Jonathan Stroud-BartimaeusThe Golem's Eye

removed the gag. The magician coughed and spluttered for a time. He was no more coherent than before.

Nathaniel rapped his knuckles on an exposed bit of table. "Pay attention, Mr. Kavka! I want you to listen very carefully to all my questions. Silence, I warn you, will get you nowhere. To begin—" "I know why you have come!" The voice erupted from the magician's mouth with all the force of a river in spate. It was defiant, aggrieved, endlessly weary. "You do not need to tell me. It is the manuscript! Of course! How could it be anything else, when I have applied my all to its mysteries for the last six months? It has eaten up my life during this time; see—it has robbed me of my youth!

My skin shrivels with every scratch of the pen. The manuscript! It could be nothing else!"

Nathaniel was taken aback. "A manuscript? Well, possibly. But let me make myself cl—" "I have been sworn to secrecy," Mr. Kavka continued; "I have been threatened with death—but what do I care now? Once was quite enough. Twice—that is impossible for any single man. See how my energy has withered—" He held up his bound wrists against the light; they were sticklike and shaking, the skin so thin the light shone through between the bones. "That is what he has done to me.

Before this, I burned with life."

"Yes—but what—" "I know exactly who you are," the man continued, speaking over my master as if he did not exist.

"An agent of the British government. I expected you in time, though not, I admit, someone so young and hopelessly inexperienced. If you had arrived a month ago, you might have saved me. As it is, it means little enough. I care not." He gave a heartfelt sigh. "It is behind you, on the table."

The boy looked back, reached out and picked up a paper. As he did so, he cried out in sudden pain; dropped it instantly. "Aahh! It's charged! A trick—" "Don't show your youth and inexperience," I said. "You're embarrassing me. Can't you see what that is? Anyone with eyes could tell you it's the center of all the magical activity in Prague. It's no wonder it gave you a shock. Use that poncy handkerchief in your pocket and study it more closely.

Then tell me what it is."

I knew already, of course. I'd seen such things before. But it did me good to see that trumped-up boy shivering with fright, too startled to disobey my instructions, wrapping his hand in his flouncy handkerchief, and picking the document up again with the utmost care. It was a large-scale manuscript, cut from calfskin, no doubt stretched and dried in accordance with the old methods—a thick, creamy parchment, beautifully smooth and crackling with power. This power came, not from the material, but from the words upon it. They were written in an unusual ink, equal parts red and black,[9] and flowed beautifully from right to left, from the base of the page up toward the top; line upon line of intricate, calligraphic runes. The boy's eyes were wide with wonder. He sensed the artistry, the labor that had gone into this work, even if he could not read the marks. Perhaps he would have articulated this astonishment if he'd been able to get a word in. But the magician, old