The Golem's Eye

ivory cane swung loosely in one hand; the other dabbed occasionally at his neck with an extensive yellow handkerchief.
    Mr. Pinn's smart attire extended even to his polished shoes. This was despite the filth of the pavements, which were thick with evidence of a hundred hurried meals—discarded fruit, falafel wraps, nut and oyster shells, and scraps of fat and gristle. Mr. Pinn minded it not: wherever he chose to walk, the debris was swept away by an invisible hand.
    As he progressed, he inspected the stalls on either side through his thick glass monocle. He wore a habitual expression of bored amusement—protection against the approaches of the merchants, who knew him well.
    "Señor Pinn! I have here an embalmed hand of mysterious provenance! It was found in the Sahara—I suspect it to be the relic of a saint. I have resisted all comers, waiting for you..."
    "Please halt a moment, Monsieur; see what I have in this strange obsidian box..."
    "Observe this scrap of parchment, these runic symbols..."
    "Mr. Pinn, sir, do not listen to these bandits! Your exquisite taste will tell you..."
    "...this voluptuous statue..."
    "...these dragons' teeth..."
    "...this gourd..."
    Mr. Pinn smiled blandly, scanned the items, ignored the merchants' cries, moved slowly on. He never purchased much; most of his supplies were flown directly to him from his agents working across the Empire. But even so, one could never tell. The fair was always worth a look.
    The row ended with a stall piled high with glass and earthenware. Most of the samples were quite obviously recent forgeries, but a tiny blue-green pot with a sealed stopper caught Mr. Pinn's eye. He addressed the attendant casually. "This item. What is it?"
    The seller was a young woman wearing a colorful headscarf. "Sir! It is a faience pot from Ombos in Old Egypt. It was found in a deep grave, under a heavy stone, next to the bones of a tall, winged man."
    Mr. Pinn raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Do you have this marvelous skeleton?"
    "Alas, no. The bones were dispersed by an excitable crowd."
    "How convenient. But the pot: it has not been opened?"
    "No, sir. I believe it contains a djinni, or possibly a Pestilence. Buy it, open it, and see for yourself!"
    Mr. Pinn picked up the pot and turned it over in his fat white fingers. "Hmm," he murmured. "It seems oddly heavy for its size. Perhaps a compressed spell.... Yes, the item is of some small interest. What is your price?"
    "For you, sir—a hundred pounds."
    Mr. Pinn gave a hearty chuckle. "I am indeed wealthy, my dear; I am also not to be trifled with." He snapped a finger, and with a rattling of pottery and a scrabbling of cloth, an unseen person clambered swiftly up one of the poles that supported the stall, skittered across the tarpaulin, and dropped lightly down upon the woman's back. She screamed. Mr. Pinn did not look up from the pot in his hand. "Bartering is all very well, my dear, but one should always begin at a sensible level. Now, why don't you suggest another figure? My assistant, Mr. Simpkin, will readily confirm if your price is worth considering."
    A few minutes later the woman, blue-faced and choking from the grip of invisible fingers around her neck, finally stammered out a nominal sum. Mr. Pinn flipped a few coins onto the counter and departed in good humor, carrying his prize securely in his pocket. He left the fair and strode away down Poultry Street to where his car was waiting. Anyone blocking his path was brushed aside cursorily by the invisible hand.
    Mr. Pinn heaved his bulk into the car and signaled the chauffeur to move off. Then, settling back into his seat, he spoke into thin air. "Simpkin."
    "Yes, master?"
    "I shall not be working late tonight. Tomorrow is Gladstone's Day, and Mr. Duvall is giving a dinner in our founder's honor. Regretfully, I must attend this dollop of tedium."
    "Very good, master. Several crates arrived from Persepolis shortly after lunch. Do you wish me to start unpacking them?"
    "I do. Sort and label anything of lesser importance. Leave unopened any parcel stamped with a red flame; that mark indicates a major treasure. You will also find a crate of stacked sandalwood slabs—take care with that; it contains a hidden box with a child mummy from the days of Sargon. Persian customs are increasingly vigilant and my agent must become ever more inventive in his smuggling. Is that all clear?"
    "Master, it is. I shall obey with zeal."
    The car drew up before the golden pillars and bright