The Golem's Eye

mortal convinces the stupid djinni to squeeze inside a bottle (or some other confined space), then stoppers him up and refuses to let him out unless he grants three wishes, etc., etc. Ho hum. Unlikely as it may seem, however, if the djinni enters the bottle of his own free will this entrapment actually has a fair degree of power. But even the smallest, doziest imp is unlikely to fall for this chestnut today .
     
    The girl sniffed, pouted, and folded her arms painfully. I could see her looking around, weighing up the exits.
    "And don't try anything," I advised. "Or I'll brain you with a rafter."
    "Hold it in your teeth, will you?" Ooh, she was disdainful.
    In answer, the skull faded and became Ptolemy. I altered without thinking—it's always my preferred form [8] —but as soon as I did so, I saw her give a start and step back a pace. "You! The demon in the alley!"
     
    [8] Take it as a mark of respect for what he did for me.
     
    "Don't get so excited. You can't blame me for that occasion. You jumped me."
    She grunted. "True. The Night Police nearly caught me then, too."
    "You ought to be more careful. What did you want the Amulet of Samarkand for anyway?"
    The girl looked blank. "The what? Oh, the jewel. Well, it was magical, wasn't it? We stole magical artifacts in those days. It was the whole point of our group. Robbing the magicians, trying to use their stuff ourselves. Stupid. Really stupid." She kicked out at a brick. "Ow."
    "Do I take it you no longer espouse this policy?"
    "Hardly. Since it got us all killed."
    "Except you."
    Her eyes flashed in the dark. "You truly expect me to survive tonight?"
    She had a point there. "You never know," I said, heartily. "My master may attempt to spare you. He has already saved you from the wolves."
    She snorted. "Your master. Does he have a name?"
    "John Mandrake is the one he uses." I was banned by my vow from saying more.
    "Him? That pretentious little fool!?"
    "Oh, you've met him, then?"
    "Twice. And the last time I did I punched his lights out."
    "Did you? No wonder he kept quiet about it." I was liking this girl more and more with every moment. In truth, she was a breath of fresh air. In all the long centuries of my toil, I've spent remarkably little time in the company of commoners— by instinct, magicians try to keep us shadowy and removed from ordinary men and women. I can count the number of commoners I've properly conversed with on the claws of one hand. Of course, by and large it isn't a rewarding process—the equivalent of a dolphin chatting up a sea slug—but you do get the occasional exception. And this Kitty Jones was one. I liked her style.
    I snapped my fingers and caused a small Illumination to fly up and lodge among the rafters. From a nearby heap of rubble, I pulled some planks and breeze blocks and arranged them as a chair. "Sit yourself down," I said. "Make yourself comfortable. That's right. So... you punched John Mandrake, did you?"
    She spoke with a certain grim satisfaction. "Yes. You seem amused."
    I stopped guffawing. "Oh, can you tell?"
    "Odd, given that you and he are aligned in wickedness, given that you carry out his every whim."
    "Aligned in wickedness? Hey, there is a certain master-servant thing going on here, you know. I'm a slave! I've no choice in the matter."
    Her lip curled. "Just obeying orders, eh? Sure. That's a great excuse."
    "It is when to disobey means certain destruction. You try the Shriveling Fire on your bones—see if you like it."
    She frowned. "It sounds a pretty ropy excuse to me. You're saying all your evil is performed unwillingly?"
    "I wouldn't put it quite like that, but—yup. From imp to afrit, we're all bound to the magicians' will. We can't do anything about it. They have us over a barrel. At the moment, for instance, I have to help and protect Mandrake, whether I like it or not."
    "Pathetic." She spoke decisively. "Absolutely pathetic." And indeed, as I heard myself say all this, it did seem so to me, too. We slaves have dwelled so long in these chains of ours that we rarely speak of them; [9]  to hear the resignation in my own voice sickened my essence to its core. I tried to batten down my shame with a spot of righteous indignation.
     
    [9] Only a few, such as old Faquarl, openly (and hopelessly) plot revolt. But they've been wittering on about it for so long without results that no one pays any attention .
     
    "Oh, we fight back," I said. "We catch them out if they're careless, and misinterpret when