The Golem's Eye

master and his career had worked an unpleasant alchemy upon him: he was harder, harsher, and altogether more brittle. He also had even less of a sense of humor than previously, which was itself a remarkable achievement. One way or another, I looked forward to the end of my six weeks.
    But until then, surveillance, danger, and the rain.
     
    From my position beneath the statue, I could see down three of the seven roads. Each one was lined with swanky shop fronts, dark and shadowy, secured by metal grilles. Frail lamps shone in alcoves above the doors, but the rain was stronger than the light, and their radiance did not travel far. Water sluiced along the pavements.
    A sudden movement in the left-hand road: the cat's head turned. Something had dropped onto a first-floor window ledge. It perched there for a moment, a black smudge in the gloom—then, in a single sinewy movement, poured itself over the ledge and down the wall, zigzagging through the grooves between the bricks like a thin rope of hot treacle. At the base of the wall, it dropped onto the pavement, became a small black smudge again, grew legs, and began to splitter-splatter along the pavement in my direction.
    I watched all this. I did not move an inch.
    The smudge reached the crossroads, waded through the spreading puddles, and jumped onto the plinth. Here it was fully revealed as an elegant spaniel with big brown eyes. She halted in front of the cat, paused, shook herself vigorously.
    A shower of water sprayed out and hit the cat directly in the face.
    "Thanks for that, Queezle," I said. "You must have spotted I wasn't quite wet enough."
    The spaniel blinked, stuck her head coyly on one side, and gave an apologetic bark.
    "And you can drop that old routine right now," I went on. "I'm not some human dunderhead who's going to be charmed by limpid eyes and a clot of wet fur. You forget I can see you quite clearly on the seventh plane, dorsal tubes and all."
    "Can't help myself, Bartimaeus." The spaniel raised a hind leg and scratched herself nonchalantly behind one ear. "It's all this undercover work. It's becoming second nature to me. You should think yourself lucky you're not sitting under a lamppost."
    I did not dignify this remark with a response. "So where've you been?" I said. "You're two hours later than agreed."
    The spaniel nodded wearily. "False alarm at the silk warehouses. Pair of foliots thought they'd seen something. Had to search the whole place thoroughly before giving the all clear. Stupid first-timers. Of course I had to reprimand them."
    "Nipped their ankles, did you?"
    A small crooked smile flickered across the spaniel's muzzle. "Something like that."
    I shifted across to allow Queezle a bit of room on the center of the plinth. Not that it was any less damp there particularly, but it seemed a comradely thing to do. She shuffled up and huddled alongside.
    "Can't really blame them," I said. "They're jumpy. It's all this rain. And what happened to Zeno. Being summoned night after night doesn't help either. It wears your essence down after a while."
    Queezle gave me a side glance out of those big brown puppy-dog eyes. "Your essence, too, Bartimaeus?"
    "I was speaking rhetorically. I'm all right." To prove it I arched my back in a big luxuriant cat stretch, the kind that runs from whisker tip to tail tuft. "Ahhh, that's better. Nope, I've seen worse than this and so have you. Just some pumped-up imp lurking in the shadows. It's nothing we can't handle, once we find him."
    "That's what Zeno said, as I recall."
    "I don't remember what Zeno said. Where's your master tonight? Safely under cover?"
    The spaniel gave a small growl. "He claims to be within signaling distance. The Whitehall office, allegedly. In fact, he's probably holed up in some magician's bar with a bottle in one hand and a girl in the other."
    I grunted. "That sort, is he?"
    "Yup. What's yours like?"
    "Oh, the same. Worse, if anything. He'd have girl and bottle in the same hand." [5]

    [5] Manifestly untrue. Despite his crimped shirts and flowing mane (or perhaps because of them) I had seen no evidence as yet that Nathaniel even knew what a girl was. If he'd ever met one, chances are they'd both have run screaming in opposite directions. But in common with most djinn, I generally preferred to exaggerate my master's foibles in conversation.
     
    The spaniel gave a sympathetic whimper. I got slowly to my feet.
    "Well, we'd better swap circuits," I said. "I'll start by patrolling up