The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel

by Jonathan Stroud

  The hulking figure hesitated. ‘Master, Solomon forbids—’

  ‘Fool! The brigands are destroyed; you will have his permission to return. When all is done, await me on the roof of my tower, where I shall issue new instructions. If you disappoint me in any of this, I will skin you. Be off!’

  The magician turned to Asmira, his smile as broad as ever. ‘Priestess Cyrine, you must excuse the stupidity of my slaves. Regretfully a magician must associate with such things, as perhaps you know.’

  ‘Certain of the elder priestesses speak occasionally with spirits, I believe,’ Asmira said demurely. ‘I know nothing of it.’

  ‘Ah, I should hope not, a pretty wisp like you …’ For a heartbeat’s space the big soft eyes looked Asmira up and down. ‘But do not be afraid of my creatures,’ Khaba said, ‘for I have them thoroughly in my power, bound with sturdy magic chains, and all fear my kindest word. Now, if—’

  He halted, frowning. From somewhere close came a tinkling of bells. A gust of wind, carrying with it a sharp, pungent smell, stirred Asmira’s headscarf and made her cough.

  Khaba made a courteous gesture. ‘Priestess, I am sorry. Excuse me just a moment.’

  He spoke a word; three heartbeats passed. A purplish cloud bloomed like a flower in the air above them. Reclining on it, legs casually crossed, and with knobbly hands clasped behind its head, was a small, green-skinned demon. ‘Evening, Master,’ it said. ‘Just thought I’d—’ It noticed Asmira and assumed an expression of extravagant surprise. ‘Ooo, you’ve got company. Nice. Well, don’t let me stop you.’ It settled itself back in its cloud.

  ‘What do you want, Gezeri?’ Khaba said.

  ‘Don’t mind me. It can wait. You keep on nattering.’

  The magician’s smile remained, but his voice was dangerous. ‘Gezeri … ’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ The little demon scratched industriously at an itch in its armpit. ‘Just to say it’s all OK. The old girl’s cracked at last. She’s begun gathering the stuff, and—’

  ‘Enough!’ Khaba cried. ‘We do not need to bore our guest with tedious matters such as this! I will talk to you later. Return to my tower at once!’

  The demon rolled its eyes. ‘Can I? Really? Oh, how lovely.’ So saying, it clapped its hands and vanished.

  Khaba touched Asmira on the arm. ‘Priestess, forgive me. If you will now accompany me to my carpet, I will see to your comfort on the short flight to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

  ‘Ahem.’ There was a small cough to Asmira’s left. The djinni Bartimaeus, who had been waiting unremarked a short way off, had cleared his throat behind an upraised hand.

  ‘Slave,’ Khaba intoned, ‘you shall rejoin the others. Obey Nimshik and work with zeal! Priestess Cyrine, please …’

  Bartimaeus gave a series of little knowing winks and smiles. He bobbed and gestured. He coughed louder, looking pointedly in Asmira’s direction.

  ‘Are you still here!?’ Khaba thrust aside his cloak and reached for a long-handled whip hanging in his belt.

  Until that moment Asmira’s awe at the demons’ arrival, and her excitement at the prospect of reaching Jerusalem, had driven thoughts of her original promise from her mind. But now, spurred on by the djinni’s evident desperation and also by a sudden revulsion for the magician standing at her side, she recalled her vow – and found she had to act. She had, after all, sworn it by the Sun God, and by her mother’s memory.

  ‘O great Khaba,’ she said. ‘A moment, please! This djinni, and that other who accompanied him, have performed a noble service to me. They saved my life, I do believe, and I entreat that in return they may be released from their bonds.’

  She smiled encouragingly. Over in the line of demons, the portly djinni took a few hesitant steps forward. Bartimaeus had frozen where he was, mid-supplication, eyes flicking from her to the magician and back again.

  For the first time Khaba’s own smile faltered; his hand stayed on his whip. ‘Released …? Dear Priestess, you are an innocent indeed! It is the nature of all slaves to perform such services. They cannot and should not expect freedom for every small success they have. Demons in particular must be treated with a heavy hand.’

  ‘But these djinn—’ Asmira said.

  ‘Believe me, they shall get their due reward!’

  ‘A reward which should surely be—’

  ‘Priestess’ – the thin smile had returned; it was wider than before – ‘dear Priestess, this is not the time or place. Let us discuss such things later, when we are at leisure at the palace. I promise I shall hear you out then. Will that satisfy you?’

  Asmira nodded. ‘Thank you. I am grateful.’

  ‘Good. Come then! Your transport awaits …’

  Khaba gestured with a long, pale arm; Asmira shouldered her leather bag and proceeded with him towards the waiting carpet, and the silent demons moved back to let them pass. Neither then, nor as the carpet ascended into the air, did she look back at Bartimaeus; indeed, in moments she had forgotten all about him.

  The distance to Jerusalem was forty miles, and would have taken the camel train a further day; Asmira and the magician covered the distance in little under an hour.

  The demon that transported them was out of sight beneath the carpet, though Asmira could hear the creaking of its wings and, sometimes, muttered swear-words. It kept a smooth and level course high above the darkening Earth, once or twice dropping awkwardly as it met a downdraught over some ridge of hills. On such occasions, the magician cracked the whip over the edge of the carpet, spurring the slave to better efforts with fizzing yellow bands of light.

  Some invisible protective shell encased the carpet, for the wind that howled around them in the darkness did not engulf them with full force, and the carpet’s central section was spared the ice that crystallized on the rearmost tassels. Even so, it was chill. Asmira sat with her bag upon her lap and the magician’s cloak around her shoulders, feeling the violent undulation of the frail cloth beneath, trying not to imagine the fall should the demon decide to shrug them off. The magician sat alongside her, naked to the waist, calm, cross-legged, staring ever forwards. Somewhat to her relief he did not look at her, nor attempt further conversation – this would have been impossible anyway, thanks to the roaring of the wind.

  Night fell during their time aloft. Far to the west Asmira saw the sun’s red tail staining the horizon, but the lands beneath were black below the stars. Far off gleamed the lights of settlements she could not have named; it seemed to Asmira that if she had stretched out a hand she might have easily cupped them and snuffed them out.

  And then at last Jerusalem was before her, clinging like an iridescent butterfly to the dark stem of its hill. Watch fires burned on the crenellated ribbon of the outer walls, green witch-lights in the towers strung upon its length. Within its loop spread a thousand smaller flames of humble homes and market stalls, and high atop the summit, presiding over all, the mighty palace of King Solomon blazed with light – as big and magnificent and invulnerable as all the stories said. Asmira felt her mouth going dry; in the secret warmth of her cloak, her hidden fingers touched the dagger at her belt.

  They descended steeply; a moment later there was a sudden beat of leather wings and a presence in the darkness beside them. Fires flared in a gaping throat, a guttural voice called out a challenge. Asmira’s skin crawled. Khaba scarcely looked up, but made a certain sign, and the watcher, satisfied, fell back into the night.

  Asmira shrank down further into her cloak, ignoring the sickly-sweet mortuary scent that clung to it. Truly was it said that the great king’s city was well protected – even in the air, even in the night. Queen Balkis, as in all things, had been quite right. An army could not have entered Jerusalem, nor yet an enemy magician.

  But she, Asmira, was doing precisely that. The Sun God was watching over her still. With his grace and blessing, she would survive a little longer to do what must be done.

  Her stomach lurched;
her hair lifted high above her. The carpet swung down towards the palace. As it crossed the walls, a blast of horns sounded from the palace ramparts, and all around came the thunderous concussions of Jerusalem’s gates closing fast for the night.

  19

  ‘What did I tell you, Bartimaeus?’ Faquarl said. ‘Gone without a backward look.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Jumped up beside Khaba, quick as a wink, and off they go together. And are we freed?’ added Faquarl bitingly. ‘Look around you.’

  ‘She tried,’ I said.

  ‘Well, she didn’t try very hard, did she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was a cursory effort at best, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘So, don’t you wish we’d eaten her now?’ Faquarl said.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘All right, I do! There, I’ve said it. Are you happy now? Good! Stop rubbing it in.’

  It was far too late to ask for that little favour, of course. Faquarl had been rubbing it in for hours. During the entire clean-up operation he’d been on at me, in fact, even while we were digging the burial pits, even while we were piling up the camels and trying to get them to light. He’d never stopped all this time. It had ruined my afternoon.

  ‘You see, humans stick together,’ Faquarl was saying. ‘That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll always be. And if they stick together, that means we have to do likewise. Never put faith in any human. Eat them while you can. Isn’t that right, lads?’ There was a chorus of hoots and cheers from around the tower-top. Faquarl nodded. ‘They understand what I’m saying, Bartimaeus, so why in Zeus’s name can’t you?’

  He lay back on the stonework idly, twirling his harpoon-tail. ‘She was good-looking in a scrawny sort of way,’ he added. ‘I wonder, Bartimaeus, whether you weren’t rather influenced by appearances. That’s a sorry mistake for a shape-shifting djinni to make, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  A crude cacophony all around indicated that the other six imps agreed with his assessment. We were all of us in imp-form at the time, partly because the flat roof of Khaba’s tower was too compact to accommodate any larger forms, but mainly because it reflected our pervading mood. There are times when you’re happy to manifest yourself as a noble lion, a stately warrior or a chubby, smiling child; and other times – if you’re tired, irritable and stuck with the smell of burned camel up your nose – when only a scowling, warty-bottomed imp will do.

  ‘You can all laugh,’ I growled. ‘I still think it was worth a try.’

  And oddly enough, I did, though everything Faquarl had said was absolutely true. Yes, she’d made only the feeblest effort to speak up on our behalf; yes, she’d promptly swanned off with our loathsome master without a backward glance. But I couldn’t entirely regret saving the Arabian girl. Something about her stuck in my mind.

  It wasn’t her looks, either, whatever Faquarl might suggest. It was more her air of self-possession, the cool directness with which she’d talked with me. It was the way she listened too, still and watchful, taking everything in. It was her evident interest in Solomon and his Ring. It was her vagueness regarding Himyar geography.1 It was also (and this was not the least of it) the curious way she’d managed to survive the ambush in the gorge. No one else in that whole long camel train was still alive, and they’d had djinn-guards and everything.2

  It was all very well for the girl to claim that her dagger had warded off the utukku for a few crucial moments, but there was more to it than that. For a start, she’d left another in the head of the Edomite magician, which if nothing else proved she was no mean shot. Then there was the third dagger I found on the other side of the road, wedged hilt-deep in soft sandstone. It had been thrown with considerable force, but what really interested me about it was the very large essence-stain left on the rocks around. True, it was faint and blurry, but my discerning eye could still make out the spread-eagled silhouettes of arms and legs, horns and wings – even the mouth left gaping in faint surprise.

  Maybe it hadn’t been an utukku, but it had certainly been a djinni of some kind, and the girl had dealt with it in no uncertain terms.

  There was more to her than met the eye.

  Now, I knew a fair bit about priestesses. Ever since I’d served the ferocious Old Priestess of Ur way back in my early years, helping her out in temple rituals, participating (reluctantly) in her mass sacrifices of dogs and servants, burying her at last in a lead-lined tomb,3 I’d seen priestesses up close and personal. And whether they were the well-heeled Babylonian sort, or the screeching maenads you found capering around Greek bushes, they were in general a formidable lot – high-level magicians who were quick to blast a djinni with the essence-lance for the most footling indiscretions, such as accidentally toppling their ziggurat or laughing at their thighs.

  But one thing they weren’t well known for was their personal prowess in the heat of battle.

  South Arabian priestesses might be different, of course. I wasn’t an expert in the region, and I simply couldn’t say. But whatever the case, it was fair to say that this Priestess Cyrine, supposedly of the distant kingdom of Himyar, was rather more intriguing than the average traveller coming to Jerusalem, and I was somehow glad I’d saved her.

  Yet, as Faquarl had pointed out (at interminable length), my gesture hadn’t done us a blind bit of good. Nothing had changed. She’d gone, we were slaves, and the eternal stars above us still shone coldly down.4

  *

  The moon rose higher, and the murmur on the streets below grew slowly stilled. With the gates of the city long since closed, the night markets were shutting now, and the people of Jerusalem trudged home to rest, recuperate and renew the fabric of their lives. Oil lamps flickered in the windows, Solomon’s imp-lights illuminated each corner, and from across the mosaic of rooftop ovens drifted the odours of mutton, garlic and fried lentils, all of which smelled a good deal better than burned camel.

  High on Khaba’s tower the circle of imps had finished whooping, jeering and flicking their tails in my direction, and were considering moving on to a discussion of the influence of religion on regional politics in the east Mediterranean littoral, when there was an odd squeaking sound in our midst.

  ‘Nimshik, have you been at the pickled mites again?’

  ‘No! That wasn’t me!’

  For once the truth of his words was borne out by the sight of a heavy flagstone tilting upwards in the centre of the roof. From beneath appeared a pair of gleaming eyes, a nose like an unripe aubergine, and the distasteful upper portions of the foliot Gezeri, who squinted evilly all around.

  ‘Bartimaeus and Faquarl!’ he called. ‘Look lively! You’re wanted.’

  Neither of us moved an inch. ‘Wanted where?’ I said. ‘And by whom?’

  ‘Oh, by His Royal Majesty King Solomon the Great, of course,’ the foliot said, leaning his bony elbows casually on the roof. ‘He wishes you to attend him in his private apartments in order to thank you personally for your sterling work today.’

  Faquarl and I shuffled at once into more attentive positions. ‘Really?’

  ‘Noooooo, of course not, you idiots!’ the foliot cried. ‘What would Solomon care about you? It’s our master, Khaba the Cruel, what wants you. Who else would it be? And,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘he don’t want you in the summoning room neither, but down in the vaults below the tower. So it don’t look good for either of you, does it?’ he leered. ‘There’s not many goes down there comes swiftly up again.’

  An uncomfortable silence fell upon the rooftop. Faquarl and I looked at each other. The other djinn, caught between horror at the implications and immense relief that it wasn’t them, studied their claws intently, or considered the stars, or began industriously picking at bits of lichen between the flag-stones. None of them wanted to catch our eyes.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Gezeri cried. ‘Step to it, the pair of you!’

  Faquarl and I rose, ducked stiffly beneath the flagsto
ne, and with the eager energy of two criminals shuffling to the gallows, set off down the stairs. Behind us, Gezeri lowered the stone once more, and we were left in darkness.

  Khaba’s tower, being one of the tallest in Jerusalem, was composed of many levels. The exterior was whitewashed and on most days blazed with light; the interior, mirroring its owner’s personality, was altogether less radiant. Hitherto, the only bit I’d seen first-hand was the magician’s summoning room on one of the upper floors – we passed this almost immediately as we spiralled ever downwards, me first, Faquarl next, Gezeri’s big flat feet slapping on the stones behind. Other doors went by, then a broad passage that presumably led to the ground-floor entrance, and still we descended into the Earth.

  Faquarl and I didn’t say much as we went. Our thoughts had strayed to the tortured spirit we’d seen in Khaba’s sphere, a ruined thing kept in the vaults below the tower.

  Now, perhaps, we were to join it.

  I spoke with false heartiness over my shoulder. ‘No need to worry, Faquarl! We dealt with the bandits well today – even Khaba must see that!’

  ‘Whenever I’m lumped in with you, I worry,’ Faquarl growled. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  Down, down, down the staircase curled, and despite my best intentions, my jollity didn’t stick. Maybe it was the sour and musty air, maybe it was the louring darkness, maybe it was the candles flickering in the mummified grasp of severed hands that had been fixed on spikes at intervals along the walls, maybe it was my imagination – but I felt a definite unease as I progressed. And then the staircase ended suddenly before an open doorway of black granite, through which a dim blue-green light pulsed steadily, carrying with it certain sounds. Faquarl and I stopped dead, our essence crawling.

  ‘In there,’ Gezeri said. ‘He’s waiting.’

  There was nothing for it. The two imps squared their knobbly shoulders, stepped forward and entered Khaba’s vaults.