Ring Of Solomon (8 page)

‘Menes.’

‘Young Menes. I’m sure he’s a worthy fellow. And that fat one with the hooves over there might be a good worker too, for all I know; he’s certainly packing enough essence. But some of the others … If we’re cooped up here for months on a big job … Well, the long and the short of it is, we just won’t gel. We’ll fight, argue, bicker … Take Faquarl here. Impossible to work with! Always ends in tears.’

Faquarl gave a lazy chuckle, showing his gleaming fangs. ‘Ye-e-es … I should point out, Master, that Bartimaeus is an appalling fantasist. You can’t believe a word he says.’

‘Exactly,’ the hoofed slave put in. ‘He called me fat.’

The bat-eared djinni snorted. ‘You
are
fat.’

‘Shut up, Chosroes.’

‘
You
shut up, Beyzer.’

‘See?’ I made a regretful gesture. ‘Bickering. Before you know it we’ll be at each other’s throats. Best thing would be to dismiss us all, with the notable exception of Faquarl, who, despite his deficient personality, is very good with a chisel. He will be a fine and loyal servant for you and work hard enough for eight.’

At this the magician opened his mouth to speak, but was pre-empted by a somewhat forced laugh from the pot-bellied Nubian, who stepped smoothly forward.

‘On the contrary,’ he urged, ‘
Bartimaeus
is the one you should keep. As you can see, he’s as vigorous as a marid. He is also famed for his achievements in construction, some of which resound in fable to this day.’

I scowled. ‘They don’t at all. I’m hopeless.’

‘Such modesty is typical of him,’ Faquarl smiled. ‘His only drawback is an inability to work with other djinn, who are usually dismissed when he is summoned. But – to his abilities. Surely even in this backwater you will have heard of the Great Flooding of the Euphrates? Well, then. The instigator stands right there!’

‘Oh, it’s just like you to bring
that
up, Faquarl. That incident was totally over-reported. There was no real harm done—’

The bat-eared Chosroes gave a cry of indignation. ‘No harm? An inundation from Ur to Shuruppak, so that only the flat white rooftops protruded above the waters? It was like the world was drowned! And all because
you
, Bartimaeus, built a dam across the river for a bet!’

‘Well, I
won
the bet, didn’t I? Get things in perspective.’

‘At least he can build something, Chosroes.’

‘What? My building projects in Babylon were the talk of the town!’

‘Like that tower you never finished?’

‘Oh come now, Nimshik – that was down to problems with foreign workers.’

My work was done. The argument was going nicely; all discipline and focus had vanished, and the magician was a satisfying shade of purple. All complacency had gone from the foliot Gezeri too, who was gawping like a trout.

Khaba gave a cry of rage. ‘All of you! Be still.’

But it was far too late. Our line had already disintegrated into a bickering melee of shaking fists and jabbing fingers. Tails whirled, horns flashed in the sun; one or two previously absent claws slyly materialized to reinforce their owners’ points.

Now, I’ve known some masters to give up at this juncture, to throw their hands in the air and dismiss their slaves – if only temporarily – just to get a bit of peace. But the Egyptian was made of sterner stuff. He took a slow step backwards, his features twisted, and unhooked the essence-flail from his belt. Clasping it firmly by its handle and shouting out an incantation, he cracked it once, twice, three times above his head.

From each of the whirling thongs emerged a jagged spear of yellow force. The spears stabbed out, impaled us all and snatched us burning into the sky.

Up under the hot sun we swung, higher than the palace walls, suspended on yellow snags of burning light. Down below us the magician spun his arm in looping circles, high and low, faster and faster, while Gezeri hopped and capered in delight. Round we flew, limp and helpless, colliding sometimes with each other, sometimes with the ground. Showers of wounded essence trailed behind us, hung shimmering like oily bubbles in the desert air.

The Gyration ceased, the essence-skewers were withdrawn. At last the magician lowered his arm. Eight broken objects fell heavily to Earth, our edges sloughing like pats of melting butter. We landed on our heads.

The dust clouds slowly settled. Side by side we sat there, wedged into the ground like broken teeth or tilting statues. Several of us were gently steaming. Our heads were half buried in the dirt, our legs sagged in the air like wilting stems.

Not far away, the heat haze shifted, broke, re-formed, and through its fractured strands the magician strode, his long black shadow flowing at his back. Wisps of yellow force still radiated from the flail, snapping faintly, slowly fading. On all the hill this was the only sound.

I spat out a pebble. ‘I think he forgives us, Faquarl,’ I croaked. ‘Look, he’s smiling.’

‘Remember, Bartimaeus – we’re upside-down.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Khaba came to a halt and stared down at us. ‘This,’ he said softly, ‘is what I do to slaves who disobey me once.’

There was a silence. Even I didn’t have much to say.

‘Let me show you what I do to slaves who disobey me twice.’

He held out his hand and spoke a word. A glimmering point of light, brighter than the sun, floated suddenly in the air above his palm. Soundlessly it expanded to become a luminous sphere, cupped by his hand but still not touching it – a sphere that darkened now, like water filled with blood.

Within the sphere: an image, moving. A creature, slow, blind and in great pain, lost in a place of darkness.

Silent, upside-down and sagging, we watched the lost, maimed thing. We watched it for a long time.

‘Do you recognize it?’ the magician said. ‘It is a spirit like you, or was so once. It too knew the freedom of the open air. Perhaps, like you, it enjoyed wasting my time, neglecting the tasks I gave it. I do not recall, for I have kept it in the vault beneath my tower for many years, and it has probably forgotten the details itself. Occasionally I give it certain delicate stimulations just to remind it it is still alive; otherwise I leave it to its misery.’ The eyes blinked slowly round at us; the voice was just as level as before. ‘If any of you wish to become like this, you may annoy me one more time. If not, you will set to work and dig and carve as Solomon commands – and pray, if such a reflex is in your nature, that I may one day permit you to leave this Earth again.’

The image in the sphere dwindled; the sphere fizzled and went out. The magician turned away and headed off towards the palace. His shadow trailed long and black behind him, skipping, dancing across the stones.

None of us said anything. One after another we toppled sideways and collapsed into the dust.

²⁰
His
assumed
name, I mean – the name by which he was known in his comings and goings about the world. It was meaningless, in truth, a mask beneath which his true nature was protected and concealed. Like all magicians, his
birth-name
– the key to his power and his most precious possession – had been expunged in childhood, and forgotten.

²¹
They were unappetizingly moist too, as if he was just about to weep with guilt or sorrow, or in pity for his victims. But did he? Nope. Such emotions were alien to Khaba’s heart and the tears never came.

²²
Essence-flail
: the favoured weapon of the priests of Ra back in the old days of Khufu and the pyramids. Very good at keeping djinn in order. Theban craftsmen still make them, but the best are found in ancient tombs. Khaba’s was an original – you could tell by the handle, which was bound in human-slave skin, complete with faint tattoos.

²³
Apart from
literally
, once or twice, when certain Assyrian priests got so peeved with my cheek they pierced my tongue with thorns and bound me by it to a post in Nineveh’s central square. However, they’d reckoned without the elasticity of my essence. I was able to elongate my tongue sufficiently to retire to a nearby inn for a leisurely drink of barley wine,
and
subtly trip up several dignitaries as they strutted by.

North of Sheba the deserts of Arabia stretched unbroken for a thousand miles, a vast and waterless wedge of sand and stone-dry hills, bordered to the west by the blank Red Sea. To the far north-west, where the peninsula collided with Egypt, and the Red Sea petered out at the Gulf of Aqaba, lay the trading port of Eilat, since ancient times a meeting place of roads and goods and men. To get from Sheba to Eilat, where their spices could be sold at great profit in the old bazaars, the frankincense traders travelled a circuitous route between the desert and the sea, winding through numerous petty kingdoms, paying tolls and fighting off attacks by hill-tribes and their djinn. If all was set fair, assuming their camels remained healthy and they escaped major depredations, the traders could expect to arrive in Eilat after six or seven weeks in a state of considerable exhaustion.

Guard Captain Asmira made the journey in a single night, carried by a cone of whirling sand.

Outside the protective Mantle, in the howling darkness, the storm of sand grains scoured the air. Asmira saw nothing; she sat crouched with her arms clasping her knees, eyes tight shut, trying to ignore the voices that, from amid the whirlwind, continually screamed her name. This was a provocation on the part of the spirit that carried her, but otherwise the priestesses’ strictures held firm. Asmira was neither dropped, nor crushed, nor torn asunder, but carried without harm; and set down gently just as dawn was breaking.

Painfully, by slow degrees, she uncurled herself and allowed her eyes to open. She sat on a hilltop, in the centre of three perfect rings of sand. Small thickets of brush were dotted here and there, and razor-grass, and rocks that glinted in the rising sun. A little naked child was standing on the hillcrest, watching her with bright, dark eyes.

‘There is Eilat,’ the djinni said. ‘You will reach it late morning.’

Asmira looked, and far away saw a yellow cluster of lights hanging smudged and distant in the lifting darkness, and close beside it a flat white line, thin as a knife-blade, separating sky and land.

‘And that,’ the child added, pointing, ‘is the sea. The Gulf of Aqaba. You are at the southernmost point of Solomon’s kingdom. From Eilat you can hire camels to take you to Jerusalem, a journey still of several hundred miles. I myself can bear you no further safely. Solomon has established shipyards in Eilat, that he may control the trading routes along the coast. Some of his magicians are here, and many spirits, who will be vigilant against intruders such as me. I cannot enter the town.’

Asmira was getting to her feet, gasping at the stiffness of her limbs. ‘Then I thank you for your help,’ she said. ‘When you return to Marib, please express my thanks also to the priestesses and my beloved queen. Say that I am grateful for their assistance, and that I shall carry out my task with the full vigour of my being, and—’

‘Don’t thank
me
,’ the child said. ‘I only do what I am forced to do. Indeed, were it not for the threat of the Dismal Flame I would devour you in a twinkling, for you are a succulent-looking morsel. As for the queen and her minions, in my opinion your gratitude to them is equally misplaced, since they send you to a miserable death, while their backsides continue to expand at leisure in the soft luxuries of the palace courts. Still, I’ll pass your regards on.’

‘Foul demon!’ Asmira snarled. ‘If I die, it shall be for my queen! My nation has been attacked and the Sun God himself has blessed my venture. You know
nothing
of loyalty or love of homeland! Be gone from here!’

She clasped something that hung about her neck and spoke an angry syllable; a flashing disc of yellow light struck the djinni and sent it somersaulting backwards with a cry.

‘That was a pretty trick,’ the little child said, picking itself up. ‘But your power is thin, and your motives even thinner. Gods and nations – what are they but words?’

It closed its eyes; was gone. A gentle breeze blew away into the south, scattering the perfect rings of sand and making Asmira shiver.

She knelt beside her leather bag, and removed from it her water-skin, a pastry wrapped in vine leaves, a silver dagger, and her travelling cloak, which she placed about her shoulders to keep warm. Her first action was to drink deeply from the skin, for she was very thirsty. Next she ate the pastry with brisk, efficient little bites, staring down the hill, planning her route towards the town. Then she turned to face the east, where the Sun God’s disc was just pulling free of the Earth. Somewhere far away it settled on fair Sheba too. His glory blinded Asmira, his warmth fell on her face. Her movements slowed, her mind emptied; the urgencies of her mission loosened their hold upon her. She stood upon the hilltop, a slight, slim young woman, with gold light shining on her long dark hair.

When she was still very young, Asmira’s mother had taken her to the palace roof and walked her in a circle, so she could look out all around.

‘The city of Marib is built on a hill,’ her mother said, ‘and this hill is Sheba’s centre as the heart is the centre of the body. Long ago, the Sun God ordained our city’s size and shape, and we cannot build beyond its limits. So we build upwards! See the towers rising on every side? Our people live within them, a family to a floor, and when the need arises we build another level in fresh mud brick. Now, child, look beyond the hill. You see that all about us is green, while beyond lies yellow desert? These are our gardens, which keep us all alive. Each year snows melt in the mountains and run in torrents along the dust-dry wadis to irrigate our lands. Queens of the past cut the channels to irrigate the fields with water. Maintenance of these channels is their most important duty, for without them we die. Now look to the east – see that range of blue-white mountains? That is the Hadhramaut, where grow our forests. These trees are our
other
most precious resource. We harvest their resin and dry it … and what does it become then?’