Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye Read Free

with trees and potted shrubs, and a remarkable variety of parrots, whose ancestors had been brought to Prague from distant lands. The Emperor was besotted with these birds; in recent times, as London’s power grew and the Empire slipped from his hands, he had taken to sitting for long periods within the aviary, communing with his friends. Now, with the night sky rent by magical confrontation, the birds were in panic, swirling around the cage in a flurry of feathers, squawking fit to burst. The Emperor, a small plump gentleman in satin breeches and a crumpled white chemise, was little better off, remonstrating with his bird handlers and ignoring the advisors who massed about him.
    The Chief Minister, Meyrink, pale, sad-eyed, was plucking at his sleeve. “Your Highness, please. The British are pouring up Castle Hill. We must get you to safety—”
    “I cannot leave my aviary! Where are my magicians? Summon them here!”
    “Sir, they are engaged in battle—”
    “My afrits, then? My faithful Phoebus …”
    “Sir, as I have already informed you several times—”
    My master shouldered his way through. “Sir: I present Queezle and Bartimaeus, who will assist us in our departure, then save your wondrous birds as well.”
    “Two cats, man? Two cats?” The Emperor’s mouth went all white and pursed. 9
    Queezle and I rolled our eyes. She became a girl of unusual beauty; I took Ptolemy’s form. “Now, Your Highness,” my master said, “the eastern steps …”
    Great concussions in the city; half the suburbs were now alight. A small imp came bowling over the parapet at the end of the terrace, its tail aflame. It skidded to a halt beside us. “Permission to report, sir. A number of savage afrits are fighting their way up to the castle. The charge is led by Honorius and Patterknife, Gladstone’s personal servants. They are very terrible, sir. Our troops have broken before them.” It paused, looked at its smoldering tail. “Permission to find water, sir?”
    “And the golems?” Meyrink demanded.
    The imp shuddered. “Yessir. They have just engaged with the enemy. I kept well away from the cloud, of course, but I believe the British afrits have fallen back a little, in disarray. Now, about the water—”
    The Emperor gave a warbling cry. “Good, good! Victory is ours!”
    “The advantage is only temporary,” Meyrink said. “Come sir, we must go.”
    Despite his protests, the Emperor was bundled away from the cage, toward a wicket gate. Meyrink and my master were at the head of the group, the Emperor behind, his short frame hidden among the courtiers. Queezle and I brought up the rear.
    A flash of light. Over the parapet behind us two black figures came leaping. Tattered cloaks whipped about them, yellow eyes burned in the depths of their cowls. They moved across the terrace in great drifting bounds, touching ground only rarely. In the aviary, the birds fell into sudden silence.
    I looked at Queezle. “Yours or mine?”
    The beautiful girl smiled at me, showing her sharp teeth. “Mine.” She fell back to meet the advancing ghuls. I ran on after the Emperor’s entourage.
    Beyond the gate, a narrow path followed the moat north, under the castle wall. Down below, the Old Town was on fire; I could see the British troops running through the streets, and Prague’s people fleeing, fighting, falling before them. It all seemed far away; the only sound that came to us was a distant sighing. Flocks of imps drifted here and there like birds.
    The Emperor ceased his loud complaints. The group hurried in silence through the night. So far, so good. We were at the Black Tower now, at the top of the eastern steps, and the way ahead was clear.
    A flutter of wings; Queezle landed beside me, ashen-faced. She was wounded in the side. “Trouble?” I said.
    “Not the ghuls. An afrit. But a golem came, destroyed it. I’m fine.”
    Onward down the stairs in the side of the hill. Light from the burning castle was reflected in