The Golem's Eye

she said.
    "I think I would have felt its loss, madam," he said politely.
    "Or it might have escaped its bonds." The rumbling voice of Henry Duvall rose from a black chair opposite Nathaniel. The Police Chief filled every inch of it; his fingers tapped impatiently on the arms. The black eyes glinted. "With overambitious apprentices, such things have been known to happen."
    Nathaniel knew better than to rise to the challenge. He remained silent.
    Ms. Whitwell addressed her servant once more. "My apprentice is right, Shubit," she said. "You must scan the debris again. Do so, at all speed."
    "Madam, I shall." He bowed his head, vanished.
    There was a moment's silence in the room. Nathaniel kept his face calm, but his mind was awhirl with emotion. His career and perhaps his life were in the balance, and Bartimaeus could not be found. He had staked everything on his servant, and judging by the expressions of the others in the room, they believed he was about to lose. He glanced around, witnessing the hungry satisfaction in Duvall's eyes, the flinty displeasure in his master's and, from the depths of a leather armchair, the furtive hope in Mr. Tallow's. The head of Internal Affairs had spent much of the night distancing himself from the whole surveillance enterprise, and pouring criticism down upon Nathaniel's head. In truth, Nathaniel could not blame him. First Pinn's, then the National Gallery, now (and worst of all) the British Museum. Internal Affairs was in desperate straits, and the ambitious police chief was preparing to make his move. No sooner had the extent of the damage to the museum become clear than Mr. Duvall had insisted on being present in the cleanup operation. He had watched everything with ill-concealed triumph.
    "Well..." Mr. Duvall clapped his hands upon his knees and prepared to rise. "I think I have wasted enough time, Jessica. In summary, following the efforts of Internal Affairs, we have a ruined wing of the British Museum and a hundred artifacts lost within it. We have a trail of destruction across the ground floor, several priceless statues destroyed or broken, and the Rosetta stone pulverized to dust. We have no perpetrator of this crime and no prospect of finding one. The Resistance is as free as a bird. And Mr. Mandrake has lost his demon. Not a wildly impressive tally, but one I must communicate to the Prime Minister nevertheless."
    "Please remain seated, Henry." Ms. Whitwell's voice was so venomous that Nathaniel felt his skin crawl. Even the police chief seemed transfixed by it: after a moment's hesitation, he relaxed back into the chair. "The exploration is not yet finished," she went on. "We shall wait a few minutes more."
    Mr. Duvall snapped his fingers. A human servant glided forward from the shadows of the chamber, carrying a silver tray with wine upon it. Mr. Duvall took a glass, swilled the wine around it musingly. There was a long silence.
    Julius Tallow ventured an opinion from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. "It is a pity my demon was not at the scene," he said. "Nemaides is an able creature and would have managed some communication with me before dying. This Bartimaeus was evidently most feeble."
    Nathaniel glared at him but said nothing.
    "Your demon," Duvall said, looking at Nathaniel suddenly. "What level was it?"
    "Fourth-level djinni, sir."
    "Slippery things." He swilled his glass. The wine danced in the neon light of the ceiling. "Guileful and hard to control. Few people of your age manage it."
    The implication was clear. Nathaniel ignored it. "I do my best, sir."
    "They require complex summonings. Some misquotations kill magicians, or allow the demon to run amok. Can be destructive—result in whole buildings being destroyed..." The black eyes glittered.
    "That hasn't happened in my case," Nathaniel said evenly. He gripped his fingers together to stop their shaking.
    Mr. Tallow sniffed. "Clearly the youth has been promoted beyond his ability."
    "Quite so," Duvall said. "First sensible thing you've ever said, Tallow. Perhaps Ms. Whitwell, who promoted him, has a comment to make on that?" He grinned.
     
    Jessica Whitwell rewarded Tallow with a look of pure malevolence. "I believe you are something of an expert on misquoted summonings, Julius," she said. "Wasn't that how your skin acquired its delightful color?"
    Mr. Tallow pulled his hat brim down a little lower over his yellow face. "It was no fault of mine," he said sullenly. "There was a printing error in my book."
    Duvall