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Stroud, Jonathan - Bartimaeus Trilogy, Book 2 - The Golem Jonathan Stroud The Amulet of Samarkand The Bartimaeus Trilogy, book 1 For Gina St. on london. the golem's eye (the bartimaeus trilogy, book 2) (bk. 2. bartimaeus trilogy) pdf online book by downloading it on our website in pdf, kindle, ebook. You can easily download The Golem's Eye Pdf, The Golem's Eye Pdf by pdforigin .org. Review. The second adventure in the Bartimaeus trilogy finds our young apprentice magician The Books You May Like of Public Policy Pdf April 2, ; Routledge Handbook of International Law Pdf April 2,


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Jonathan Stroud The Golem's Eye The Bartimaeus Trilogy, book 2 For Philippa 1 The Main Characters THE MAGICIANS Mr. Rupert Devereaux Prime Minister of. Stroud, Jonathan - Bartimaeus Trilogy, Book 2 - The Golem's Eye (v) Stroud, Jonathan - Bartimaeus Trilogy, Book 1 - The Amulet of Samarkand (v). Bartimaeus Trilogy 02, Golems Eye Stroud, Jonathan - Bartimaeus Trilogy, Book 2 - The Golem's Eye (v) Bartimaeus Trilogy 03, Ptolemys Gate.

Not a sound came from the audience. But it'll be the Stipples for you both if you don't succeed soon. In fact, I've rarely seen stronger. My turn. Several buildings had been badly affected, and a number of people killed.

Astrid Lindgren. Phoebe the Spy.

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Judith Griffin. A Crack in the Sea. Star Wars: The Secrets of the Wild Wood. The Safest Lie. Angela Cerrito. Samantha Spinner and the Super-Secret Plans.

Fog Magic. Julia L. Save Queen of Sheba. Louise Moeri. The Caldera. Stinkfly and Cannonbolt. Wrigley Stuart. Doctor Who: The Secret in Vault David Solomons. Sir Fartsalot Hunts the Booger. Kevin Bolger. Let Sleeping Dragons Lie.

Garth Nix and Sean Williams. Chris Grabenstein. Island War. Out-of-This-World Boxed Set. Julio Verne. Pablo C. Rick Riordan. Dinos Against Robots. His coat trailed impressively behind him. Each rope was heavily laden with jaunty red, white, and blue flags. The boy stopped to peel his orange and consider the work. A laborer passed, sweating under the weight of a mass of bunting.

The boy hailed him. What's all this in aid of? Half the bunting slipped out of his hands onto the pavement. National holiday, sir. Of course. Gladstone's birthday. I forgot. And so down to Whitehall, a region of massive gray-clad buildings, heavy with the odor of long-established power.

Here, the architecture alone was enough to browbeat any casual observer into submission: But the boy tripped with light steps past it all, peeling his orange with the unconcern of one born to it. He nodded to a po- liceman, flashed his pass to a guard, and stepped through a side gate into the court- yard of the Department of Internal Affairs, under the shade of a spreading walnut tree. Only now did he pause, gulp down the remainder of his orange, wipe his hands on his handkerchief, and adjust his collar, cuffs, and tie.

He smoothed back his hair a final time. He was ready now. It was time to go to work. More than two years had passed since the time of Lovelace's rebellion, and the sudden emergence of Nathaniel into the elite. By now, he was fourteen years old, taller by a head than when he had returned the Amulet of Samarkand to the pro- tective custody of a grateful government; bulkier, too, but still lean-framed, with his dark hair hanging long and shaggy around his face after the fashion of the day.

His face was thin and pale with long hours of study, but his eyes burned hot and bright; all his movements were characterized by a barely suppressed energy. Being a keen observer, Nathaniel had soon perceived that among working ma- gicians, appearance was an important factor in maintaining status. Shabby attire was frowned upon; indeed it was a sure-fire mark of mediocre talent.

He did not intend to give this impression. With the stipend that he received from his department, he had bought a tight-fitting black drainpipe suit and a long Italian coat, both of which he considered dangerously fashionable. He wore slim, slightly pointed shoes and a succession of garish handkerchiefs, which provided an explosion of color across his breast.

With this outfit carefully in place, he would walk around the Whitehall cloisters with a lanky, purposeful stride, reminiscent of some wading bird, clutching sheaves of paper in his arms. His birth name he kept well hidden. To his colleagues and associates, he was known by his adult name, John Mandrake. The first, an alchemist in the days of Queen Elizabeth, had turned lead to gold in a celebrated experiment before the court.

It was afterward discovered that he had managed this by coating gold pellets with thin films of lead, which vanished when gently heated. His ingenuity was applauded, but he was beheaded nonetheless.

The second John Mandrake was a furniture-maker's son who had spent his life researching the many variants of demonic mite. He had amassed a list of 1, increasingly irrelevant sub- types before one of them, a Lesser Frilled Green Hornetwing, stung him in an un- guarded area; he swelled to the size of a chaise lounge and so died.

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The inglorious careers of his predecessors did not concern Nathaniel. In fact, they gave him quiet satisfaction. He intended to make the name famous for himself alone. Nathaniel's master was Ms. Jessica Whitwell, a magician of indeterminate age, with cropped white hair and a frame that was slender, tending to the skeletal. She was reckoned one of the four most potent magicians in the government, and her in- fluence was long.

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She recognized her apprentice's talent and set about developing it fully. Living in a spacious apartment in his master's riverside townbouse, Nathaniel led an ordered, well-directed existence. The house was modern and sparsely fur- nished, its carpets lynx-gray and the walls stark white. The furniture was made of glass and silvered metal, and of pale wood felled in Nordic forests. The whole place had a cool, businesslike, almost antiseptic feel, which Nathaniel came to admire strongly: Whitwell's style even extended to her library.

In most magical households, libraries were dark, brooding places—their books bound in exotic animal skins, with embroidered pentacles or curse runes on the spines. But this look, Nathaniel now learned, was very last century.

Whitwell had requested Jaroslav's, the printers and bookbinders, to provide uniform bindings of white leather for all her tomes, which were then indexed and stamped with identifying numbers in black ink. In the center of this white-walled room of neat white books was a rectangular glass table, and here Nathaniel would sit two days every week, working on the higher mysteries.

In the early months of his tenure with Ms. Whitwell, he had embarked on a period of intensive study and, to her surprise and approval, mastered successive grades of summoning in record time. He had progressed from the lowest level of demon mites, moulers, and goblin-imps , to medium the full range of foliots , to advanced djinn of various castes in a matter of days.

After watching him dismiss a brawny djinni with an improvisation that admin- istered a slap on its blue rump, his master expressed her admiration. You displayed bravery and good memory at Heddle- ham Hall in dismissing the demon there, but I little realized how adept you'd be at general summonings.

Work hard and you'll go far. He did not tell her that most of this was nothing new to him, that he had already raised a middle-ranking djinni by the age of twelve. He kept his association with Bartimaeus strictly to himself. Whitwell had rewarded his precocity with new secrets and tuition, which was exactly what Nathaniel had long desired.

Under her guidance, he learned the arts of constraining demons to multiple or semipermanent tasks, without recourse to cumbersome tools such as Adelbrand's Pentacle. He discovered how to protect himself from enemy spies by weaving sensor webs around himself; how to dispel surprise attacks by invoking rapid Fluxes that engulfed the aggressive magic and carried it away. In a very short space of time, Nathaniel had absorbed as much new knowledge as many of his fellow magicians who were five or six years older.

He was now ready for his first job. It was the custom for all promising magicians to be given work in lowly de- partmental positions as a way of instructing them in the practical use of power. The age at which this occurred depended on the talent of the apprentice and the influ- ence of the master In Nathaniel's case, there was another factor, too, for it was well known about the coffee bars of Whitehall that the Prime Minister himself was fol- lowing his career with a keen and benevolent eye.

This ensured that, from the out- set, he was the object of much attention. His master had warned him of this. Keep your mouth shut like a clam. They'll pry it all out of you otherwise. They like to plan ahead. At first, however, he was considered something of a soft touch. Pretty female magicians approached him at parties, lulling him with compliments before inquiring closely into his background. Nathaniel fended off these crude enticements fairly easily, but more dangerous methods followed.

An imp once visited him while he slept, cooing gentle words into his ear and asking for his name. Perhaps only the loud tolling of Big Ben across the river prevented an unguarded revelation.

As the hour struck, Nathaniel stirred, woke, and observed the imp squatting on the bedpost; in an instant, he summoned a tame foliot, which seized the imp and compressed it to a stone.

In its new condition, the imp was sadly unable to reveal anything about the magician who had sent it on its errand. After this episode, Nathaniel employed the foliot to guard his bedroom conscientiously throughout each night.

Soon afterward, when he was still scarcely fourteen, the expected appointment was made and the young magician joined the Department of Internal Affairs. The secretary, a trim, well-kempt young man with oiled ginger hair, paused in the act of leaving the room.

You've got re- sponsibilities, too, you know, just the same as us full-timers. The magician threw himself back into his chair. He was tempted to put his feet up on the desk, but rejected this as being too showy. He restricted himself to a lazy smile. Tallow," he said. Ask him if you like, when he gets in; he might tell you a few de- tails—if they're not too secret, that is.

What have you been up to, Jenkins? Photo- copying hard, I hope. You may be the Prime Minister's blue-eyed boy now, but how long's that going to last if you don't deliver? Another incident? The second this week? You'll soon be back scrub- bing teacups again, and then—we'll see. The boy made a face at the closing door and for a few seconds sat staring at nothing. He rubbed his eyes wearily and glanced at his watch. Only nine forty-five. Already it had been a long day. A teetering pile of papers on his desk awaited his attention.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his cuffs and reached out for the topmost file. For reasons of his own, Nathaniel had long been interested in Internal Affairs, a subdepartment of the sprawling Security apparatus headed by Jessica Whitwell.

In- ternal Affairs conducted investigations into various kinds of criminal activity, nota- bly foreign insurgency and domestic terrorism directed against the State. When he first joined the department, Nathaniel had merely undertaken humble activities such as filing, photocopying, and tea-making. But he did not carry out these tasks for long. His rapid promotion was not as his enemies whispered simply the product of raw nepotism.

It was true that he benefited from the goodwill of the Prime Minis- ter and from the long reach of his master, Ms. Whitwell, whom none of the magi- cians in Internal Affairs wanted to displease.

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Yet this would have availed him noth- ing if he had been incompetent or merely average in his craft. But Nathaniel was gifted, and more than that, he worked hard. His elevation was swift. Julius Tallow. A short, burly man of bullish build and temperament, Mr. Tallow was abrupt and abrasive at the best of times, and inclined to sudden outbursts of incandescent rage, which sent his minions scurrying for cover.

Aside from his temper, he was ad- ditionally distinguished by an unusual yellowish complexion, bright as daffodils at noonday. It was not known among his staff what had caused this affliction; some claimed it was hereditary, that he was the offspring of a union between magician and succubus.

Others rejected this on biological grounds, and suspected he was the victim of malignant magic. Nathaniel subscribed to the latter view.

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Whatever the cause, Mr. Tallow concealed his problem as best he could. His collars were high, his hair hung long. He wore a broad-brimmed hat at all times and kept a keen ear open for levity on the subject among his staff.

Eighteen people worked in the office with Nathaniel and Mr. Tallow; they ranged from two commoners, who performed administrative duties that did not impinge on magical matters, to Mr.

Stroud, Jonathan - Bartimaeus Trilogy, Book 2 - The Golem

Ffoukes, a magician of the fourth level. Nathan- iel adopted a policy of bland politeness to everyone, with the single exception of Clive Jenkins, the secretary. Jenkins's resentment of his youth and standing had been clear from the outset; in turn, Nathaniel treated him with a cheery impu- dence. It was perfectly safe to do so.

Jenkins had neither connections nor ability. Tallow had soon realized the extent of his assistant's talents, and directed him to an important and taxing task: The motives of these zealots were transparent, if bizarre. They were opposed to the benevolent leadership of the magicians and eager to return to the anarchy of Commoners' Rule.

Over the years, their activities had become increasingly annoy- ing. They stole magical artifacts of all descriptions from careless or unlucky magi- cians, and later used them in random assaults on government persons and property.

Several buildings had been badly affected, and a number of people killed. In the most audacious attack of all, the Resistance had even attempted to assassinate the Prime Minister. The government's response was draconian: Yet despite these sensible acts of deterrence, the incidents continued, and Mr. Tallow was beginning to feel the displeasure of his superiors. Nathaniel accepted his challenge with great eagerness.

Years before, he had crossed paths with the Resistance in a way that made him feel he understood some- thing of its nature. One dark night, he had encountered three child commoners op- erating a black market of magical objects. It was an experience Nathaniel had not enjoyed. The three had promptly stolen his own precious scrying glass, then very nearly killed him.

Now he was keen for a measure of revenge. But the task had not proved easy. Fred, Stanley, and Kitty. Fred and Stanley were paperboys, and Nathaniel's first act had been to send minute search orbs to trail all newspaper sellers in the city. But this surveil- lance had thrown up no new leads: Next, Nathaniel had encouraged his chief to send a few handpicked adult agents out to work undercover in London.

Over several months, they immersed themselves in the capital's underworld. Once they had been accepted by the other commoners, they were instructed to offer "stolen artifacts" to anyone who seemed interested in them. Nathaniel hoped this ploy might encourage agents of the Resis- tance to break cover.

It was a forlorn hope. Most of the stool pigeons failed to rouse any interest in their magical trinkets, and the only man who was successful vanished without mak- ing his report. To Nathaniel's frustration, his body was later found floating in the Thames. Nathaniel's most recent strategy, for which he initially had high hopes, was to command two foliots to adopt the semblance of orphan waifs and to send them out to roam the city by day.

Nathaniel strongly suspected that the Resistance was largely composed of child street gangs, and he reasoned that, sooner or later, they might try to recruit the newcomers. But so far, the bait had not been taken. The office that morning was hot and drowsy. Flies buzzed against the window- panes. Nathaniel went so far as to remove his coat and roll up his extensive sleeves. Suppressing his yawns, he plowed through a mass of paperwork, most of which was concerned with the latest Resistance outrage: At dawn that day, an explosive device, probably a small sphere, had been tossed through a skylight, grievously wounding the manager.

The shop sup- plied tobacco and incense to magicians; presumably this was why it had been tar- geted. There were no witnesses, and surveillance spheres had not been in the area.

Nathaniel cursed under his breath. It was hopeless. He had no leads at all. He tossed the papers aside and picked up another report. Rude slogans at the expense of the Prime Minister had again been daubed on lonely walls throughout the city. He sighed and signed a paper ordering an immediate cleanup operation, knowing full well the graffiti would reappear as fast as the whitewash men could work.

Lunchtime came at last, and Nathaniel attended a party in the garden of the Byzantine embassy, held to mark the forthcoming Founder's Day. He drifted among the guests, feeling listless and out of sorts. The problem of the Resistance was prey- ing on his mind. As he ladled strong fruit punch from a silver tureen in a corner of the garden, he noticed a young woman standing close by. Please accept my congratulations. We believe they had come in by fishing boat from the Low Countries.

They were clumsy amateurs, easily spotted. Some loyal commoners raised the alarm. I heard that the spies led the police on a merry dance around half of England, killing several magicians in the process.

Jane Farrar's master was the police chief Mr. Henry Duvall, a great rival of Jessica Whitwell. At functions such as this, Ms. Farrar and Nathaniel often exchanged feline conversation, all purred compli- ments and carefully sheathed claws, testing each other's mettle.

That is no small matter either! It is nothing too exciting. Well done. Would you care for another tot? It was true, of course: He fought back a strong desire to scowl. Jane Farrar poured punch into a glass and raised her eyebrows at him with an expression that might have been amusement.

And you will break them within six months! But you know, I believe you can do it, John. You are quite a little man already. Nathaniel tried to master his emotions. Jane Farrar was three or four years older than he was, and just as tall, perhaps taller, with long, straight, light brown hair hanging to her shoulders.

Her eyes were a disconcerting green, alive with wry intelligence. He could not help feeling gawky and inelegant beside her, despite the splendors of his ruffed red handkerchief. He found himself trying to jus- tify his statement, where he should have kept silent. We send agents out to join the organization. It can be done. Safe, secret, secure. The fewer tidbits of in- formation he divulged the better. He cast his eyes across the lawns. Whitwell has arrived unattended," he said.

If you would excuse me, Ms. He promptly retired to a private summoning chamber and blurted out the incantation. The two foliots, still in orphan guise, appeared. They looked disconsolate and shifty. I mean what's happened to a spot of common humanity? Those children should be deported in chains! What's the matter with them? You're both sweet, you're both thin, you're both faintly pathetic—surely they'd take you under their wings. They treat us with re- vulsion.

It's almost as if they can see us as we really are. They don't have lenses, do they? You must be doing it wrong. Are you sure you're not giving the game away somehow? You're not floating or growing horns or doing something else stupid when you see them, are you? Although Clovis did once forget to remove his tail. Sir—that's a lie. I don't care. But it'll be the Stipples for you both if you don't succeed soon.

Try different ages, try going about separately, try giving yourself small disabilities to raise their sympathy—but no in- fectious diseases, as I told you before. For now, you're dismissed. Get out of my sight. It was clear the foliots were unlikely to succeed. They were a lowly demonic rank Cer- tainly the notion that the children could see through their semblance was absurd; he dismissed it out of hand. But if they failed, what next?

Each week, new Resistance crimes took place. Magicians' houses were burgled, cars robbed, shops and offices attacked. The pat- tern was obvious enough: All very well. But still no breakthrough came. Nathaniel knew that Mr. Tallow's patience was running out. Little teasing comments, such as those from Clive Jenkins and Jane Farrar, suggested that other people knew this, too. He tapped his pencil on his notepad, his thoughts drifting to the three members of the Resistance he had seen. Fred and Stanley He would catch them one day, see if he didn't.

And there was the girl, too. Dark-haired, fierce, a face glimpsed in the shadows. The leader of the trio. Were they in London still? Or had they fled somewhere far off, to lurk beyond the reaches of the law?

All he needed was a clue, a single measly clue. Then he'd pounce on them, faster than thought. But he had nothing whatsoever to go on. A huge full moon, resplendent with the tinctures of apricots and wheat, and surrounded by a pulsing halo, held sovereignty over the desert sky. A few wispy clouds fled before its majestic face, leaving the heavens naked, glistening blue-black, like the belly of some cosmic whale.

In the distance, the moonlight lapped the dunes; down in the secret valley, the golden haze penetrated the contours of the cliffs to bathe the sandstone floor.

But the wadi was deep and narrow, and to one side an outcrop of rock sheathed an area in inky darkness. In this sheltered place a small fire had been lit. The flames were red and meager; they cast little light. A starveling trail of smoke rose up from the fire and drifted away into the cold night air.

At the edge of the well of moonlight, a figure sat cross-legged before the fire. A man, muscular and bald, with glistening, oiled skin. A heavy gold ring hung from his ear; his face was blank, impassive. He stirred; from a pouch looped around his waist, he took a bottle, fixed with a metal stopper. With a series of languid move- ments that nevertheless suggested the feral, easy strength of a desert lion, he un- corked the bottle and drank. Tossing it aside, he stared into the flames.

After a few moments, an odd scent extended out across the valley, accompa- nied by distant zither music. The man's head nodded, drooped. Now only the whites of his eyes showed; he slept where he sat. The music grew louder; it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. Out from the darkness someone stepped, past the fire, past the sleeper, into the lit ground at the center of the valley.

The music swelled; the very moonlight seemed to brighten in homage to her beauty.

Bartimaeus 02 - The Golem's Eye

A slave girl: Her hair hung in long, dark ringlets that bounced with every tripping step. Her face was pale and smooth as porcelain, her eyes wide and studded with tears. At first tentatively, then with a sudden loosening of emotion, she danced. Her body dipped and spun, her flimsy drape struggled vainly to keep up with her. Her slender arms wove enticements in the air, while from her mouth issued a strange chanting, heavy with loneliness and desire.

The girl finished her dance. She tossed her head in proud despair and gazed up into the darkness, toward the moon. The music died away. Then, a distant voice, as if borne on the wind: Nothing but the rocks and the sky and the amber moon. She gave a pretty sigh. Is that you? Why do you taunt me so?

Shield your face with the gauze that presently lies so uselessly upon your breast, that I might venture near to you. With all my heart!

From the dark- ness came several low mutterings of approval. Somebody coughed. Stand away! I descend to earth. She tossed her head in proud expectation. A crack of thunder sounded, fit to disturb the slumbers of the dead. Open-mouthed, the girl looked up. At a stately pace, a figure descended from the sky. He wore a silvered jerkin across his bare torso, a long flowing cape, puffed pantaloons, and a pair of elegant curled slippers.

An impressive scimitar was tucked into his jeweled belt. Down he came, head back, dark eyes flashing, chin jutting forward proudly beneath his aquiline nose. A pair of curving bone-white horns rose from the edges of his forehead. He landed gently near where the girl was draped against the rock and, with a casual flourish, flashed a gleaming smile. Faint female sighs sounded all around. Do you forget so soon the face of your beloved genie?

Were it seventy years, not seven, I could never forget a single oiled hair upon your head. But my tongue falters and my heart pounds with fear, lest the magician wake and catch us! Then he will bind my slender white legs in chains once more, and immure you in his bottle! My magic is greater than his, and ever shall be. But the night is growing old, and by dawn I must be away with my brothers, the afrits, riding on the currents of the air.

Come to my arms, my darling. In these short hours, while I still have human form, let the moon be witness to our love, which shall defy the hatred of our peoples even unto the ending of the world. At this point the ache in Kitty's bottom became too much to bear.

She shifted in her seat. Genie and girl now began an intricate dance, involving much swirling of cloth- ing and extending of limbs.

There was a smattering of applause from the audience. The orchestra set to with renewed gusto. Kitty yawned like a cat, slumped lower and rubbed an eye with the palm of one hand.

She felt for the paper bag, tipped out the last few salted peanuts and, cupping them to her mouth, crunched unen- thusiastically. That was normal, she expected it. But layered on top of this was the boredom of sitting through the endless play. No doubt, as Anne had said, it would provide a perfect alibi—but Kitty would rather have been working out her tension on the streets, keeping moving, dodging the patrols, not witnessing such awful pap. On stage, Amaryllis, the Chiswick missionary lass turned slave girl, was now singing a song in which once again she expressed her unremitting passion for the genie lover in her arms.

She did so with such force on the high notes that the hair rippled on Bertilak's head and his earrings spun. Kitty winced and glanced along the shrouded silhouettes in front until she came to the outlines of Fred and Stanley. Both looked highly attentive, eyes trained on the stage.

Kitty curled her lip. Pre- sumably they were admiring Amaryllis. Just so long as they remained alert. Kitty's gaze wandered down into the well of darkness by her side.

At her feet was the leather bag. The sight made her stomach lurch; she closed her eyes, instinc- tively patting her coat to feel the reassuring hardness of the knife. Would the interval never come? She raised her head and surveyed the dusky reaches of the auditorium, where, on either side of the stage, the magicians' boxes hung, heavy with gold fretwork and thick red curtains to shield the occupants from the commoners' eyes.

But every magician in town had seen this play years ago, long before it had opened to the sensation-hungry masses. Today the curtains were drawn back, the boxes empty.

Kitty glanced at her wrist, but it was too dark to make out the time. Doubtless there were many forlorn partings, cruel ravishments, and joyful reunions left to en- dure before the interval. And the audience would love every minute of them.

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