The Golem's Eye

pointed only one way. As did the expression of foul distemper upon my master's face. Even as he mumbled out the last syllables of the summoning, he was looking around the room as if he half-expected it to rise up and bite him.
    "Pleasant journey?" I inquired.
    He completed a few protective bonds and stepped from the circle, signaling me to do the same. "Hardly. There were still some magical traces on me when I went through customs. They collared me and took me to a drafty backroom where I had to talk pretty fast—I said my wine warehouse was right next to a government compound and occasional deviant spells permeated the walls. In the end, they bought it and let me go." He scowled. "I can't understand it! I changed all my clothes before leaving home to prevent any traces sticking to me!"
    "Underpants, too?"
    He paused. "Oh—I was in a hurry. I forgot them."
    "That'll be it, then. You'd be surprised what builds up down there."
    "And look at this room," the boy continued. "This is meant to be their top hotel! I swear it hasn't been redecorated this century. Look at the cobwebs on those drapes! Appalling. And can you tell what color that carpet's supposed to be? Because I can't." He kicked out at the bed irritably; a cloud of dust ballooned outward. "And what's this stupid four-poster thing, anyway? Why can't they just have a nice clean futon or something, like at home?"
    "Cheer up! At least you've got your own facilities." I investigated a forbiddinglooking side door: it swung open with a theatrical squeak to reveal a dingily tiled bathroom, lit by a single bulb. A monstrous three-legged bath lurked in one corner; it was the kind brides are bumped off in, or where pet crocodiles grow to vast size, fed on unusual meats. [1]  A similarly imposing toilet waited opposite, its chain hanging from the ceiling like a gallows rope. [2]  Cobwebs and mold fought keenly for dominion of the far reaches of the ceiling. A complex series of metal pipes wound around each other across the wall, connecting bath and toilet and looking for all the world like the spilled intestines of a—
     
    [1] This is one of Prague's odd qualities: something in its atmosphere, perhaps caused by five centuries of gloomy sorcery, brings out the macabre potential of every object, no matter how mundane.
     
    [2] See what I mean?
     
    I shut the door. "On second thought, I wouldn't bother looking in there. Just a bathroom. Nothing special. How's the view?"
    He glowered at me. "Check it out."
    I parted the heavy scarlet curtains and looked out on a charming vista of a large municipal graveyard. Lines of neat headstones stretched away into the night, shepherded by rows of gloomy ash and larch. At intervals, yellow lanterns hanging from trees gave off mournful light. A few hunched and solitary individuals could be seen wandering the gravel paths between the stones; the wind carried their sighs up to the window.
    I drew the curtains smartly. "Yes.... Not exactly uplifting, I admit."
    "Uplifting? This is the dreariest place I've ever been!"
    "Well, what do you expect? You're British. Of course they'll put you in a lousy room with a view of a graveyard."
    The boy was sitting at a heavy desk, inspecting some papers from a small brown packet. He spoke absently. "I should get the best room for exactly that reason."
    "Are you kidding? After what Gladstone did to Prague? They don't forget, you know."
    He looked up at this. "That was warfare. We won, fair and square. With minimum loss of civilian life."
    I was Ptolemy at this point, standing by the curtains, arms folded, glowering at him in my turn. "You reckon?" I sneered. "Tell that to the people of the suburbs. There are still wastelands out there, where the houses burned."
    "Oh, you'd know, would you?"
    "Of course I'd know! I was there, wasn't I? Fighting for the Czechs, I might add. Whereas everything you've learned was concocted by Gladstone's Ministry of Propaganda after the war. Don't lecture me about it, boy."
    He looked, for a moment, as if he might erupt into one of his old furies. Then a switch seemed to go off inside him, and he instead became all cold and careless. He turned back to his papers, blank-faced, as if what I had said was of no account and even bored him. I would have preferred the anger, somehow.
    "In London," he said, almost to himself, "the cemeteries are outside the city boundaries. Much more hygienic that way. We have special funeral trains to take the bodies out. That's the modern