The Golem's Eye

relaxed crowd was sitting, enjoying the afternoon sun. Opposite him was another statue, this one of Gladstone in his attitude of the Lawgiver. He was dressed in robes and held an open scroll, with one arm raised as if he were declaiming to the multitudes. Someone—either drunk, or of anarchistic bent—had climbed the great man and placed an orange traffic cone upon his majestic head, giving him the look of a comedy storybook sorcerer. The police had not yet noticed.
    Directly behind Gladstone's back was the Druids' Coffeehouse, a meeting place for the young and thirsty. The ground floor walls of the building had been ripped out and replaced with rough stone pillars decorated with curling vines. A series of tables covered with white cloth spilled around the pillars onto the cobbled road in Continental fashion. Every table was occupied. Waiters in blue tunics hurried back and forth.
    Kitty came to a halt next to the statue of the general and caught her breath. She surveyed the tables. Three o'clock precisely. Was he...? There!—almost out of sight behind a pillar—the crescent of white hair, the shiny bald pate.
    Mr. Pennyfeather was sipping a café latte when she approached. His stick lay flat across the table. He saw her, smiled broadly, indicated a chair.
    "Ms. Jones! Right on time. Sit, if you please. What do you care for? Coffee? Tea? A cinnamon bun? They are very good."
    Kitty ran a distraught hand through her hair. "Um, a tea. And chocolate. I need chocolate."
    Mr. Pennyfeather clicked his fingers; a waiter drew close. "A pot of tea and an éclair. A large one. Now, Ms. Jones. You seem a little breathless. You have been running. Or am I wrong?"
    His eyes twinkled, his smile widened. Kitty leaned forward furiously. "It's no laughing matter," she hissed, with a glance at the nearby tables. "I've just been attacked! On my way to see you," she added, to drive the point home.
    Mr. Pennyfeather's amusement did not slacken. "Indeed? Indeed? That is most serious! You must tell me—ah! Here is your tea. What speed! And a most sizable éclair! Good. Have a bite, then tell me all."
    "Three people trapped me in an alley. They threw something—a container, I think—and a demon appeared. It leaped at me and tried to kill me and—are you taking this seriously, Mr. Pennyfeather, or shall I get up and leave right now?" His continuing good humor was beginning to enrage Kitty, but at her words his smile vanished.
    "Forgive me, Ms. Jones. It is a grave matter. Yet you managed to escape. How did you do so?"
    "I don't know. I fought back—hitting the thing when it was gouging at my face, but I didn't do anything, really. It just burst like a balloon. The men disappeared, too."
    She took a long drink of tea. Mr. Pennyfeather eyed her calmly, saying nothing. His face remained grave, but his eyes seemed delighted, full of life.
    "It's that magician—Tallow!" Kitty went on. "I know it is. He's trying to do me in after what I said in court. He'll send another demon, now that one's failed. I don't know what to—"
    "Do have a bite of that éclair," Mr. Pennyfeather said. "That is my first suggestion. Now then, when you are calm, I will tell you something."
    Kitty ate the éclair in four bites, washed it down with tea and felt a little calmer. She looked about her. From where she was seated, she had a good view of most of the customers of the coffeehouse. Some were tourists, immersed in colorful maps and handbooks; the rest were young—students probably, along with a smattering of families out for the day. There seemed no immediate likelihood of another attack.
    "All right, Mr. Pennyfeather," she said. "Fire away."
    "Very well." He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a neatly folded napkin. "I shall return to that... incident in a moment, but I have something else to say first. You will be wondering why I should be interested in your troubles. Well—in fact I am not so much interested in your troubles as interested in you. By the way, the six hundred pounds is safely here"—he smiled and tapped his breast pocket— "you shall have it at the end of this conversation. So. I was in the gallery at Court and heard your evidence about the Black Tumbler. No one else believed you—the judge in her arrogance, the rest in their ignorance. But I pricked up my ears. Why should you lie? I asked. No reason. Therefore it must be true."
    "It was true," Kitty said.
    "But no one who is hit by a Black Tumbler—even by its outer edge—can