Ring Of Solomon (20 page)

Pale hands pushed back the hood; a mouth stretched wide in welcome.

To Asmira the magician’s appearance was almost more disturbing than that of his slaves. As if in a dream she saw two big, moist eyes, deep scars notched upon his ashen cheeks, thin smiling lips as tight as gut-strings.

‘Priestess,’ the magician said softly. ‘I am Khaba, Solomon’s servant. Whatever sorrows and terrors have beset you shall be no more, for you are come into my care.’ He inclined his bald head towards her.

Asmira bowed likewise. She said, ‘I am Cyrine, a priestess of the Sun in the land of Himyar.’

‘So my slave informed me.’ Khaba did not look back at the line of djinn; Asmira noticed that the burly demon had folded its arms and was regarding her sceptically. ‘I am sorry that I have kept you waiting,’ the magician continued, ‘but I was a great distance away. And, of course, I am all the more sorry that I was not able to prevent this … atrocious attack upon you.’ He waved a hand at the desolation all around.

Khaba stood rather closer to her than Asmira would have liked. He had a curious odour about him that reminded her of the Hall of the Dead, where the priestesses burned incense to the memory of all mothers. It was sweet, pungent and not entirely wholesome. She said, ‘I am grateful to you even so, for your servants saved my life. One day soon, when I return to Himyar, I will see to it that you benefit from the gratitude of my queen.’

‘I regret I am not familiar with your land,’ the magician said. The smile upon his face did not alter; the big eyes gazed into hers.

‘It is in Arabia, east of the Red Sea.’

‘So … not far from Sheba, then? It is a curious fact that all the lands thereabouts seem to be ruled by women!’ The magician chuckled at the quaintness of the notion. ‘My birthplace, Egypt, has occasionally flirted with such things,’ he said. ‘It is rarely a success. But, Priestess, in truth I can claim no honour for saving you. It was my king, great Solomon himself, who demanded that we clear the region of these outlaws. If you owe thanks to anyone, it is to him.’

Asmira gave what she hoped was a charming smile. ‘I would wish to give that thanks in person, if I can. Indeed, I travel to Jerusalem on royal business, and crave an audience with Solomon.’

‘So I understand.’

‘Perhaps you could assist me?’

Still the smile remained fixed, still the eyes gazed at her; Asmira had not yet seen them blink. ‘Many wish audience with the king,’ the magician said, ‘and many are disappointed. But I think your status and – if I may say so – your great loveliness will commend you to his attention.’ With a flourish he turned aside, looked back towards his slaves. The smile vanished. ‘Nimshik! Attend to me!’

One of the great entities scampered forward, grimacing.

‘You shall be in charge of the other slaves,’ Khaba said, ‘with the exception of Chosroes, who carries me as before. We will escort this lady to Jerusalem. Your tasks, Nimshik, are as follows. You will clear the road of the corpses and the debris. Bury the fallen, burn the camels. If there are further survivors, you will treat their wounds and bring them to the Gate of the People at the palace – along with any such goods or animals that remain intact. You understand?’

The hulking figure hesitated. ‘Master, Solomon forbids—’

‘Fool! The brigands are destroyed; you will have his permission to return. When all is done, await me on the roof of my tower, where I shall issue new instructions. If you disappoint me in any of this, I will skin you. Be off!’

The magician turned to Asmira, his smile as broad as ever. ‘Priestess Cyrine, you must excuse the stupidity of my slaves. Regretfully a magician must associate with such things, as perhaps you know.’

‘Certain of the elder priestesses speak occasionally with spirits, I believe,’ Asmira said demurely. ‘I know nothing of it.’

‘Ah, I should hope not, a pretty wisp like you …’ For a heartbeat’s space the big soft eyes looked Asmira up and down. ‘But do not be afraid of my creatures,’ Khaba said, ‘for I have them thoroughly in my power, bound with sturdy magic chains, and all fear my kindest word. Now, if—’

He halted, frowning. From somewhere close came a tinkling of bells. A gust of wind, carrying with it a sharp, pungent smell, stirred Asmira’s headscarf and made her cough.

Khaba made a courteous gesture. ‘Priestess, I am sorry. Excuse me just a moment.’

He spoke a word; three heartbeats passed. A purplish cloud bloomed like a flower in the air above them. Reclining on it, legs casually crossed, and with knobbly hands clasped behind its head, was a small, green-skinned demon. ‘Evening, Master,’ it said. ‘Just thought I’d—’ It noticed Asmira and assumed an expression of extravagant surprise. ‘Ooo, you’ve got company. Nice. Well, don’t let me stop you.’ It settled itself back in its cloud.

‘What do you want, Gezeri?’ Khaba said.

‘Don’t mind me. It can wait. You keep on nattering.’

The magician’s smile remained, but his voice was dangerous. ‘Gezeri … ’

‘Oh, very well.’ The little demon scratched industriously at an itch in its armpit. ‘Just to say it’s
all OK
. The old girl’s cracked at last. She’s begun gathering the stuff, and—’

‘Enough!’ Khaba cried. ‘We do not need to bore our guest with tedious matters such as this! I will talk to you later. Return to my tower at once!’

The demon rolled its eyes. ‘Can I? Really? Oh, how lovely.’ So saying, it clapped its hands and vanished.

Khaba touched Asmira on the arm. ‘Priestess, forgive me. If you will now accompany me to my carpet, I will see to your comfort on the short flight to Jerusalem.’

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

‘
Ahem
.’ There was a small cough to Asmira’s left. The djinni Bartimaeus, who had been waiting unremarked a short way off, had cleared his throat behind an upraised hand.

‘Slave,’ Khaba intoned, ‘you shall rejoin the others. Obey Nimshik and work with zeal! Priestess Cyrine, please …’

Bartimaeus gave a series of little knowing winks and smiles. He bobbed and gestured. He coughed louder, looking pointedly in Asmira’s direction.

‘Are you still here!?’ Khaba thrust aside his cloak and reached for a long-handled whip hanging in his belt.

Until that moment Asmira’s awe at the demons’ arrival, and her excitement at the prospect of reaching Jerusalem, had driven thoughts of her original promise from her mind. But now, spurred on by the djinni’s evident desperation and also by a sudden revulsion for the magician standing at her side, she recalled her vow – and found she had to act. She had, after all, sworn it by the Sun God, and by her mother’s memory.

‘O great Khaba,’ she said. ‘A moment, please! This djinni, and that other who accompanied him, have performed a noble service to me. They saved my life, I do believe, and I entreat that in return they may be released from their bonds.’

She smiled encouragingly. Over in the line of demons, the portly djinni took a few hesitant steps forward. Bartimaeus had frozen where he was, mid-supplication, eyes flicking from her to the magician and back again.

For the first time Khaba’s own smile faltered; his hand stayed on his whip. ‘Released …? Dear Priestess, you are an innocent indeed! It is the nature of all slaves to perform such services. They cannot and should not expect freedom for every small success they have. Demons in particular must be treated with a heavy hand.’

‘But these djinn—’ Asmira said.

‘Believe me, they shall get their due reward!’

‘A reward which should surely be—’

‘Priestess’ – the thin smile had returned; it was wider than before – ‘dear Priestess, this is not the time or place. Let us discuss such things later, when we are at leisure at the palace. I promise I shall hear you out then. Will that satisfy you?’

Asmira nodded. ‘Thank you. I am grateful.’

‘Good. Come then! Your transport awaits …’

Khaba gestured with a long, pale arm; Asmira shouldered her leather bag and proceeded with him towards the waiting carpet, and the silent demons moved back to let them pass. Neither then, nor as the carpet ascended into the air, did she look back at Bartimaeus; indeed, in moments she had forgotten all about him.

The distance to Jerusalem was forty miles, and would have taken the camel train a further day; Asmira and the magician covered the distance in little under an hour.

The demon that transported them was out of sight beneath the carpet, though Asmira could hear the creaking of its wings and, sometimes, muttered swear-words. It kept a smooth and level course high above the darkening Earth, once or twice dropping awkwardly as it met a downdraught over some ridge of hills. On such occasions, the magician cracked the whip over the edge of the carpet, spurring the slave to better efforts with fizzing yellow bands of light.

Some invisible protective shell encased the carpet, for the wind that howled around them in the darkness did not engulf them with full force, and the carpet’s central section was spared the ice that crystallized on the rearmost tassels. Even so, it was chill. Asmira sat with her bag upon her lap and the magician’s cloak around her shoulders, feeling the violent undulation of the frail cloth beneath, trying not to imagine the fall should the demon decide to shrug them off. The magician sat alongside her, naked to the waist, calm, cross-legged, staring ever forwards. Somewhat to her relief he did not look at her, nor attempt further conversation – this would have been impossible anyway, thanks to the roaring of the wind.

Night fell during their time aloft. Far to the west Asmira saw the sun’s red tail staining the horizon, but the lands beneath were black below the stars. Far off gleamed the lights of settlements she could not have named; it seemed to Asmira that if she had stretched out a hand she might have easily cupped them and snuffed them out.

And then at last Jerusalem was before her, clinging like an iridescent butterfly to the dark stem of its hill. Watch fires burned on the crenellated ribbon of the outer walls, green witch-lights in the towers strung upon its length. Within its loop spread a thousand smaller flames of humble homes and market stalls, and high atop the summit, presiding over all, the mighty palace of King Solomon blazed with light – as big and magnificent and invulnerable as all the stories said. Asmira felt her mouth going dry; in the secret warmth of her cloak, her hidden fingers touched the dagger at her belt.

They descended steeply; a moment later there was a sudden beat of leather wings and a presence in the darkness beside them. Fires flared in a gaping throat, a guttural voice called out a challenge. Asmira’s skin crawled. Khaba scarcely looked up, but made a certain sign, and the watcher, satisfied, fell back into the night.

Asmira shrank down further into her cloak, ignoring the sickly-sweet mortuary scent that clung to it. Truly was it said that the great king’s city was well protected – even in the air, even in the night. Queen Balkis, as in all things, had been quite right. An army could not have entered Jerusalem, nor yet an enemy magician.

But
she
, Asmira, was doing precisely that. The Sun God was watching over her still. With his grace and blessing, she would survive a little longer to do what must be done.

Her stomach lurched; her hair lifted high above her. The carpet swung down towards the palace. As it crossed the walls, a blast of horns sounded from the palace ramparts, and all around came the thunderous concussions of Jerusalem’s gates closing fast for the night.

‘What did I tell you, Bartimaeus?’ Faquarl said. ‘Gone without a backward look.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Jumped up beside Khaba, quick as a wink, and off they go together. And are we freed?’ added Faquarl bitingly. ‘Look around you.’

‘She tried,’ I said.

‘Well, she didn’t try very hard, did she?’

‘No.’

‘It was a cursory effort at best, wasn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘So, don’t you wish we’d eaten her now?’ Faquarl said.

‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘All right, I do! There, I’ve said it. Are you happy now? Good! Stop rubbing it in.’

It was far too late to ask for
that
little favour, of course. Faquarl had been rubbing it in for hours. During the entire clean-up operation he’d been on at me, in fact, even while we were digging the burial pits, even while we were piling up the camels and trying to get them to light. He’d never stopped all this time. It had ruined my afternoon.

‘You see, humans stick together,’ Faquarl was saying. ‘That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll always be. And if
they
stick together, that means
we
have to do likewise. Never put faith in any human. Eat them while you can. Isn’t that right, lads?’ There was a chorus of hoots and cheers from around the tower-top. Faquarl nodded. ‘They understand what I’m saying, Bartimaeus, so why in Zeus’s name can’t you?’

He lay back on the stonework idly, twirling his harpoon-tail. ‘She
was
good-looking in a scrawny sort of way,’ he added. ‘I wonder, Bartimaeus, whether you weren’t rather influenced by
appearances
. That’s a sorry mistake for a shape-shifting djinni to make, if you don’t mind my saying.’

A crude cacophony all around indicated that the other six imps agreed with his assessment. We were all of us in imp-form at the time, partly because the flat roof of Khaba’s tower was too compact to accommodate any larger forms, but mainly because it reflected our pervading mood. There are times when you’re happy to manifest yourself as a noble lion, a stately warrior or a chubby, smiling child; and other times – if you’re tired, irritable and stuck with the smell of burned camel up your nose – when only a scowling, warty-bottomed imp will do.

‘You can all laugh,’ I growled. ‘I still think it was worth a try.’

And oddly enough, I did, though everything Faquarl had said was absolutely true. Yes, she’d made only the feeblest effort to speak up on our behalf; yes, she’d promptly swanned off with our loathsome master without a backward glance. But I couldn’t entirely regret saving the Arabian girl. Something about her stuck in my mind.

It wasn’t her looks, either, whatever Faquarl might suggest. It was more her air of self-possession, the cool directness with which she’d talked with me. It was the way she listened too, still and watchful, taking everything in. It was her evident interest in Solomon and his Ring. It was her vagueness regarding Himyar geography
⁵⁶
. It was also (and this was not the least of it) the curious way she’d managed to survive the ambush in the gorge. No one else in that whole long camel train was still alive, and
they’d
had djinn-guards and everything
⁵⁷
.