The Golem's Eye

so?" I said.
    He was breathing hard; his hair had flopped down in front of his face. "Yes. You betray me at your peril."
    The buffalo turned around and gave him a long, hard stare. In truth, a bit of surveillance was infinitely preferable to joining a war—battles have a nasty habit of getting out of control. And furious though I was with the youth, I had always found him a marginally more sympathetic master than most of them. Whether he was so still was far from clear. As little time had passed, it was possible he had not been wholly corrupted. I unzipped the front of the bubble and leaned out of it, hoof on chin. "Well, seems like you've won again," I said quietly. "Seems like I've got no choice."
    He shrugged. "Not much, no."
    "In that case," I went on, "the least you can do is fill me in a little. I can see you've gone up in the world. What's your posting?"
    "I work for Internal Affairs."
    "Internal Affairs? Wasn't that Underwood's department?" The buffalo raised an eyebrow. "Aha.... Someone's following in his old master's footsteps."
    The boy bit his lip. "I'm not. That's got nothing to do with it."
    "Maybe someone's still a little bit guilty about his death...." [5]

    [5] Owing to a complex series of thefts and deceptions, Nathaniel had (more or less) inadvertently brought about his master's demise two years before. At the time, it had preyed on his conscience. I was intrigued to see whether it did so still.
     
    The boy flushed. "Rubbish! It's a complete coincidence. My new master suggested I take the job."
    "Ah yes, of course. The fragrant Ms. Whitwell. A delightful creature." [6]  I appraised him closely, warming to my task. "Did she advise you on your fashion sense as well? What's with those comical skin-tight trousers, anyway? I can read the label on your underpants right through them. As for those cuffs—"
     
    [6] This is called irony. Whitwell was in fact a thoroughly unpleasant specimen. Tall and bone-thin, her limbs were like long dry sticks. I was surprised she didn't catch fire when she crossed her legs.
     
    He bristled. "This shirt was very expensive. Milanese silk. Big cuffs are the latest fashion."
    "They look like lacy toilet plungers. It's a wonder you don't get blown backward in a draft. Why don't you cut them off and make them into a second suit? It couldn't be worse than the one you're wearing. Or they'd make a pretty Alice band for your hair."
     
    It was notable that these jibes about his clothes seemed to annoy him more than the Underwood one. His priorities had certainly shifted over the years. He struggled to master his fury, picking restlessly at his cuffs, repeatedly smoothing back his hair.
    "Look at you," I said. "So many new little habits. I bet you're copying them off one of your precious magicians."
    His hand shot down from his hair. "No, I'm not."
    "You probably pick your nose the way Ms. Whitwell does, you're so desperate to be like her."
    Bad though it was to be back, it was nice to see him writhe with fury once again. I let him hop about inside his pentacle for a moment or two. "Surely you hadn't forgotten," I said cheerily. "You summon me, the backchat comes free. It's part of the package."
    He groaned into his hands. "Suddenly death doesn't seem quite so terrifying."
    I felt a bit better now. At least our ground rules were firmly reestablished. "So tell me about this surveillance job," I said. "You say it's simple?"
    He composed himself. "Yes."
    "And yet your job, your very life, hangs in the balance over it."
    "That's right."
    "So there's nothing remotely dangerous or complex about it?"
    "No. Well..." He paused. "Not much."
    The buffalo tapped its hoof grimly. "Go on..."
    The boy sighed. "There's something out there in London that's highly destructive. Not a marid, not an afrit, not a djinni. It leaves no magical traces. It tore up half of Piccadilly last night, causing terrible devastation. Pinn's Accoutrements was destroyed."
    "Really? What happened to Simpkin?"
    "The foliot? Oh, he perished."
    "Tsk. That's a shame." [7]

    [7] I meant this wholeheartedly. I'd been robbed of my revenge.
     
    The boy shrugged. "I share some responsibility for security in the capital, and blame has come my way. The Prime Minister is furious, and my master refuses to protect me."
    "Are you surprised? I warned you about Whitwell."
    He looked sullen. "She'll come to regret her disloyalty, Bartimaeus. Anyhow, we're wasting time. I need you to keep watch and track down the aggressor. I am