The magician ground his teeth. ‘How was I to know that the preening fool would choose today to inspect his cursed temple? He might have given me some warning!’
‘He has the Ring. He is not beholden to you or anyone.’
‘Ah! You think I do not know that?’ Khaba gripped the flail tightly; his curling fingernails dug deep into the ancient human leather. He bent his head forward to let something stroke the back of his neck. ‘How I wish … I wish …’
‘I know what you wish, dear Master. But it is not safe to express it, even here. You have glimpsed the Spirit of the Ring – you have seen how terrible he is! We must be patient, have faith in our abilities. We will find a way.’
The magician took a deep breath, drew back his shoulders. ‘You are right, sweet Ammet, of course you are. It is just so hard to stand there and watch that vain, indolent—’
‘Let us inspect the cages,’ the voice said soothingly. ‘It will relax you. But, Master, before we do, I crave a word. What of Bartimaeus?’
Khaba gave a piercing cry. ‘That vile djinni – if it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be cast out of Jerusalem! A hippopotamus, Ammet! A hippopotamus on Temple Mount!’ He paused, reflecting. ‘And wouldn’t you have said,’ he added slowly, ‘that in face and form it bore a certain resemblance to—’
‘Fortunately for us,’ the soft voice said, ‘I don’t think Solomon noticed.’
Khaba nodded grimly. ‘Well, I have whipped Bartimaeus soundly for his sins, but a whipping is not enough! The flail is too good for him.’
‘I quite agree, Master. This is the last straw. He abused Gezeri a week ago; he has caused frequent dissension among the djinn. He deserves a proper punishment now.’
‘The Inverted Skin, Ammet? The Osiris Box?’
‘Too lenient … Too temporary …’ The voice grew urgent. ‘Master,’ it beseeched, ‘let me deal with him. I hunger, I thirst. I have not fed for so, so long. I can rid you of this irritant, and satisfy my cravings at the same time.’ There was a wet, smacking noise behind the magician’s head.
Khaba grunted. ‘No. I like you hungry; it keeps you alert.’
‘Master, please … ’
‘Besides, I need all my djinn available and alive while we comb the deserts for these outlaws. Stop your whingeing, Ammet. I will give the matter thought. There will be time enough to deal with Bartimaeus when we return to Jerusalem …’
The voice was truculent, resentful. ‘As you will …’
Khaba’s posture had previously been tight and hunched, tense at the indignities fate had thrust upon him. Now he jerked upright, his voice newly hard and decisive. ‘In a moment we shall make ready to depart. First, however, there is the other matter. Perhaps we will have positive news at last …’
He snapped his fingers, spoke a complex string of syllables. There was a distant chime of bells. The imp-globes shivered against the ceiling of the vault, and drapes on some of the larger cages ruffled to and fro.
The magician peered out into the darkness. ‘Gezeri?’
With a sharp odour of rotten eggs, a small lilac cloud materialized in the air beside the pentacle. Sitting atop the cloud was the foliot Gezeri, who today appeared as a large green imp, with long pointed ears and a pear-shaped nose. He made a series of complex and faintly facetious salutes, which Khaba ignored.
‘Your report, slave?’
The foliot affected an attitude of matchless boredom. ‘I have been to Sheba as you “requested”. I have wandered through its streets unseen, listening to the people. Be certain I let no whisper pass me by, no muttered comment go unheard!’
‘I am sure of it – otherwise you would burn in the Dismal Flame.’
‘That was my thinking too.’ The foliot scratched its nose. ‘In consequence I heard a lot of dreary nonsense. The lives you humans lead! The things that preoccupy your doughy little minds! Are you not aware of how brief your span is, how small your place is in this vast universe? Yet still you worry about dowries, tooth-rot, and the price of camels!’
The magician smiled bleakly. ‘Spare me the philosophy, Gezeri. I worry about none of those things. Here is my concern: what is Queen Balkis doing?’
Gezeri shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘In a word: nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, I mean. Far as I can make out, she’s doing her normal round – meditating in the temples, meeting merchants, hearing representations from her people: all the usual sort of queenly claptrap. I’ve sniffed about behind the scenes, eavesdropped on all and sundry. What have I come up with? Nowt. There’s no sign of any response at all.’
‘She has five days left,’ Khaba mused. ‘Five days … You are sure there has been no build-up of troops? No increase in defences?’
‘What troops? What defences?’ The foliot gave its tail a derisive twirl. ‘Sheba’s not even got a proper army – just a bunch of skinny girls who hang about the queen. And the priestesses haven’t put so much as a second-plane nexus around the palace. An imp could stroll right in.’
The magician stroked his chin. ‘Good. Clearly she intends to make the payment. They all do, in the end.’
‘Yeah, well, that being the case,’ the foliot said, lounging deep into its cloud, ‘why don’t you dismiss me? I’m fed up with all this summoning long-distance. Ooh, it gives me such headaches as you wouldn’t believe. And swellings in the strangest places. Here, take a look at this one … It’s getting uncomfortable to sit.’
‘You will return to Sheba, slave,’ Khaba snarled, averting his eyes, ‘and keep watch on what occurs! Be sure to let me know if you notice anything untoward. Meanwhile I will shortly summon you again, swellings or no.’
The foliot scowled. ‘Must I? Frankly I’d prefer the building site.’
‘Our work there is done for the present,’ Khaba said stiffly. ‘Solomon has … ordered us elsewhere.’
‘Ooo, got cross with you, has he? Fallen a wee bit out of favour? Tough luck!’
Khaba’s lips narrowed to nothing. ‘Mark my words,’ he said, ‘one day there will be a reckoning.’
‘Oh, sure there will,’ the foliot said. ‘Tell you what, why not make it now? Why not nip up to the king’s apartments tonight and pinch the Ring while he’s asleep?’
‘Gezeri … ’
‘Why not? You’re quick, you’re clever. You could kill him before he had a chance to turn the Ring … Well? What’s stopping you?’ It chuckled lazily. ‘Give it up, Khaba. You’re scared like all the rest.’
The magician gave a hiss of outrage; he spoke a word and clapped his hands. Gezeri squeaked; the foliot and its cloud imploded and were gone.
Khaba stood rigid and furious in the blue-green shadows of his vault, staring into nothing. There would come a time when all those who belittled him regretted their folly most profoundly …
There was a whisper in the darkness. Something stroked his neck. Taking a deep breath, Khaba swept the issues from his mind. He stepped down from his circle and crossed the floor towards the essence-cages. Time enough, before departing for the desert, for a little relaxation.
13
On the day of the Spring Festival the religious ceremonies had taken twice as long as normal, and the little girl was bored. She waited till the guard-mothers were kneeling to the Sun God, with their big old backsides raised to heaven, and cautiously looked around. The other girls were busy praying too, eyes tight shut, noses pressed against the stone. As the drone of their ritual chanting swelled to fill the air, the little girl got up, tiptoed past them all and clambered out of the window. She ran across the flat roof of the training hall, skittered along the wall beside the palace gardens, and dropped like a cat into the shadows of the street. Then she smoothed out her dress, rubbed her shin where it had scraped against the brickwork, and pattered down the hill. She knew she would get a beating when she returned, but she didn’t care. She wanted to see the procession.
They were throwing orange blossom from the tower-tops, and the people of Sheba had been covered with it like snow
. All along the streets they waited – townsfolk and men of the hill-tribes alike – waiting patiently for their queen. The little girl did not wish to stand at the front of the crowd, in case she was crushed beneath the chariot’s great wheels, so she scrambled up the wooden steps to the nearest guard post, where two slim women with swords at their belts stood watching the crowds below.
‘What are you doing here?’ one said, frowning. ‘You ought to be in training. Get back up to the hall, quickly.’
But the other ruffled the girl’s cropped dark hair. ‘Too late for that. Listen – here they come! Sit down and stay quiet, Asmira, and perhaps we won’t notice you.’
The little girl grinned, sat cross-legged on the stone between their feet. She leaned her chin on her fists, then craned her neck out; she saw the royal chariot come rumbling through the gates, pulled by its team of straining male slaves. The throne it bore was golden like the sun, and on it – vast and splendid, dressed in bright white robes that made her vaster still – sat the queen herself. She was like a painted statue, stiff and immovable, her round face white with chalk, staring straight ahead without expression. On either side marched guards with naked swords; to the rear filed the priestesses in a solemn line. On the chariot itself, just behind the throne, the First Guard stood smiling, her dark hair glistening in the sun.
Into the city the procession came. The people cheered; blossom fell from the towers in new cascades. High on the guard post, the little girl grinned and jiggled. She waved both hands.
On the far side of the narrow way, in the shadows of the nearest tower, there came a burst of yellow smoke. Three small winged demons, with scarlet eyes and whipping tails of sharpened bone, materialized in mid-air. At once the guards beside the girl were gone into the crowd. Those beside the chariot also started forward, swords readied, daggers pulled from sleeves.
Screams sounded, the crowd scattered. The demons darted through the air. One was struck simultaneously by seven silver blades and vanished with a cry. The others spun aside on leather wings, sending loops of fire down upon the advancing guards.
The little girl watched none of this. Her eyes were fixed upon the halted chariot, where the queen sat silent, staring straight ahead. The First Guard had not left her post; she had drawn her sword and stood calmly beside the throne.
And now the real attack began. Three hill-men stole out of the melting crowd, ran towards the unprotected chariot. From within their robes they drew long thin knives.
The First Guard waited. When the quickest assailant leaped towards the queen, she ran him through before his feet touched the ground. His falling weight pulled the sword out of her grasp; letting it go, she turned to meet the others, a dagger springing to her hand.
The others reached the chariot; they jumped up on either side of the throne.
The First Guard flicked her wrist – one was struck; he fell away. In the same instant she threw herself across the queen, blocking the final knife-strike with her body. She collapsed upon the royal lap, long black hair falling loose about her head.
The other guards, having dealt with the demons, discovered the danger behind them. In a moment the third assailant had died from a dozen wounds. The guards surged around the chariot, dragged the bodies clear.
Orders were given. The slaves pulled on the ropes to the rhythm of the whips, and the chariot continued on. Blossom cascaded onto empty streets. The queen stared straight before her, white-faced and impassive, the lap of her robes stained red.
The body of the First Guard lay in the shadow of the city gate while the line of priestesses shuffled by. After they were gone it took several further minutes for shocked attendants to return to clear the street, and even then no one noticed the little girl sitting high upon the guard post, watching as her mother’s body was carried up the hill.
Asmira opened her eyes. All was as it had been just before she slept. The tasselled shadow of her canopy swaying upon the camel’s back. The line of beasts ahead of her, stretching into nothing. The creak of the poles and the soft steady tread of pads on stone … Heat scoured her mouth; her head ached. Her clothes were a wet cocoon.
She moistened her lips with her water-skin, ignoring the temptation to drink deeply. Nine days in the desert, and three since fresh water, and still the road went on. All around was a land of desolation and absence, of bleached hills fading to the edge of vision. The sun was a white hole in an iron sky. It warped the air into slices that danced and shimmered and were never still.
Always, when she dozed during those endless desert days, Asmira found herself beset by whirling dreams that looped, repeating, stinging like blown sand. She saw the Queen of Sheba smiling in her chamber, pouring her more wine. She saw the priestesses on the palace forecourt, with the djinni raised and waiting, and all eyes on her as she bade farewell. She saw the Temple of the Sun and its eastern wall, where the icons of dead champions were displayed and her mother’s figurine shone so beautifully in the morning light. She saw the empty niche beside it that she had coveted so long.
And sometimes … sometimes she saw her mother, the way she had always seen her, for eleven frozen years.
That evening the camel train halted in the shelter of a sandstone ridge. Brushwood was gathered, a fire lit. The master of the caravan, who had some magical knowledge, sent forth imps to survey the rocks and give word if anything drew near.
Afterwards he approached Asmira, who was gazing at the fire. ‘Still here, I see,’ he said.
Asmira was stiff, weary and weighed down with impatience at the tedium of the journey. Nevertheless, she managed a smile. ‘Why should I not be?’
The master was a large and jaunty man, twinkly-eyed and broad of chest. Asmira found him somewhat disconcerting. He chuckled. ‘Each night I check to ensure everyone is human still, and not a ghul or fetch! They say that once a camel-master rode into Petra with thirty traders in his train; as he passed beneath the city gates, each rider’s cloak fell empty to the ground, and, looking back, he saw the way for miles behind littered with picked bones. All the men had been devoured, one by one!’
The guard-mothers had told Asmira that story too, about a trader of Marib. ‘A folktale,’ she said. ‘Nothing more.’
The master took out his djinn-guard and shook its silver bells fervently. ‘Even so, vigilance is essential. Deserts are dangerous places and not all is what it seems.’
Asmira was staring at the moon. It was a thin crescent now, and shone bright above the ridge. The sight gave her a sharp knot in her stomach. ‘We made good progress today,’ she said. ‘Will we reach Jerusalem tomorrow?’
The camel-master adjusted his paunch slightly and shook his head. ‘The day after, if all goes well. But tomorrow evening I shall relax, for by then we will be drawing near the city. No desert demons will dare attack us under good Solomon’s kind and watchful eye.’
In the fire’s light Asmira saw the towers of Marib burning. The knot in her stomach broke asunder. ‘Good?’ she said harshly. ‘Kind? These are not descriptions I had heard of Solomon.’
‘Indeed?’ The camel-master raised his eyebrows. ‘What have you heard?’
‘That he is a cruel warlord, who threatens weaker nations!’
‘Well, there are many tales told about him,’ the camel-master admitted, ‘and I dare say not all of them are to his credit. But you will find many in this company who believe differently to you; they come to Jerusalem to seek his charity, or ask him to sit in judgement on difficult matters. No? You do not believe me? Ask them.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
As night came and the flames rose high, Asmira fell into conversation with the person sitting beside her at the fire. He was a spice merchant bound for Tyre, a young man, bearded, with a quiet and courteous manner. ‘You have been very silent, miss,’ he said. ‘I have scarcely heard a word from you all journey. Might I ask your name?’
Asmira had long ago decided to avoid all mention of her real name and nationality, and had spent much of the jour
ney devising an alternative. ‘I am called Cyrine.’
‘Where do you travel from?’
‘I am a priestess of the Temple of the Sun in blessed Himyar. I travel to Jerusalem.’
The merchant stretched his boots out nearer to the flames. ‘Himyar? Where’s that?’
‘South Arabia.’ Himyar was in fact a small coastal kingdom west of Sheba, notable for goats, honey and its general anonymity, which is why Asmira had chosen it. She had never been there, and she doubted many other people had either.
‘What is your business in Jerusalem, to have come so far?’
‘I wish to see King Solomon. Our kingdom needs his help.’ Asmira fluttered her eyelashes a little, and sighed prettily. ‘I hope it will be possible to gain audience with him.’
‘Well, Solomon has daily councils, they say, where he listens to anyone who comes.’ The merchant drank deeply from his wine-skin. ‘Couple of farmers near Tyre, they had a beetle plague a year ago. Went to Solomon. He sent his demons; they killed the beetles. Problem solved. That’s what having a magic ring can do for you. Want some wine?’
‘No, thank you. Daily councils, you say? You think I could get in?’
‘Oh yes. Pretty girl like you, I’m sure there’s every chance.’ He gazed out into the dark. ‘I suppose, what with you coming from Arabia, you’ve not stopped here before.’
Asmira was thinking about what to do when she arrived in Jerusalem. She would go to the palace and request immediate audience at the next day’s council. They would bring her before the king. And then, when she was standing before him, and they were waiting for her to make some grovelling request, she would step forward, throw back her cloak and …
Expectation burned like fire across her chest; her palms tingled with it. ‘No,’ she said absently, ‘I’ve never been to Israel.’
‘No, I mean here.’ He gestured to the sandstone ridge above. ‘This place.’
‘Never.’
‘Ah!’ He smiled. ‘You see atop that spur, where a single column of sandstone rises? That’s a famous local landmark. Know what it is?’
The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel Page 11
