The Ring of Solomon

by Jonathan Stroud

  The head – a smooth-sided node of grainy blackness – had tilted slightly to one side. Featureless as it was, it held the suggestion of keen attention. The body swayed a little, like a mesmerist’s snake rising from its basket. Now that they were separated from the magician, its legs narrowed to two sharp points. It had no feet at all.

  ‘What are you?’ I said.

  It had no ears, but heard me; no mouth, and yet it spoke.

  ‘I am Ammet.’ The voice was soft as tomb-dust shifting. ‘I am a marid.’

  So that’s what he was. A marid! Well – it could have been worse.1

  The spear-bearer swallowed; and by an embarrassing quirk of acoustics the painful gulping sound echoed back and forth across the vaults, getting louder with each rebound. The shadow waited. From the essence-cages beyond the columns there was nothing but watchful silence.

  The smile I gave when all was still was possibly a trifle forced; nevertheless I gave it, and bowed low. ‘Lord Ammet,’ I said, ‘the pleasure is mine. I have observed you wonderingly from afar, and am glad to speak with you at last in private. We have much to discuss.’

  The shadow said nothing; it appeared to be consulting the papyrus. A long gauzy arm stole forward and placed the crystal bottle in the centre of the circle close beside my feet.

  I shuffled away a bit, and cleared my throat. ‘As I say, we have much to discuss before we do anything hasty. First of all, let me make my position clear. I acknowledge you as a mighty spirit and I bow to your power. In no way can I match your qualities.’2

  This was, of course, exactly the sort of slavish bootlicking I’d criticized the girl for earlier that afternoon, but I was in no mood for quibbling right now. The idea of being trapped for decades in the crystal bottle was unappealing in the extreme, and I’d have given the shadow a scented massage if I thought it would save my skin.

  But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. I thought I glimpsed a possible way out.

  ‘However, great as you are, and humble as I am,’ I went on, ‘in one aspect we are alike, are we not? For we are both enslaved to this vile Khaba, a man depraved even by the standards of magicians. Look around you! See what wicked things he does to spirits in his power. Listen to the sighs and moans that fill this unhappy vault! These essence-cages are an abomination!’

  The shadow had looked up at me sharply during this fine oration. I paused, giving it a chance to agree with me here, but it only continued its snake-like swaying from side to side, and said nothing.

  ‘Now of course you must obey Khaba’s commands,’ I said. ‘I understand that. You are enslaved just as much as I. But before you act to confine me in this bottle, consider one thing. My prospective fate is terrible indeed – but is yours truly any better? Yes, I will be held captive, but so shall you, for when the magician returns, you will once again slip beneath his feet and be forced to trail behind him in the dirt and dust. Khaba treads upon you daily as he goes! This is treatment that would be demeaning for an imp, let alone a glorious marid. Consider Gezeri,’ I continued, warming to my theme, ‘a grotesque and squalid foliot, who luxuriates foully in his cloud while you are dragged below him among the stones! Something is wrong here, friend Ammet. This is a perverse situation, as all can see, and we must remedy it together.’

  Hard as it generally is to analyse the expression of a thing without facial features, the shadow did appear to be deep in thought. Growing in confidence, I sidled forth towards the edge of the obsidian circle, towards the shadow and away from the crystal bottle.

  ‘So, let us talk openly of our joint predicament,’ I concluded earnestly. ‘Perhaps, if we explore the exact wording of your charge, we might find some way to overcome its power. With luck I will be saved, you will be freed, and we will achieve our master’s downfall!’

  I took a break here, not because I was out of breath (I don’t breathe), nor because I’d run out of glib platitudes (of which I’ve an infinite supply), but because I was perplexed and frustrated by the shadow’s continued silence. Nothing I’d said seemed in any way unreasonable, yet still the towering form remained inscrutable, just swaying to and fro.

  The young man’s handsome face drew close to the shadow’s. I was going for ‘impassioned and confidential’ here, with a side order of ‘idealistic fervour’. ‘My comrade Faquarl has a maxim,’ I cried. ‘Only together can we spirits hope to defeat the wickedness of men! So, let us prove the truth of this, good Ammet. Let us work together and find a loophole in your summoning that we might exploit. Then, before the day is out, we shall kill our enemy, crack his bones and sup long upon his marrow!’3

  My finale reverberated between the pillars and set the imp-lights twinkling. Still the shadow said nothing, but its fibres darkened, as if with some strong and unexpressed emotion. This might have been good … or, in all honesty, it might have been bad.

  I drew back a tad. ‘Maybe the marrow bit’s not to your taste,’ I said hastily, ‘but you’ll surely share the sentiment. Come, Ammet, my friend and fellow slave, what do you say?’

  And now, finally, the shadow stirred. Swaying out from behind the lectern, it drifted slowly forth.

  ‘Yes …’ it whispered. ‘Yes, I am a slave …’

  The handsome young man, who’d really been on tenterhooks, though he was trying hard not to show it, gave a gasp of relief. ‘Good! That’s right! Well done. Now we—’

  ‘I am a slave who loves his master.’

  There was a pause. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘your voice was just a trifle too sinister for me to catch there. For all the world, I thought you said—’

  ‘I love my master.’

  Now it was my turn to do the silent thing. I stepped carefully backwards, step by step, and the shadow bore down on me.

  ‘We are talking about the same master, aren’t we?’ I began hesitantly. ‘Khaba? Bald, Egyptian, ugly? Eyes like wet stains on a dirty rag …? Surely not. Oh. We are.’

  A slender arm of black lace-like threads had suddenly extended; tapering fingers grasped me by the throat, held me choked and dangling above the ground. Without effort, they crushed my neck as thin as a lotus stalk, so that the handsome youth’s eyes bulged, my head swelled, my feet ballooned in size.

  Now the shadow’s arm raised up, lifted me high, close to its silhouetted head. Still its mimicry of Khaba was perfect – the shape, the angle, everything.

  ‘Little djinni,’ the shadow whispered, ‘let me tell you something about me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked, ‘please do.’

  ‘You should know,’ Ammet said, ‘that I have served dear Khaba for many years, ever since he was a pale, thin youth working in the vaults below the Karnak temples. I was the first great spirit that he summoned, quietly and in secret, in defiance of the sacred rules of the priesthood.4 I was with him as he learned his power, as he waxed in strength; I stood at his hand as he strangled the high priest Weneg beside his altar and took the scrying stone he still wears. Great already was my master’s influence in Egypt as he came of age, and it could have been much greater. Before long, he would have bent the very pharaohs to his will.’

  ‘This is jolly interesting,’ I said, through swollen lips, ‘but it’s hard to hear you with half my essence squashed inside my head. If you could just relax your hold a little—?’

  ‘But Egypt’s glories are long since faded,’ the shadow said, its hold, if anything, tightening on my neck. ‘And Jerusalem is where the light shines now, for here is Solomon and his Ring. So my master came here to serve before the throne – and one day, which will come soon, to do more than serve. And throughout these years of quiet waiting, I have been with him at his side.’

  The marid’s aura pounded on my essence. Light blazed before my eyes at random. The lilting voice seemed loud, then soft, then loud again. And still the grip was tightened.

  ‘And yes, Bartimaeus, as you say, I have been his slave throughout. But I have been so willingly, for Khaba’s ambitions are my own, his pleasures my pleasure. Khaba learned th
is early, for I helped him with his experiments in his private chambers, and toyed too with the captives he brought in. We are of one nature, he and I … I’m sorry, did you squeak?’

  I probably had. I was in danger of losing consciousness now. I could scarcely grasp what was being said.

  With a casual flick the shadow released its hold on me, sent me spinning away to the centre of the circle. I landed face down on the cold onyx, skidded briefly and lay still.

  ‘In short,’ the voice went on, ‘do not think to impose your petty assumptions upon me. Khaba trusts me. I trust him. In fact you may be interested to learn that when he summons me, he no longer binds me with cruel word-bonds, but lifts me up and lets me walk behind him as his friend and counsellor, for of all living things on Earth, I am his only companion.’ There was pride in the voice, immeasurable satisfaction. ‘He allows me certain freedoms,’ the marid said, ‘provided they are to his taste. Sometimes, indeed, I take things into my own hands. Do you remember our fleeting encounter in the desert? I followed you then of my own free will, full of wrath for the injury you had done my beloved master. Had Faquarl not arrived I should surely have devoured you on the instant, as I still would gladly do. But sweet Khaba has ordained a different fate for you, and so it must be. Sit up, then,’ the shadow ordered, ‘and let me carry out this task my friend has set me. Taste deeply of the air of this vault, for it is the last you will experience for many years.’

  There was a rustling sound as Ammet considered the instructions on the papyrus sheet once more. In the centre of the circle I raised myself painfully by shaking arms, got slowly to my feet, stooping at first as my essence recovered from its wounds.

  I straightened. I raised my head. My hair hung loose about my face; behind the matted fronds my eyes gleamed yellow in the dimness of the room.

  ‘You know,’ I said huskily, ‘I’ve got low standards, myself. And sometimes I even have trouble meeting them. But torturing other spirits? Keeping them captive? That’s new. I’ve never even heard of that before.’ I raised a hand and brushed away a smear of essence that was trickling from my nose. ‘And the amazing thing is,’ I went on, ‘that’s not the worst of it. That’s not your real crime.’ I flicked a ringlet of hair back behind a handsome ear, dropped my hands ready at my sides. ‘You love your master. You love your master. How could any spirit descend to that?’

  So saying, I lifted both hands and shot a Detonation of maximum power straight through the shadow and into the column behind.

  Ammet gave a cry. For an instant his body fractured into many shards and pieces that overlapped and contradicted one another, like ribbons layered, lacking depth. Then he pulled himself back into shape, and was exactly as before.

  Two scarlet Spasms erupted from the flailing fingers. One looped high, the other low; both raked across the surface of the circle, cracking the stonework, sending a rain of splinters flying.

  But the young man was gone. I’d flapped my wings and was away among the columns.

  ‘Loving your master?’ I called over my shoulder. ‘Now that’s mad.’

  There was a roar behind me. ‘You can’t escape, Bartimaeus! The vault is sealed.’

  ‘Oh, who said anything about escaping?’

  For in truth, I knew that I was doomed. I was doomed in a dozen ways. The marid was too strong for me to fight, too quick to evade. And even if by some miracle I managed to escape him and leave the vault, even if I fled as far off as the summit of Mount Lebanon, Khaba would still have been my master and I his servant, under his power, to be called back at his whim like a cringing dog upon a leash. His control over me was such that my Confinement, if he wished it, was inevitable. There wasn’t any point worrying about that.

  But there was one little thing I wanted to do before the inevitable occurred.

  ‘He loves his master …’ Angling low between the columns, I gave full vent to my revulsion. From my flexing hands volleys of fiery bolts issued with the rat-a-tat rapidity of arrows in an Assyrian attack, scalding the air as they struck their targets. Tables shattered, knives and pincers burst and bubbled, mummy pits exploded in sand and flame. ‘Loves his master …’ I snarled, destroying a cabinet of bones, turning a priceless set of cuneiform tablets into molten dust.5 ‘I ask you. How could any spirit resort to that?’

  ‘Bartimaeus – you dare to do this! I shall cause you such pain …’ The outraged whisper echoed all around the maze of columns. Somewhere, red light flared. A fizzing Spasm bounced off the ceiling, zigzagged between pillars, and struck glancingly against my midriff, sending me tumbling to the floor in a shower of sparkling essence. The missile continued on its way, smashed into the wall and ignited a rack of mummies.

  ‘What a shame,’ I called, picking myself up with difficulty. ‘That looked like an almost complete set. He had one from every dynasty there.’

  The shadow, reverting to type, said nothing. I hobbled behind a column, drew my wings in close, and waited.

  Silence. No further attacks came. Ammet had evidently decided to limit the damage as best he could.

  I waited. By and by I peeped round the column. The light in the vault was dim. Several blue-green imp-lights in the ceiling flickered on and off; some had been destroyed by our exchange of magical fires. Smoke rose from fissures in the floor. From holes in the walls cascaded burning debris – large lumps, small ones, showers of little scarlet sparks that dwindled, flickered and went out.

  I waited.

  Then, beyond the smoke, I saw the dark, thin shape come creeping among the pillars, like a shark among shallows, blunt head moving swiftly from side to side.

  Once he got close, it would all be over.

  I raised my little finger, sent a tiny little Pulse arcing high, close to the ceiling, through the smoke and down on the opposite side of the vault. It struck a stone bench there with a little clinking sound.

  The shadow’s head tilted; quick as thought, it darted towards the noise. Almost as quickly, I flew like an arrow in the opposite direction, keeping close beside the wall.

  And there, ahead of me: the essence-cages, dozens upon dozens of them, the sickly, white-green radiance of their force-lines gleaming in the dimness like fungus on a rotten tree. If I’d had the time I would have broken them one by one, so as to inflict the least harm on the fragile things inside. But I had no time, and would get no other chance. So I sent out two Convulsions, white and yellow bands of fire that expanded into cones of whirling force; that snatched up the cages, twirled them high, snapped their force-lines, broke the iron bars asunder.

  I let the magic cease; the cages fell upon the floor. Some shattered completely; others cracked like eggshells. They lay one against the other in a dark, smouldering tumble, and nothing in them stirred.

  A presence loomed behind me. Ribbon fingers closed upon my neck.

  ‘Ah, Bartimaeus,’ the shadow whispered. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘You’re too late,’ I gasped. ‘Too late.’

  And so he was. All across the cages there was a glimmering and a stirring. Pale white light shone at every broken aperture, fainter than the force-lines, but sweet and pure. And within each light came movement, of captives shaking off their twisted, tortured forms, shaking off the cruelties of the Earth. Out from every cage they slipped, little coils and trails of shining essence that twisted up and outwards, flared briefly and were gone.

  The last one vanished, its hopeful light winked out; and darkness descended on the cages, the shadow, and on me.

  I stood in that darkness, smiling.

  Not for long, admittedly. With a howl, the shadow seized me, and there came upon me such a pummelling, such a buffeting, such a ceaseless, rending whirl of pain that my senses were fast benumbed and my mind retreated a little from the world. So it was that I scarcely heard the eventual speaking of the incantation; scarcely felt the forced compression of what little of my essence now remained; scarcely sensed the confines of my crystal prison press tight about me; scarcely even understood, as
hot lead sealed the aperture above me and cruel spells bound the bottle all around, that Khaba’s curse upon me had been completed and my terrible entombment was now begun.

  1 Actually, it couldn’t really. Greater beings than marids do exist, and occasionally appear on Earth to spread chaos and dismay, but they are invariably summoned by cabals of over-ambitious or downright mad magicians. Lone individuals like Khaba (ambitious and mad as he undoubtedly was) couldn’t have such servants in their power; a marid, however, was manageable, just about. The fact that, in addition to Ammet, Khaba had eight djinn and several odds and sods like Gezeri under his control illustrated just how potent he was. Without his Ring, Solomon would have been severely threatened.

  2 Sycophantic, sickening – and unfortunately true. Here’s how it stands if you’re a middle-ranking djinni (fourth level, since you’re asking). You can be just as swash-buckling as you like and cavalier with it; you can scrap with other djinn (not to mention foliots and imps) with relative impunity, blasting them with spells to your heart’s content and scorching their bottoms with Infernos as they run away. You can take on afrits, too, at a pinch, providing you use your trademark wit to bamboozle them and lead them lumbering into peril. But marids? Well, no. They’re out of your league. Their essence is too great, their power too strong. No matter how many Detonations, Convulsions or Maelstroms you hurl at them, they absorb it all without much trouble. And meanwhile they’re doing something unfair, such as swelling to the size of a giant and seizing you and your fellow djinn by the necks like a farmer bunching carrots, before devouring you whole, a practice I’ve seen done. So you can understand I had no desire to fight with Ammet now, unless it really was the bitter end.

  3 I was paraphrasing an old battle-cry that we Sumerian djinn used to chant as we pushed the siege machines across the plains. It’s a shame that the good old songs go out of fashion. Of course, I don’t genuinely espouse anything so dreadfully savage. Although, saying that, human marrow is nutritious. In fact, it really puts a pep in your essence. Particularly if you get it fresh, grill it lightly, season it with salt and parsley, and— But we must return to our narrative.