Now then, I didn't come to talk to you about my oeuvre, fascinating though it is. I wanted to sound you