"Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 2 - The Golem's Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stroud Jonathan)

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: great marble pillars; vast bronze doors; hundreds upon hundreds of windows with
lights burning at every hour; granite statues of Gladstone and other notables, their grim, lined faces
promising the rigors of justice for all enemies of State. 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 policeman, flashed his pass to
a guard, and stepped through a side gate into the courtyard 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. Good. 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 protective 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 magicians,
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.

Two other magicians had borne this name, neither of great renown. 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 1,703 increasingly irrelevant subtypes before one
of them, a Lesser Frilled Green Hornetwing, stung him in an unguarded area; he swelled to the size of
a chaise lounge and so died.

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 influence was long. She recognized her apprentice's