The Golem's Eye

organizing other magicians to send their djinn out, too. What do you say?" "Let's get it over with," I said. "What is the charge and what are your terms?"
    He glowered at me from between his luscious locks. "I propose a similar contract to last time. You agree to serve me, without revealing my birth name. If you are zealous and keep abusive remarks to a minimum, your duration of service will be relatively short."
    "I want a definite duration. No vagaries."
    "All right. Six weeks. That's a mere heartbeat to you."
    "And my exact duties?"
    "General multipurpose protection of your master (me). Surveillance of certain sites in London. Pursuit and identification of an unknown enemy of considerable power. How's that?"
    "Surveillance, okay. The protection clause is a bit of a drag. Why don't we leave that out?"
    "Because then I won't be able to trust you to keep me safe. No magician would ever take a chance on that. [8]  You'd stab me in the back first chance you got. So—do you accept?"
     
    [8] He was wrong there: one magician had dispensed with all protective clauses and put his trust in me. That was Ptolemy, of course. But he was unique. Nothing like that would ever happen again.
     
    "I do."
    "Then prepare to accept your charge!" He raised his arms and jutted out his chin, a pose that failed to be as impressive as intended because his hair kept falling in front of his eyes. He looked every one of his fourteen years.
    "Hold on. Let me help. It's late, you should be tucked up in bed." The buffalo was now wearing the maiden's spectacles perched upon its muzzle. "How about this...?" I intoned it in a bored, official voice: " 'I shall serve you once again for six full weeks. Under sufferance, I promise not to reveal your name during that time—' "
    "My birth name."
    "Oh, all right—'your birth name during that time to any human who comes my way.' How about that?"
    "Not quite enough, Bartimaeus. It's not a question of trust, more one of completeness. I suggest: '...during that time to any human, imp, djinni, or other sentient spirit, whether in this world or another, on any plane; nor to let slip the syllables of the name in such a way that an echo might be overheard; nor to whisper them into a bottle, cavity, or other secret place where their traces might be detected by magical means; nor to write them down or otherwise inscribe them, in any known language, so that their meaning can be descried.' "
    Fair enough. I repeated the words grimly. Six long weeks. At least he'd missed one implication of the phrasing I had chosen: once the weeks were up, I'd be free to talk. And talk I would, if I got the slightest chance.
    "Very well," I said. "It is done. Tell me more about this unknown enemy of yours."

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Part Two

11
     
    Kitty
     
    On the morning after Founder's Day, the weather took a marked turn for the worse. Drab gray clouds piled over London and a thin rain began to fall. The streets quickly emptied of all but essential traffic, and members of the Resistance, who would ordinarily have been abroad seeking out new targets, congregated at their base.
    Their meeting point was a small but well-stocked shop in the heart of Southwark. It sold paints and brushes and other such supplies, and was popular among artistically minded commoners. A few hundred yards north, beyond a row of decrepit stores, the great Thames flowed; beyond that was central London, where magicians thronged. But Southwark was relatively poor, filled with small-time industry and commerce, and magicians rarely set foot in it.
    Which suited the inhabitants of the art shop very well.
    Kitty was standing behind the glass counter, sorting reams of paper by size and weight. On the counter to one side of her was a pile of parchment rolls, tied up with string, a small rack of scalpels, and six large glass jars, bristling with horsehair brushes. To the other side, rather too close for comfort, was Stanley's bottom. He was sitting cross-legged on the counter, head buried in the morning paper.
    "They blame us, you know," he said.
    "For what?" Kitty said. She knew quite well.
    "For that nasty business up in town." Stanley bent the paper in half and folded it neatly on his knee. "And I quote: 'Following the Piccadilly outrage, Internal Affairs spokesman Mr. John Mandrake has advised all loyal citizens to be alert. The traitors responsible for the carnage are still at large in London. Suspicion has fallen on the same group that carried out a series