‘Failed?’ I gazed at her. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Another way might be—’
‘But it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to Sheba with the Ring.’ Her face gleamed at me in the darkness like a fierce, pale star. ‘I’m not going to fail in that.’
I drew myself up. It was time to go for the jugular now. Her self-assurance, though still vigorously expressed, was failing her; perhaps it had already failed. If I got it right, I figured I could cut things short, save myself a painful journey back to Sheba carrying that burning Ring. Who knows, it might also save the girl. ‘Let me hazard a guess here,’ I said, and again it was good that I was in the form of the Sumerian spear-bearer, and not one of my more unusual guises. Home truths are difficult enough to swallow without having them delivered by a pop-eyed imp, a winged serpent, a miasma of poison gas or a four-faced demon,3 to mention but a few. ‘You couldn’t kill Solomon,’ I said, ‘because, in your heart, you know he was telling you the truth about Sheba and the Ring. No – shut up a moment, and listen. And that, in turn, means you know your precious queen got it wrong. You don’t like that revelation. You don’t like it because that means she sent you here mistakenly, and everything you risked was for nothing. You don’t like it because, if your queen’s not infallible, it calls into question the whole purpose of your sad little life, doing what she says, sacrificing yourself for her. Doesn’t it? Oh yes, and just maybe it calls into question your mother’s sacrifice too.’
The girl gave a start. Her voice was very faint. ‘You know nothing about my mother.’
‘I know what you told me. She died for her queen.’
The girl’s eyes closed. ‘Yes. And I watched her die.’
‘Just as you expected to die on this mission too. Part of you even hoped for it.’ Something crumpled in the girl’s face here. I waited and drew back a little. ‘So, when was it?’ I said. ‘Recently?’
‘Long ago.’ The girl looked at me. The fury was still there, but it was cracked and broken now, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I was six years old. Men of the hill-tribes, angered about taxes. They tried to kill the queen.’
‘Mm,’ I said musingly. ‘Assassins attacking a head of state. Sound familiar?’
The girl didn’t seem to have heard. ‘My mother stopped them,’ she said. ‘And they—’ She looked off into the gardens. It was still very quiet out there, no sign of any trouble. On sudden impulse, I took the ball of parchment down off the balustrade. It struck me that its muffled aura might be visible from afar.
Asmira leaned back against the stone, hands resting at her sides. For the first time in our association she was truly still. Of course, I’d seen her not moving before, but always as an interlude amid swift action. Now, whether it was my words, or her memories, or something else entirely, she seemed suddenly slowed, deflated, uncertain what to do.
‘If I don’t take the Ring,’ she said in a hollow voice, ‘what will I have achieved? Nothing. I’ll still be as empty as I am now.’
Empty? The spear-bearer scratched his manly chin. Humans and their problems. It’s not my strongest suit. Oh sure, it was pretty clear to me that the girl had been seeking to emulate her mother all these years, only to find – at the moment of her triumph – that she didn’t quite believe in what she was doing. I saw that well enough. But in the face of her sudden desolation, I was unsure where to go next. Probing psychological analysis is one thing,4 constructive suggestions quite another.
‘Now listen,’ I began, ‘there’s still time to take the Ring back to Solomon. He wouldn’t take revenge on you. He gave his word. Plus he’d be too relieved, I think. Or, another alternative, which you may not have considered, is for us to chuck the Ring into the sea. Get rid of it for ever. That would solve the problem big time – no more threat to Sheba, no pain for your queen – plus it would save a lot of inconvenience for a host of spirits too.’
The girl neither agreed nor disagreed with this sensible suggestion. She remained slumped, shoulders sagging, staring into the dark.
I tried again. ‘This “emptiness” you talk about,’ I said. ‘I think you’re getting too worked up about it. Your trouble, Asmira, is you’ve got something of an issue with your—’ I broke off in sudden alarm. My handsome nose twitched. It twitched again. I sniffed about me intently.
That woke her up a bit. She stirred indignantly. ‘You’re saying I smell? Great Sheba, that was one thing I wasn’t worrying about.’
‘No. Not you.’ My eyes narrowed. I looked around the walkway. Pillars, statues, scattered chairs – all seemed quiet enough. But somewhere close … Uh-oh. ‘Can you smell anything?’ I asked.
‘Rotten eggs,’ the girl said. ‘I thought that was you.’
‘It isn’t me.’
Spurred on by sudden intuition, I stole away from her on silent feet and padded up the centre of the aisle. I stopped, sniffed, listened, went a little further, sniffed again. I took another step –
– then spun round and blew the nearest statue to pieces with a Detonation.
The girl gave a cry; the spear-bearer gave a spring. Even as the glowing shards of stone were still tumbling, rolling, pattering down upon the tower’s dome, I landed in their midst, brushed aside a few remaining filaments of lilac cloud, and seized the blackened foliot from his hiding place behind the shattered plinth. I grabbed him by his green and sinewy neck and lifted him aloft.
‘Gezeri,’ I snarled. ‘I thought as much. Spying again! Well, this time I’m going to finish you before you get a chance to—’
The foliot slowly stuck out his tongue at me and grinned. He pointed to the south.
Oh no.
I turned, looked. Far off above the palace roofs, a small black cloud rose vertically into the night, a rushing cone of wind and fire. It was far away at first, but not for long. Slender bolts of lightning sprang from its sides; it boiled, churned, spun with avenging fury, and shot above the gardens towards the tower.
1 At a rough glance they seemed to be inscribed with some songs he was writing. I didn’t bother reading any. They were unlikely to be much good.
2 Four, in fact: three of them ultra-cool, deliberate acts of political assassination, and one an unfortunate mishap involving a barking dog, a child’s toy chariot, a slippery corridor, a short, steep ramp, and a cauldron of boiling beef-fat. That one had to be seen to be believed.
3Four-faced demon: a guise used occasionally to guard important crossroads in ancient Mesopotamia. The faces were a griffin, a bull, a lion and a cobra, each more terrifying than the last. I sat on a pillar, a picture of noble gravitas, gazing implacably in all directions. The problems started when I had to get up and run after someone. Then I just got confused and tripped over my feet, which made the passing urchins laugh.
4 Namely, impartial observation liberally spiced with sarcasm and personal abuse. Let’s face it, I’m good at all that.
32
The appearance of the cloud came at exactly the wrong time for Asmira, at the precise moment when her resolve had fallen clean away.
She stood on the balcony and watched it grow: a tornado of whirling flames, lighting the trees and lawns as it passed above them, staining them red like blood. She heard the screaming of the air, heard the laughter of the little demon, heard the urgent cries of Bartimaeus as he ran towards her …
She heard and saw it all, but she did not act.
Throughout the tribulations of the journey Asmira had maintained an iron discipline learned over many solitary years. The dangers of the palace, the interview with Solomon, even being brought face-to-face with the Spirit of the Ring – none of this had entirely daunted her. She understood the sacrifice she was prepared to make, and she understood why she did so. Her clarity gave her purpose and her purpose gave her clarity. From the beginning she moved towards her likely death in a mood of fierce serenity.
But death, in the end, had not come – Bartimaeus had instead. And suddenly the king was at her mercy, the Ring was in her
grasp, and she was still alive. Everything was possible that she had long desired … And now Asmira found, quite suddenly, that she was no longer certain what to do.
Even before she fled from Solomon’s room, she had been struggling to come to terms with what had happened. The king’s story, his helplessness, his denial of his guilt, the way he crumpled in his chair … None of this had been expected; all of it jarred with her preconceptions. And then there’d been the Ring itself, the Ring that supposedly made its wearer the luckiest of men. Except that it burned him and made him old before his time … She thought of Solomon’s ravaged face, of the pain she’d felt when she too had picked it up. Nothing made sense. Everything was upside-down.
At first Asmira had sought to ignore the conflict in her mind and to complete her mission as best she could. But then, thanks to Bartimaeus, she found her deepest doubts and motivations laid bare beneath the stars.
Much of what he said she had always known, secretly, deep down, ever since the moment when her mother had collapsed upon the lap of the impassive, indifferent queen. For years she had denied that knowledge, cloaked it beneath her angry dedication and her pleasure in her skill. But now, with the cold night’s clarity, she found she no longer trusted what she was and what she had aspired to be. Her energy and self-belief were gone, and the accumulated weariness of the previous two weeks descended abruptly on her back. She felt both very heavy – and hollow, like a shell.
Onward came the rushing cloud. Asmira did nothing.
The djinni ran towards her, grasping the little green demon by the neck. In his other hand he had the ball of parchment, held outstretched. ‘Here,’ he shouted. ‘The Ring! Take it! Put it on!’
‘What?’ Asmira frowned dully. ‘I – I can’t do that.’
‘Can’t you see? Khaba’s coming!’ Bartimaeus was right beside her now, still in his dark youth guise. He was wide-eyed with agitation. He thrust the ball into her hands. ‘Put it on quick! It’s our only chance.’
Even through the crumpled parcel Asmira could feel the intense heat of the Ring. She fumbled it, almost dropped it to the floor. ‘Me? No … I can’t. Why don’t you—?’
‘Well, I can’t do it, can I?’ the djinni cried. ‘The pull of the Other Place will tear my essence in two! Do it! Use it! We’ve got barely seconds!’ The young man gave a spring, hopped onto the balustrade and, tucking the foliot beneath his arm, sent a succession of scarlet bolts shooting through the night towards the cloud. None got near: all exploded against an invisible obstruction, sending plumes of dying magic high into the air, or down in fizzing arcs to set the cypress trees aflame.
Asmira picked hesitantly at the edges of the parchment. Put it on? But this was a royal treasure, worn by kings and queens. Who was she to dare to use it? She was nothing, not even a proper guard … And besides – she thought of Solomon’s ravaged face – the Ring burned.
‘Do you want Khaba the Cruel to get it?’ Bartimaeus shouted down at her. ‘Put the thing on! Ah, what kind of master are you? This is your chance to do something right!’
From the crook of his arm the little green demon gave a rich and fruity chuckle. Asmira recognized it now; it was Khaba’s creature. She had glimpsed it in the gorge. ‘You’ve got a dud one there, Barty,’ the foliot remarked. ‘Useless. Was it her who put that package in plain sight on the balustrade? I saw that a mile off.’
The djinni made no answer but spoke a word. The foliot froze with its mouth open, engulfed in a web of smoke. Still firing bolts towards the cloud with his other hand, Bartimaeus tossed the demon high, caught it by a solid ear and, with a mighty rotation of the arm, hurled it out into the dark.
Beyond, in the midst of the oncoming cloud, a bright blue pulse of light flared once.
‘Asmira—’ Bartimaeus said.
Blue fire struck the balustrade, blew it asunder, sent the djinni flying backwards in a mass of sapphire flames. Across the walkway he went, through the nearest statue, smashing into the tower’s dome in a tangle of bent limbs. The flames licked across him, flared, went out.
His body rolled slowly down the slope, over and over, then stopped at last amid a scattering of stone.
Asmira stared at the slumped body, stared at the package in her hands. She gave a sudden curse; her hesitation left her. She scrabbled at the parchment pieces, tearing them apart, feeling the heat of the Ring inside growing hotter, hotter … She reached out a trembling hand—
Lightning flashed; the storm-cloud plunged down upon the balcony. Statues toppled, pieces of parapet warped, snapped, fell outwards into the night. The storm burst upon the walkway, projecting a circular buffet of air that sent Asmira tumbling against the stone, spinning round upon her back. The ball of parchment was flung from her hands, dropped upon the parapet. A small fleck of gold and black bounced free.
The gale winked out; the storm had vanished. Standing in the middle of a broad ring of scorched black stonework, the magician Khaba looked balefully around.
At his back, something darker, taller, raised its head. Paper-thin arms that had held the magician in a tight embrace unfolded. Fingers long and sharp as needles stretched, flexed, pointed in Asmira’s direction.
‘Over there,’ a soft voice said.
Asmira had hit her head upon the stonework; the parapet swam before her eyes. Nevertheless, she struggled to a sitting position and looked about her for the Ring.
There it was – right at the edge, beside the yawning gulf. Head reeling, Asmira rolled herself forward, began to crawl towards the Ring.
Soft footsteps nearing, the swishing of a long black robe.
Asmira crawled faster. Now she felt the Ring’s heat upon her face. She stretched out to pick it up—
A black sandal came down, crushed her fingers to the stone. Asmira gasped, jerked her hand away.
‘No, Cyrine,’ the magician said. ‘No. It’s not for you.’
He kicked out at her, catching her sharply on the side of the face. She rolled backwards with the blow, sprang to her feet. Before she could reach for her belt, something like claws had grasped her waist, yanked her upwards and away. For some moments she saw nothing but starlight twisting and the whirling dark, then she found herself summarily deposited back upon the stone, halfway along the ruined balcony. The sharp clasp about her did not slacken; her arms were gripped fast, pressed against her sides. There was a presence at her back.
The Egyptian was still standing over the Ring, staring at it in disbelief. He wore the same tunic as at the banquet so many hours before. His face looked haggard, and there were little purple stains at the corners of his lips, testimony to his night’s consumption, but his eyes glistened with high excitement, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
‘It is. It truly is … I cannot believe it!’ He bent down swiftly, only to pause in doubt as he sensed the emanations of the Ring.
Somewhere above Asmira, a soft voice gave a warning call. ‘Master! Beware! The energies burn me even at a distance. Dear Master, you must take care!’
The magician made a noise that was half laugh, half groan. ‘You – you know me, dear Ammet. I – I like a little pain.’ His fingers plunged upon the Ring. Asmira flinched in expectation of his cry.
Instead: a gasp, a muttered curse; with staring eyes and teeth locked tight together, Khaba stood. The Ring rested on his palm.
‘Master! Are you hurt?’
Asmira looked up, saw, framed against the stars, a shadow-thing, Khaba’s duplicate in silhouette. Her teeth parted in horror, she struggled in the monster’s grip.
The Egyptian flicked his eyes towards her. ‘Keep the girl secure,’ he said. ‘But do – do not harm her yet. I need – I need to talk with her. Ah!’ He gave a bellow. ‘How did the old man stomach it so?’
The grip around Asmira’s waist tightened, so that she cried out. At the same time she felt her captor make a sudden, sinewy movement to pick up something behind them.
The soft voice spoke again. ‘Master, I have Bartimaeus too. He lives.�
�
Asmira moved her head a little, saw the handsome youth hanging limp beside her, suspended like a clutch of rags in a great grey fist. Yellow steam rose from many wounds upon his body. The sight gave her a sudden pang.
‘Not dead? All the better.’ Khaba shuffled towards them, holding his right hand close against his chest. ‘We have our first occupant for the new essence-cages, Ammet. But first – this girl …’
He came to a halt in front of Asmira and stood regarding her. His face was racked with pain; his teeth champed silently against his upper lip. Still he did not put the Ring on.
‘How did you do it?’ he demanded. ‘What level magician are you?’
Asmira shrugged. She shook her head.
‘Do you want Ammet to tear you in two?’ Khaba said. ‘He itches to do so. Speak!’
‘It was easy enough.’
‘What of Solomon’s defences?’
‘I avoided them.’
‘The Ring: how did you get it off his finger? While he slept?’
‘No. He was awake.’
‘Then how in the name of Ra—?’ Khaba broke off, staring at his rigid, clutching hand. A wave of pain passed over him; he seemed to lose his train of thought. ‘Well, you shall tell me the details later at my leisure, whether you wish to or not. But one thing now: how did Solomon die?’
Asmira thought of the frail king sitting in his chair. She wondered what he would be doing now. Summoning his guards, perhaps, or fleeing the tower. She found she hoped he’d had time to do so. ‘Bartimaeus strangled him,’ she said.
‘Ah. Good, good. It’s no more than he deserved. Now, Cyrine – but of course, that’s not really your name, is it? I wonder what …’ Khaba gave her a twisted grin. ‘Well, we’ll find out, won’t we, in time. Whoever you are,’ he went on, ‘I’m greatly obliged to you. I have been eager to carry out such an act myself for years. So have the rest of the Seventeen – we have spoken about it often. Ah, but we were fearful! We dared not act! The terror of the Ring was upon us. Yet you, in the company of this … this very ordinary djinni, have managed it!’ Khaba shook his head in wonder. ‘It is truly quite remarkable. I assume it was you who caused the kerfuffle around the treasury?’
The Ring of Solomon Page 29
