The Golem's Eye
Czechs would supply us with stuff, if we could pay."
"Money can get you anything," Mr. Pennyfeather chuckled. "Go on, Clem, go on. That isn't all, by any means."
"Let me see..." Mr. Hopkins returned to the paper. "The pouch... ah yes, and an orb of crystal, in which—and I quote—'glimpses of the future and the secrets of all buried and hidden things can be descried.' "
"Imagine that!" Mr. Pennyfeather cried. "Imagine the power that would give us! We could anticipate the magicians' every move! We could locate lost wonders of the past, forgotten jewels..."
"We'd be unstoppable," Anne whispered.
"We'd be rich," Fred said.
"If true," Kitty remarked quietly.
"There is also a small bag," Mr. Hopkins went on, "in which demons may be trapped—that might prove useful, if we can discover its incantation. Also a host of other, lesser items, including, let me see, a cloak, a wooden staff, and sundry other personal effects. The pouch, the crystal ball, and the bag are the pick of the treasures."
Mr. Pennyfeather leaned forward in the chair, grinning like a goblin. "So, my friends," he said. "What do you think? Is this a prize worth having?"
Kitty felt it was time to inject a note of caution. "All very well, sir," she said, "but how come these marvels haven't been taken before? What's the catch?"
Her comment seemed to puncture the mood of elation slightly. Stanley scowled at her. "What's the matter?" he said. "This job not big enough for you? You're the one who's been moaning on about needing better strategy."
Kitty felt Mr. Pennyfeather's gaze upon her. She shivered, shrugged.
"Kitty's point is valid," Mr. Hopkins said. "There is a catch, or rather a defense around the crypt. According to the records, a Pestilence has been fixed to the keystone of the vault. This is triggered by the opening of the door. Should anyone enter the tomb, the Pestilence balloons from the ceiling and smites all those in the vicinity"—he glanced back at the paper—" 'to rend the flesh from their bones.' "
"Lovely," Kitty said. Her fingers toyed with the teardrop pendant in her pocket.
"Er... how do you propose we avoid this trap?" Anne asked Mr. Pennyfeather politely.
"There are ways," the old man said, "but at present they are beyond us. We do not have the magical knowledge. However, Mr. Hopkins here knows someone who might help."
Everyone looked at the clerk, who adopted an apologetic expression. "He is, or was, a magician," Mr. Hopkins said. "Please"—his words had sparked a chorus of disapproval—"hear me out. He is disaffected with our regime for reasons of his own, and seeks the overthrow of Devereaux and the rest. He has the necessary skill—and artifacts—to enable us to escape the Pestilence. He also"—Mr. Hopkins waited until there was silence in the room—"has the key to the relevant tomb."
"Who is he?" Nick said.
"All I can tell you is that he's a leading member of society, a scholar, and a connoisseur of the arts. He is an acquaintance of some of the greatest in the land."
"What's his name?" Kitty said. "This is no good."
"I'm afraid he guards his identity very carefully. As should we all, of course. I have not told him anything about you either. But if you accept his assistance, he wishes to meet with one of you, very soon. He will pass on the information we require."
"But how can we trust him?" Nick protested. "He could be about to betray us."
Mr. Hopkins coughed. "I do not think so. He has helped you before, many times. Most of the tip-offs I have given you have been passed on by this man. He has long wished to advance our aims."
"I examined the burial documents from the library," Mr. Pennyfeather added. "They seem genuine. It is too much effort for a forgery. Besides, he has known of us for years, through Clem here. Why does he not betray us if he wishes the Resistance harm? No, I believe what he is saying." He got unsteadily to his feet, his voice turning harsh, congested. "And it is my organization, after all. You would do well to trust my word. Now, are there any questions?"
"Just this," Fred said, snapping his flick-knife open. "When do we start?"
"If all goes well, we shall raid the abbey tomorrow night. It just remains—" The old man broke off, doubled over in a sudden fit of coughing. His hunched back cast strange shadows on the wall. Anne stepped across and helped him sit. For a long moment he was too short of breath to speak again.
"I am sorry," he said finally. "But you see how my
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