The Golem's Eye

djinni entered the lobby. Two afrits, yellow-skinned, with lilac crests, materialized menacingly from pentacles in the floor. They considered the golem and swallowed audibly.
    "Yep, I wouldn't bother," the djinni advised them as it passed. "You'll only hurt yourselves. Watch your backs, though—half the city's on our heels."
    The moment was coming. Nathaniel's heart was beating fast. He could see where they were going now: the golem was passing along the corridor toward the Reception Chamber, where only elite magicians were allowed. His head spun at the implications.
    From a side corridor a figure stepped out—slight, gray-uniformed, with bright green, anxious eyes. "Mandrake! You fool! What are you doing?"
    He smiled politely. "Good morning, Ms. Farrar. You seem unduly agitated."
    She bit her lip. "The Council have scarcely been to their beds all night; now they have gathered once more and are watching through their spheres. What do they see? Chaos across London! There's pandemonium in Southwark—riots, demonstrations, mass destruction of property!"
    "It's nothing that your estimable officers can't control, I'm sure. Besides, I am merely doing what I was... requested to do last night. I have the Staff"—he flourished it—"and in addition, I am returning some property to its rightful owner, whoever that may be. Whoops, that was valuable, wasn't it?" Up ahead, the golem, entering a more constricted section of corridor, had sent a vase of Chinese porcelain smashing to the floor.
    "You'll be arrested... Mr. Devereaux—"
    "Will be delighted to learn the identity of the traitor. As would these people behind me...." He did not need to glance over his shoulder. The hubbub of the pursuing crowd was deafening. "Now, if you would care to accompany us...."
    A set of double doors ahead. The golem, now little more than a shapeless mass, stumbling and careering from side to side, broke its way through. Nathaniel, Bartimaeus, and Jane Farrar, with the first of the onlookers close behind, stepped after it.
    As one, the ministers of the British government rose from their places. A sumptuous breakfast lay before them on the table, but it had been brushed aside to accommodate the swirling nexuses of several vigilance spheres. In one, Nathaniel recognized an aerial view of Southwark High Street, with crowds milling restlessly amid the debris of the market; in another, he saw the people thronging Westminster Green; in a third, a view of the very chamber they were in.
    The golem halted in the center of the room. Breaking through the doors had taken its toll and it appeared to have very little energy remaining. The ruined figure swayed where it stood. Its arms had vanished now, its legs conjoined into a single fluid mass. For a few moments, it teetered as if it would fall.
    Nathaniel was scanning the faces of the ministers around the table: Devereaux, whey-faced with weariness and shock; Duvall, scarlet with fury; Whitwell, her features hard and set; Mortensen, lank hair disordered and unoiled; Fry, still peaceably crunching the remnants of a wren; Malbindi, her eyes like saucers. To his surprise, he saw, among a knot of lesser ministers hovering to the side, both Quentin Makepeace and Sholto Pinn. Evidently the events of the early morning had drawn everyone of influence to the room.
    He looked from face to face, saw nothing but anger and distress. For a moment, he feared he had been wrong, that the golem would collapse now, with nothing proven.
    The Prime Minister cleared his throat. "Mandrake!" he began. "I demand an explanation of this—"
    He halted. The golem had given a lurch. Like a drunken man, it wobbled to the left, toward Helen Malbindi, the Information Minister. All eyes followed it.
    "It may still be dangerous!" Police Chief Duvall appeared less frozen than the rest. He tapped Devereaux on the arm. "Sir, we must vacate the room immediately."
    "Rubbish!" Jessica Whitwell spoke harshly. "We are all aware what is happening. The golem is returning to its master! We must stand still and wait."
    In dead silence they watched the column of clay shuffle toward Helen Malbindi, who retreated with shaking steps; all at once, its balance shifted, it tipped sideways and to the right, toward the places of Jessica Whitwell and Marmaduke Fry. Whitwell did not move an inch, but Fry gave a mewl of fright, lurched back and choked on a wren bone. He collapsed gasping into his chair, pop-eyed and scarlet-cheeked.
    The golem veered toward Ms.