The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel

  The demon grinned, showing curved, white, sharply intersecting fangs. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘I must be soulless because all that rubbish leaves me cold.’ His shape suddenly blurred; it became a succession of tousled, wide-eyed youths, tall, short, handsome, plain, with skins of many nations. The last was the same beautiful, dark-haired guise she remembered from the gorge, but this time wingless, sober-faced. ‘You don’t need a djinni for this job,’ the youth said. ‘Young men are best at dying for empty concepts. Go back to Sheba and find some of your own.’

  ‘I’m not talking about empty concepts, demon!’ Asmira cried. ‘King Solomon is my real and bitter enemy! What do you know about it? You have never walked in the gardens of Sheba, where the fragrances of jasmine, cinnamon and cassia rise up to heaven. You’ve never seen the ruffling blue spice forests of Shabwa, or the alabaster walls of Marib, where the great reservoir glitters amidst the bright green fields. All this is doomed unless I act! Very soon, if he is not stopped, Solomon will turn his cursed Ring and bring forth a host of demons just as vile as you. They will fly across the desert and fall upon my country. They will raze the cities, destroy the crops and drive my people wailing into the desert. I cannot let this happen!’

  The youth shrugged. ‘I understand your pain, I really do,’ he said. ‘But pain changes nothing. So Sheba’s got some pretty plants and buildings, has it? Well, so did Uruk, and Uruk was destroyed by the Babylonians without a second thought. The fountains where its children played were smashed and the water ran away into the ground. Its walls were broken and the towers razed and the gardens burned and the ruins covered over by the sand. In fifty years its very site was lost. So it goes. These things happen in your unpleasant little world. It’s Sheba’s turn now; one day it will be Jerusalem’s. Take the long view, like me, and be content. Failing that, go ahead and die. Just leave me out of it. This squabble’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It is,’ Asmira said viciously, ‘now that I’ve summoned you.’

  ‘So summon someone else!’ The djinni’s voice grew urgent. ‘Why choose me? There isn’t one good reason.’

  ‘You’re right. Not one, but many. You know Solomon’s palace, you know its layout and routine, you know the names and natures of its guards. You are a powerful spirit. And you were stupid enough to tell me your name a few hours ago. How’s that?’

  ‘Oh, very succinct,’ the djinni snarled, and his eyes were almond slits of flame. ‘Especially the name part. All that fluffy stuff about urging Khaba to let me go … You were already planning this, weren’t you? You’d got my name, and wanted me freely available for use!’

  Asmira shook her head. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘No? Faquarl was right. You are a liar. I should have killed you when I had the chance.’

  ‘I intended to do the job myself,’ Asmira cried. ‘But I ran out of time. I can’t get access to Solomon. No one ever sees him except in council. In two days Sheba will be gone! I need help, Bartimaeus, and I need it now. When that revolting magician showed me what he’d done with you, I took my chance. I’ve freed you, don’t forget! I’ve done you a favour! Just serve me this once – then I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Oh, just this once? This one little impossible job? Kill Solomon? Steal the Ring? Have you not heard about Philocretes—’

  ‘Heard it.’

  ‘Azul—’

  ‘Seen it.’

  ‘Or any of the other foolish spirits who tried to destroy the king?’ The young man spoke earnestly. ‘Listen to me: Khaba has a marid for a slave – it’s his shadow, by the way: look out for it next time he’s torturing you. I came up against that spirit a few hours ago: I didn’t have a chance. He wiped the floor with me. If he’d had a cold, he’d have used me as a handkerchief. That was one single marid. And he is nothing to what can come out of that Ring!’

  ‘Which is why,’ Asmira said, ‘we kill Solomon tonight. Now – not a word more. Time’s short, and we have much to do.’

  The djinni gazed at her. ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘It is. Get moving.’

  ‘Very well.’ And all at once the young man stepped out of his circle and into hers. Suddenly he was right beside her. Asmira gave a cry and scrabbled at her belt, but the djinni was too fast. He caught her hand as it closed upon a dagger. The grip was gentle, the touch of the fingers slightly cool. She could not pull free.

  The young man bent his head close to hers. Candlelight moved across the human-seeming skin; a sweet odour of lime and rosewood hung about him. Behind the dark ringlets of hair, light burned in the golden eyes. His lips were smiling. ‘No need to tremble,’ he said. ‘You know I’d have killed you already if I could.’

  Asmira made a token effort at pulling free. ‘Keep away from me.’

  ‘Oh, but I’ve got to stay close if I’m to keep you alive. Don’t flinch, now. Show me the back of your hand.’

  He lifted her wrist, inspected the skin briefly, while Asmira wriggled in outrage. ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘Just looking for some crisscross lines. There’s an assassin sect that’s been causing trouble in these parts for years. That’s their mark. But I see you’re not one of them.’ The young man dropped her hand and grinned broadly as she stepped away. ‘Bit late to whip a dagger out now, isn’t it? Thought you were meant to be fast.’

  Asmira’s voice was thick. ‘Enough! Take me to Solomon.’

  ‘We both know you’re going to make a mistake sooner or later,’ the djinni said. ‘And we both know I’ll be waiting.’ He turned away, and moved swiftly past her to the door. ‘In the meantime, a lovely little walk awaits us. Where are we now? The guest wing?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, the royal apartments are on the other side of the palace from here. That means crossing the gardens. There aren’t many guards stationed in the gardens.’

  ‘Good,’ Asmira said.

  ‘On account of all the afrits and horlas, the kusarikku and scorpion-men, the whip-bearers and the skin-stealers, the sentinels of flame and earth and creeping death, and all the other varied supernatural slaves that wander about King Solomon’s household specifically to find and slay idiots like us,’ Bartimaeus said. ‘So, getting to his apartments is going to be interesting in itself.’ He opened the door and peered out into the shadows of the passage. ‘After that, of course, the fun really begins … Well, nothing’s going to kill us in these next ten yards. That’s a sensation that isn’t going to last, believe me, so enjoy it while you can.’

  He slipped out without a backward glance. Asmira followed him. Together, they set off into the dark.

  25

  Here’s the thing. Insane as she was, the Sheban girl was correct up to a point. I did know my way through the palace pretty well.

  For instance I knew, better than most, the position of the imp-bulbs in the walkways and the weird-stones in the gardens; I knew the trajectories of the magical luminosities that floated at varying heights among the cyclamen and cypress trees. I knew where to look for the human guards; I knew the routes they marched on their nightly rounds; I knew when they’d be alert, and when they’d be playing their games of Dogs and Jackals1 and taking their furtive sips of barley beer. I also knew where to look for the deeper spies and watch-spirits that waited high in passage corners and in the shadowed cracks between the flagstones. I could detect them in the fluttering of wall hangings, in the subtle whorls upon the carpets, in the sound of wind rushing across the roof tiles.

  All these dangers, possibly, I could anticipate and avoid.

  But kill Solomon and take the Ring? Ah, no. There I didn’t have a clue.

  My choice was stark and simple, and both options painfully similar in outcome. The Dismal Flame awaited me if I disobeyed the girl. That was a certainty: I saw it in her eyes. Despite all my careful, measured arguments – which would have made a hardened warlord pack away his scimitars and take up sewing – her eyes retained that glassy fixity humans get when they’re the sel
f-appointed agent of a higher cause and their own personality (such as it is) has faded out altogether. Speaking as a being whose personality remains winningly constant no matter what my outward appearance, I always find this sort of thing disturbing: everything’s upside-down, somehow. But what it boiled down to was this: the girl was intent on sacrificing herself – and more importantly me – and nothing was going to persuade her otherwise.

  Which meant that, until she made some sort of error, I had to try to carry out her commands and steal the Ring.

  Now this, as I’d told her, meant our hideous deaths, as the stories of Azul, Philocretes and the rest proved all too well. They’d been spirits far tougher than me, and each and every one had come to a sticky end, with Solomon left still swaggering about just as smugly as ever. The chances of me succeeding where they’d failed weren’t great.

  But hey, I was still Bartimaeus of Uruk, with more resourcefulness and guile2 in my toenails than those three porridge-brained afrits together. I wasn’t going to give up quite yet.

  Besides, if you’re going to die horribly, you might as well do it with style.

  *

  At that hour of the night the corridors of the guest wing were unfrequented, aside from one or two stray watch-imps making random sorties between the floors. I could have swallowed them easily enough, but I preferred stealth at this stage of operations. Whenever I heard the beat of leather wings approaching, I wove subtle Concealments about the girl and me. We stood motionless behind our nets of threads as the imps drifted past, trailing their alarm-horns, bickering about magicians; when all was still, I revoked the spell and we tiptoed on.

  Along gently curving passages, past endless doors … The best thing about this early stage was that the girl was quiet, and by this I mean she didn’t say anything. Like most trained killers she was naturally light-footed and economical of movement, but up until then she’d also been as shy and retiring as a howler monkey stranded up a tree. Thinking clearly made her agitated and voluble; now we were actually doing something she was a lot happier, and she glided along behind me in a kind of grateful silence. I was grateful too. It did me good to have a moment’s peace and figure out what I was going to do.

  Getting us to Solomon’s apartments past all the traps and watchers was the first job I was faced with, a task most seasoned observers would have considered impossible. I admit I found it taxing too. It took me approximately three floors, two flights of stairs and the length of a vaulted annexe before I’d formulated a plan.3

  I pulled the girl into the shadows of an arch and spoke tersely: ‘Right, the danger begins now. Once through here we’re in the main section of the palace, where anything goes. The spirits roaming about will be very different from those piddly imps we just passed – bigger and hungrier. They’re the sort not allowed in the guest block in case of accidents, if you take my meaning. So: we’re going to have to be extra careful from now on. Do exactly what I tell you when I tell you, and don’t ask questions. Believe me, you won’t have time.’

  The girl drew her lips in tight. ‘If you think I suddenly trust you, Bartimaeus—’

  ‘Oh, don’t trust me, whatever you do. Trust your summons: I’m charged to keep you safe at this point, aren’t I?’ I squinted ahead into the shadows. ‘Right, we’re going to take a quick and quiet shortcut to the gardens. After that – we’ll see. Follow me closely.’

  I stole forward, light as gossamer, under the arch and down a flight of steps to the margins of a great long hall. Solomon had had it built during his ‘Babylonian period’; the walls were made of blue-glazed bricks and decorated with lions and coiling dragon-beasts. At intervals on either side rose soaring plinths, surmounted with looted statues from ancient cultures. Light came from great metal braziers embedded high above our heads. I checked the planes – all were, for the moment, clear.

  Along the hall on the balls of my feet, gazelle-swift, keeping to the shadows. I could hear the girl’s breathing at my ear; her feet made not the slightest sound.

  I drew up short, and was instantly knocked into from behind.

  ‘Ow! Watch it!’

  ‘You said “follow me closely”.’

  ‘What, are you a comedy farm-hand? You’re meant to be an assassin.’

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

  ‘A hereditary idiot more like. Get behind this; I think something’s coming.’

  We ducked behind the nearest plinth, pressed close into its shadows. The girl was frowning; she sensed nothing, but I felt the reverberations on the planes.

  They trembled with sudden violence. Something entered the hall at the far end.

  Which was the self-same moment the benighted girl chose to try to speak. I clamped a hand across her mouth, made ferocious signs enjoining silence. We shrank back against the stone.

  For several painful heartbeats nothing happened. The girl was fretful; she wriggled a bit under my heavy hand. Without speaking, I pointed upwards at the tiled wall, where a vast silhouette was slowly passing, a thing of monstrous mass and bulbous shape, with swaying limbs and twitching threads of matter trailing in its wake … The girl grew still then – even rigid; I could have propped her like a broom against the wall. We stayed motionless as the visitation passed. At last it was gone; and at no time had there been a single noise.

  ‘What was it?’ the girl hissed when I released her.

  ‘From the way the planes bent,’ I said, ‘I’d guess a marid. Khaba’s servant is one of those. They’re usually pretty rare, but that’s what happens when you have the Ring of Solomon kicking about: even higher entities become two-a-shekel.4 Aren’t you glad I didn’t let you speak just then?’

  The girl shivered. ‘I’m just glad I didn’t actually see the thing straight on.’

  ‘Oh, if you’d seen it,’ I said, ‘you’d have thought it was just a cute little blue-eyed slave boy toddling up the hall. You’d still have been chortling at its curly locks and little chubby chin when its spear-tail got you through the throat. Well, this is no time for pleasant daydreaming. We’d better get— Hold on …’

  From a side arch, midway along the hall, a node of light was drifting. A diminutive figure in white robes walked beneath it, limping slightly. And hanging like a formless cloud above his shoulder—

  ‘Get back!’ I thrust us both behind the plinth again.

  ‘What now?’ the girl hissed. ‘I thought this was meant to be a quiet shortcut.’

  ‘It normally is. It’s like Thebes marketplace tonight. This is Solomon’s vizier.’

  ‘Hiram?’ She frowned. ‘He’s got a mouse—’

  ‘It’s not a mouse on the higher planes, believe you me. With that perched on him, it’s no surprise he’s got a limp. Stay very still.’

  Unlike the marid, Hiram’s footsteps were loud enough to hear, and to begin with they appeared to be moving off in a satisfactory manner. Then, all at once, I heard the mouse squeak warily and the footsteps stop. There was a soft, wet sound and, a moment later, the smell of rotten eggs drifting down the hall.

  I knew what that meant. The foliot Gezeri.

  ‘Well?’ Hiram’s voice was clear; he must have been standing twenty paces from where we hid. ‘What do you want, creature?’

  ‘A quick chat, O great Hiram,’ Gezeri said, his tone somehow completely subverting the respectful nature of the words. ‘My master, magnificent Khaba, has lately been a little indisposed.’

  ‘I saw him at dinner.’ Hiram’s distaste was clear. ‘He was drunk.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s come round now, and he’s lost something. Small bottle. Mislaid it, can’t find it. Maybe rolled off the table, maybe been cleared away with the other scraps. We’ve had a look about, can’t set eyes on it. Very mysterious.’

  Hiram snorted. ‘His gift to Solomon? That’s of no consequence to me. I should have thought you would have kept an eye on it, being his slave; you, or that vile shadow of his.’

  ‘Ah no, we were in his tower, clearing up a
mess that— Oh, it’s not important. Listen’ – Gezeri spoke nonchalantly; I could imagine him sitting in his cloud, twirling his tail in a casual paw – ‘you ain’t seen that Arabian girl about, have you?’

  ‘The priestess Cyrine? She will have gone to her room.’

  ‘Yeah. Which room is that, if you don’t mind telling? See, Khaba’s wondering—’

  ‘Actually, I do mind.’ Hiram’s footsteps suddenly resumed. He would have been walking away from Gezeri now, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Let Khaba sort out his own mess in the morning. He’s not to disturb any of our guests now.’

  ‘But see, we think—’ There followed a muttered word from the magician, a mouse’s battle-squeak and a shrill curse from Gezeri. ‘Ow!’ he cried. ‘Keep it off! All right, all right, I’m going!’ After that came the unmistakable sound of a lilac cloud imploding. The magician’s footsteps pattered slowly away along the hall.

  I scowled over at the girl. ‘That didn’t take long. We’ve got Khaba on our heels. We’d better hurry up and get killed by something else before he discovers where you are.’

  Rather to my relief no further demonic waifs and strays came wandering along the Babylonian Hall, and we got to the far end unmolested. After that it was a simple matter to duck through the Hittite Room, veer past the Sumerian Annexe, take a left beside the Celtic Cabinet5 and, just before we got to the sprawling (and guarded) Egyptian Halls, step through a little arch into the southern cloisters beside the gardens.

  ‘OK,’ I breathed. ‘Now we pause and have a recce. What do you see here?’

  The night beyond the cloisters was at its deepest, darkest and most secretive. The air was clear; a breeze still carried warmth from the eastern deserts. I scanned the stars: judging by the brightness of Arcturus, and Osiris’s waning, we had four or five hours left before dawn.