The Ring of Solomon

by Jonathan Stroud

  *

  As she had glimpsed a moment before, the room was high-ceilinged and of considerable size. The floor, of pink-veined marble, was strewn with ornate carpets covered in mystic signs. In the centre of the chamber was a circular, step-sided plunge-pool filled with gently steaming water; around it were chairs, couches and tasselled cushions. A large crystal orb rested on an onyx table, while amongst the potted palms, silvered trays sat on slim gold stands, bearing fruits and meats, piled seafood, pastries, jugs of wine and cups of polished glass.

  Asmira’s mouth fell open at the casual splendour of it all. Her eyes flitted from one luxury to another. At once the urgency of her mission receded. She longed to partake of the magnificence – sit on a couch, perhaps, and taste the wine, or dissolve her weariness by dipping her feet into the lulling warmness of the pool.

  She took a slow step forward …

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ the sand cat said, setting a warning paw upon her knee.

  ‘It’s all so nice …’

  ‘That’s because he’s put a Glamour on it, the better for snaring the unwary. Take one bite of that food, peek just for a moment into the orb, dip so much as a little pinkie in that water and you’d still be stuck here come the dawn, when Solomon would amble in to find you. Best not look at it at all.’

  Asmira chewed her lip. ‘But it’s all so nice …’

  ‘If I were you,’ the cat went on, ‘I’d be checking out the murals on the wall. Look, there’s old Rameses in his chariot and Hammurabi in his tiered pleasure garden; there’s a not very accurate depiction of Gilgamesh … where’s his broken nose, I want to know? Ah yes,’ the sand cat said. ‘All the greats are here. Typical pad of a typical despot, obsessed with being bigger and better than the ones who went before him. This is where Solomon sits and plans his conquests of places like Sheba, I’ll be bound.’

  Asmira had still been gazing at the coils of fragrant steam rising softly from the pool, but at the djinni’s words she gave a start, and her fingers clenched upon her dagger. She tore herself free from the enchanted scene and stared at the cat with hot, befuddled eyes.

  ‘That’s better,’ Bartimaeus said. ‘Here’s what I suggest. There are four arches out of here, two to the right, two to the left. All seem the same. I say we take them one by one. I’ll go first. You come after. Look at me the whole time. Nothing else, mind, or the Glamour’s going to get you. Think you can cope with that, or shall I say it again?’

  Asmira scowled. ‘Of course I can cope with it. I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘And yet, in so many ways, you are.’ With that, the cat was off, winding between the couches and the golden tables. Asmira, cursing, hurried along behind. At the edges of her vision the shimmering enticements winked and sparkled like exquisite memories of a dream, but she ignored them, keeping her eyes firmly fixed upon—

  ‘Could you please lower your tail a little?’ she hissed.

  ‘It’s keeping your mind off the Glamour, isn’t it?’ the cat said. ‘Quit complaining. OK, here’s the first arch. I’m going to take a peek … Oh!’ It ducked back in a flurry, with its tail fluffed out. ‘He’s there!’ he whispered. ‘Take a look – but do it carefully.’

  Heart pounding against her chest, Asmira peered round the nearest pillar of the arch. Beyond was a circular room, bare and unadorned, with marble columns set into the wall. At its centre was a raised platform; high above this rose a dome of glass, through which the constellations were in radiant display.

  Standing on the platform was a man.

  He had his back to the arch, and his face was hidden, but Asmira knew him from the mural she had seen upon the wall of the Magicians’ Hall. He wore a silken robe that descended to the floor; this was decorated with spiralling designs of woven gold. His dark hair hung loose upon his shoulders. His head was raised, and he was looking up towards the stars in silent contemplation. His hands were loosely clasped behind his back.

  On one of his fingers was a ring.

  Asmira had ceased to breathe. Without taking her eyes off the silent king, she drew her dagger from her belt. He was fifteen yards distant, certainly no more. The time had come. She would strike him through the heart with a single blow, and Sheba would be saved. Sheba would be saved. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead and trickled along the contours of her nose.

  She flicked the dagger into the air, caught it by its down-turned tip.

  She pulled her arm back.

  Still the king gazed peaceably at the boundless stars.

  Something was tugging at her tunic. She looked down. The sand cat was there, gesturing urgently towards the other room. She shook her head and raised the dagger.

  The tugging came again, hard enough to spoil her aim. Uttering a silent scream of vexation, Asmira allowed herself to be pulled back round the corner of the arch, into the outer chamber. She bent low and glared at the cat.

  ‘What?’ she breathed.

  ‘Something’s not right.’

  ‘What do you mean, “not right”? Isn’t it Solomon?’

  ‘I … don’t know. If it’s an Illusion, it’s not one I can see through. It’s just …’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’

  Asmira stared at the cat. She straightened up. ‘I’m going to do it.’

  ‘No! Wait.’

  ‘Shh – he’ll hear us! I won’t get this chance again. Will you stop your tugging?’

  ‘I’m telling you – don’t do it! It’s too easy. It’s too …’

  Asmira’s head spun. She saw the quiet, imploring face of Balkis and the sombre priestesses lined up in the courtyard; she imagined Marib’s towers burning. She saw her mother falling, her hair tumbling loose like water across the old queen’s lap.

  ‘Get off me,’ she hissed. The cat was clinging to her arm. ‘Will you get off? I can do this! I can finish this now—’

  ‘It’s a trap, I’m sure of it. Only I— Ah!’

  She had swiped out with the silver dagger, not intending to harm, but to drive the djinni back. The cat dropped off her sleeve and jumped away, fur bristling.

  Once again Asmira ducked through the arch. The king stood as before.

  Without pausing, Asmira raised her hand, drew it level with her shoulder and, with a brief, efficient snap of the wrist, threw the dagger with full force. It struck Solomon just above the heart and buried itself hilt-deep. He collapsed without a sound.

  At which moment she heard the cat’s voice calling, ‘I’ve got it! It’s the Ring – it’s not bright enough! The aura should be blinding me! Don’t—! Oh. Too late. You have.’

  The body of King Solomon fell to the floor, but did not stop there. It dropped straight through the solid surface of the platform, like a stone in water. In a twinkling it was gone, and only the dagger-hilt was visible, projecting from the marble.

  This happened so fast that Asmira was still standing frozen, with her dagger-hand outstretched, when the platform burst asunder and the great demon thrust itself up from below, bellowing and roaring with its three tusked mouths. High as the dome it rose, a knotted mass of glistening cords and arms, each with its own translucent eye. All these eyes were turned upon her, and the tentacles flayed and trembled with anticipation.

  Asmira fell back against the wall, her mind and limbs transfixed. Somewhere close she heard the sand cat calling, but she could not respond, nor summon the strength to reach for the final dagger at her belt. All she could do was give a single ragged cry. She felt her legs give way, felt herself sliding slowly down the wall – and then the demon was upon her, reaching for her throat.

  28

  There are times when any honest djinni’s simply got to stand and fight. Times when you face your foe head on. Times when, no matter what the overwhelming odds, no matter how hideous the coming peril, you just spit on your hands, square your shoulders, smooth back your hair and (possibly with a small wry smile playing on your lips) step out to greet the danger with open arm
s.

  Obviously this wasn’t such a time.

  To confront the terrible entity that had risen in the chamber would have been a futile act – and a very messy one.1 Only an idiot would have tried. Or someone under contract, of course. If I’d been forced to do so by order of a competent master, I’d have had to stand my ground or be destroyed forthwith by the Dismal Flame. But my master wasn’t competent, as her summoning had proved – and now, at last, after getting away with it for a surprising length of time, she was going to pay the penalty.

  Bring me safely to King Solomon: those had been that Arabian girl’s exact words way back when she gave me my charge. And (Bartimaeus of Uruk being a spirit who fulfils his charges to the letter) this is precisely what I’d achieved. True, there was admittedly some doubt about whether the figure in the room had actually been Solomon, but since it was shaped like him, looked like him, smelled like him, and was standing as large as life in his apartments, I figured it was close enough. The girl had certainly believed it was, which is why she’d thrown the knife. Contractually speaking, I’d done my bit. I didn’t have to keep her safe a moment longer.

  Which, with that gelatinous monstrosity a-calling, was exactly the break I needed.

  The sand cat ran.

  Out of the domed room and away across the pillared hall I went, fur out, fluff-tail bristling. Behind me I heard a high-pitched scream – brief, tentative, and cut off in a rather final, gargling sort of way. Good. Well, bad for the girl, of course, but good for me, which is what counts. Depending on how long the visitation toyed with her before finishing her off, I expected to be dematerializing very soon.

  In the meantime, I made sure I was out of reach. The cat shot across the hall, leaped straight over the plunge-pool, skidded diagonally along a stretch of marble and, with a quick spin of the Evasive Cartwheel, flipped out of sight through the next arch along.

  Safety! Yet again my unique combination of quick thinking and agility had saved my precious skin!

  Except it was a dead end.

  Quite an interesting dead end, as dead ends go, but potentially fatal all the same. The room was clearly the place where Solomon kept many of his treasures – a small, windowless store, lit by oil lamps, and piled in every direction with shelves and caskets.

  No time to explore it. The cat turned tail and made for the arch – only to be dissuaded by another bloodcurdling roar sounding from outside. The ferocious entity was a loud one, sure enough, if a disappointingly slow worker. I’d hoped he would have swallowed the girl by now. But perhaps, having chomped off a leg or something, he was storing her for later. Perhaps he was coming after me. Clearly I needed somewhere safe to hide.

  I turned again to look around the storeroom. What did I see? Plenty of jewels, idols, masks, swords, helms, scrolls, tablets, shields and other artefacts of magical design, not to mention a few weird extras like a set of crocodile-skin gloves, a skull with eyes of shell, and a rather lumpy-looking straw doll covered with human skin.2 I also saw an old friend of mine – that golden serpent I’d stolen from Eridu. But what I really wanted – namely a WAY OUT – was altogether missing.

  Sweaty-pawed with agitation, the cat looked left and right, scanning the shelves. Almost every item in the little room was magical – their auras interlaced across the planes, bathing me in rainbow light. If the entity did appear behind me, was there something I might use in last, desperate defence?

  Nope, unless I was going to lob the doll at him. Trouble was, I didn’t know what any of the artefacts did.3 But then I noticed, half hidden amid the piled treasures at the back, a large copper pot. It was narrow at the base, swelling at the neck to the width of a man’s shoulders. On its top was a circular lid, and on that lid sat a layer of dust, implying that no one, including Solomon, ever checked within.

  In an instant the cat became a curl of mist, scrolling off the floor and up against the lid, which I nudged minutely to one side. With the speed of wind emerging from an elephant, I shot inside and (still in my gaseous state) flicked the lid back into position. Darkness all about me. The curl of mist hung in silence, waiting.

  Had I moved in time?

  I imagined the entity oozing level with the archway. I imagined several of its eye-stalks probing inwards, scanning the treasures from side to side. I imagined one of its polyped coils unfurling, flicking towards the surface of the pot …

  Squeezed tight with tension, the curl of mist floated quietly up and down.

  Nothing happened. The pot stayed undisturbed.

  Time passed.

  After a while I began to relax. The entity had doubtless gone, hopefully to hurry up and devour the girl. I was just debating whether to nudge the lid aside and tiptoe from my hiding place, or remain more prudently concealed, when I became aware of feeling watched.

  I looked about me. The interior of the pot was empty. Whatever it had originally contained was gone; now it was filled with nothing but secretive, dusty silence. Yet somehow there was an oddness in the atmosphere, an indefinable frisson in the old, stale air that made my essence tingle with occult sensation.

  I waited – and all at once, from somewhere close, yet infinitely far away, came a little voice, an echo of an echo, a plaintive memory of speech.

  Bartimaeus …

  Call me over-cautious, but strange voices in pots always put me on my guard. The curl of mist instantly coalesced into a small white moth, fluttering warily in the black vastness of the pot. I sent swift Pulses back and forth, checked all the planes. But there was nothing there, nothing but dust and shadows.

  Bartimaeus …

  And then, suddenly, I guessed. I remembered the three famous afrits who had dared defy Solomon. I recalled their reported fates. One of them – or so hushed fireside gossip had it – had been reduced, by the king’s caprice and the power of the Ring, into a mournful echo in a pot. Which one was it …?

  The moth’s antennae shivered. I cleared my throat, spoke cautiously: ‘Philocretes?’

  A sound as soft as owl-flight: The name of what I was is lost. I am a last sigh, an imprint on the air. As you beat your wings, so the air swirls and the final trace of me must vanish. You seek the Ring?

  Out of courtesy the moth adjusted its wing-beats to a slo-mo minimum. I spoke with care, for I sensed malice as well as melancholy in the voice. ‘No, no.’

  Ah. Very wise. I sought the Ring …

  ‘Did you? Er … how did you get on?’

  How do you think I got on? I’m a voice in a bloody pot.

  ‘Right.’

  The voice gave a moan of fathomless regret and longing. Had I but a thimbleful of essence, it murmured, I would swallow you whole, little djinni, devour you in a single gulp. Alas, I cannot! For Solomon has punished me and I am less than nothing.

  ‘How sad,’ I said feelingly. ‘What a terrible shame. Well, it’s been so nice chatting, but it seems quiet outside now, so perhaps I’d better be going—’

  Would that I could leave this prison too, whispered the voice. Then I would cast Solomon into eternal darkness! Ah, yes, I have his secret now. I could take the Ring. But my knowledge comes too late! Only one chance was given me. I wasted it, and here I must reside for ever, a frail susurration, a child’s sigh, a—

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ I said, pausing with new attention, ‘that you’d like to pass on this sure-fire method of ring-stealing, would you? It’s of no interest to me, of course, but someone else might be able get revenge on your behalf …’

  What care I for revenge? The voice was so faint that each beat of the moth’s wings in the dead air broke its sound to fragments. I am a whisper of unspoken sorrow, a—

  ‘You could help another spirit achieve greatness …’

  I care nothing for the fate of others. I wish death to all things in either world that still have energy and life …

  ‘A noble sentiment, to be sure.’ The moth spoke crisply, making for the lid. ‘Still, my view is that Solomon remains invincible. Everyone knows the Ring can
’t be stolen.’

  The voice hesitated. What’s this? You don’t believe me?

  ‘Of course not. But hey, what does that matter? You go on echoing away to yourself if it keeps you happy. I’ve got jobs to do for the king and I can’t hang around here yakking. Goodbye.’

  You fool! Faint and fragile as it was, the dark emotion of the voice made my wings quiver; I was profoundly grateful that Philocretes was robbed of all power to do me harm. How blindly you return to your slavery, the echoes whispered, when you could in a moment master Solomon and seize the Ring!

  ‘Like you know that,’ I sneered.

  I do know it so!

  ‘Yeah? Says who?’

  Says me!

  ‘Locked away in here? You’re just hot air.’

  Ah, but I was not always in this side room, cried the voice. To begin with the cursed king kept me in his chamber, and showed me off to all his wives. And so I listened to him talk, and give instructions to his servants; above all, I heard him speak to the fearsome presence that the Ring controls. I know his weakness! I know how he shields this weakness from the world! Tell me, djinni, is it night or day?

  ‘We are in the very bowels of the night.’

  Ah! So have you seen the king, perhaps, as you wander through his chambers?

  A little bit of naivety was needed here. ‘I saw him in his observatory, standing looking at the stars.’

  You fool, to be deceived by surfaces! That is not Solomon!

  ‘What then?’

  A magic worked by the Spirit of the Ring. A spell cast upon a doll of clay. The doll becomes the king, while the king retires to his private room beyond to rest. It is a powerful Illusion, and a trap for enemies. When I attacked the fake, thinking Solomon defenceless, the real king was alerted, and snared me in an instant. Ah, would that I had ignored it, I would not be doomed to this!

  I hesitated. ‘How exactly were you snared?’

  Another Illusion. He is a master of them. It seemed a great entity rose from the ground, a being of such power that I was rendered dumb with terror. As I strove to fight it, sending Detonation after Detonation into its writhing coils, Solomon appeared behind me and turned the Ring. Now, I am here.