The Golem's Eye

of air, the sphere imploded into nothing. Its suction pulled nearby pictures off the walls, the carpet off the floor, the safe door off its hinges. Calmly, stepping over the invisible thread, Kitty returned to kneel by the safe. Her hands moved quickly, piling objects into her bag.
    Stanley was hopping with impatience. "What have we got?"
    "Mouler glasses, couple of elemental spheres... documents... and money. Lots of it."
    "Good. Hurry up. We've got five minutes."
    "I know."
    Kitty shut the bag and left the office without haste. Fred and Stanley had already departed through the window, and were hovering impatiently outside. Kitty crossed the room, jumped out into the yard, and set off toward the gate. A moment later, with an odd intuition, she glanced over her shoulder—just in time to see Fred tossing something back into the storeroom.
    She stopped dead. "What the hell was that?"
    "No time to chat, Kitty." Fred and Stanley hurried past her. "Play's starting."
    "What did you just do?"
    Stanley winked as they trotted out onto the road. "Inferno stick. Little present for them." At his side, Fred was chuckling.
    "That wasn't the plan! This was a raid only!" She could smell the smoke already, drifting on the air. They rounded the corner past the front of the shop.
    "We can't take the carpets, can we? So why leave them to be sold to the magicians? Can't have pity for collaborators, Kitty. They deserve it."
    "We could get caught..."
    "We won't. Relax. Besides, a little boring break-in won't make the headlines, will it? But a break-in and fire will."
     
    White with rage, fingers clenched on the handles of the bag, Kitty strolled beside them up the road. This wasn't about publicity—this was Stanley challenging her authority again, more seriously than before. It was her plan, her strategy, and he'd deliberately undercut it. She'd have to take action now, no question. Sooner or later, he'd get them all killed.
     
    At the front of the Metropolitan Theatre, an intermittent bell was ringing, and the dregs of the audience were slipping back inside its doors. Kitty, Stanley, and Fred joined them without breaking pace, and a few moments later subsided in their seats once more. The orchestra was warming up again; onstage, the safety curtain had been raised.
    Still shaking with fury, Kitty placed her bag between her feet. As she did so, Stanley turned his head and grinned. "Trust me," he whispered. "We'll be frontpage news now. There won't be anything bigger than us tomorrow morning."

7
     
    Simpkin
     
    Half a mile north of the dark waters of the Thames, the merchants of the world gathered daily in the City District to barter, buy, and sell. As far as the eye could see the market stalls stretched, huddled under the eaves of the ancient houses like chicks beneath their mother's wing. There was no end to the richness on display: gold from southern Africa, silver nuggets from the Urals, Polynesian pearls, flakes of Baltic amber, precious stones of every hue, iridescent silks from Asia, and a thousand-other wonders. But most valuable of all were the magical artifacts that had been looted from old empires and brought to London to be sold.
    At the heart of the City, at the junction of Cornhill and Poultry Streets, the supplicating cries of traders fell harshly on the ear. Only magicians were allowed into this central zone, And gray-uniformed police guarded the entrances to the fair.
    Each stall here was crammed with items that claimed to be extraordinary. A cursory survey might reveal enchanted flutes and lyres from Greece; pots containing burial dirt from the royal cemeteries of Ur and Nimrud; frail gold artifacts from Tashkent, Samarkand, and other Silk Road towns; tribal totems from the North American wastes; Polynesian masks and effigies; peculiar skulls with crystals embedded in their mouths; Stone daggers, heavy with the taint of sacrifice, salvaged from the ruined temples of Tenochtitlán.
    It was to this place that, once a week, late on Monday evenings, the eminent magician Sholto Pinn would make his stately way, to survey the competition, such as it was, and purchase any trifles that took his fancy.
    Mid-June, and the sun was lowering behind the gables. Although the market itself, wedged between the buildings, was firmly encased in blue shadow, the street still reflected sufficient warmth for it to be a pleasant stroll for Mr. Pinn. He wore a white linen jacket and trousers, and a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. An