The Golem's Eye

"I shall require you again in... twelve hours' time, at my hotel in Prague. Until I summon you again, I bind you into a nexus here. Remain silent and invisible, in this circle, beyond the knowledge or senses of all sentient things, until I send for you."
    The boy shrugged. "If I must."
    "You must."
    The figure in the pentacle shimmered and faded slowly, like the memory of a dream. When it was entirely gone, Nathaniel worked a couple of backup charms, to prevent anyone unknowingly releasing the djinni if they chose to use the circle, and left hurriedly. He had a busy few hours ahead of him.
     
     
    Before departing for his home to pack, Nathaniel called in at the Foreign Office, a building not dissimilar to the British Museum in size, bulk, and brooding gray power. Here, much of the day-to-day running of the Empire took place, magicians relaying advice and instructions by means of telephone and messenger to their counterparts in smaller offices across the world. As he climbed the steps to the revolving door, Nathaniel looked up at the roof. Even on the three planes that he was able to observe, the sky above the building was thick with the hurrying of insubstantial forms: fleet couriers carrying orders in magically coded envelopes, larger demons acting as their escorts. As always, the sheer scale of the great Empire, which could be sensed only in sights such as this, left him awestruck and a little preoccupied. In consequence, he had some trouble with the revolving entrance door; in pushing vigorously the wrong way, he unfortunately sent an elderly, grayhaired lady sprawling backward into the foyer on the other side, her armload of papers streaming out across the marbled floor.
    After negotiating the door successfully, Nathaniel hurried forward and with a dozen flustered apologies, helped his victim to her feet before beginning the task of scooping up the papers. As he did so, accompanied by a continuous volley of reedy complaints from the old woman, he saw a familiar slim form emerge from a door on the opposite side of the foyer and make her way across. Jane Farrar, Duvall's apprentice, as elegant and glisteningly dark-haired as ever.
     
    Nathaniel's face went scarlet; he speeded up frantically, but there were many papers to gather and the foyer was not large. Long before he had finished, and while the old lady was still spiritedly telling Nathaniel what she thought of him, Ms. Farrar had arrived on the scene. He glimpsed her shoes out of the corner of one eye: she had halted and was watching. He could well imagine her air of detached amusement.
    With a deep breath, he stood and thrust the papers into the old woman's hands. "There. Once again, I'm sorry."
    "I should think so, too—of all the careless, arrogant, most pestilential little—"
    "Yes, let me help you through that door..."
    With a firm hand he spun her around and, with a guiding shove between her shoulder blades, set her speedily on her way. Brushing himself down, he turned and blinked, as if in vast surprise.
    "Ms. Farrar! What a pleasure this is."
    She smiled a lazy, secret smile. "Mr. Mandrake. You seem a little out of breath."
    "Do I? Well, I am rather urgently engaged this afternoon. And then that poor old woman's legs gave way, so I tried to help..." Her cool eyes appraised him. "Well... I'd better be getting along...."
    He moved aside, but Jane Farrar suddenly stepped a little closer. "I know you're busy, John," she said, "but I would love to pick your brains about something, if I might be so bold." She twizzled a strand of long, black hair idly with a finger. "What luck for me. I'm so glad we met by chance. I heard through the grapevine that you managed to summon a fourth-level djinni recently. Is that really true?" She looked at him with wide, dark eyes, brimming with admiration.
    Nathaniel took a slight step back. He felt perhaps a little hot, certainly a little flattered, but still very unwilling to discuss matters as private as his choice of demon. It was unfortunate that the incident at the British Museum had been so public—speculation would be rife about his servant now. But it was never wise to be unguarded: safe, secret, secure. He gave a harried smile. "It is true. You were not misinformed. It's nothing too difficult, I assure you. Now, if you don't mind—"
    Jane Farrar gave a little sigh and adjusted a strip of hair becomingly behind one ear. "You are clever," she said. "You know, I've tried to do exactly that—to raise a demon of