The Golem's Eye

method. This place is living in the past." I said nothing. He didn't deserve the benefit of my wisdom.
     
     
    For perhaps an hour, the boy studied his papers by the light of a low candle, making small notes in the margins. He ignored me; I ignored him, except to subtly send a breeze across the room to make the candle gutter over his work in an irritat ing manner. At half-past ten, he rang down to reception and, in perfect Czech, ordered a dish of grilled lamb and a carafe of wine to be delivered to his room. Then he put down his pen and turned to me, smoothing his hair back with his hand.
    "Got it!" I said, from the depths of the four-poster, where I was taking my ease, "I know who you remind me of now. It's been bugging me since you summoned me last week. Lovelace! You fiddle with your hair just like he did. Can't leave it alone."
    "I want to talk about the golems of Prague," he said.
    "It's a vanity thing—must be. All that oil."
    "You've seen golems in action. What kind of magician uses them?"
    "I reckon it shows insecurity as well. A constant need to preen."
    "Was it always Czech magicians who created them? Could a British one do it?"
    "Gladstone never fiddled—with his hair or anything else. He was always very still."
    The boy blinked; he showed interest for the first time. "You knew Gladstone?"
    "Knew's putting it a trifle strongly. I saw him from afar. He was usually present during battle, leaning on his Staff, watching his troops cause carnage; here in Prague, across Europe.... Like I say, he was very still; he observed everything, said little; then, when it counted, every movement was decisive and considered. Nothing like your prattling mages of today."
    "Really?" You could tell the boy was fascinated. No prizes for guessing who he modeled himself on. "So," he said, "you kind of admired him, in your poisonous, demonic sort of way?"
    "No. Of course not. He was one of the worst. Church bells rang across occupied Europe when he died. You don't want to be like him, Nathaniel, take it from me. Besides"—I plumped up a dusty pillow—"you haven't got what it takes."
    Oh, he bristled at that. "Why?"
    "You're not nasty enough by a long way. Here's your supper."
    A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a black-coated servant and an elderly maid, bearing assorted domed platters and chilled wine. The boy spoke courteously enough to them, asking a few questions about the layout of the streets nearby and tipping them for their trouble. For the duration of their visit, I was a mouse curled cozily between the pillows; I remained in this guise while my master scoffed his food. At last he clattered his fork down, took a last swig from his glass and stood up.
    "Right," he said. "No time for talk. It's a quarter past eleven. We've got to go."
     
    The hotel was on Kremencova, a short street on the edge of Prague Old Town, not far from the great river. We exited and wandered north along the lamp-lit roads, making our way slowly, steadily, in the direction of the ghetto.
    Despite the ravages of war, despite the dissolution into which the city fell after its Emperor was killed and its power transferred to London, Prague still maintained something of its old mystique and grandeur. Even I, Bartimaeus, indifferent as I normally am to the various human hellholes where I've been imprisoned, recognized its beauty: the pastel-colored houses, with their high, steep terra-cotta roofs, congregating thickly around the spires and bell towers of the endless churches, synagogues, and theaters; the great gray river winding past, spanned by a dozen bridges, each created to a different style by its own workforce of sweating djinn; [3] above it all, the castle of the Emperors, brooding wistfully on its hill.
     
    [3] I was involved in constructing the Stone Bridge, the noblest of all, back in 1357. Nine of us performed the task, as required, in a single night, fixing the foundations with the usual sacrifice: the entombment of a djinni. We drew straws for the "honor" as dawn broke. Poor Humphrey is presumably there still, bored rigid, though we gave him a pack of cards with which to pass the time.
     
    The boy was silent as we went. Unsurprising, this—he had seldom left London in his life before. I guessed him to be gazing about in dumbstruck admiration.
    "What an appalling place," he said. "Devereaux's slum-clearance measures would come in useful here."
    I looked at him. "Do I take it the golden city does not meet with your