The Golem's Eye

pursued us, and soon the worst of the conflict was left behind.
    As the river neared, Queezle and I gave each other hopeful looks. The city was lost, as was the Empire, but escape here would allow us some small restoration of personal pride. Although we loathed our servitude, we also thoroughly disliked being beaten. It looked as if we were going to get away.
    The ambush came when we were nearly at the bottom of the hill.
    With a scuttle and a rush, six djinn and a band of imps hopped out onto the steps below. The Emperor and his courtiers cried out and fell back in disarray. Queezle and I tensed, ready to spring.
    A light cough behind us. As one, we turned.
    A slim young man stood five steps above. He had tight blond curls, big blue eyes, and wore sandals and a toga in the late Roman style. He had a rather sappy, coy expression on his face, as if he couldn't hurt a fly. However, as an extra detail that I couldn't help but notice, he also carried a monstrous scythe with a silver blade.
    I checked him out on the other planes, in the faint hope that he might actually be an eccentric human on his way to a fancy-dress party. No such luck. It was an afrit of some potency. I swallowed. This wasn't good at all. [10]

    [10] The measliest afrit is worth avoiding, and this one was formidable indeed. On the higher planes, his forms were vast and terrifying, so presumably appearing in such a weedy first-plane guise appealed to his twisted sense of humor. I can't say I was laughing, though.
     
    "Mr. Gladstone's compliments to the Emperor," the young man said. "He requests the pleasure of his company. The rest of you rabble can make yourselves scarce."
    That sounded reasonable. I looked at my master beseechingly, but he furiously motioned me forward. I sighed, took a reluctant step toward the afrit.
    The young man tsked loudly. "Oh, hop it, small-timer. You haven't a chance."
    His derision stoked my fury. I pulled myself up. "Beware," I said coldly. "You underestimate me at your peril."
    The afrit batted his eyelashes with an ostentatious lack of concern. "Indeed? Have you a name?"
    "A name?" I cried. "I have many names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes!"
    I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. "Nope. Never heard of you. Now if you'll just—"
    "I have spoken with Solomon—"
    "Oh, please!" The afrit made a dismissive gesture. "Haven't we all? Let's face it, he got around."
    "I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak, and Prague—"
    The young man smirked. "Prague? What, these ones here? The ones it took Gladstone five minutes to break down? Sure you didn't work on Jericho, too?"
    "Yes, he did," Queezle put in. "One of his first jobs. He keeps quiet about it, but—"
    "Look, Queezle—"
    The afrit fingered his scythe. "Last chance, djinni," he said. "Vamoose. You can't win this one."
    I shrugged in a resigned sort of way. "We'll see."
    And so, sad to say, we did. Very quickly, too. My first four Detonations were deflected by the twirling scythe. The fifth, which I'd made a real humdinger, rebounded directly at me, sending me crashing off the path and down the hill in a shower of essence. I tried to rise, but fell back in pain. My wound was too great; I could not recover in time.
    Up on the path, the imps were pouring onto the courtiers. I saw Queezle and a burly djinni spin past, hands at each other's throats.
    With insulting nonchalance, the afrit ambled down the slope toward me. He winked and raised the silver scythe.
    And at that moment, my master acted.
    He'd not been a particularly good one, all told—he'd been too fond of the Stipples for starters—but from my point of view his last deed was the best thing he ever did.
    The imps were all around him, vaulting over his head, ducking between his legs, reaching for the Emperor. He gave a cry of fury and from a pocket in his jacket produced a Detonation stick, one of the new ones made by the alchemists of Golden Lane in response to the British threat. They were shoddy, mass-produced rubbish, inclined to explode too fast, or often not at all. Either way, it was best, when using them, to throw them speedily in the general direction of the enemy. But my master was a typical magician. He wasn't used to personal combat. He gabbled the Word of Command all right, but then proceeded to hesitate, holding the stick above his head and feinting at the imps, as if undecided which one to choose.
    He hesitated a