The magician finished, spoke the final words. The pretty maiden’s body became soft and see-through; for an instant I hung together like a statue formed of silken smoke, then burst soundlessly into nothing.
1 Rizim had put the other eye out on a rare occasion when our master had made a slight mistake with the words of his summoning. We’d additionally managed to scorch his backside once or twice, and there was a scar on his neck where I’d come close with a lucky ricochet, but despite a long career commanding more than a dozen formidable djinn, the magician remained vigorous and spry. He was a tough old bird.
2 Eridu of the Seven Temples, the bone-white city, glittering in green fields. One of the earliest cities of men. In its day its ziggurats rose high as falcon’s flight, and the scent of its spice markets drifted on the winds as far as Uruk and the sea … Then the river changed its course, the land went dry. The people grew thin and cruel; their temples toppled into dust, and they and their past were utterly forgotten. Except by spirits such as me. And, naturally – whenever their gold lust overcame their fears – by magicians too.
2
No matter how many times you see the dead walk, you always forget just how rubbish they are when they really get moving. Sure, they look OK when they first break through the wall – they get points for shock value, for their gaping sockets and gnashing teeth, and sometimes (if the Reanimation spell is really up to scratch) for their disembodied screams. But then they start pursuing you clumsily around the temple, pelvises jerking, femurs high-kicking, holding out their bony arms in a way that’s meant to be sinister but looks more as if they’re about to sit down at a piano and bash out a honky-tonk rag. And the faster they go, the more their teeth start rattling and the more their necklaces bounce up and get lodged in their eye-holes, and then they start tripping over their grave-clothes and tumbling to the floor and generally getting in the way of any nimble-footed djinni who happens to be passing. And, as is the way with skeletons, never once do they come out with any really good one-liners, which might add a bit of zest to the life-or-death situation you’re in.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said as I hung from the wall, ‘there must be someone here worth talking to.’ With my free hand I fired a plasm across the room, causing a Void to open in the path of one of the scurrying dead. It took a step, was sucked into oblivion; I sprang up from the stones, bounced off the vaulted ceiling and landed nimbly on top of a statue of the god Enki on the opposite side of the hall.
To my left a mummified corpse shuffled from its alcove. It wore a slave’s robe and had a rusted manacle and chain about its shrunken neck. With a creaky spring it leaped to snare me. I yanked the chain, the head came off; I caught this mid-palm as the body fell away, and bowled it unerringly into the midriff of one of its dusty comrades, snapping its backbone with neat precision.
Jumping from the statue, I landed in the very centre of the temple hall. From every side now the dead converged, their robes as frail as cobwebs, hoops of bronze twirling on their wrists. Things that had once been men and women – slaves, freemen, courtiers and under-priests, members of every level of Eridu’s society – pressed tight about me, jaws gaping, jagged yellow fingernails raised to rend my essence.
I’m a courteous fellow and greeted them all appropriately. A Detonation to the left. A Convulsion to the right. Bits of ancient person spattered merrily on the glazed reliefs of the old Sumerian kings.
That gave me a brief respite. I took a look around.
In the twenty-eight seconds since I’d tunnelled through the ceiling, I’d not had time to fully assess my surroundings, but from the décor and the general layout a couple of things were clear. First, it was a temple of the water god Enki (the statue told me that, plus he featured prominently in the wall reliefs, along with his attendant fish and snake-dragons) and had been abandoned for at least fifteen hundred years.1 Second, in all the long centuries since the priests had sealed the doors and left the city to be swallowed by the desert sands, no one had entered before me. You could tell that from the layers of dust upon the floor, the unbroken entrance stone, the zeal of the guardian corpses and – last but not least – the statuette resting on the altar at the far end of the hall.
It was a water serpent, a representation of Enki, fashioned with great artifice out of twisting gold. It glittered palely in the light of the Flares I’d sent forth to illuminate the room, and its ruby eyes shone evilly like dying embers. As a work of art alone, it was probably beyond price, but that was only half the story. It was magical too, with a strange pulsing aura visible on the higher planes.2
Good. That was that settled, then. I’d take the serpent and be on my way.
‘Excuse me, excuse me …’ This was me politely ushering the dead aside, or in most cases using Infernos to strike them burning across the hall. More were still emerging, trundling forth from slot-like alcoves in each wall. There seemed no end to them, but I wore a young man’s body, and my movements were swift and sure. With spell and kick and counter-punch I ploughed my way towards the altar—
And saw the next trap waiting.
A net of fourth-plane threads hung all around the golden serpent, glowing emerald green. The threads were very thin, and faint even to my djinni’s gaze.3 Feeble as they looked, however, I had no wish to disturb them. As a general principle, Sumerian altar-traps are worth avoiding.
I stopped below the altar, deep in thought. There were ways to disarm the threads, which I would have no trouble employing, provided I had a bit of time and space.
At that moment a sharp pain disturbed me. Looking down, I discovered that a particularly disreputable-looking corpse (who in life had clearly suffered many skin ailments and doubtless looked upon mummification as a sharp improvement to his lot) had snuck up and sunk his teeth deep into the essence of my forearm.
The temerity! He deserved special consideration. Shoving a friendly hand inside his rib-cage, I fired a small Detonation upwards. It was a manoeuvre I hadn’t tried in decades, and was just as amusing as ever. His head blew clean off like a cork from a bottle, cracked nicely against the ceiling, bounced twice off nearby walls and (this was where my amusement smartly vanished) plopped to earth right beside the altar, neatly snapping the net of glowing threads as it did so.
Which shows how foolish it is to go enjoying yourself in the middle of a job.
A deep concussion echoed across the planes. It was fairly faint to my hearing, but over in the Other Place it would have been hard to ignore.
For a moment I stood quite still: a thin young man, dark of skin and light of loincloth, staring in annoyance at the writhing filaments of broken thread. Then, swearing in Aramaic, Hebrew and several other languages, I leaped forward, plucked the serpent from the altar and backed hurriedly away.
Eager corpses came clamouring behind me: without looking I unleashed a Flux and they were whirled asunder.
Up beside the altar the fragments of thread stopped twitching. With great speed they melted outwards, forming a pool or portal upon the flagstones. The pool spread beneath the corpse’s upturned head. The head dropped slowly down into the pool, out of existence, away from this world. There was a pause. The pool shone with the myriad colours of the Other Place, distant, muffled, as if seen from under glass.
A tremor passed across its surface. Something was coming.
Turning swiftly, I considered the distance to the shattered patch of ceiling where I’d first broken through: trickles of loose sand still spooled down into the chamber. My tunnel had probably collapsed with the weight of sand; it would take time to push my way back up – time I didn’t presently have. A Trigger-summons never takes long.
I spun back reluctantly to face the portal, where the surface of the pool was flexing and contorting. Two great arms issued forth, shimmering green and veinous. Clawed hands grasped the stonework on either side. Muscles flexed and a body rose into the world, a thing of nightmare. The head was human in semblance,4 and surmounted by long black coils of hair. A chiselled tor
so came next, and this was of the same green stuff. The components of the bottom half, which followed, seemed to have been chosen almost at random. The legs, corded with muscle, were those of a beast – possibly a lion or some other upscale predator – but ended sinisterly in an eagle’s splaying claws. The creature’s rear end was mercifully cloaked by a wrap-around skirt; from a slit in this rose a long and vicious scorpion tail.
There was a pregnant pause as the visitation pulled free of the portal and stood erect. Behind us, even the last few milling dead were somewhat hushed.
The creature’s face was that of a Sumerian lord: olive-skinned and handsome, black hair coiled in shining ringlets. The lips were full, the squared beard oiled. But the eyes were blank holes torn in the flesh. And now they looked on me.
‘It’s … Bartimaeus, isn’t it? You didn’t trigger this, did you?’
‘Hello, Naabash. Afraid so.’
The entity stretched its great arms wide so that the muscles cracked. ‘Ohhh, now what’d you go and do that for? You know what the priests say about trespassers and thieves. They’ll have your guts for garters. Or rather … I will.’
‘The priests aren’t that fussed about the treasure now, Naabash.’
‘They aren’t?’ The blank eyes looked around the temple. ‘It does seem a little dusty. Has it been a while?’
‘Longer than you think.’
‘But the charge still holds, Bartimaeus. Can’t do anything about that. While stone stands on stone and our city lasts … You know the score.’ The scorpion tail juddered up with a dry and eager rattle, the shiny black sting jerking forwards above his shoulder. ‘What’s that you’re carrying? Not the sacred serpent?’
‘Something to look at later, when I’ve dealt with you.’
‘Ah, very good, very good. You always were a chipper one, Bartimaeus, always spoke above your station. Never known anyone get the flail so often. How you vexed the humans with your backchat.’ The Sumerian lord smiled, showing neat double rows of sharply filed teeth. The hind legs moved slightly, the claws dug into stone; I watched the tendons tensing, ready for sudden movement. I didn’t take my eyes off them. ‘Which particular employer are you vexing now?’ Naabash went on. ‘The Babylonians, I assume. They were on the up last time I looked. They always coveted Eridu’s gold.’
The dark-eyed youth ran a hand through his curly hair. I smiled bleakly. ‘Like I say, it’s been longer than you think.’
‘Long or short, it matters not to me,’ Naabash said softly. ‘I have my charge. The sacred serpent stays here in the temple heart, its powers lost to common men.’
Now, I’d never heard of this serpent. To me it just seemed a typical bit of tat the old cities used to war over, a kitsch little number in rolled gold. But it’s always good to know exactly what you’re stealing.
‘Powers?’ I said. ‘What does it do?’
Naabash chuckled, wistful melancholy suffusing his voice. ‘Nothing of consequence. It contains an elemental that will emit jets of water from the mouth when the tail is tweaked. The priests used to bring it out in times of drought to inspire the people. If I remember correctly, it is also rigged with two or three little mechanical traps designed to dismay robbers who meddle with the emerald studs upon the claws. Notice the hinges hidden beneath each one …’
I made a mistake here. Half lulled by Naabash’s gentle tones, I couldn’t help flicking a brief glance down at the serpent in my hands, just to see if I could spot the little hinges.
Which was exactly what he wanted, of course.
Even as my eyes moved, the beast legs flexed. In a flash of movement Naabash was gone.
I threw myself sideways just as the flagstone where I’d been standing was struck in half by the sting-tail’s blow. I was fast enough for that, but not enough to avoid the lashing impact of his outstretched arm: a great green fist struck against my leg as I hurtled through the air. This blow, together with the precious artefact I held, prevented me from employing my usual elegant keynote manoeuvre in such circumstances.5 Instead I half rolled painfully across a convenient mat of scattered corpses and leaped to my feet once more.
Naabash meanwhile had righted himself with stately care. He turned towards me, bending low, his human arms pawing at the ground; then he sprang again. Me? I fired a Convulsion straight up at the ceiling above my head. Once more I jumped away, once more the scorpion tail drove straight through the flagstones; once more – but this time Naabash didn’t get around to striking me as well, since the ceiling had fallen on him.
Fifteen centuries of accumulated desert sands lay atop the buried temple, so with the falling masonry came a pleasant bonus: a great silvery-brown cascade that plunged down in a torrent, crushing Naabash under several solid tons.
Ordinarily I’d have lingered a while to jeer loudly near the rapidly spreading heap, but hefty as it was, I knew it wouldn’t delay him long. It was time to leave.
Wings sprouted from my shoulders; I sent another blast upwards to further clear the way, and without pause sprang up through the ceiling and the rain of falling sand, towards the waiting night.
1 To my connoisseur’s eye the style looked late Sumerian (circa 2500 BC), with just a hint of Old Babylonian decadence, but frankly there were too many body parts flying about for a proper critique just yet.
2The planes: seven planes of existence are superimposed upon each other at all times, like invisible layers of tracing paper. The first plane includes everything in the solid, everyday world; the other six reveal the hidden magic all around – secret spells, lurking spirits, and ancient enchantments long forgotten. It’s a well-known fact that you can reliably gauge the intelligence and quality of a species by the number of planes it is able to observe, e.g. top djinn (like me): seven; foliots and higher imps: four; cats: two; fleas, tapeworms, humans, dust-mites, etc.: one.
3 A Trigger-summons such as this is always invisible to mortal sight, of course, but with time, faint residues of dust accumulate on the threads, giving them a ghost-like presence on the first plane too. This allows perceptive human thieves a chance. The old Egyptian tomb-robber Sendji the Violent, for instance, used a small squadron of trained bats to suspend tiny candles above patches of floor he considered dubious, allowing him to trace the delicate shadows made by the dust lines, and so pass unscathed between the traps. Or at least that’s what he told me shortly before his execution. He had an honest face, but, well … trained bats … I just don’t know.
4 See? How grotesque can you get? Yeuch.
5 ‘The Evasive Cartwheel’™ ©, etc., Bartimaeus of Uruk, circa 2800 BC. Often imitated, never surpassed. As famously memorialized in the New Kingdom tomb paintings of Rameses III – you can just see me in the background of The Dedication of the Royal Family Before Ra, wheeling out of sight behind the pharaoh.
3
Dawn was at my back when I returned to Jerusalem. The tops of the magicians’ towers were already fringed with pink, and the dome of Solomon’s white-walled palace shone bright like a new sun.
Further down the hill, by the Kidron Gate, the old man’s tower was mostly in shadow. I flew to the upper window, outside which a bronze bell hung suspended, and rang this once, as per my orders. My master forbade his slaves to come upon him unawares.
The echoes faded. My broad wings stirred the cold, fresh air. I hovered, waiting, watching the landscape melt into being. The valley was dim and silent, a trough of mist into which the road wound and faded. The first workers emerged from the gate below; they set off down the road towards the fields. They went slowly, stumbling on the rough stones. On the higher planes I could see one or two of Solomon’s spies going with them – foliots riding the halters of the oxen, bright-hued mites and implets drifting on the wind.
The minutes passed, and finally a charming sensation like a dozen spear points plucking out my vitals heralded the magician’s summons. I closed my eyes, submitted – and a moment later felt the sour warmth of the magician’s chamber pressing on my essence.
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To my great relief the old man was in his robes despite the early hour. A templeful of corpses is one thing; a wrinkly, undressed master would have been another. He was standing ready in his circle, and as before, all the seals and curse-runes were correctly in position. With the goat’s-fat candles burning and the little pots of rosemary and frankincense repelling me with the sweetness of their stench, I stood in the centre of my pentacle and regarded him steadily, holding the serpent in my slender hands.1
The moment I materialized I knew how badly he wanted it, not for Solomon but for himself. His eye widened; avarice shimmered on its surface like a film of oil.
He did not say anything for a while, just looked. I moved the serpent slightly so the candlelight flowed alluringly upon its contours, tilting it to show him the ruby eyes, and the emerald studs upon the splaying claws.
When he spoke, his voice was coarse and heavy with desire. ‘You went to Eridu?’
‘As I was ordered, so I went. I found a temple. This was inside.’
The eye glinted. ‘Pass it to me.’
I held back a moment. ‘Will you dismiss me as requested? I have served you faithfully and well.’
At this the old man’s face congealed with violent passion. ‘You dare try bartering with me? Pass me the artefact, demon, or by my secret name I swear I shall plunge you screaming into the Dismal Flame2 before the hour is out!’ He glared at me, eye popping, jaw jutting, thin white lines of moisture on his parted lips.
The Ring of Solomon Page 2