The Golem's Eye

six hundred pounds. Would that help?"
    She looked at him.
    "Ah. That interests you. I get a result."
    Kitty felt her heart beating wildly in confusion and anger. "What are you talking about? You're trying to set me up. Get me arrested for conspiracy or—or something...."
    He smiled; his skin stretched tight against his skull. "Ms. Jones. That is not the idea at all. I am not rushing you into anything. Listen. My name is Pennyfeather. Here is my card." He reached into the pocket of his coat and handed a small business card to Kitty with a flourish. It was decorated with two crossed paintbrushes above the words T. E. Pennyfeather, Artists' Materials. There was a telephone number in the corner. Uncertainly, Kitty took it.
    "Good. I'm going now. Leave you to your walk. Good day for it. Sun coming out. Ring if interested. Within a week."
    For the first time, Kitty made an attempt at being polite, without quite knowing why. "But, Mr. Pennyfeather," she said. "Why should you help me? It doesn't make sense."
    "No, but it will. Ahh! What—?" His cry was occasioned by two young men— evidently magicians from the expense of their clothes—who, in striding down the street, laughing loudly and tucking into lentil takeaways from the Persian café, had barged right past him, knocking him almost into the gutter. They proceeded merrily, without a backward glance. Kitty stretched out a hand to steady the old man, but drew back at the flash of anger in his eyes. He righted himself slowly, leaning heavily on his stick and muttering under his breath.
    "Forgive me," he said. "Ah, those—they think they own the place. As—as perhaps they do. For the moment." He looked along the Embankment; away into the blue distance people went about their business, visiting stalls or passing up into the cluttered side streets. On the river, four tethered coal barges drifted downstream, the bargees reclining and smoking on the side. The old man bared his teeth. "Few of these fools suspect what flies above them in the open air," he said. "Or guess what hops behind them in the street. And if they guess, they dare not challenge it. They let the magicians strut among them; let them build their palaces upon the broken backs of the people; let them tread all notions of justice into the mud. But you and I—we have seen what the magicians do. And what they do it with. Perhaps we are not as passive as our fellows, eh?"
    He smoothed down his jacket and grinned suddenly. "You must think for yourself. I will say no more. Only this: I believe your story. The whole of it—of course I do—but most particularly about the Black Tumbler. Who, after all, would be so stupid as to make that point up if they had no injury? Ah, this is what is so interesting. I will await your call, Ms. Jones."
    With that, the old man turned on his heel and made off at a brisk pace back up the side street, stick tap-tap-tapping on the cobbles, ignoring the sharp entreaties of an herbalist standing in the doorway of his shop. Kitty watched him until he turned onto the Strand and out of sight.
     
     
    Waiting in the darkness of the cellar, Kitty drifted through the events of long ago. How distant it all seemed; how naïve she had been, standing in the courtroom demanding justice. She flushed angrily: the memory was painful even now. Justice from the magicians? The very idea was laughable. Clearly, direct action was the only feasible alternative. At least they were doing something now, showing their defiance.
    She glanced at her watch. Anne had been gone in the secret chamber some time. In total, eleven new magical artifacts had been stolen on Founder's Day—nine minor weapons and two jewels of unknown purpose. Now Anne was storing them away. Outside, the rain had intensified. During the short walk from the art shop to the deserted courtyard, they had all gotten soaked. Even in the cellar they were not safe from the water: a steady stream of drips was falling from a deep crack in the plaster ceiling. Directly below sat a black bucket of extreme age. It was almost brim-full.
    "Empty it out, would you, Stanley?" Kitty said.
    Stanley was sitting on the coal bin, shoulders hunched, head pressed on his knees. He hesitated just a moment longer than necessary; finally he jumped down, picked up the bucket and steered it, with some difficulty, to a grille beside the wall. He sluiced the water away.
    "I don't know why he doesn't get that pipe fixed," he growled, returning the bucket to its