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

government's response was draconian: many commoners had been arrested on suspicion, a few were
executed and others deported by prison hulk to the colonies. 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 something of its nature. One dark night, he
had encountered three child commoners operating 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.

He knew nothing of the three commoners beyond their names: 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 surveillance had thrown up no new leads: evidently, the duo had
changed their occupation.

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
Resistance 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 making 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 windowpanes. 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: an
attack on a shop in a Whitehall backstreet. At dawn that day, an explosive device, probably a small
sphere, had been tossed through a skylight, grievously wounding the manager. The shop supplied
tobacco and incense to magicians; presumably this was why it had been targeted.

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