Ring Of Solomon (3 page)

I made a mistake here. Half lulled by Naabash’s gentle tones, I couldn’t help flicking a brief glance down at the serpent in my hands, just to see if I could spot the little hinges.

Which was exactly what he wanted, of course.

Even as my eyes moved, the beast legs flexed. In a flash of movement Naabash was gone.

I threw myself sideways just as the flagstone where I’d been standing was struck in half by the sting-tail’s blow. I was fast enough for that, but not enough to avoid the lashing impact of his outstretched arm: a great green fist struck against my leg as I hurtled through the air. This blow, together with the precious artefact I held, prevented me from employing my usual elegant keynote manoeuvre in such circumstances
⁷
. Instead I half rolled painfully across a convenient mat of scattered corpses and leaped to my feet once more.

Naabash meanwhile had righted himself with stately care. He turned towards me, bending low, his human arms pawing at the ground; then he sprang again. Me? I fired a Convulsion straight up at the ceiling above my head. Once more I jumped away, once more the scorpion tail drove straight through the flagstones; once more – but this time Naabash didn’t get around to striking me as well, since the ceiling had fallen on him.

Fifteen centuries of accumulated desert sands lay atop the buried temple, so with the falling masonry came a pleasant bonus: a great silvery-brown cascade that plunged down in a torrent, crushing Naabash under several solid tons.

Ordinarily I’d have lingered a while to jeer loudly near the rapidly spreading heap, but hefty as it was, I knew it wouldn’t delay him long. It was time to leave.

Wings sprouted from my shoulders; I sent another blast upwards to further clear the way, and without pause sprang up through the ceiling and the rain of falling sand, towards the waiting night.

³
To my connoisseur’s eye the style looked late Sumerian (circa 2500 BC), with just a hint of Old Babylonian decadence, but frankly there were too many body parts flying about for a proper critique just yet.

⁴
The planes
: seven planes of existence are superimposed upon each other at all times, like invisible layers of tracing paper. The first plane includes everything in the solid, everyday world; the other six reveal the hidden magic all around – secret spells, lurking spirits, and ancient enchantments long forgotten. It’s a well-known fact that you can reliably gauge the intelligence and quality of a species by the number of planes it is able to observe, e.g. top djinn (like me): seven; foliots and higher imps: four; cats: two; fleas, tapeworms, humans, dust-mites, etc.: one.

⁵
A Trigger-summons such as this is always invisible to mortal sight, of course, but with time, faint residues of dust accumulate on the threads, giving them a ghost-like presence on the first plane too. This allows perceptive human thieves a chance. The old Egyptian tomb-robber Sendji the Violent, for instance, used a small squadron of trained bats to suspend tiny candles above patches of floor he considered dubious, allowing him to trace the delicate shadows made by the dust lines, and so pass unscathed between the traps. Or at least that’s what he told me shortly before his execution. He had an honest face, but, well … trained bats … I just don’t know.

⁶
See? How grotesque can you get? Yeuch.

⁷
‘The Evasive Cartwheel’™ ©, etc., Bartimaeus of Uruk, circa 2800 BC. Often imitated, never surpassed. As famously memorialized in the New Kingdom tomb paintings of Rameses
III
– you can just see me in the background of
The Dedication of the Royal Family Before Ra
, wheeling out of sight behind the pharaoh.

Dawn was at my back when I returned to Jerusalem. The tops of the magicians’ towers were already fringed with pink, and the dome of Solomon’s white-walled palace shone bright like a new sun.

Further down the hill, by the Kidron Gate, the old man’s tower was mostly in shadow. I flew to the upper window, outside which a bronze bell hung suspended, and rang this once, as per my orders. My master forbade his slaves to come upon him unawares.

The echoes faded. My broad wings stirred the cold, fresh air. I hovered, waiting, watching the landscape melt into being. The valley was dim and silent, a trough of mist into which the road wound and faded. The first workers emerged from the gate below; they set off down the road towards the fields. They went slowly, stumbling on the rough stones. On the higher planes I could see one or two of Solomon’s spies going with them – foliots riding the halters of the oxen, bright-hued mites and implets drifting on the wind.

The minutes passed, and finally a charming sensation like a dozen spear points plucking out my vitals heralded the magician’s summons. I closed my eyes, submitted – and a moment later felt the sour warmth of the magician’s chamber pressing on my essence.

To my great relief the old man was in his robes despite the early hour. A templeful of corpses is one thing; a wrinkly, undressed master would have been another. He was standing ready in his circle, and as before, all the seals and curse-runes were correctly in position. With the goat’s-fat candles burning and the little pots of rosemary and frankincense repelling me with the sweetness of their stench, I stood in the centre of my pentacle and regarded him steadily, holding the serpent in my slender hands
⁸
.

The moment I materialized I knew how badly he wanted it, not for Solomon but for himself. His eye widened; avarice shimmered on its surface like a film of oil.

He did not say anything for a while, just looked. I moved the serpent slightly so the candlelight flowed alluringly upon its contours, tilting it to show him the ruby eyes, and the emerald studs upon the splaying claws.

When he spoke, his voice was coarse and heavy with desire. ‘You went to Eridu?’

‘As I was ordered, so I went. I found a temple. This was inside.’

The eye glinted. ‘Pass it to me.’

I held back a moment. ‘Will you dismiss me as requested? I have served you faithfully and well.’

At this the old man’s face congealed with violent passion. ‘You
dare
try bartering with me? Pass me the artefact, demon, or by my secret name I swear I shall plunge you screaming into the Dismal Flame
⁹
before the hour is out!’ He glared at me, eye popping, jaw jutting, thin white lines of moisture on his parted lips.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Be careful not to drop it.’

I tossed it over from one circle to the other, and the magician stretched out his clawing hands. And whether it was his single eye that did it, so that he had trouble judging distance, or his trembling eagerness, his fingers fumbled on the serpent: it danced between them and fell back towards the circle’s edge. With a cry the old man snatched at it, clasped it against his wrinkled chest.

This, his first unguarded movement, was almost his last. If so much as the tips of his fingers had crossed above the circle, he would have lost its protection and I would have been on him. But (by a whisker) they didn’t cross, and the pretty maiden, who for an instant had seemed just a
little
taller, whose teeth had perhaps grown just
slightly
longer and sharper than a moment previously, settled back in the centre of her circle with a disappointed look.

The old man did not notice any of this. He had eyes only for his treasure. For a long time he turned it over in his hands, like a vile old cat playing with a mouse, cooing at the workmanship and practically dribbling with delight. After a while it was too revolting to bear. I cleared my throat.

The magician looked up. ‘Well?’

‘You have what you asked for. Solomon will reward you richly for this. Let me go.’

He chuckled. ‘Ah, Bartimaeus, but you clearly have such a gift for this line of work! I am not sure I care to let such a skilful thief go … You just stand there quietly. I must explore this most
interesting
device. I see small hinged studs upon the toes … I wonder what they
do
.’

‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘You’re giving it to Solomon, aren’t you? Let him investigate.’

My master’s scowl was expressive. I smiled to myself and looked out of the windows at the sky, where the dawn patrols were barely visible, circling at great heights, leaving faint pink trails of steam and sulphur in the air. Looked good, but it was all for show as much as anything, for who would seriously attack Jerusalem while Solomon had the Ring?

I allowed the magician to inspect the serpent for a while; then, still looking out of the window, said: ‘Besides, he’d be terribly cross if one of his magicians withheld an object of such power. I really wish you’d let me go.’

He squinted up at me. ‘You know what this is?’

‘No.’

‘But you know it has power.’

‘Even an
imp
could see that. Oh, but I forget – you’re only a human. You can’t see the aura it radiates on the seventh plane … But even so, who can truly tell? There were probably many such serpent statuettes made in Eridu. It’s probably not the one.’

The old man licked his lips; his caution fought with curiosity, and lost. ‘Not the what?’

‘It’s none of my business, and none of yours. I’m just standing here quietly, as ordered.’

My master spat out a curse. ‘I revoke that order! Speak!’

‘No!’ I cried, holding up my hands. ‘I know what you magicians are like, and I don’t want any part of it! Solomon on one side with that terrible Ring, and you on the other with … with …’ The maiden shivered, as if with sudden chill. ‘No, I’d be caught up in the middle, and that wouldn’t do me any good at all.’

Blue fires leaped in the centre of the magician’s outstretched palm. ‘Not another second’s delay, Bartimaeus. Tell me what this object is, or I’ll pummel you with the Essence Fist.’

‘You’d hit a woman?’

‘Speak!’

‘Oh, very well, but it won’t do you any good. It bears a passing resemblance to the Great Serpent with which the old kings of Eridu conquered the cities of the plain. That treasure contained a mighty spirit which was compelled to do its master’s bidding.’

‘Its master being …’

‘Whoever held it, I suppose. The spirit was contacted by pressing a secret catch.’

The magician considered me in silence for a time. At last he said: ‘I have never heard this story. You lie.’

‘Hey, of course I do. I’m a demon, aren’t I? Just forget all about it and give the thing to Solomon.’

‘No.’ The old man spoke with sudden decision. ‘Have it back.’

‘What?’ But it was too late; he had tossed the serpent back across the space, where the maiden caught it doubtfully.

‘Do you take me for an idiot, Bartimaeus?’ my master cried, stamping a wrinkled foot upon the marble. ‘Quite patently you planned to snare me with some trick! You egged me on to pry into this device, hoping it would seal my doom! Well,
I’m
not going to press any of these studs. But
you
will.’

The maiden blinked up at the magician with her big brown eyes. ‘Look, this really isn’t necessary—’

‘Do as I say!’

With the greatest reluctance, I raised the serpent in my hand and considered the studs set upon the claws. There were three of them, each decorated with an emerald. Selecting the first, I pressed it gingerly. There was a whirring sound. At once the serpent emitted a brief electric shock that raddled my essence and set the maiden’s long luxuriant hair standing up like a toilet brush.

The old magician hooted with laughter. ‘You planned that for me, did you?’ he chortled. ‘Let this be a lesson to you. Well, and the next!’

I pressed the second stud. Swivelling on a set of hidden cogs and fulcra, several of the serpent’s golden scales flipped up and egested puffs of tarry smoke. As with the first trap, long centuries had dulled the mechanism, and my face was only lightly blackened.

My master rocked back and forth with mirth. ‘Better and better,’ he crowed. ‘Look at the state of you! Now the third.’

The third emerald had evidently been designed to let off a jet of poison gas, but all that remained after so many years was a faint green cloud and a bad smell.

‘You’ve had your fun,’ I sighed, holding out the serpent once more. ‘Now dismiss me, or send me off again, or whatever it is you want to do. But leave me be. I’m fed up with this.’

But the magician’s good eye glinted. ‘Not so fast, Bartimaeus!’ he said grimly. ‘You forget the tail.’

‘I don’t see—’

‘Are you blind? There is a hinge there too! Press that, if you will.’

I hesitated. ‘Please. I’ve had enough.’

‘No, Bartimaeus. Perhaps this is the “secret catch” you mentioned. Perhaps you will now get to meet this “mighty spirit” of ancient legend.’ The old man grinned with cruel delight; he folded his spindly arms. ‘Or more probably you will find out yet again what it is like to attempt to defy me! Go on – no dallying! Press the tail!’

‘But—’

‘I
order
you to press it!’

‘Righty-ho.’
That
was what I’d been waiting for all this time. The terms of any summoning always include stringent clauses preventing you from directly harming the magician who brings you here: it’s the first, most basic rule of all magic from Ashur to Abyssinia. Lulling your master into disaster through soft words and raw cunning is different, of course, as is striking if they break their circle or mess up the incantation. But direct assaults are out. You can’t touch your master unless you’re expressly commanded to do so by their own spoken word. As, rather pleasantly, was the case here.

I hefted the golden serpent and tweaked the tail. As I’d assumed, Naabash had not spoken falsely
¹⁰
; nor had the water elemental
¹¹
trapped within deteriorated like the clockwork mechanisms. A bright, pulsing jet of water shot forth from the serpent’s open mouth, glistening in the happy light of dawn. Since, by merest chance, I was holding the serpent directly facing the magician, the jet crossed the intervening space and struck the old codger full in the chest, lifting him off his feet and carrying him out of his circle and halfway across his chamber. The distance he went was gratifying, but leaving the circle was the crucial bit. Even before he landed, heavily and soggily, on his back, the bonds about me snapped and withered, and I was free to move.