The Golem's Eye

to Soho and back. You can head between the posh shops down Gibbet Street to the Museum district behind."
    "I might rest a bit," Queezle said. "I'm tired."
    "Yes. Well, good luck."
    "Good luck." The spaniel rested her head gloomily across her paws. I trotted out into the driving rain, to the edge of the plinth, and bent my legs, ready for the off. A little voice sounded behind me: "Bartimaeus?"
    "Yes, Queezle?"
    "Oh, nothing."
    "What?"
    "It's just... well, it's not just the foliots. I'm jumpy, too."
    The cat trotted back and sat beside her for a moment, curling its tail around her affectionately. "You don't need to be," I said. "It's already past midnight and neither of us has seen anything. On every occasion when this thing has attacked, it's done so by midnight. Your only fear should be the boredom of a long, tedious vigil."
    "I suppose so." The rain drummed all around, like a solid thing. We were cocooned within it. "Between ourselves," Queezle said softly, "what do you think it is?"
    My tail twitched. "I don't know, and I'd rather not find out. So far it's killed everything it's come across. My advice is keep vigilant watch, and if you see something unusual coming, scamper the other way pronto."
    "But we have to destroy it. That's our charge."
    "Well, destroy it by running away."
    "How?"
    "Um... Make it chase you, then lure it into heavy traffic? Something like that. I don't know, do I? Just don't do what Zeno did and attack it head on."
    The spaniel heaved a sigh. "I liked Zeno."
    "A little too eager, that was his trouble."
    There was a heavy silence. Queezle said nothing. The incessant rain beat down.
    "Well," I said at last. "I'll see you."
    "Yes."
    I hopped down from the plinth and ran, tail out, through the rain and across the waterlogged street. A single jump took me up onto a low wall beside a deserted café. Then, in a series of leaps and bounds—wall to porch, porch to ledge, ledge to tiles—I negotiated my athletic feline way, until I had sprung up onto the guttering of the nearest, lowest roof.
    I took a quick look back, down into the square. The spaniel was a forlorn and lonely speck, hunched in the shadows beneath the horse's belly. A gust of rain blocked her from my view. I turned and set off along the roof crests.
     
     
    In that part of town, the ancient houses huddled close together, leaning forward like gossiping hunchbacks so that their gables almost met above the street. Even in the rain, it was thus an easy matter for an agile cat to make its way swiftly in whatever direction it fancied. And so I did. Anyone lucky enough to be peering out of their shuttered window might have glimpsed a flash of gray lightning (noth ing more) leaping from chimney pot to weathervane, streaking across slates and thatch, never putting a paw wrong.
    I halted for a breather in the valley between two steeply pitching roofs and scanned the skies longingly. It would have been quicker for me to get to Soho by flying, but I had orders to remain near the ground, keeping my eye out for trouble there. No one knew exactly how the enemy arrived or departed, but my master had a hunch it was somehow earth-bound. He doubted it was anything like a djinni at all.
    The cat rubbed some moisture from its face with a paw and prepared for another jump—a big one this time, a proper road's width. At that moment, everything was illuminated by a sudden burst of orange light—I saw the tiles and chimney pots beside me, the lowering clouds above, and even the raindrop curtains hanging all around. Then darkness fell again.
    The orange Flare was the agreed emergency signal. It came from close behind.
    Queezle.
    She had found something. Or something had found her.
    The time for rules was past. I turned; even as I did so, I made the change: an eagle with black crest and golden wingtips launching itself in haste into the sky.
    I had traveled only two blocks from the place where the portly horseman guarded the seven roads. Even if she had moved, Queezle would not be far away. It would take less than ten seconds to get back. No problem. I would be in time.
    Three seconds later, I heard her scream.

16
     
    Bartimaeus
     
    The eagle hurtled down out of the night, angling painfully into the teeth of the gale. Over the roofs to the lonely crossroads, down to the statue, I alighted on the edge of the plinth, where rain spattered harshly against the stone. Everything was exactly as it had been a minute or two before. But the spaniel had