The Golem's Eye

approval?"
    "Well... it's just so messy, isn't it?"
    True, as you worm your way deeper into the Old Town, the streets become narrower and more labyrinthine, connected by a capillary system of snickelways and side courts, where the gable overhangs become so extreme that daylight barely hits the cobblestones below. Tourists probably find this warren charming; for me, with my slightly more soiled outlook, it perfectly embodies the hopeless muddle of all human endeavor. And for Nathaniel, the young British magician used to the broad, brutal Whitehall thoroughfares, it was all a bit too messy, a bit too out of control.
    "Great magicians lived here," I reminded him.
    "That was then," he said, sourly. "This is now."
    We passed the Stone Bridge, with its ramshackle old tower on the eastern side; bats were swirling about its protruding rafters, and flickering candlelight shone in the topmost windows. Even at this late hour, plenty of traffic was abroad: one or two old-fashioned cars, with high, narrow bonnets and cumbersome retracting roofs, passing slowly across the bridge; many men and women on horseback, too; others leading oxen, or driving two-wheeled carts full of vegetables or beer kegs. Most of the men wore soft black caps in the French style, fashions evidently having changed since my time here so many years before.
     
    The boy made a disparaging face. "That reminds me. I'd better get this charade over with." He was carrying a small leather rucksack; into this he now delved, pulling out a large floppy cap. Further rummaging revealed a curled and rather crumpled feather. He held this up so it caught the lantern light.
    "What color would you call that?" he said.
    I considered. "I don't know. Red, I suppose."
    "What kind of red? I want a description."
    "Erm, brick red? Fiery red? Tomato red? Sunburn red? Could be any or all."
    "Not blood-red, then?" He cursed. "I was so short of time—that was all I could get. Well, it'll have to do." He pushed the feather through the fabric of the cap and placed the ensemble on his head.
    "What's this in aid of?" I asked. "I hope you're not trying to be dashing, because you look like an idiot."
    "This is strictly business, I assure you. It's not my idea. Come on, it's almost midnight."
    We turned away from the river now, heading into the heart of the Old Town, where the ghetto guarded Prague's deepest secrets. [4]  The houses became smaller and more ramshackle, crowded in upon each other so tightly that some were doubtless held up only by the proximity of their neighbors. Our moods shifted in opposite directions as we went. My essence felt energized by the magic seeping from the old stones, by the memories of my exploits of the past. Nathaniel, conversely, seemed to become ever gloomier, muttering and grumbling under his outsize hat like a cantankerous old man.
     
    [4] In Rudolf's time, when the Holy Roman Empire was at its height and six afrits patrolled the newly fashioned walls of Prague, the Jewish community here supplied the Emperor with most of his money and much of his magic. Forcibly restricted to the crowded alleys of the ghetto, and at once distrusted and relied on by the rest of Prague society, the Jewish magicians grew powerful for a time. Since pogroms and slander against their people were commonplace, their magic was largely defensive in outlook—as exemplified by the great magician Loew, who created the first golem to protect the Jews against attack by human and djinni alike.
     
    "Any chance," I said, "of telling me exactly what we're doing?"
    He looked at his watch. "Ten to midnight. I have to be in the old cemetery when the clocks start chiming." He tutted again. "Another cemetery! Can you believe it? How many are there in this place? Well, a spy will meet me there. He will know me by this cap; I will know him by his—and I quote—'unusual candle.' " He held up a hand. "Don't ask—I haven't got a clue. He may, perhaps, be able to point us in the direction of someone who knows something of golem lore."
    "You think some Czech magician is causing the trouble in London?" I said. "That's not necessarily so, you know."
    He nodded, or at least his head did something abrupt under his enormous cap. "Quite. An insider must have stolen the clay eye from the Lovelace collection: there's a traitor working somewhere. But the knowledge to use it must have come from Prague. No one in London's ever done it before. Perhaps our spy can help us." He sighed. "I doubt it, though.