The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel

by Jonathan Stroud

  She scowled at his use of her name. ‘I’m not talking about marriage. Your threat of invasion! Your demands for frankincense! Your vow to destroy our nation when the moon is new!’

  ‘Terrible threats, indeed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Except I never made them.’ He sat back in his chair, thin fingertips together, and gazed at her.

  Asmira blinked. ‘But you did.’

  ‘Not so.’

  ‘I have it on my queen’s word. You must be—’

  ‘And here again,’ King Solomon said, stretching out and taking a fig from the bowl beside him, ‘I must educate you swiftly in the ways of kings. Perhaps, in matters of diplomacy, there are times when the meanings of certain royal words are stretched, or certain things are quietly left unsaid, but when a king looks you in the eye and tells you something is so, it is so. He does not lie. Even to suggest as much means death. Do you understand? Look at me.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, Asmira met his eyes, which of all his ravaged features were the only parts she would have recognized from the mural in the Magicians’ Hall. All its implacable authority was in them. Despite herself, despite her fury, she said sulkily: ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Good. So now you are in a dilemma.’

  She hesitated. ‘My queen …’

  ‘Tells you something different. One of us is lying – or is perhaps mistaken.’

  The tones he used were mild, and he smiled a little as he spoke, but Asmira flinched as if she had been struck. In its quiet way, this was a direct assault upon everything she held dear – just as violent as the burning of the Marib tower. The purpose of her entire life – and of her mother’s – was to defend the queen and, through her, Sheba. The queen’s will could not be questioned. Whatever she did was right; whatever she said was right. To suggest otherwise was to threaten the entire structure on which Asmira based her every waking deed. Solomon’s words gave her a sensation much like vertigo; she was on the edge of a precipice and about to fall.

  Shuffling forward a little further on the bed, she said, ‘My queen would not lie.’

  ‘Might she be mistaken, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there’s no getting any sense from a slave.’ Solomon took a grape from the fruit dish, and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘I must say I am disappointed in Balkis. I’d heard tell that she was intelligent and graceful, but this is shoddy work all round. Still, what do the lapwings know? They also told me she was beautiful. I suppose they got that wrong as well. Never trust a migrating bird.’

  Asmira spoke hotly. ‘She is very beautiful.’

  He grunted. ‘Well, small chance of a marriage now. How did she hear of my wicked plans? Did she say?’

  ‘Your demon messenger.’

  ‘Which could have been sent by anyone. Honestly, a child might have thought to double-check. Asmira – I see you are walking your backside very subtly in my direction. Stop it, please, or the Spirit of the Ring shall continue this conversation with you instead of me. As you have seen, he is not as amiable as I am.’ King Solomon sighed. ‘We have established,’ he went on, ‘that you are here under a misapprehension. What were your exact orders?’

  ‘Kill you. Take the Ring, if I could.’

  ‘And what if you were captured – as was always going to be the case?’

  Asmira shrugged. ‘I would turn my knife upon myself.’

  ‘These were your queen’s orders?’

  ‘She … did not say that. The priestesses did.’

  King Solomon nodded. ‘But Balkis did not object. She was content that you were going to your death. I must say,’ he added, ‘I’m relieved the woman turned down my original proposals. The thought of a wife like that among one’s harem is enough to fill any man with dread. I ought to thank you, Asmira, for opening my eyes.’

  Anger sloshed like acid in her belly. ‘Why didn’t you just kill me when you found me?’

  ‘I am not that sort. Besides, I have more questions. Who brought you up here?’

  ‘I came alone.’

  ‘Asmira, you are doubtless very determined, and extremely good with knives, but neither of those attributes was enough to get you to my rooms. Any ordinary assassin—’

  ‘I’m not an assassin, I’m a hereditary guard.’

  ‘You must forgive me, the difference is subtle. If you are an ordinary “guard”,’ the king went on, ‘then someone with great abilities in magic has given you his aid. The only other possibility is that you are an accomplished magician yourself, with powerful slaves at your command.’ He looked at her sceptically.

  Asmira’s eyes widened. For the first time since she had woken, her self-absorption shifted. She thought of Bartimaeus. He had warned her of the trap; he had tried to stop her. And now she was captured and he … was dead or gone.

  ‘Well, what is the truth, then?’ the king demanded. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I was … brought here by a spirit that I summoned myself.’

  ‘Indeed? Then where is it? I sent out sensors and found nothing.’

  ‘I expect your demon destroyed it,’ Asmira said.

  The elegant brows furrowed. ‘What was its nature? A marid?’

  ‘A djinni.’

  ‘Oh, now I know that you are lying.’ The king reached out and took the Ring from the silver plate. ‘A mere djinni could not get past all my slaves below. You are no magician. But a magician has surely helped you …’ His eyes narrowed, became harsh with suspicion. ‘Who was it, then? One of my own?’

  Asmira frowned in perplexity. ‘What?’

  ‘Hiram? Nisroch? Khaba? Come, you are protecting someone.’ He waved a hand towards the window. ‘The Seventeen grow impatient in their little towers down there. They are close to the source of power, but not as close as they would like! Who knows, perhaps they secretly work in tandem with this queen of yours. Perhaps, like her, they look for someone young and gullible, someone hot-headed, burning with addled zeal – someone who might strike a blow against me on their behalf!’ Asmira tried to speak, but the king’s voice grew louder; he sat forward in his chair. ‘Perhaps you even work for them directly! Tell me, Asmira, what did they offer you if you crept in here on your suicidal mission? Love? Silks? Riches? Quickly now, the Ring is on my finger! Speak! Tell me the truth before it turns!’

  For a moment the rage and confusion that warred within her struck Asmira quite dumb. Then she laughed. She set her untouched wine carefully on the floor and got slowly to her feet. ‘I’ve told you the truth,’ she said. ‘Turn the Ring and have done.’

  King Solomon grimaced. ‘Sit down. I warn you – sit!’

  ‘No.’ She walked towards him.

  ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ Solomon raised his left hand and, with the thumb and forefinger of his right, turned the band of gold upon his little finger.

  Asmira stopped where she was. She closed her eyes; blood pounded in her head …

  Nothing happened. Somewhere, as if at one remove, she heard the king give a muttered oath.

  Asmira opened one eye. Solomon sat as before, spinning the Ring upon his finger. Round and round it went. No terrifying entity materialized between them.

  Even as she watched, the slender band of gold grew limp and soggy, took on a somewhat grey and fishy air. It sagged against his finger. King Solomon and Asmira stared at it openmouthed.

  ‘A calamari ring …’ Asmira breathed.

  Solomon’s voice was barely audible. ‘Someone’s switched it …’ he began.

  ‘Ah yes, now that would have been me.’ At this, a small, striped sand cat sauntered out from behind the nearest rack of scrolls, whiskers sparkling, eyes gleaming, tail held high in a particularly jaunty manner. It looked inordinately pleased with itself. It strolled over the rugs and came to a halt between them. ‘One “mere djinni” at your service,’ it said, settling itself down neatly, and winding its tail around its paws. ‘One “mere djinni”’ – here it paused and blinked round at them for drama
tic effect – ‘who, while you’ve both been chatting away like fishwives, has got himself a ring.’

  30

  I made it look easy, didn’t I? But it wasn’t quite as straightforward as all that.

  True, getting into the chamber wasn’t so hard – there weren’t any traps or sentinels, and Solomon had his back to me when I peeked round the door. And nipping over to the rack beside the window was a doddle too, since he and the girl were absorbed by their rather tense ‘discussion’, and were hardly likely to notice a discreetly passing fly.1

  From then on though, things got trickier – mainly because of the nature of the Ring.

  It was so bright for starters. On the first plane the room was adequately lit by several flickering oil lamps,2 but on the higher ones the aura of that little golden speck leached everything whiter and brighter than the Egyptian sands at noon. It was so overwhelming that it actually made me sick to use my inner eyes. Except in briefest snatches, I stuck with the first plane from then on.

  The actual sleight-of-hand stuff – putting a quick Illusion on a squid ring and substituting it for the real Ring on the plate – that was easy too, at least in principle. Stealing stuff is second nature to djinn – always has been, mainly because it’s all we’re ever asked to do.3 So the sand cat simply tiptoed up behind Solomon’s chair, and waited until one of the girl’s spasms of righteous outrage coincided with one of the king’s. No sooner were they both rolling their eyes and huffing loudly than I stuck out my paw, made my switch faster than blinking, and retreated in haste towards the window.

  Which was when I hit the real snag.

  How that Ring hurt me.

  Of course, the silver dish that Solomon had plonked it on for safekeeping hadn’t done my essence any good at all. If it had been any normal object sitting there, I’d have been most reluctant to go anywhere near it. But to steal the Ring of Solomon? I could cope with a little bit of blistering for that. So I girded my furry loins and did the deed, and it was only when I was moving away from the silver’s baleful chill that I realized the Ring I held lightly between my teeth was also causing problems.

  It wasn’t a cold burning sensation like silver (or iron, or any of the other substances that are anathema to spirits). It was hotter than that, and at first not so troublesome. It began as the faintest prickling of my essence round where I held the Ring. The feeling was curiously familiar – painful, but also pleasant – and quickly grew to become a sharp, insistent tugging. By the time the sand cat had made it back into concealment behind the rack of scrolls, I felt almost as if I was being pulled in two. I spat the Ring down onto the floor and regarded it (on the first plane) in consternation.

  Philocretes hadn’t lied. The energies of the Other Place pulsed furiously in this little golden ring. It had been created as an instant portal between the dimensions, and even while closed, there was something of a draught coming under the door. The tugging sensation was exactly the same thing I experienced whenever I was released from service in this world. Then, of course, it was welcome, because I could give in to it; now, trapped as I was on Earth, it didn’t half sting. Even after a bare few moments holding the Ring, my essence felt oddly out of kilter, pulled out of shape by the forces it contained. I dreaded to think what would have happened if I’d actually put it on.4

  Putting it on, needless to say, was what Solomon did every single day.

  I still hadn’t seen his face, but even from behind I could tell he didn’t look exactly as he had down on the building site. His hair was grey, for one thing, and there was something ominously thin about the arms and hands. In a flash I understood something of the price he paid.

  I thought about this while I sat quiet, eyeing the Ring dubiously and recovering from its touch. Beyond the rack, meanwhile, the argument was in full flow, both girl and king working themselves up into paroxysms of fury. Part of me still hoped Big Sol might lose it, produce an afrit from somewhere and blast the girl to smithereens, so that I could just leave the Ring lying and head off home. But my hopes weren’t high. Clearly he didn’t like having spirits (or humans) of any kind in his apartments at night. He relied on Illusions – such as the many-tentacled monster – and his fearsome reputation to keep his enemies at bay.

  Likewise, if the girl had been a real assassin, she’d have scissor-kicked suddenly through the air, done a fancy twirl, and snapped his neck between her thighs before doing the splits on landing. I’d have paid good money to see that. But instead she just got red-faced and a bit shouty, and then decided to end it all in a kind of futile grump.5

  Cue Solomon grimly turning the Ring upon his finger.

  Cue his discovery that all wasn’t as it seemed.

  Cue my sudden entrance, casual as you like, and their consequent stupefaction.6

  I’ve had worse moments in my career.

  ‘Hello, Asmira,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Hello, Solomon.’ I smoothed out my whiskers with a paw. ‘First one to recover gets a prize.’

  The girl gave a strangled gasp. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I thought that giant demon—’

  ‘Wasn’t one. It was an Illusion. Solomon seems to specialize in them.’

  She scowled indignantly at the king. ‘You said you saved me from it!’

  ‘You can’t believe anything anyone says, can you?’ I winked at Solomon, who was staring at me in blankest incomprehension. ‘We meet again, O King. In rather different circumstances to last time.’

  There was a pause. Well, give him his due, he hadn’t seen my cat get-up before. Plus he was probably still in shock.

  I laughed lightly. ‘That’s right, my friend. Bartimaeus of Uruk, at your service.’

  ‘Who?’

  The tip of the cat’s tail kinked slightly with annoyance. ‘Bartimaeus. Of Uruk. Surely you recall …? Oh, Great Marduk on high.’ With the swiftness of thought the cat became a pygmy hippo in a skirt, plump forearms lodged indignantly on hips. ‘Well, perhaps you remember this?’

  Asmira blinked at me. ‘Is this one of your usual guises?’

  ‘No. Well, not often. Look, it’s a long story.’

  Solomon gave a sudden start. ‘I recall you! You are one of Khaba’s djinn!’ He glared at the girl. ‘So, then … it was the Egyptian who sent you here …’

  I shook my head pityingly. ‘Hardly! I am Khaba’s slave no longer! Bartimaeus of Uruk has ways of escaping the harshest bondage. No magician holds me long! Time and again I—’

  ‘Khaba trapped him in a bottle,’ the girl interrupted. ‘I got him out. He’s my slave now.’

  ‘Technically speaking’ – I scowled – ‘that may be true. But it won’t be the case for long. I’ve learned your birth-name, Asmira, and that puts you at a sudden disadvantage. If you want to live much longer, I suggest you dismiss me right away.’

  The girl ignored me. She stepped across to Solomon and plucked the silver dagger from his lap. He made no move to stop her. She stood close beside his chair, with the weapon held towards him.

  ‘Give me the Ring, Bartimaeus,’ she said abruptly. ‘We’re going.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Wait a minute. Didn’t you hear what I said? I know your name. I can deflect any Ward you throw.’

  ‘You still have to do what I say, don’t you? Where’s the Ring?’

  ‘Dismiss me, and I’ll tell you as I go.’

  ‘What? Like I’m going to agree to that!’

  King Solomon of Israel had been sitting in his chair, watching us both intently. Suddenly he spoke; frail as he seemed, his voice still carried its note of assured command. ‘Bartimaeus of Uruk, did you carry out the charge I gave you?’

  ‘What charge?’ The hippo stared. ‘You mean sorting out the bandits in the desert? Yes, I did, as it happens, but that’s not really what we’re talking about right now. Listen, Asmira—’

  ‘Tell me of these bandits,’ Solomon persisted. ‘Who were they? Who was their leader?’

  ‘Er, they were
sent by the king of the Edomites, who’s annoyed with you for this massive yearly tribute you keep demanding. But you’ll agree this isn’t really the time—’

  ‘Tribute? What tribute is this? I’ve never demanded one!’

  ‘The king of the Edomites thinks you have,’ I said. ‘Just as the Queen of Sheba thinks you’re after her frankincense. All rather puzzling, isn’t it? Someone’s up to no good behind your back. But forgive me, O great Solomon, you don’t seem to quite realize the situation you’re in. You’re powerless. I’ve stolen your Ring.’

  ‘Correction: I’ve stolen it,’ the girl said. ‘I’m his master.’

  ‘Nominally,’ the hippo growled. ‘But not for long.’

  ‘Give me the Ring, Bartimaeus!’

  ‘No! What about my Dismissal?’

  ‘Come on, Bartimaeus,’ Solomon said suddenly. ‘Why don’t you give her the Ring?’

  The girl and I both hesitated. We broke off our argument and stared at him.

  King Solomon stretched in his chair, took a piece of smoked mackerel and popped it in his mouth.7 It had to be said he didn’t seem quite as perturbed by events as might have been expected. ‘Give her the Ring,’ he said again. ‘Why not? Why the reluctance? You should ask yourself, Asmira of Sheba, why your servant hesitates in this very simple matter. Surely he should wish to carry out his charge so that you let him go. Can it be,’ Solomon went on, looking between us, one to the other, with his tired eyes, ‘that the djinni has understood something about the Ring that you don’t yet realize? Can it be that he wants to get far from here before you find it out?’

  The hippo blew out its cheeks resignedly. He was right, of course. I flicked a forefoot towards the nearest rack of scrolls. ‘You want the Ring?’ I sighed. ‘It’s under the rack, on the far side.’

  The girl frowned at me. ‘Keep watch on Solomon,’ she said.

  She stalked past me to the rack, crouched low. There was a pause as her fingers quested, then a little gasp of triumph. I screwed my eyes up tight and waited.

  A scream; the sound of a ring rolling back upon the floor. When I looked across, the girl was tightly clasping her hand beneath her arm.