The Golem's Eye

semblance of the minotaur again, sat myself in the chair opposite, and tapped my hooves idly on the floor. My master eyed me, but said nothing.
    "So," I began. "All well?" A grunt. "Are we restored to favor?" A brief nod. "What's your status now?"
    "Head of Internal Affairs. Youngest minister ever."
    The minotaur whistled. "Aren't we clever."
    "It's a start, I suppose. I'm independent from Whitwell now, thank goodness."
    "And the Staff? Did you get to keep it?"
    A sour expression. He speared his black pudding. "No. It's gone into the vaults. For 'safe-keeping,' allegedly. No one's allowed to use it." His face brightened. "It might be brought out in time of war, though. I was thinking, maybe later in the American campaigns..." He took a sip of coffee. "They've not started too well, apparently. We'll see. Anyway, I need time to refine my approach."
    "Yeah, like see if you can make it work."
    He scowled. "Of course I can. I just left out a couple of restrictive clauses and a directional incantation, that's all."
    "In plain language, you fluffed it, mate. What's happened to Duvall?"
    My master chewed meditatively. "He's been taken to the Tower. Ms. Whitwell is head of Security again. She will be supervising his interrogation. Pass the salt."
    The minotaur passed it.
     
     
    If my master was pleased, I had reason to be satisfied, too. Nathaniel had vowed to release me once the matter of the mystery attacker was solved, and solved it undoubtedly had been, although I felt there were still one or two issues that defied ready explanation. However, this was no business of mine. I awaited my dismissal with easy confidence.
    And waited.
    Several days passed during which the boy was too busy to listen to my demands. He took control of his department; he attended high-level meetings to discuss the Duvall affair; he moved out of his old master's apartment and, using his new salary and a gift from the grateful Prime Minister, purchased a swanky townhouse in a leafy square not far from Westminster. This last required me to carry out a number of dubious chores, which I haven't time to go into here. [2]  He attended parties at the Prime Minister's residence at Richmond, held functions for his new employees, and spent his evenings at the theater, watching abysmal plays for which he had acquired an inexplicable taste. It was a hectic lifestyle.
     
    [2] They involved whitewash, wallpaper, and copious cleaning fluids. I say no more.
     
    Whenever possible, I reminded him of his obligations.
    "Yes, yes," he would say, on his way out in the mornings. "I'll deal with you presently. Now, for my reception-room curtains, I require an ell of oyster-gray silk; make the purchase from Fieldings, and get a couple of extra cushions while you're at it. I could do with some Tashkent enameling in the bathroom, too." [3]
     
    [3] He was no different here from 90 percent of other magicians. When not attempting to stab one another in the back, they spend their time surrounding themselves with the finer things in life. Luxurious pads feature heavily on their wish lists, and it's always the poor djinni who has to do the legwork. Persian magicians were the most extravagant: we had to shift palaces from one country to another overnight, build them on clouds, even underwater. There was one magician who wanted his castle made of solid glass. Aside from the obvious privacy angle, it was a hopeless mistake. We built it for him one evening and he joyfully took possession. Next morning, the sun came up: the walls acted like giant lenses and its rays were refracted through with vigor. By noon the magician and his entire household had been burned to charcoal crisps.
     
    "Your six weeks," I said pointedly, "are almost up."
    "Yes, yes. Now, I really must go."
    One evening he returned home early. I was belowstairs, supervising the tiling of his kitchen, [4]  but somehow tore myself away to press my case once more. I found him in his dining room, an ostentatious space currently without furniture. He was staring at the empty fireplace and the cold blank walls.
     
    [4] To help carry out the job, he'd presented me with two foliots, which wore the semblance of orphan waifs. They were round-eyed and pitiable enough to melt the hardest of hearts. However, they were also inclined to laziness. I roasted them over a slow flame, and so won their prompt obedience.
     
    "You need a proper pattern in here," I said. "Wallpaper to suit your age. What about a car motif, or steam