The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel

  The shadow’s scream was identical to its master’s. The grip about Asmira’s waist was broken; she was abruptly tossed aside.

  The little bird swooped low, seized the finger in its beak, and disappeared over the edge of the parapet –

  Asmira landed hard upon her back.

  – a mighty bird of flame and fire shot upwards into view, a fleck of gold held in its beak. Turning to the west, it disappeared amid the rising smoke.

  ‘Ammet!’ Khaba howled. ‘Kill it! Kill it! Bring it back!’

  The shadow flitted forward, jumped from the parapet. Long black wings sprouted from its sides. They rose and fell with a noise like thunder. It too was gone into the smoke. Its wing-beats faded. Silence fell upon the House of Solomon.

  Asmira got unsteadily to her feet.

  A haze of spent magic drifted like dark fog beyond the parapet. The palace and its gardens could not be glimpsed, save here and there where coloured fires were burning. Somewhere perhaps she heard faint voices, but they were far away and far below, and might as well have been calling from another world. The walkway was all there was, a mess of fractured stone and blackened wood.

  And she was not alone upon it.

  The magician stood there, six feet away, cradling his maimed hand and staring into the dark. It seemed to Asmira that the lines upon his face had deepened, and that delicate new ones clustered on his skin. He staggered a little as he stood.

  He was very close to the edge. A single shove was all it needed …

  Asmira stepped silently towards him.

  A rush of air, a smell of rotten eggs. Asmira threw herself flat upon the ground, so that the swiping claws of the foliot Gezeri sliced just above her neck. She felt a tingling as the lilac cloud passed over her, then she was up upon her feet again. The foliot spun round upon his rushing cloud, reversed its direction, came hastening back. His eyes were slits of hatred, his mouth gaped wide. The barb on his twirling tail curled like a scimitar. His indolent posture and bright red cheeks were gone; he had become a crouching thing of claws and teeth.

  Asmira grasped the silver pendant at her neck, stood ready. With a cry, the foliot sent a thin green spear of light shooting at her chest. Asmira leaped aside, uttered a Ward that deflected the attack, sent it harmlessly out into the void. She uttered another. Yellow discs rained down upon the lilac cloud, peppering it with smoking blisters. The cloud veered sideways, collapsed to the parapet; Gezeri, jumping free as it fell, skittered with horrid speed across the stonework and sprang at Asmira’s face. She jerked backwards; its teeth clashed on empty air. Asmira caught the foliot by the neck and held it outstretched, ignoring the snapping mouth and flailing claws and whiplash tail, which with each stroke bit into her arms.

  Gezeri frothed and fought, and with sinewy strength began to tear free of her grip. Asmira felt her strength waning. She tore the silver pendant from around her neck and shoved it with full force into the open mouth.

  The foliot’s eyes bulged. It made a low, hoarse gargling sound, half lost among the steam and vapours gushing from its jaws. Its body swelled; its thrashing limbs grew stiff. Asmira flung it to the ground, where it fizzed and jerked and popped, and presently became a blackened husk that subsided and was gone.

  She turned to the Egyptian, but he had moved away from the edge, and with bloodied hands was scrabbling at his belt, where hung a whip of many thongs. He cracked it – a movement both weak and perfunctory. Yellow coils of magic burst feebly at the flail’s end, scoring lines in stone, but they did not reach Asmira, who jumped back out of range.

  The magician gazed at her; his eyes were misty with pain and hate. ‘Leap and scamper all you like, girl. I have other servants. I will bring them here. And when Ammet is back …’ He made as if to strike again, but was distracted by his wounded hand, from which the blood was flowing. He sought to staunch it on the fabric of his robes.

  Asmira thought of Bartimaeus fleeing with the shadow at his back. If it was a marid, as Bartimaeus had said, the djinni could not withstand it long. Soon, very soon, he would be caught and killed, and the Ring returned to Khaba. Unless …

  If she were quick enough she might save her djinni yet, and after him, Jerusalem.

  But all her knives were gone. She needed help. She needed –

  There, behind her: the arch that led to the royal chambers.

  Asmira turned and ran.

  ‘Yes, flee! Flee as far as you like!’ Khaba called. ‘I will attend to you as soon as I call my slaves. Beyzer! Chosroes! Nimshik! Where are you? Come to me!’

  After all the turmoil and the darkness and the smoke outside, the placid, sparkling interior of the golden room felt strange, unreal. As before, the plunge-pool steamed, the enchanted foodstuffs glistened on their plates and the crystal globe’s surface swam with milky light. Asmira was about to edge past without looking at the Glamour, when she came to a dead halt.

  A man stood watching her from the far side of the room. ‘Having a little trouble, are we?’ King Solomon of Israel said.

  34

  Throw it in the sea. Throw it in the sea. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? And like all the girl’s commands it was simple, at least in concept. It was doing it alive that was the problem.

  Forty miles separates Jerusalem from the coast. Not far. Ordinarily a phoenix can manage that in twenty minutes, and still have time for occasional picnic-stops and diversions to inspect the views.1 But circumstances weren’t ordinary here. Not in the slightest. The palace was burning, the planes were still quivering from the eruption of the spirit hordes, the fate of the world hung in the balance – oh, and I was holding the Ring of Solomon in my beak.

  Actually, to be precise, I was holding Khaba’s severed finger, with the Ring still on it. To spare the feelings of squeamish readers I won’t go into any further details.

  Except to say that it was like smoking a cigar. A small, slightly wonky cigar, with a gold band wedged near the lit end. There. Picture it now? Good.

  It was still warm as well, and had just stopped dripping, but I’m not going to mention that.

  Suffice it to say, all things considered, it wasn’t the nicest body-part I’ve ever had to carry,2 but even so it had a very useful function. It meant I didn’t have to touch the Ring, and so was spared that particular dose of pain.

  There was plenty more on offer, though. I had Ammet close behind.

  Through the ruins of Solomon’s palace the phoenix sped, keeping to the areas which had seen most devastation in Khaba’s brief attack. Half the place seemed to be on fire, while the remainder was swathed in a heavy smog of drifting magic. It was grey, but still shimmering with potent traces; my plumage stung as I flew amongst them, weaving and bobbing to avoid thicker knots of lingering spells. Many such clumps hung close about the shattered domes and turrets, distorting them into softly melting dreamscapes, and they might well have done the same with me, given half a chance. All in all it would have been much more comfy to head up to the clearer skies above, but I resisted this for now. The smog offered concealment, and perhaps helped muffle the aura of the Ring.3

  Both these qualities were essential if I was to survive for any length of time.

  I hadn’t seen the shadow yet, but could hear the beating of his wings advancing through the smoke. I had to shake him off. The phoenix darted between two tumbling walls to a place where the smog was thickest, ducked sideways through a ruined window, shot along the length of a burning gallery, and hung high against the rafters, listening.

  Nothing but the creak of roof timbers. Ancient statues – heroes, goddesses, animals and djinn – stood blackening amid the flames.

  The phoenix cocked its head hopefully. Perhaps I’d lost him. With luck Ammet had blundered onwards through the smog and set off westwards to the coast, following my assumed trajectory. Maybe if I left the palace to the north, then veered west over the cedar forests, I might yet get to the sea.

  I dropped down, flitted along the hall, keeping as close as possible to the fir
es and smoke. At the end of the gallery I made a right into the Sumerian Annexe, flanked by long, cold stony lines of ancient priest-kings that I’d known and served.4 There at the end was a vast squared window, from which I could break out to the north. The phoenix put on a sudden spurt –

  – and thus narrowly avoided being struck by the Detonation that destroyed the floor behind me. One of the statues suddenly shifted, unfolded itself; the Illusion that hid the shadow was cast off like a cloak. Clawing hands reached out, tore my burning tail-feathers loose as I twisted in mid-air. I accelerated away along the hall in a plume of orange flame, zigzagging desperately between the swiping ribbon arms.

  ‘Bartimaeus!’ the soft voice called behind me. ‘Give up! Throw down the Ring and I will spare your life!’

  I didn’t answer, which was impolite, I know. But then again, my beak was full. A moment later I burst through the window and shot out into the dark.

  How do you spend your life-or-death chases? In a state of numb bewilderment? Perhaps in continuous toe-tightening panic, or with occasional outbursts of gibbering fear? Reasonable responses, all. Personally I use them to think. They’re good that way. Everything’s quiet, you’re on your own, and all your other little problems helpfully fade from view as you ponder the essentials. Staying alive is top of the list, of course, but it’s not the only thing. Sometimes you get a bit of perspective on other matters too.

  So, as I raced west through the dying minutes of the night, with the hills and valleys rolling in waves beneath me, and Khaba’s shadow speeding at my heels, I ran through the situation I was in.

  Here’s how it looked, mid-flight.

  Ammet was going to catch me, and he was going to catch me soon. Fast as a phoenix is, you can’t keep up the pace for ever. This is doubly true when you’ve recently been knocked out by a Convulsion, and triply true when you’re holding an object of such power that your beak is well and truly melting.5 The marid – bigger than me and dense with magic – had lost ground at the start of the chase, but he was making it up now as I began to tire. Whenever I looked over my shoulder I could see his ragged knot of dark-on-darkness, half a valley back and gaining.

  It was safe to assume I wasn’t going to reach the sea.

  Once Ammet caught up with me, the consequences would be terrible. First, and most important, I’d be dead. Second, Khaba would have the Ring again. He’d only had it for about five minutes so far, and already Solomon’s palace lay in ruins, which gave you a clue to his proposed governmental style. Given time and opportunity, like an angry infant in a cake shop, Khaba was going to systematically wreak untold destruction on all the wailing peoples of the Earth. More importantly, I’d be dead. Perhaps I already mentioned that.

  The phoenix flew on. Periodically bright flashes lit up the rushing landscape as Ammet unleashed magical attacks behind me; I veered to the side, dropped low, performed aeronautical contortions as the Spasms and Fluxes whizzed past, blew trees and hillsides into tumbling rubble.

  It was all the girl’s fault, of course. If she’d taken my advice and just put the Ring on, none of this would have happened. Instead she could have destroyed Ammet, killed Khaba, travelled in a twinkling to Sheba, booted out her queen, and installed herself in opulence and splendour on the throne. She could have done all this and been sitting back, watching a belly-dancing floorshow, before breakfast.

  That was what all my previous masters would have done.6 But not the girl.

  She was an odd mix all right. On the one hand determined and resolute, with more courage in one of her shapely eyebrows than any conventional magician I’d ever met. On the other, confused, contrary and utterly unsure of herself, and with an all-time gift for making the wrong decisions. She’d got me into possibly the worst night I’d experienced in two thousand years, yet had stood by my side while we pinched the Ring of Solomon. She had fluffed the chance to wear the Ring herself, but had chopped off Khaba’s finger without a moment’s hesitation. She’d probably condemned me to my death, but had apologized as well. An odd mix. An infuriating one.

  By rights I should have been seeking a way to countermand her order, skip the sea bit, and chuck the Ring to Ammet. Then I could have left the girl and her world to Khaba’s gentle care. Faquarl would have figured out a way to do exactly this before he’d left the palace, and chuckled in the doing. That didn’t work for me.

  Partly it was because of my loathing for my enemies. I wished to foil them if I could. Partly it was because of my inherent tidiness. It had been my skill and judgement that got us the Ring; it had been me who suggested chucking it in the sea. In short, I’d started this in style, and I wanted to finish it on my terms.

  Partly it was because I wanted to save the girl.

  But first, before any of that, I had to reach the coast in one piece, and do so well ahead of Ammet. If he was right behind me when I threw the Ring into the deep, the whole plan would come unstuck. He’d just fish the thing straight out, probably using my perforated corpse as a net, and set off back to Khaba. Somehow I had to deal with him.

  Ammet was a marid. It would be death to fight him hand-to-hand. But perhaps there was a way to slow him down.

  *

  Over a hilltop the phoenix flew, beak gently bubbling with the aura of the Ring. Behind came the shadow on black wings. Beyond was a wooded valley, thick with pines. Here and there, in the half-light before morning, were little glades, places where woodcutters had been felling trees. The phoenix’s eyes gleamed. I abruptly descended into the wood, and my tell-tale fires went out.

  Ammet, the shadow, had crested the rise just in time to see me disappear. He too dropped down beneath the canopy and hung in resin-scented blackness, listening.

  ‘Where are you, Bartimaeus?’ he whispered. ‘Come out, come out.’

  Silence in the forest.

  The shadow wove his way between the trunks, slowly, slowly, sinuous as a snake.

  ‘I smell you, Bartimaeus! I smell your fear!’7

  Answer came there none, as might have been expected. Down between the trees he glided, following the steep curve of the hill.

  Then, some way up ahead, a little noise: Frrt, frrt, frrt.

  ‘I hear you, Bartimaeus. I hear you! Is that your knees knocking together?’

  Frrt, frrt, frrt.

  On came the shadow, just a little faster. ‘Is that the chattering of your teeth?’

  Actually, it was neither, as any spirit who’d spent any time outdoors would know.8 It was me using a claw to whittle the ends of two tree trunks I’d found beside a logging camp. I was making two nice long pointy stakes.

  ‘Last chance, Bartimaeus. Throw down the Ring! I can see its aura glinting in the trees. You cannot keep it from me. Run away now, and I will let you live!’

  Down through the forest stole the shadow, listening to the sound. By and by the whittling ceased; the shadow paused. But he could see the aura of the Ring of Solomon gleaming brightly up ahead.

  Quickly now he came, silent as black snow, tracing the aura to its source.

  Which turned out to be a tree-stump on the far side of a glade. There on the stump, propped provocatively against a pine-cone, was Khaba’s finger, with the Ring pulsing merrily at the end.

  Now, any ordinary spirit – those of us regularly sent delving into ancient Sumerian temples, for example – would have instantly smelled a rat. We’d have all had far too much experience of booby-traps not to be extremely wary of innocent tree-stumps bearing gifts. But Ammet, Khaba’s lap-dog, probably hadn’t done a decent day’s work in twenty years, and had forgotten, if he ever knew, the importance of extreme caution. Also, secure in his arrogance and power, and with his own ultimatum ringing in his ears, he clearly thought I’d legged it. So, with a hiss of satisfaction, he darted forth, lengthening a little in his eagerness, stretching for his prize.

  Behind him came a whirl of movement – something massive thrown with force. Before Ammet could react, before he could reach the Ring, a medium-sized tree trunk,
its end sharpened to the keenest point, shot down diagonally from the slope above. It struck the shadow precisely in the centre of his elongated back, pierced him through and embedded deeply in the forest mould below. The shadow was pinioned through his middle; he emitted a shrill and horrid cry.

  The young Sumerian spear-bearer hopped into view above, brandishing a second stake. ‘Morning, Ammet,’ I chirruped. ‘Having a rest? I suppose it has been a taxing night. Uh-uh, naughty – not for you.’ One of the shadow’s arms was still stretching for the Ring; the other was wound about the tree trunk and was slowly, effortfully, forcing it upwards. I bounded over and scooped up the finger. ‘I’ll take that, I think,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry, I believe in sharing. I’ll give you something else.’

  So saying, I leaped back, hefted the second stake and hurled it unerringly towards the shadow’s head.

  Ammet acted with frantic speed; ripping the first stake clear of the ground, and regardless of the gaping rent now showing in his midriff, he swung the tree trunk like a club, struck my missile aside and sent it crashing off amongst the trees.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said. The spear-bearer had shifted, become the phoenix once again. ‘But how fast are you in the air, with a hole right through you? I’m betting not very.’

  With that I was up above the pines again and heading westwards in a blaze of fire.

  After a while I looked back. The shadow had risen above the trees and was following me doggedly. As I’d hoped, his injury had temporarily inconvenienced him – his outline was somewhat more ragged than before. He’d slowed a little too, and, though keeping pace, was no longer gaining. That was the good part. I was going to reach the sea.

  Trouble was – none of this would be enough to save me in the end.

  Ammet still had me in his sights. The moment I threw the Ring into the ocean, he would simply hasten forward, dive down and get it out. Nor was there any hope of tricking him again, for I was weakening swiftly now. The chase, and my injuries, and the coruscating power of the Ring, which continued to burn small holes in my poor beak – all of this was overpowering me. My fires were almost spent. Though I could hear the roaring of the waves, they promised me nothing much except a more than usually damp demise.