The Golem's Eye

condition goes. My strength is lessening. In truth, my friends, Westminster Abbey is the best opportunity I have. To lead you all to—to something better. This will be a new beginning."
    And an appropriate end for you, Kitty thought. This is your last chance to achieve something concrete before you die. I just hope your judgment holds up, that's all.
    As if he had read her mind, Mr. Pennyfeather's head twisted suddenly in her direction. "It just remains," he said, "to visit our mysterious benefactor and discuss terms. Kitty, since you are so sprightly today, you will go to meet him tomorrow."
    Kitty returned his gaze. "Very well," she said.
    "Now, then." The old man turned to regard them all, one by one. "I must say I am a little disappointed. None of you has yet asked the identity of the person whose tomb we are about to enter. Are you not curious?" He laughed, wheezing. "Er, whose is it, sir?" Stanley asked.
    "Someone with whom you will all be familiar from your school days. I believe he still figures prominently in most lessons. None other than the Founder of our State, the greatest and most terrible of all our leaders, the hero of Prague himself"— Mr. Pennyfeather's eyes glittered in the shadows—"our beloved William Gladstone."

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Part Three

22
     
    Nathaniel
     
    Nathaniel's plane was due to leave the Box Hill aerodrome at six-thirty sharp. His official car would arrive at the Ministry an hour earlier, at five-thirty. This meant that he had approximately half a day to prepare himself for the most important assignment of his brief career in government: his trip to Prague.
    His first task was to deal with his servant and proposed traveling companion. On his return to Whitehall, he found a free summoning chamber and, with a clap of the hands, summoned Bartimaeus once more. When it materialized, it had rid itself of its panther guise, and was in one of its favored forms: a young dark-skinned boy. Nathaniel noted that the boy was not wearing its usual Egyptian-style skirt; instead, it was lavishly dolled up in an old-fashioned tweed traveling suit, with spats, gaiters and, incongruously, a leather flying helmet, complete with goggles, loose upon its head.
    Nathaniel scowled. "And you can lose those for starters. You're not flying."
    The boy looked wounded. "Why not?"
    "Because I'm traveling incognito, and that means no demons waltzing through customs."
    "What, do they put us in quarantine now?"
    "Czech magicians will be scanning all incoming flights for magic, and they'll subject a British plane to the finest scrutiny of all. No artifact, book of magic, or idiot demon will get through. I shall have to be a 'commoner' for the duration of my flight; you I'll have to summon once I've arrived."
    The boy raised its goggles, the better to look skeptical. "I thought the British Empire ruled the roost in Europe," it said. "You broke Prague years ago. How come they're telling you what to do?"
    "They're not. We control the balance of power in Europe still, but officially we have a truce with the Czechs now. For the moment, we're guaranteeing no magical incursions into Prague. That's why this trip has to be done subtly."
    "Speaking of subtle..." The boy gave a broad wink. "I did pretty well earlier, eh?"
    Nathaniel pursed his lips. "Meaning what?"
    "Well, I was on my best behavior this morning—didn't you notice? I could have given your masters plenty of lip, but I restrained myself to help you out."
    "Really? I thought you were your normal irritating self."
    "Are you kidding? I was so oily, my feet practically slipped from under me. I can still taste that false humility on my tongue. But that's better than being popped into one of dear Jessica's Mournful Orbs again." The boy shuddered. "My sucking up only lasted a few minutes, though. It must be horrible kowtowing to them perpetually, as you do, and knowing that you could stop that game at any time you wished, and go your own way—except that you haven't got the bottle to do it."
    "You can stop right there. I'm not interested in your opinion." Nathaniel was having none of this—demons often threw half-truths at magicians to disorientate them. It was best to close your ears to their wiles. "Besides," he added, "Duvall, for one, is not my master. I despise him."
    "And Whitwell's different, is she? I didn't notice any great love between you."
    "Enough. I must pack, and I have to visit the Foreign Office before I go." Nathaniel looked at his watch.