Ring Of Solomon (38 page)

There it was – right at the edge, beside the yawning gulf. Head reeling, Asmira rolled herself forward, began to crawl towards the Ring.

Soft footsteps nearing, the swishing of a long black robe.

Asmira crawled faster. Now she felt the Ring’s heat upon her face. She stretched out to pick it up—

A black sandal came down, crushed her fingers to the stone. Asmira gasped, jerked her hand away.

‘No, Cyrine,’ the magician said. ‘No. It’s not for you.’

He kicked out at her, catching her sharply on the side of the face. She rolled backwards with the blow, sprang to her feet. Before she could reach for her belt, something like claws had grasped her waist, yanked her upwards and away. For some moments she saw nothing but starlight twisting and the whirling dark, then she found herself summarily deposited back upon the stone, halfway along the ruined balcony. The sharp clasp about her did not slacken; her arms were gripped fast, pressed against her sides. There was a presence at her back.

The Egyptian was still standing over the Ring, staring at it in disbelief. He wore the same tunic as at the banquet so many hours before. His face looked haggard, and there were little purple stains at the corners of his lips, testimony to his night’s consumption, but his eyes glistened with high excitement, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

‘It
is
. It truly is … I cannot believe it!’ He bent down swiftly, only to pause in doubt as he sensed the emanations of the Ring.

Somewhere above Asmira, a soft voice gave a warning call. ‘Master! Beware! The energies burn me even at a distance. Dear Master, you must take care!’

The magician made a noise that was half laugh, half groan. ‘You – you know me, dear Ammet. I – I like a little pain.’ His fingers plunged upon the Ring. Asmira flinched in expectation of his cry.

Instead: a gasp, a muttered curse; with staring eyes and teeth locked tight together, Khaba stood. The Ring rested on his palm.

‘Master! Are you hurt?’

Asmira looked up, saw, framed against the stars, a shadow-thing, Khaba’s duplicate in silhouette. Her teeth parted in horror, she struggled in the monster’s grip.

The Egyptian flicked his eyes towards her. ‘Keep the girl secure,’ he said. ‘But do – do not harm her yet. I need – I need to talk with her. Ah!’ He gave a bellow. ‘How did the old man
stomach
it so?’

The grip around Asmira’s waist tightened, so that she cried out. At the same time she felt her captor make a sudden, sinewy movement to pick up something behind them.

The soft voice spoke again. ‘Master, I have Bartimaeus too. He lives.’

Asmira moved her head a little, saw the handsome youth hanging limp beside her, suspended like a clutch of rags in a great grey fist. Yellow steam rose from many wounds upon his body. The sight gave her a sudden pang.

‘Not dead? All the better.’ Khaba shuffled towards them, holding his right hand close against his chest. ‘We have our first occupant for the new essence-cages, Ammet. But first – this girl …’

He came to a halt in front of Asmira and stood regarding her. His face was racked with pain; his teeth champed silently against his upper lip. Still he did not put the Ring on.

‘How did you do it?’ he demanded. ‘What level magician are you?’

Asmira shrugged. She shook her head.

‘Do you
want
Ammet to tear you in two?’ Khaba said. ‘He itches to do so. Speak!’

‘It was easy enough.’

‘What of Solomon’s defences?’

‘I avoided them.’

‘The Ring: how did you get it off his finger? While he slept?’

‘No. He was awake.’

‘Then how in the name of Ra—?’ Khaba broke off, staring at his rigid, clutching hand. A wave of pain passed over him; he seemed to lose his train of thought. ‘Well, you shall tell me the details later at my leisure, whether you wish to or not. But one thing now: how did Solomon die?’

Asmira thought of the frail king sitting in his chair. She wondered what he would be doing now. Summoning his guards, perhaps, or fleeing the tower. She found she hoped he’d had time to do so. ‘Bartimaeus strangled him,’ she said.

‘Ah. Good, good. It’s no more than he deserved. Now, Cyrine – but of course, that’s not
really
your name, is it? I wonder what …’ Khaba gave her a twisted grin. ‘Well, we’ll find out, won’t we, in time. Whoever you are,’ he went on, ‘I’m greatly obliged to you. I have been eager to carry out such an act myself for years. So have the rest of the Seventeen – we have spoken about it often. Ah, but we were fearful! We dared not act! The terror of the Ring was upon us. Yet you, in the company of this … this very
ordinary
djinni, have managed it!’ Khaba shook his head in wonder. ‘It is truly quite remarkable. I assume it was you who caused the kerfuffle around the treasury?’

‘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
.’

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
!’