Ring Of Solomon (21 page)

It was all very well for the girl to claim that her dagger had warded off the utukku for a few crucial moments, but there was more to it than that. For a start, she’d left another in the head of the Edomite magician, which if nothing else proved she was no mean shot. Then there was the
third
dagger I found on the other side of the road, wedged hilt-deep in soft sandstone. It had been thrown with considerable force, but what
really
interested me about it was the very large essence-stain left on the rocks around. True, it was faint and blurry, but my discerning eye could still make out the spread-eagled silhouettes of arms and legs, horns and wings – even the mouth left gaping in faint surprise.

Maybe it hadn’t been an utukku, but it had certainly been a djinni of
some
kind, and the girl had dealt with it in no uncertain terms.

There was more to her than met the eye.

Now, I knew a fair bit about priestesses. Ever since I’d served the ferocious Old Priestess of Ur way back in my early years, helping her out in temple rituals, participating (reluctantly) in her mass sacrifices of dogs and servants, burying her at last in a lead-lined tomb
⁵⁸
, I’d seen priestesses up close and personal. And whether they were the well-heeled Babylonian sort, or the screeching maenads you found capering around Greek bushes, they were in general a formidable lot – high-level magicians who were quick to blast a djinni with the essence-lance for the most footling indiscretions, such as accidentally toppling their ziggurat or laughing at their thighs.

But one thing they
weren’t
well known for was their personal prowess in the heat of battle.

South Arabian priestesses might be different, of course. I wasn’t an expert in the region, and I simply couldn’t say. But whatever the case, it was fair to say that this Priestess Cyrine, supposedly of the distant kingdom of Himyar, was rather more intriguing than the average traveller coming to Jerusalem, and I was somehow glad I’d saved her.

Yet, as Faquarl had pointed out (at interminable length), my gesture hadn’t done us a blind bit of good. Nothing had changed. She’d gone, we were slaves, and the eternal stars above us still shone coldly down
⁵⁹
.

The moon rose higher, and the murmur on the streets below grew slowly stilled. With the gates of the city long since closed, the night markets were shutting now, and the people of Jerusalem trudged home to rest, recuperate and renew the fabric of their lives. Oil lamps flickered in the windows, Solomon’s imp-lights illuminated each corner, and from across the mosaic of rooftop ovens drifted the odours of mutton, garlic and fried lentils, all of which smelled a good deal better than burned camel.

High on Khaba’s tower the circle of imps had finished whooping, jeering and flicking their tails in my direction, and were considering moving on to a discussion of the influence of religion on regional politics in the east Mediterranean littoral, when there was an odd squeaking sound in our midst.

‘Nimshik, have you been at the pickled mites again?’

‘No! That wasn’t me!’

For once the truth of his words was borne out by the sight of a heavy flagstone tilting upwards in the centre of the roof. From beneath appeared a pair of gleaming eyes, a nose like an unripe aubergine, and the distasteful upper portions of the foliot Gezeri, who squinted evilly all around.

‘Bartimaeus and Faquarl!’ he called. ‘Look lively! You’re wanted.’

Neither of us moved an inch. ‘Wanted where?’ I said. ‘And by whom?’

‘Oh, by His Royal Majesty King Solomon the Great, of course,’ the foliot said, leaning his bony elbows casually on the roof. ‘He wishes you to attend him in his private apartments in order to thank you personally for your sterling work today.’

Faquarl and I shuffled at once into more attentive positions. ‘Really?’

‘Noooooo, of course not, you idiots!’ the foliot cried. ‘What would Solomon care about
you
? It’s our master, Khaba the Cruel, what wants you. Who else would it be? And,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘he don’t want you in the summoning room neither, but down in the
vaults
below the tower. So it don’t look good for either of you, does it?’ he leered. ‘There’s not many goes down
there
comes swiftly up again.’

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the rooftop. Faquarl and I looked at each other. The other djinn, caught between horror at the implications and immense relief that it wasn’t them, studied their claws intently, or considered the stars, or began industriously picking at bits of lichen between the flag-stones. None of them wanted to catch our eyes.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Gezeri cried. ‘Step to it, the pair of you!’

Faquarl and I rose, ducked stiffly beneath the flagstone, and with the eager energy of two criminals shuffling to the gallows, set off down the stairs. Behind us, Gezeri lowered the stone once more, and we were left in darkness.

Khaba’s tower, being one of the tallest in Jerusalem, was composed of many levels. The exterior was whitewashed and on most days blazed with light; the interior, mirroring its owner’s personality, was altogether less radiant. Hitherto, the only bit I’d seen first-hand was the magician’s summoning room on one of the upper floors – we passed this almost immediately as we spiralled ever downwards, me first, Faquarl next, Gezeri’s big flat feet slapping on the stones behind. Other doors went by, then a broad passage that presumably led to the ground-floor entrance, and
still
we descended into the Earth.

Faquarl and I didn’t say much as we went. Our thoughts had strayed to the tortured spirit we’d seen in Khaba’s sphere, a ruined thing kept in the vaults below the tower.

Now, perhaps, we were to join it.

I spoke with false heartiness over my shoulder. ‘No need to worry, Faquarl! We dealt with the bandits well today – even Khaba must see that!’

‘Whenever I’m lumped in with you, I worry,’ Faquarl growled. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

Down, down, down the staircase curled, and despite my best intentions, my jollity didn’t stick. Maybe it was the sour and musty air, maybe it was the louring darkness, maybe it was the candles flickering in the mummified grasp of severed hands that had been fixed on spikes at intervals along the walls, maybe it was my imagination – but I felt a definite unease as I progressed. And then the staircase ended suddenly before an open doorway of black granite, through which a dim blue-green light pulsed steadily, carrying with it certain
sounds
. Faquarl and I stopped dead, our essence crawling.

‘In there,’ Gezeri said. ‘He’s waiting.’

There was nothing for it. The two imps squared their knobbly shoulders, stepped forward and entered Khaba’s vaults.

No doubt, if we’d had the time and the inclination, there would have been many curiosities to observe in that dreadful place. The magician clearly spent much time there, and had invested great effort in making himself feel at home. The vast carved stones of the floor, walls and ceiling were of Egyptian style, and so were the squat, rather bulb-shaped columns that held the ceiling blocks in place. Add in the carvings of papyrus flowers at the topmost points of every pillar and the clinging smells of incense and natron, and we could have been in one of the catacombs beneath the Karnak temples, rather than somewhere deep below Jerusalem’s busy hill.

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
⁶⁰
. But 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
⁶¹
.

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
⁶²
.

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
⁶³
. 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.