The Ring of Solomon

by Jonathan Stroud

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a good tactic. Most of my colleagues are still engaged down there. If it was left to them, you’d have got away.’

  ‘How did you find us?’ Asmira said. ‘How did that green demon—?’

  ‘Gezeri, Ammet and I have been looking for you half the night, ever since you robbed me. Gezeri has the sharpest eyes. He saw a glimmer high up on the balcony. He came to investigate. I kept watch on him with this.’ The magician held up a polished stone that hung about his neck. ‘Imagine my surprise when we discovered it was you.’

  At that moment there was a moan behind them. A small, bedraggled cloud rose fitfully from the gulf, proceeding in sorry jerks and starts. On the cloud sprawled the small green foliot, in a state of great discomposure, with a bump the size of a stork’s egg on its head. ‘Ohhh, me essence,’ it groaned. ‘That Bartimaeus! Got me with a Petrifaction before chucking me off the edge!’

  Khaba scowled. ‘Be still, Gezeri! I have an important task to do.’

  ‘I’m numb all over. Go on, give my tail a tweak. I won’t feel it.’

  ‘You won’t have a tail much longer if you don’t stay quiet and keep watch.’

  ‘Aren’t we tetchy?’ the foliot said. ‘But you’d better be careful too, chum. The explosions up here haven’t gone unnoticed, nor that horrid aura spilling from your hand. Better look sharp. There’s company coming.’

  It pointed: far off to the south, many points of light were fast approaching, and with them slim silhouettes, dark, rectangular, like silent doorways to the stars. Khaba grimaced. ‘My friends and colleagues, come to check on Solomon. Little do they guess who holds the Ring now!’

  ‘All very fine,’ Asmira said suddenly, ‘but I notice you’ve not yet put it on.’

  She cried out; the demon had squeezed her waist vindictively. Khaba said: ‘It is slightly … harder to endure than I would have expected. Who would have thought that Solomon had such strength of will? But do not think to criticize me, girl. I am a man of power. You are nothing, a nameless thief.’

  Asmira gritted her teeth; rage filled her. ‘Wrong,’ she said. ‘My name is Asmira, and my mother was First Guard of the Queen of Sheba. I came to seek the Ring because my country was in peril, and though I may have failed, at least I acted with more honourable intent than you.’

  She finished with her chin jutting, her eyes blazing, ferocious satisfaction surging through her. There was a resounding silence.

  Then Khaba laughed, a high-pitched, squealing sound, and from the shadow-thing that held her came a laugh that echoed it pitch for pitch. The unconscious djinni, hanging alongside, twitched and shivered at the noise.

  With an effort Khaba calmed himself. ‘They come, Ammet,’ he said shortly. ‘Be ready. My dear Asmira – what a pretty name, to be sure; I much prefer it to Cyrine. So you have been sent from Sheba? How amusing.’

  He opened his hand, stared at the Ring of Solomon.

  ‘Hurry, boss,’ the foliot said. ‘There’s old Hiram. He looks mad.’

  Asmira could see the magician’s fingers shaking as they hovered above the Ring. ‘What do you mean, “amusing”?’ she said.

  ‘Because I know why you have come. I know why Balkis sent you.’ The big moist eyes flashed up at her; there was glee in them, as well as fear. ‘And because I know you killed Solomon for nothing.’

  Asmira’s stomach lurched. ‘But the threat …’

  ‘Was not made by Solomon.’

  ‘The messenger …’

  ‘Wasn’t sent by him.’ Khaba gave a gasp as his fingers closed upon the Ring. ‘The – the rest of the Seventeen and I have long engaged in certain private transactions, taking advantage of Solomon’s reputation. The petty kings of Edom, Moab, Syria and others have all eagerly paid ransoms to avoid fictitious disaster. Balkis is just the latest in this line. She – like the rest – is rich, and can easily pay. It is no great loss to her, and it swells our coffers. If Solomon didn’t notice, where was the harm in it? It’s the kind of thing the fool should have been doing anyway, of course. What’s the point of power if you don’t get something for yourself?’

  The shadow spoke above Asmira’s head. ‘Master … you must make haste.’

  ‘Khaba!’ A peevish cry came from the darkness. ‘Khaba – what are you doing?’

  The magician ignored the voice. ‘Dear Ammet, I know I talk too much. I talk to blunt the pain. I must steel myself to put it on. I will not be long.’

  Asmira was staring at the Egyptian. ‘Your messenger attacked Marib. People died. Which magician sent him?’

  Sweat ran across Khaba’s gleaming head. He held the Ring between thumb and forefinger, moved it towards his finger. ‘In point of fact it was me. Don’t take it personally. It might have been any one of us. And the messenger was Ammet, who holds you now. It is ironic, don’t you think, that Balkis’s petulant gesture should end by causing the death of the one king who would not abuse the power of the Ring? I will not be so restrained, I can assure you.’

  ‘Khaba!’ Rushing down towards the parapet, resplendent in his long white robes, the vizier Hiram looked upon the scene with eyes of fury. He stood, arms folded, upon a small square carpet that was held aloft by a man-shaped demon of great size. It had long, flowing, golden hair, and feathered white wings that beat the air with the crack of war-drums. Its face was beautiful, terrible, remote, but its eyes were emerald green. Without them, Asmira would not have recognized the small white mouse.

  Behind stood other magicians, other demons, hovering in darkness.

  ‘Khaba!’ the vizier cried again. ‘What do you do here? Where is Solomon? And what – what is that you hold?’

  The Egyptian did not look up. He was still steeling himself, holding the Ring with shaking hands.

  ‘At least my queen – like me – acted with honour,’ Asmira said. ‘She will never bend her neck before you, no matter what you threaten!’

  Khaba laughed. ‘On the contrary, she has already done so. Yesterday she had the sacks of frankincense piled ready for collection in the Marib courtyard. You were nothing but a side-gambit, child, a throwaway gesture your queen could easily afford to make. Since she now presumes you dead, she gets her payment ready at the last. It’s what they always do.’

  Asmira’s head spun; blood pounded in her ears.

  ‘Khaba!’ Hiram called. ‘Put down the Ring! I am the most senior of the Seventeen! I forbid you to put it on. We all must share in this.’

  Khaba’s head was bowed, his face was hidden. ‘Ammet, I need a moment. If you would …?’

  Asmira looked up. Through her tears she saw the shadow’s mouth curl open, showing ranks of slender teeth – then she was tossed sideways through the air and caught again; now she hung next to Bartimaeus, tight beneath the shadow’s arm.

  ‘Khaba!’ Hiram cried in a voice of thunder. ‘Attend, or we attack!’

  Still holding Asmira and the djinni, the shadow extended across the balcony. Its free arm was held outstretched, its fingers long and curled. The arm shot forth, flashing like a whip. A slice, a snick. Hiram’s head fell one way, his body fell the other. Both toppled silently from the carpet and plunged into the dark.

  Hiram’s white-winged demon gave a shout of joy and vanished. The carpet, suddenly unattended, spiralled swiftly out of sight.

  Somewhere in the air above the garden, one of the other magicians screamed.

  The shadow drew back upon the balcony and turned in keen attention to its master, who, bent double, had uttered a long, low cry.

  ‘Dear Master, are you hurt? What can I do?’

  Khaba did not answer at first; he was locked in upon himself, head lowered to his knees. Suddenly his head jerked up. His body slowly rose. His face was contorted, his mouth spread in a ghastly rictus smile.

  ‘Nothing, dear Ammet. You need do nothing more.’

  He held up his hand. Upon its finger was a glint of gold.

  Beside her, Asmira heard Bartimaeus give a groan. ‘Oh great
,’ he said. ‘I would happen to wake up now.’

  33

  The Egyptian turned away to face the night. Beyond him, several magicians were visible in the starlight, standing stiff and hesitant on their carpets above the void. One called out a challenge, but Khaba did not respond. Instead he held his hand aloft and, with a slow, deliberate movement, turned the Ring upon his finger.

  As in Solomon’s chamber, Asmira felt her ears pop, as if she had fallen into deep water. At her side Bartimaeus drew breath in through his teeth. Even the shadow that held them took a slow step back.

  A Presence stood in the air beside the balcony, man-sized but not a man, darker than the sky.

  ‘You are not Solomon.’

  The voice was neither loud, nor angry, but mild and calm. Yet it seemed slightly resentful. At its sound Asmira jerked back as if she had been struck. She felt blood trickling from her nose.

  Khaba gave an anguished yelp that might have been laughter. ‘No indeed, slave! You have another master now. Here is my first command. Protect me from all magical attack.’

  ‘It is done,’ the Presence said.

  ‘So then …’ Khaba swallowed hard; he drew himself up straight. ‘It is time to show the world that things have changed,’ he cried, ‘that there is a new power in Jerusalem. There shall be no more of Solomon’s indolence! The Ring shall be used!’

  At this, several of the hovering magicians acted: gleaming shafts of magic darted across the gulf to strike the Egyptian down. As the bolts converged upon the parapet, they broke asunder; each became a delicate drift of coloured sparks that dispersed like grass-seeds on the wind.

  ‘Slave of the Ring!’ Khaba cried. ‘I notice that my colleagues Elbesh and Nisroch were particularly swift to strike. Let them be the swiftest to be punished!’

  Two carpets, two magicians exploded in balls of bright green flame; smoking twists of debris fell towards the trees.

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘Slave of the Ring!’ Khaba’s voice was louder now; he seemed to be mastering his pain. ‘Bring forth for me a multitude as great as when Tuthmosis marched on Nimrud! Greater! Let the heavens open and my army come forth at my command! Let them rain down destruction on all those in this palace who dared to raise their hands against me! Let—’ He broke off with a gasp, looked into the sky.

  ‘It is done,’ the figure said, and vanished.

  Asmira’s ears had popped again; aside from this, she scarcely noticed the Presence go. She, like Khaba, like all the magicians on their carpets, like the spirits who kept them suspended there, was gazing up at a point east of the gardens, high above the palace wall. Here a hole had opened in the sky, a fissure like a fiery wheel tilted on its side. The fires extended like spokes towards its centre and burned with great ferocity, yet no sound of the inferno descended to the Earth, and nor was its fearsome brightness reflected on any of the domes or trees below. The hole was there, and yet not there – near, yet very distant, a window on another world.

  Through it now flew a swarm of little specks, black and silent and moving very fast. Like a plague of bees or flies they came, like a curl of smoke, growing thick, then thin, then thick again, and always twisting, spiralling down towards the ground; and though the distance they travelled did not appear to be so very great, yet it seemed to Asmira to take an age. And all at once, as if an unseen barrier had suddenly been penetrated, there broke upon her a rush of sound like a sea of sand poured down upon the Earth: it was the whispering of the demons’ wings.

  The specks grew large, and starlight shone upon their teeth and claws and beaks, and on jagged weapons held in tails and hands, until the sky above the palace gardens was black with hovering forms and the stars themselves were utterly blocked out.

  The army waited. There was a sudden silence.

  Asmira felt a tapping on her shoulder.

  She looked – straight into the eyes of the handsome youth who hung beside her in the shadow’s grip.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done?’ he said reproachfully.

  Grief and shame engulfed her. ‘Bartimaeus – I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, well, that makes everything all right, doesn’t it?’ the youth said. ‘The legions of the Other Place unleashed, death and destruction about to rain down in great profusion on this portion of the Earth, Khaba the Cruel enthroned in bloody glory, and Bartimaeus of Uruk soon to meet some dismal end or other – but hey, at least you’re sorry. I thought for a moment it was going to be a bad day.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Please, I never thought it would end like this.’ She stared up at the solid mass of demons overhead. ‘And … Bartimaeus, I’m frightened.’

  ‘Surely not. You? You’re a bold, bad guard.’

  ‘I never thought—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now, does it, one way or the other? Oh, look – the madman’s giving orders. Who do you think’s going to get it first? I bet the magicians. Yep. Look at them go.’

  Standing atop the broken parapet, with his spindly arms outstretched, Khaba had uttered a shrill command. At once a break opened in the layer of demons covering the sky; a coil of rushing forms descended in a great slow spiral. Below, in the shrouded darkness of the gardens, the magicians’ slaves flung themselves into action. Carpets zigzagged in all directions, breaking towards the palace walls in an effort to make the open ground beyond. But the descending demons were too fast. The spiral fractured – black shapes exploded left and right, swooped down upon the fugitives, who, with desperate cries, summoned their own demons to the fight.

  ‘Here come the palace guards,’ Bartimaeus remarked. ‘Bit late, but I suppose they don’t really want to die.’

  Bright flashes of magic – mauves, yellows, pinks and blues – exploded all across the gardens and the palace roofs as the assembled defenders of the palace engaged with Khaba’s horde. Magicians screamed, carpets vanished in balls of light; demons dropped like fiery stones, crashed through domes and rooftops, and tumbled, grappling in twos or threes, into the fiery waters of the lakes.

  On the parapet Khaba gave an exultant cry. ‘So it must begin! Solomon’s works are ended! Destroy the palace! Jerusalem will fall! Soon Karnak will rise anew, and become again the capital of the world!’

  Far above Asmira the shadow’s mouth was open in exultant parody of its master. ‘Yes, great Khaba, yes!’ it called. ‘Let the city burn!’

  It seemed to Asmira that the grip upon her waist had loosened markedly. The shadow was no longer focused on the prisoners in its care. She stared at Khaba’s back with sudden fixed attention. How far away was he? Ten feet, maybe twelve. Certainly no more.

  A sudden calm detachment came over her. She took a slow, deep breath. Her arm shifted stealthily upward; her hand quested for her belt.

  ‘Bartimaeus—’ she said.

  ‘I wish I had some popcorn,’ the djinni said. ‘It’s a good show, this, if you forget we’re going to be part of the second act. Hey – not the jade tower! I bloody built that!’

  ‘Bartimaeus,’ Asmira said again.

  ‘No, you don’t have to say anything, remember? You’re sorry. You’re really sorry. You couldn’t be more sorry. We’ve established that.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she snarled. ‘We can fix this. Look, see how close he is? We can—’

  The youth shrugged. ‘Uh-uh. I can’t touch Khaba. No magical attacks, remember? Plus he’s got the Ring.’

  ‘Oh, who cares about that?’ Her arm rose. Pressed tight against her wrist, which shielded its tell-tale chill from the shadow’s slackening grip – her final silver dagger.

  The djinni’s eyes widened. It glanced up at the shadow, which was still whooping and cooing at the destruction below. It looked at Asmira, then at Khaba’s back.

  ‘From here?’ Bartimaeus whispered. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I don’t know … It’ll have to be a good one.’

  ‘It will be. Shut up. You’re disturbing my concentration.’
/>   She adjusted her position slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the magician. Breathe slowly, just as her mother used to do. Aim for the heart. Don’t think about it. Just relax …

  The djinni gave a gasp. ‘Ooo, he keeps moving. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Will you be quiet?’

  A riderless carpet swathed in purple flames carved diagonally through the air straight in front of Khaba, who jumped aside. The carpet struck the tower somewhere below; a plume of smoke rose like a pillar before them. Asmira cursed silently, gathered herself, assessed the angles to his new position, moved her wrist back …

  Now she had him.

  ‘Master – watch out!’ The foliot Gezeri, hovering in his cloud beside the parapet, had glanced across; he gave a sudden warning cry. Khaba turned, his arms outstretched, his fingers spread. Asmira made an instant adjustment. She threw the dagger. Silver flashed, sliced across Khaba’s moving hand. Blood showered; something like a bent twig fell away. Gold glinted at its ragged end.

  All across the sky the demon horde winked out. Stars shone.

  The severed finger bounced upon the stone.

  Khaba opened his mouth and screamed.

  ‘Go, Bartimaeus!’ Asmira cried. ‘Catch it! Drop it in the sea!’

  The youth at her side was gone. A small brown bird thrust itself clear of the shadow’s grasp.

  Khaba screamed, clutching at his hand. Blood gouted from his finger stump.

  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!’