The Ring of Solomon

by Jonathan Stroud

  Khaba had kitted out his workroom with tools and magical adjuncts in great profusion, as well as an impressive pile of scrolls and tablets looted from civilizations already gone. But what really caught the eye as we entered was neither the imposing décor, nor all this paraphernalia, but the evidence of this man’s more private hobbies.

  He was interested in death.

  There were a great many bones piled all about.

  There was a cabinet of skulls.

  There was a rack of mummies – some clearly ancient, others very new.

  There was a long low table bearing sharp metal tools, and little jars, and pots of pastes and unguents, and a rather bloody cloth.

  There was a mummification pit newly filled with sand.

  And, for when he’d finished fiddling about with dead humans, and wanted a different kind of plaything, there were the essence-cages too. These were arranged in neat rows in the far corner of the vault. Some were roughly squared, others circular or bulb-shaped, and on the lower planes they seemed to be made of iron mesh, which by itself was bad enough.5But on the higher planes their full viciousness was revealed, since each was additionally formed of solid, essence-fraying force-lines that kept their agonized occupants inside. It was from here that the noises came – low twitterings and pleadings, occasional feeble cries, snatches of language the speakers could no longer properly recall.

  Faquarl and I stood very still, contemplating Gezeri’s words.

  There’s not many goes down there comes swiftly up again.

  A voice spoke from the depths of the room, a voice of sand and dust. ‘Slaves, attend to me.’

  The two imps stumbled forward with such painful reluctance you’d have thought we had sharp stones shoved down our loincloths.6

  In the centre of the vault, midway between four columns, was a raised circle in the floor. The circle had a rim of pink-white lapis lazuli, around which Egyptian hieroglyphs spelled out the five master-words of Binding. Within the circle a pentacle of black onyx had been laid. Some short way off, within a smaller circle, stood a lectern made of ivory and, behind it, hunched like a vulture beside its feast, the magician.

  He waited as we approached. Five candles had been set around the margins of the raised circle, burning with black flames.

  Khaba’s wet eyes reflected the evil light. About his feet his shadow pooled like a formless thing.

  Faquarl and I scuffled to a halt. We raised our heads defiantly.

  Our master spoke. ‘Faquarl of Mycenae? Bartimaeus of Uruk?’

  We nodded.

  ‘I’m going to have to set you free.’

  The two imps blinked. We stared at the magician.

  His long grey fingers caressed the lectern; curling nails tapped upon the ivory. ‘It is not what I would have wished, foul slaves that you are. You carried out your deeds today solely because of my orders, therefore you deserve no credit. However, the traveller whom you saved – a girl who is as ignorant of your vile natures as she is soft and innocent in person’ – the gleaming eyes gazed across at us; beyond the pillars the captives in the essence-cages sighed and crooned – ‘this foolish girl has urged me to dismiss you from my service. She was most persistent.’ Khaba drew his thin lips tight together. ‘In the end I agreed to her request, and since she is my guest and I have sworn it before great Ra himself, it is a sacred vow. Consequently, much against my better judgement, I am going to give you your just reward.’

  There was a pause while Faquarl and I took in the implications of this, ran through the subtleties and nuances of the words, and continued to look up at the magician with expressions of watchful doubt.7

  Khaba made a dull, dry noise in the back of his throat. ‘Why so hesitant, slaves? The djinni Faquarl shall be the first to leave my service. Step up, if you will.’

  He made an expansive gesture towards the circle. The two imps considered it once more and found no obvious traps on any of the planes. ‘Seems genuine,’ I muttered.

  Faquarl shrugged. ‘We’ll soon see. So, Bartimaeus, one way or another, this is farewell. May it be a thousand years before we meet again!’

  ‘Why not make it two?’ I said. ‘But first, before you go, I want you to admit one thing. I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘About the girl?’ Faquarl blew out his cheeks. ‘Well … perhaps you were, but that doesn’t change my opinion. Humans are for eating, and you’re too soft.’

  I grinned. ‘You’re just jealous that it was my piercing intelligence that got us freed. With just one look, I could clearly see that Cyrine—’

  ‘Cyrine? You’re on first-name terms now?’ Faquarl shook his bulbous head. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Bartimaeus, you really will! Once upon a time you sowed destruction and woe upon kings and commoners alike. You were a djinni of terror and of legend. These days, chatting up girls is all you’re good for – which I think’s a crying shame. Don’t bother to deny it. You know it’s true.’ With that, he hopped up onto the pentacle, causing the candles’ black flames to hop and judder. ‘Right,’ he said to the magician. ‘I’m ready. Goodbye, Bartimaeus. Think about what I said.’

  And off he went. No sooner was he in position than the magician cleared his throat and spoke the Dismissal. It was an Egyptian variant of the pithy Sumerian original and therefore a bit long and flowery for my liking, but hard as I listened I could hear nothing untoward. Faquarl’s response was everything that could be asked of it too. As the words finished and the bonds broke, the imp in the circle gave a glad cry, and with a great leap upwards vanished from the world.8 There was a faint reverberation, a moaning from the essence-cages, and silence.

  Faquarl was gone. Faquarl was free.

  I didn’t need to see more. With a vigorous spring the imp jumped into the circle. Pausing only to make an insulting gesture in the direction of Gezeri, who was scowling distantly in the shadows, I dusted myself down, set my brow-crest at a jaunty angle and turned to face the magician.

  ‘Right,’ I called. ‘I’m ready.’

  Khaba had been consulting a papyrus on his lectern. He seemed distracted. ‘Ah, yes, Bartimaeus … a moment.’

  I settled myself into an even more carefree posture, bandy legs spaced wide, paws nicely tucked on hips, head back, chins jutting forward. I waited.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ I said.

  The magician did not look up. ‘Yes, yes …’

  I shifted position again, folding my arms in resolute fashion. I considered spacing my legs even further apart, but decided against it. ‘Still here,’ I said.

  Khaba’s head jerked up; his eyes shone like a giant spider’s in the blue-green dusk. ‘The wording is correct,’ he said, in tones of driest satisfaction. ‘The procedure should succeed …’

  I coughed politely. ‘I’m so glad,’ I said. ‘If you could just dismiss me now, you’ll be able to get back to work on … whatever it is you’re doing …’ My voice kind of drifted off at this point. I didn’t like the gleam in those big, pale eyes.

  He was doing that thin-lipped-smile thing too, leaning forward, nails gripping the lectern as if he wished to cut the ivory through. ‘Bartimaeus of Uruk,’ he said softly, ‘you can scarcely imagine that after all the ceaseless trouble you have caused me, after setting King Solomon himself against me so that I was cast out into the desert, after assaulting poor Gezeri in the quarry, after your endless litany of disobedience and cheek – you can scarcely imagine that, after all that, I should be disposed to simply let you go.’

  Put like that, I suppose it would have been a bit surprising. ‘But the bandits,’ I began. ‘It was thanks to me that—’

  ‘Without you,’ the magician said, ‘they would not have been my concern at all.’

  This was admittedly true. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘but what about the priestess? You just said that—’

  ‘Ah, yes, the charming Cyrine,’ Khaba smiled, ‘who fondly believes that a simple girl from some savage backwater can waltz straight in to talk with Solomon. Tonight she wil
l share a banquet in my company and be beguiled by the wonders of the palace; tomorrow, perhaps, if Solomon is busy and has no time to spare, I might persuade her to take a walk with me. Perhaps she will come here. Perhaps she will forget her diplomatic mission. Who can tell? And yes, slave, I promised her that you would leave my service, and so you shall. But in recompense for the injuries you have done me, you will do me one last favour in return.’

  His hand rummaged in his robes, drew forth something white and shining, and held it up to show me. It was a bottle. A short, roundish bottle, perhaps the size of a child’s fist. It was made of thick clear crystal, bright and shiny and multi-faceted, and was lightly studded with glass flowers.

  ‘Like it?’ the magician said. ‘Egyptian rock crystal. I found it in a tomb.’

  I considered it. ‘Those flowers are a bit kitsch.’

  ‘Mmm. Styles in the third dynasty were a little basic,’ Khaba agreed. ‘Still, don’t worry yourself, Bartimaeus. You won’t have to look at them, because you’re going to be on the inside. This bottle,’ he said, angling it so the facets flashed, ‘will be your home.’

  My essence recoiled. The tiny round opening of the bottle’s mouth gaped blackly like an open grave. I cleared my throat painfully. ‘It’s a bit small …’

  ‘The spell of Indefinite Confinement,’ Khaba said, ‘is a procedure in which I have taken great interest. As you will doubtless know, Bartimaeus, it is in effect a Dismissal, but one that forces the demon into some physical prison instead of allowing it back to its own dimension. These cages here’ – he gestured behind him at the glowing monstrosities stacked beyond the pillars – ‘are filled with past servants I have “dismissed” in just this way. I would do the same with you, but this bottle will be more useful. When you are sealed in, I will present you to King Solomon as a gift, a token of my loyalty, a small addition to the curiosities of his collection. I shall call it, I think, “The Mighty Captive”, or some such twaddle. It will appeal to his primitive tastes. Perhaps, when his jugglers bore him, he will occasionally glance at your distorted features through the glass; perhaps he will simply store it with his other trinkets and never pick it up again.’ The magician shrugged. ‘But I think it might be a hundred years or more before someone breaks the seal and sets you free. Ample time in any case, as your essence slowly festers, for you to regret your wicked insolence to me.’

  My fury swelled; I took a step forward in my circle.

  ‘Come, come,’ Khaba said. ‘By the terms of your summoning you are prevented from harming me. And even if you were able, it would not be wise, little djinni. I am not unprotected, as perhaps you know.’

  He clicked his fingers. The sounds from the essence-cages went abruptly silent.

  At Khaba’s back his shadow shifted off the floor. Up it curled, like a furling scroll, high, high, taller than the magician, a paper-thin wisp of darkness without features of any kind. It rose until its flat black head brushed against the stone blocks of the ceiling, and the magician was like a doll beneath its shade. And now it spread its flat black arms, wide, wide, wide as the vault itself, and bent them to encircle me.

  1 The town of Zafar is in Himyar, as I knew well, having flown over it several times on my trips to collect roc’s eggs for assorted pharaohs. It’s not a ‘rock city’, though, but just your usual provincial town, as the girl should definitely have known.

  2 This is called irony. Djinn-guards aren’t much cop, if truth be known, being little more than a few flakes of silver attached with cat-gut to a wickerwork frame. Desert peoples wave them about at a moment’s notice to ward off evil influence, and I suppose a particularly feeble spirit might take the hint and leg it. But as far as warding off real djinn is concerned, they’re about as effective as a chocolate toothbrush. You just keep away from the silver and brain the owner with a rock or something.

  3 Despite her protests, it has to be said.

  4 In its profound infinity the canopy of stars echoes the measureless expanse of the Other Place. On clear nights many spirits are often found sitting on mountain crests or palace rooftops, staring at the heavens. Others fly fast and high, swooping and circling, so the tumbling lights begin to resemble the fluid wonder of our home … I sometimes used to do this, back in the days of Ur, but the melancholy soon affected me. Now, more often, I avert my eyes.

  5 Like silver, iron repels all spirits, and burns our essence if we touch it. Most Egyptian magicians wore iron ankhs about their necks as a basic protection. Not Khaba, though. He had something else.

  6 Incidentally this was an actual punishment meted out by the Xan people of East Africa to corrupt leaders and bogus priests. With their cloths nicely filled, they were forced to crouch in a barrel, which was promptly rolled down a hill to the riotous accompaniment of shekere gourds and drums. I enjoyed my association with the Xan. They lived life to the full.

  7 We were old hands, you see, well aware of the latent ambiguities contained in even the most blandly reassuring sentence. Dismissing us sounded good, naturally, but it needed clarification; and as for us getting our ‘just reward’ … in the mouth of someone like Khaba, that phrase was almost an overt threat.

  8 Just for a moment, as his essence shrugged off Earth’s limitations and became susceptible to the infinite possibilities of the Other Place, seven Faquarls were visible across the planes, each one in a slightly different place. It was an amazing sight, but I didn’t look too closely. One Faquarl is quite enough.

  20

  ‘Lost your voice, Bartimaeus?’ Khaba said. ‘That’s not like you.’

  It was true. I’d not said much. I was too busy looking all about me, coolly assessing my predicament. The downsides, certainly, were clear enough. I was deep underground in the stronghold of a wicked magician, cornered in my circle by the questing fingers of his giant shadow-slave. In a moment or two I was to be compressed into a rather tawdry bottle and turned into a cheap sideshow attraction, possibly for all eternity. Those were the downsides. As for the upsides …

  Well, I couldn’t see any just yet.

  But one thing was for sure. If I was going to meet a horrid fate, I wasn’t going to do it in the form of a squat, plump-stomached imp. Drawing myself up, I changed, grew, became a tall and elegant young man with shining wings upon my back; I looked no different, even down to the pale-blue nets of veins running through my slender wrists, from when I’d been Gilgamesh’s spear-bearer in Sumer, so many centuries before.

  It certainly made me feel better. But it did little more than that.

  ‘Mmm, delightful,’ Khaba said. ‘It’ll look all the more amusing when you’re compressed at speed through this little hole. Sadly I shan’t be here to see it. Ammet …’

  Without a glance at the great black column swaying at his back, Khaba held up the crystal bottle. At once a wispy arm, whose fingertips had been hovering close beside my neck, shrank back, bent like a reed stem, then, with probing deftness, plucked the bottle from the magician’s hand and raised it high into the air.

  ‘The Indefinite Confinement spell,’ Khaba said, tapping the papyrus strip upon the lectern, ‘is long and arduous, and I do not have time to work it now. But Ammet here can speak it for me.’ He looked up then, and from its height a shadow-head shaped just like his own bent down to meet him. ‘Dear Ammet, the hour of the banquet approaches fast, and since I have a delightful young woman to meet, up at the palace, I must delay no longer. Finish our business here, as we discussed. I have set out the exact words; you will find them appropriate to a djinni of this level. When all is done and Bartimaeus is interred, seal the bottle with molten lead and mark it with the usual runes. Once it has cooled, bring it up to me. Gezeri and I will be in the Magicians’ Hall.’

  So saying – and without another word or backward glance – Khaba stepped out of his circle and walked away among the columns. The foliot, with a carefree wave in my direction, padded after him. The shadow stayed standing where it was. For a moment the ends of its long, tapering legs remained
joined to the magician’s heels, stretching out longer, longer along the floor. At last, as if reluctantly, and with a faint, wet rending sound, they peeled away. The magician went on walking. Two narrow strips like midnight streams pooled back across the stones and flowed up into the legs, where they were reabsorbed.

  A deep reverberation sounded; the granite door was closed. Khaba had gone. Across the vault his shadow stood silent, watching me.

  And then – the shadow hadn’t moved, and nothing on any of the planes had altered – a great force struck me like a raging wind. It blew me back across the circle. I landed flat upon my wings, spinning with the impact of the blast, which did not drop or slacken.

  With some difficulty I struggled to a sitting position, trying to clear my head, prodding my essence tentatively. All was still in working order, which meant that the fearsome impact hadn’t been an attack. The truth, if anything, was more alarming still. Whatever cloaking mechanism the shadow had employed while being attached to the magician had simply been removed. The planes about me shuddered with the force of its proximity. Its power beat upon me like cold heat.

  That told me what I already knew: that the entity I faced was great indeed.

  Slowly, painfully, I got to my feet, and still the shadow watched me.

  Though now without its concealing Veil, it displayed no different guise. It still bore Khaba’s shape faithfully, if rather larger than the original. As I watched, it folded its arms, crossed one leg loosely above the other. Where its limbs bent, it completely disappeared from view, for it had no thickness. Even such darkness as it possessed was gauzy and see-through, like something woven from black webbing. On the lower planes it almost merged into the chamber’s natural dimness; on the higher ones it grew gradually more substantial, until on the seventh its outline was sharp and well defined.