The Golem's Eye

Remorse? I suggest suspending him up to his nose in it overnight. That usually makes traitors talk, if the eels have left them their tongues."
    Fry nodded. "Eels. That reminds me. What about a second supper?"
    Mr. Mortensen leaned forward. "What about the Winch, Duvall? That often proves effective."
    "A Mournful Orb is the most tried-and-tested method, I find."
    "Perhaps a few hours in each?"
    "Perhaps. Shall I remove the wretch, Rupert?"
    The Prime Minster blew out his cheeks, sat back in his chair. He spoke hesitantly. "I suppose so, Henry. I suppose so."
    Mr. Duvall clicked his fingers; from the shadows stepped four Night Police, each one more muscular than the last. They marched in step across the room toward the prisoner, their leader producing a thin silver manacle from his belt. At this development, Nathaniel, who had been wriggling and gesticulating with vigor for some time, set up such an agitated protest that a small muffled yelp escaped his gag. The Prime Minster seemed to recall something; he held up a hand.
    "One moment, Henry. We must allow the boy his defense."
    The Police Chief frowned with impatience. "Must we, Rupert? Beware. He is a plausible little devil."
    "I shall decide that for myself, I think." Mr. Devereaux glanced at Mortensen, who made a reluctant gesture. The gelatinous gag around Nathaniel's mouth dis solved, leaving a bitter tang. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face.
    "Get on with it then," Duvall said. "And mind, no lies."
    Nathaniel drew himself upright and passed his tongue across his lips. He saw nothing but hostility in the eyes of the senior magicians, except—and this was his only hope now—perhaps those of Mr. Devereaux himself. There he discerned something that might have been uncertainty, mixed with extreme irritation. Nathaniel cleared his throat. He had long prided himself on his bond with the Prime Minister. Now was the time to put it to the test.
    "Thank you for the opportunity to speak, sir," he began. He tried to give his voice an easy, calm assertion, but fear constricted it into a squeak. Simply the thought of the House of Persuasion, an area of the Tower of London given over to interrogation of prisoners, made him tremble. Bartimaeus had been right: by his actions, he had become vulnerable to his enemies. Now he had to out-talk them. "Mr. Duvall's insinuations are groundless," he said, "and Ms. Farrar is, to say the least, overeager. I hope that there is still time to make good the damage that they have done."
    He heard Jane Farrar snort discreetly somewhere beside him. Mr. Duvall emitted a snarl of protest that was cut off by a single look from the Prime Minister. Somewhat emboldened, Nathaniel pressed on. "My trip to Prague and the issue of the girl are two entirely separate things, sir. It is true that I believe many of the attacks in London to be the work of a golem; my investigations into that are not yet finished. Meanwhile I have been using this youth"—he nodded toward Hyrnek— "to lure the traitor Kitty Jones out of hiding. He is her old associate and I guessed she might attempt to save him. Once in my power, she would soon tell me the location of the Staff, which I could then deliver into your hands. The arrival of Ms. Farrar's wolves completely ruined my ambush. I trust she will be firmly reprimanded."
    Jane Farrar gave a cry of anger. "My men had the girl trapped! Your demon spirited her away."
    "Of course." Nathaniel was urbanity itself. "Because your men would have torn her to pieces. They were filled with bloodlust. How would we have secured the Staff then?"
    "They were Imperial Police, directly accountable to Mr. Duvall here—"
    "Quite so, and a more crude and haphazard organization would be hard to find." Nathaniel went on the attack. "I acknowledge that I have been secretive, sir," he said sweetly, addressing Mr. Devereaux full on, "but I knew this was a delicate operation. The girl is stubborn and willful. To locate the Staff I had to tread carefully: I had to offer her this boy's safety for its return. I feared lest Mr. Duvall's customary heavy-handedness would jeopardize everything. As, unfortunately, has been the case."
    The fury in the Police Chief's eyes was remarkable to behold. His swarthy face went beetroot red, the veins in his neck and hands bulged like mooring ropes, and his fingernails—which seemed slightly longer than a moment previously—jabbed deep into the tabletop. He could