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

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 pattern was obvious enough:
opportunistic crimes, carried out by small, fast-moving units who somehow managed to stay clear of
patrolling vigilance spheres and other demons. 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... the memory of them made him grind his teeth and tap the pencil ever harder. He would
catch them one day, see if he didn't. And there was the girl, too. Kitty. 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.

"Who are you?" he said to himself. "Where are you hiding?"

His pencil broke in his hand.
 3
Kitty

It was a night ripe for enchantment. 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 movements that nevertheless suggested the feral, easy strength of a
desert lion, he uncorked the bottle and drank. Tossing it aside, he stared into the flames.

After a few moments, an odd scent extended out across the valley, accompanied 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. A slave girl: young, exquisite, too poor to afford adequate clothing. 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