The Golem's Eye

fray; the second plane became awash with whirling limbs, brandished silverware, and contorted bog-eyed faces. It took the magicians many minutes to regain control.
    Fortunately Nathaniel had dismissed Castor on the instant, and despite an investigation, it was never satisfactorily resolved which demon had begun the fight. Nathaniel would have dearly liked to punish Castor for its actions, but summoning it again was far too risky. He reverted to less ambitious slaves.
    However, try as he might, nothing Nathaniel summoned had the combination of initiative, power, and obedience that he required. More than once, in fact, he was surprised to find himself thinking almost wistfully of his first servant...
    But he had resolved not to summon Bartimaeus again.
     
     
    Whitehall was filled with flocks of excitable commoners, straggling down to the river for the evening's naval sail-past and fireworks display. Nathaniel made a face; all afternoon, while he had been hunched at his desk, the sounds of marching bands and happy crowds had filtered through the open window, breaking his concentration. But it was an officially sanctioned nuisance and he could do nothing about it. On Founder's Day, ordinary people were encouraged to celebrate; the magicians, who were not expected to swallow propaganda so wholeheartedly, worked as usual.
    All around him were red and shiny faces, happy smiles. The commoners had already enjoyed hours of free eating and drinking at the special stalls set up throughout the capital, and had been captivated by the free shows arranged by the Ministry of Entertainment. Every park in central London contained wonders: stilt-walkers; fire-eaters from the Punjab; rows of cages—some with exotic beasts, some containing sullen rebels captured in the North American campaigns; piles of treasures collected from around the Empire; military displays; fetes and carousels.
     
    A few of the Night Police were in evidence along the street, although even they were doing their best to fit in with the general frivolity. Nathaniel saw several holding sticks of bright pink candy floss and one, teeth bared in an unconvincing smile, posing with an elderly lady for her husband's tourist snap. The mood of the crowd seemed relaxed, which was a relief—the events in Piccadilly had not overly agitated them.
    The bright sun was still high over the sparkling waters of the Thames as Nathaniel crossed Westminster Bridge. He squinted up; through his contact lenses, among the wheeling gulls, he saw the demons hovering, scanning the crowds for possible attack. He bit his lip, kicked savagely at a discarded falafel wrap. It was exactly the kind of day the Resistance would choose for one of their little stunts: maximum publicity, maximum embarrassment for the government.... Was it possible the Piccadilly raid had been one of theirs?
    No, he couldn't accept it. It was too different from their normal crimes, far more savage and destructive in its scale. And it wasn't the work of humans, whatever that fool Tallow might say.
    He arrived on the south bank and turned left, away from the crowds, into a restricted residential area. Below the quay, the magicians' pleasure yachts lay bobbing unattended, Ms. Whitwell's Firestorm the largest and most streamlined of the lot.
    As he approached the apartment block, the blaring of a horn made him start. Ms. Whitwell's limousine was parked against the curb, its motor ticking. A stolid chauffeur stared out in front. From a rear window, his master's angular head protruded. She beckoned him.
    "At last. I sent an imp, but you'd left already. Get in. We're going to Richmond."
    "The Prime Minister—?"
    "Wants to see us directly. Hurry up."
    Nathaniel trotted to the car at speed, heart hammering in his chest. A sudden demand for an audience like this did not bode well.
    Almost before he'd slammed the door, Ms. Whitwell signaled to the chauffeur. The car set off abruptly along the Thames embankment, jerking Nathaniel back in his seat. He composed himself as best he could, aware of his master's eyes upon him.
    "You know what this is about, I suppose?" she said, dryly.
    "Yes, ma'am. This morning's incident in Piccadilly?"
    "Naturally. Mr. Devereaux wants to know what we are doing about it. Notice I said 'we,' John. As Security Minister, I'm responsible for Internal Affairs. I will be under some pressure over this. My enemies will seek to gain advantage over me. What will I tell them about this disaster? Have you made