The Golem's Eye

the fourth level—but I must be getting muddled somehow, because I just can't do it. I can't think what the problem is. Couldn't you come along with me now, and run me through the incantations? I've got a summoning circle all of my own. It's in my apartment, not far from here. It's very private—we wouldn't be disturbed...." She tilted her head slightly to one side and smiled. Her teeth were very white.
    Nathaniel was conscious of a bead of sweat trickling in an ungainly fashion down the side of his forehead. He contrived to smooth his hair back and brush the drip away in what he hoped was a casual motion. He felt distinctly odd: languorous, yet fired up and energetic all at once. After all—it would be an easy thing to help Ms. Farrar. Summoning a djinni was pretty straightforward when you'd done it a few times. It was no big deal. He suddenly realized he rather desired her gratitude.
    She touched his arm gently with slender fingers. "What do you say, John?"
    "Um..." He opened and shut his mouth, frowning. Something was holding him back. Something about time, or lack of it. What was it? He'd come to the Ministry to—to do what, exactly? It was so hard to recall.
    She gave a little pout. "Are you worried about your master? She'll never find out. And I won't tell mine. I know we're not supposed to...."
    "It's not that," he said. "It's just—"
    "Well then."
    "No—I've got to do something today... something important." He tried to tear his eyes away from hers; he couldn't concentrate, that was the problem, and his heart was beating far too noisily for his memory to make itself heard. She was wearing a delightful fragrance, too, not your normal Rowan Tree Rub-On, but a perfume much more oriental and flowery. It was very nice, but a bit overpowering. The scent of her proximity muddled him.
    "What is that something?" she asked. "Maybe I can help you with it."
    "Um, I'm going somewhere.... To Prague..."
    She pressed a little closer. "Are you? What for?"
    "To investigate... er..." He blinked, shook his head. Something was wrong.
    "Tell you what," she said, "we could sit together and have a nice talk. You could tell me everything you're planning."
    "I suppose..."
    "I've got a lovely long couch."
    "Have you?"
    "We can cozy up together and drink iced sherbet and you can tell me all about this demon you summon, this Bartimaeus. I'd be so impressed."
    As she spoke the name, a little warning note sounded in his mind, cutting through his luxurious befuddlement. Where had she learned Bartimaeus's name? It could only be from Duvall, her master, who had himself learned it that very morning in the summoning chamber. And Duvall—Duvall was no friend of his. He would want to stymie anything Nathaniel was doing, even his trip to Prague.... He stared at Jane Farrar with growing suspicion. Realization came flooding back, and for the first time he noticed his sensor web emitting a dull pulse in his ear, warning him of the presence of a subtle magic on his person. A Charm, or perhaps a Glamour... Even as he thought this, the luster of her hair seemed to fade a little, the sparkle in her eyes flickered and dimmed.
     
    "I—I'm sorry, Ms. Farrar," he said huskily. "Your invitation is very kind, but I must decline. Please give my regards to your master."
    She regarded him silently, the look of doe-eyed admiration replaced, fleetingly, by one of bottomless contempt. A moment later, the familiar, measured coolness had returned to Jane Farrar's face. She smiled. "He will be pleased to receive them."
    Nathaniel gave a short bow and left her. When he glanced back, from the other side of the foyer, she had already gone.
    He was still a little disoriented by this encounter five minutes later, when he emerged from a lift on the third floor of the Ministry, crossed a broad, echoing corridor, and arrived at the Second Secretary's door. He adjusted his cuffs, composed himself for a moment, knocked, and entered.
    It was a high-ceilinged room of oak-paneled walls; light streamed in from elegantly tapering windows overlooking the busy traffic of Whitehall. The room was dominated by three great wooden tables, their upper surfaces inlaid with stretches of stippled green leather. Upon these were a dozen unfurled maps of varying size: some of pristine paper, others of ancient, cracking vellum, all pinned carefully onto the leather tabletops. A small bald man, the Second Secretary of the Foreign Office, was stooped over one such map, tracing some detail