Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
A Note on Magic
A Note on Pronunciation
The Main Characters
Map
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part Two
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Three
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Praise
The Amulet of Samarkand
Bartimaeus 1
Bartimaeus 2
Bartimaeus 3
Bartimaeus 4
About the Author
Also by Jonathan Stroud
Copyright
Demon extraordinaire Bartimaeus is stuck as a spirit slave doing dead-end jobs in King Solomon’s Jerusalem. The shame of it! Solomon’s ring of legend, which affords its master absolute power, has a lot to answer for.
But with the arrival of Asmira, an assassin girl with more than just murder on her mind, things start to get … interesting. Throw in a hidden conspiracy, seventeen deadly magicians and some of the most sinister spirits ever to squeeze inside a pentacle. He’s going to have to use every ounce of magic in his ever-shifting body to wriggle his way out of this one.
The Bartimaeus books are published in 35 languages and have sold over 6 million copies worldwide
Jonathan is the author of the bestselling Bartimaeus sequence, as well as standalone novels Heroes of the Valley, The Leap and The Last Siege.
Jonathan worked as a children’s book editor before becoming a full-time writer. He lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and two children.
A note on pronunciation:
‘Djinni’ is pronounced ‘jinnee’,
and ‘djinn’ is pronounced ‘jinn’.
‘Bartimaeus’ is pronounced ‘Bart-im-ay-us’.
RING OF SOLOMON
AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 9781407076898
Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2012
Copyright © Jonathan Stroud, 2010
Map illustration copyright © Kayley LeFaiver, 2010
First published in Great Britain
Doubleday 2010
The right of Jonathan Stroud to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For Arthur,
with love
Since history began in the mud-brick cities of Mesopotamia more than five thousand years ago, rulers of great nations have always used magicians to help maintain their rule. The pharaohs of Egypt and the kings of Sumer, Assyria and Babylon all relied on magic to protect their cities, strengthen their armies and cast their enemies down. Modern governments, though cloaking the fact behind careful propaganda, continue this same policy.
Magicians do not have magical abilities themselves, but derive their power from the control of spirits, which do. They spend many years in lonely study, mastering the techniques that will allow them to summon these fearsome entities and survive. Successful magicians are consequently always clever and physically robust. Because of the dangers of their craft, they are also usually ruthless, secretive and self-serving.
For most summonings, the magician stands inside a carefully drawn circle of protection, within which is a pentacle, or five-sided star. Certain complex incantations are spoken, and the spirit is drawn from its far dimension. Next, the magician recites special words of Binding. If this is done correctly, the spirit becomes the magician’s slave. If a mistake is made, the protective power of the circle is broken, and the unhappy magician is at the spirit’s mercy.
Once a slave is bound, it must obey its master’s instructions until its task is complete. When this time comes (it may take hours, days or years), the rejoicing spirit is formally dismissed. In general, spirits resent their captivity, no matter what its duration, and seek any opportunity to do their masters harm. Most sensible magicians therefore keep their slaves for as short a time as possible, just in case their luck runs out.
All spirits are formed of essence, a fluid, ever-shifting substance. In their own dimension, known as the Other Place, they have no solid form, but on Earth they must take some kind of definite guise. However, higher spirits are able to change shape at will: this gives them some respite from the pain that Earth’s cruel solidity causes to their essence.
There are five main categories of spirit. These are:
1. Imps: The lowliest type. Imps are scurrilous and impertinent and their magic is humble. Most cannot change shape at all. Nevertheless they are easily directed and present no great danger to the magician. For this reason they are frequently summoned, and used for minor tasks such as scrubbing floors, clearing middens, carrying messages and keeping watch.
2. Foliots: More potent than imps, but not as dangerous as djinn, foliots are favoured by magicians for their stealth and cunning. Being reasonably adept at changing shape, they make excellent spies.
3. Djinn: The largest class of spirit, and the hardest to summarize. No two seem alike. They lack the raw power of the greatest spirits, but frequently exceed them in cleverness and audacity. They excel at shape-shifting, and have a vast arsenal of spells at their disposal. A djinni is the favoured slave for most competent magicians.
4. Afrits: Strong as bulls, imposing in stature and arrogant as kings, afrits are blunt and irascible by temperament. They are less subtle than other spirits, and their might frequently exceeds their intelligence. Monarchs throughout history have used them as vanguards in battle, and as guardians of their gold.
5. Marids: The most perilous and least common of the five types. Supremely confident in their magical power, marids sometimes appear in discreet or gentle guises, only to suddenly switch to vast and hideous shapes. Only the greatest magicians dare summon them.
All magicians fear their spirit-slaves, and ensure their obedience by means of inventive punishments. For this reason most spirits bow to the inevitable. They serve their masters as efficiently as possible and – despite their natural instincts – remain outwardly zealous and polite, for fear of repercussions.
This is what most spirits do. There are exceptions.
Solomon |
King of Israel |
Hiram |
Solomon’s vizier |
Khaba |
A magician – in service to King Solomon |
Ezekiel |
A magician – in service to King Solomon |
And various other magicians, servants and wives
Balkis |
Queen of Sheba |
Asmira |
A captain of the guard |
And numerous other marids, afrits, djinn, foliots and imps
This story takes place in and around Jerusalem, in 950 BC.
Also by Jonathan Stroud
Bartimaeus
The Amulet of Samarkand
The Golem’s Eye
Ptolemy’s Gate
Buried Fire
The Leap
The Last Siege
Heroes of the Valley
www.jonathanstroud.com
Sunset above the olive groves. The sky, like a bashful youth kissed for the first time, blushed with a peach-pink light. Through the open windows came the gentlest of breezes, carrying the fragrances of evening. It stirred the hair of the young woman standing alone and pensive in the centre of the marble floor, and caused her dress to flutter against the contours of her lean, dark limbs.
She lifted a hand; slim fingers toyed with a ringlet of hair beside her neck. ‘Why so shy, my lord?’ she whispered. ‘Come near and let me look on you.’
In the opposite pentacle the old man lowered the wax cylinder in his hand and glared at me with his single eye. ‘Great Jehovah, Bartimaeus! You don’t think that’s going to work on me?’
My eyelashes quivered beguilingly. ‘I’ll dance too, if you’ll only step a little closer. Come on, spoil yourself. I’ll do you the Twirl of the Seven Veils.’
The magician spoke with irritation. ‘No, thank you. And you can stop that too.’
‘Stop what?’
‘That … that jiggling about. Every now and then you—There! You did it again!’
‘Oh, come on, sailor, live a little. What’s putting you off?’
My master uttered an oath. ‘Possibly your clawed left foot. Possibly your scaly tail. Also possibly the fact that even a new-born babe would know not to step outside his protective circle when requested to do so by a wicked, duplicitous spirit such as yourself. Now silence, cursed creature of air, and abandon your pathetic temptations, or I shall strike you sideways with such a Pestilence as even great Egypt never suffered!’ The old boy was quite excited, all out of breath, his white hair a disordered halo around his head. From behind his ear he took a stylus and grimly made a notation on the cylinder. ‘There’s a black mark there for you, Bartimaeus,’ he said. ‘Another one. If this line gets filled, you’ll be off the special allowances list for good, you understand. No more roasted imps, no time off, nothing. Now, I’ve a job for you.’
The maiden in the pentacle folded her arms. She wrinkled her dainty nose. ‘I’ve just done a job.’
‘Well, now you’ve got another one.’
‘I’ll do it when I’ve had a rest.’
‘You’ll do it this very night.’
‘Why should I do it? Send Tufec or Rizim.’
A bright jag of scarlet lightning issued from the forefinger of the old man, looped across the intervening space and set my pentacle aflame, so that I wailed and danced with mad abandon.
The crackling ceased; the pain in my feet lessened. I came to an ungainly standstill.
‘You were right, Bartimaeus,’ the old man chuckled. ‘You do dance well. Now, are you going to give me any more backchat? If so, another notch upon the cylinder it shall be.’
‘No, no – there’s no need for that.’ To my great relief the stylus was slowly replaced behind the aged ear. I clapped my hands vigorously. ‘So, another job, you say? What joy! I’m humbled that you have selected me from among so many other worthy djinn. What brought me to your attention tonight, great Master? The ease with which I slew the giant of Mount Lebanon? The zeal with which I put the Canaanite rebels to flight? Or just my general reputation?’
The old man scratched his nose. ‘None of that; rather it was your behaviour last night, when the watch-imps observed you in the form of a mandrill swaggering through the undergrowth below the Sheep Gate, singing lewd songs about King Solomon and loudly extolling your own magnificence.’
The maiden gave a surly shrug. ‘Might not have been me.’
‘The words “Bartimaeus is best”, repeated at tedious length, suggest otherwise.’
‘Well, all right. So I’d had too many mites at supper. No harm done.’
‘No harm? The Watch reported it to their supervisor, who reported it to me. I reported it to High Magician Hiram, and I believe it has since come to the ears of the king himself.’ His face became all prim and starchy. ‘He is not pleased.’
I blew out my cheeks. ‘Can’t he tell me so in person?’
The magician’s eye bulged; it looked like an egg emerging from a chicken.1 ‘You dare suggest,’ he cried, ‘that great Solomon, King of all Israel, master of all lands from the Gulf of Aqaba to the broad Euphrates, would deign to speak with a sulphurous slave such as you? The idea! In all my years I have heard nothing so offensive—!’
‘Oh, come, come. Look at the state of you. Surely you must have.’
‘Two more notches, Bartimaeus, for your effrontery and cheek.’ Out came the cylinder; the stylus scratched upon it furiously. ‘Now then, enough of your nonsense. Listen to me closely. Solomon desires new wonders for his collection. He has commanded his magicians to search the known world for objects of beauty and power. At this very moment, in all the wall-towers of Jerusalem, my rivals conjure demons no less hideous than you and send them out like fiery comets to plunder ancient cities, north, south, east and west. All hope to astound the king with the treasures they secure. But they will be disappointed, Bartimaeus, will they not, for we will bring him the finest prize of all. You understand me?’
The pretty maiden curled her lip; my long, sharp teeth glinted wetly. ‘Grave-robbing again? Solomon should be doing seedy stuff like this himself. But no, as usual he can’t be bothered to lift his finger and use the Ring. How lazy can you get?’
The old man gave a twisted smile. The black hollow of his lost eye seemed to suck in light. ‘Your opinions are interesting. So much so that I shall depart right now and report them to the king. Who knows? Perhaps he will choose to lift his finger and use the Ring on you.’
There was a slight pause, during which the shadows of the room grew noticeably deeper, and a chill ran up my shapely spine. ‘No need,’ I growled. ‘I’ll get him his precious treasure. Where do you want me to go, then?’
My master gestured to the windows, through which the cheery lights of lower Jerusalem winked and shone. ‘Fly east to Babylon,’ he said. ‘One hundred miles south-east of that dread city, and thirty miles south of the Euphrates’s current course, lie certain mounds and ancient diggings, set about with fragments of wind-blown wall. The local peasants avoid the ruins for fear of ghosts, while any nomads keep their flocks beyond the furthest tumuli. The only inhabitants of the region are religious zealots and other madmen, but the site was not always so desolate. Once it had a name.’
‘Eridu,’ I said softly. ‘I know.’2
‘Strange must be the memories of a creature such as you, who has seen such places rise and fall …’ The old man gave a shudder. ‘I do not like to dwell on it. But if you recall the location, so much the better! Search its ruins, locate its temples. If the scrolls speak truly, there are many sacred chambers there, containing who knows what antique glory! With luck, some of the treasures will have remained undisturbed.’
‘No doubt about that,’ I said, ‘given its guardians.’
‘Ah yes, the ancients will have protected them well!’ The old man’s voice rose to a dramatic pitch; his hands made eloquent fluttering gestures of dismay. ‘Who knows what lurks there still? Who knows what prowls the ruins? Who knows what hideous shapes, what monstrous forms might— Will you stop doing that with your tail? It’s not hygienic.’
I drew myself up. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I get the picture. I’ll go to Eridu and see what I can find. But when I get back I want to be dismissed straight off. No arguments, no shilly-shallying. I’ve been on Earth too long now and my essence aches like a mouldering tooth.’
My master grinned a gummy grin, stuck his chin towards me and waggled a wrinkled finger. ‘That all depends on what you bring back, doesn’t it, Bartimaeus? If you impress me, I may let you go. See that you do not fail! Now – prepare yourself. I shall bind you to your purpose.’
Midway through his incantation the horn blew hard below the window, signalling the closure of the Kidron Gate. It was answered, further off, by the sentries on the Sheep Gate, Prison Gate, Horse and Water Gates, and so on round the city walls, until the great horn on the palace roof was sounded and all Jerusalem was safe and sealed for the night. A year or two back I’d have hoped such distractions would make my master stumble on his words, so that I might have leaped forth and devoured him. I didn’t bother hoping now. He was too old and too experienced. I needed something better than that if I was going to get him.
The magician finished, spoke the final words. The pretty maiden’s body became soft and see-through; for an instant I hung together like a statue formed of silken smoke, then burst soundlessly into nothing.
1 Rizim had put the other eye out on a rare occasion when our master had made a slight mistake with the words of his summoning. We’d additionally managed to scorch his backside once or twice, and there was a scar on his neck where I’d come close with a lucky ricochet, but despite a long career commanding more than a dozen formidable djinn, the magician remained vigorous and spry. He was a tough old bird.
2 Eridu of the Seven Temples, the bone-white city, glittering in green fields. One of the earliest cities of men. In its day its ziggurats rose high as falcon’s flight, and the scent of its spice markets drifted on the winds as far as Uruk and the sea … Then the river changed its course, the land went dry. The people grew thin and cruel; their temples toppled into dust, and they and their past were utterly forgotten. Except by spirits such as me. And, naturally – whenever their gold lust overcame their fears – by magicians too.
No matter how many times you see the dead walk, you always forget just how rubbish they are when they really get moving. Sure, they look OK when they first break through the wall – they get points for shock value, for their gaping sockets and gnashing teeth, and sometimes (if the Reanimation spell is really up to scratch) for their disembodied screams. But then they start pursuing you clumsily around the temple, pelvises jerking, femurs high-kicking, holding out their bony arms in a way that’s meant to be sinister but looks more as if they’re about to sit down at a piano and bash out a honky-tonk rag. And the faster they go, the more their teeth start rattling and the more their necklaces bounce up and get lodged in their eye-holes, and then they start tripping over their grave-clothes and tumbling to the floor and generally getting in the way of any nimble-footed djinni who happens to be passing. And, as is the way with skeletons, never once do they come out with any really good one-liners, which might add a bit of zest to the life-or-death situation you’re in.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said as I hung from the wall, ‘there must be someone here worth talking to.’ With my free hand I fired a plasm across the room, causing a Void to open in the path of one of the scurrying dead. It took a step, was sucked into oblivion; I sprang up from the stones, bounced off the vaulted ceiling and landed nimbly on top of a statue of the god Enki on the opposite side of the hall.
To my left a mummified corpse shuffled from its alcove. It wore a slave’s robe and had a rusted manacle and chain about its shrunken neck. With a creaky spring it leaped to snare me. I yanked the chain, the head came off; I caught this mid-palm as the body fell away, and bowled it unerringly into the midriff of one of its dusty comrades, snapping its backbone with neat precision.
Jumping from the statue, I landed in the very centre of the temple hall. From every side now the dead converged, their robes as frail as cobwebs, hoops of bronze twirling on their wrists. Things that had once been men and women – slaves, freemen, courtiers and under-priests, members of every level of Eridu’s society – pressed tight about me, jaws gaping, jagged yellow fingernails raised to rend my essence.
I’m a courteous fellow and greeted them all appropriately. A Detonation to the left. A Convulsion to the right. Bits of ancient person spattered merrily on the glazed reliefs of the old Sumerian kings.
That gave me a brief respite. I took a look around.
In the twenty-eight seconds since I’d tunnelled through the ceiling, I’d not had time to fully assess my surroundings, but from the décor and the general layout a couple of things were clear. First, it was a temple of the water god Enki (the statue told me that, plus he featured prominently in the wall reliefs, along with his attendant fish and snake-dragons) and had been abandoned for at least fifteen hundred years.1 Second, in all the long centuries since the priests had sealed the doors and left the city to be swallowed by the desert sands, no one had entered before me. You could tell that from the layers of dust upon the floor, the unbroken entrance stone, the zeal of the guardian corpses and – last but not least – the statuette resting on the altar at the far end of the hall.
It was a water serpent, a representation of Enki, fashioned with great artifice out of twisting gold. It glittered palely in the light of the Flares I’d sent forth to illuminate the room, and its ruby eyes shone evilly like dying embers. As a work of art alone, it was probably beyond price, but that was only half the story. It was magical too, with a strange pulsing aura visible on the higher planes.2
Good. That was that settled, then. I’d take the serpent and be on my way.
‘Excuse me, excuse me …’ This was me politely ushering the dead aside, or in most cases using Infernos to strike them burning across the hall. More were still emerging, trundling forth from slot-like alcoves in each wall. There seemed no end to them, but I wore a young man’s body, and my movements were swift and sure. With spell and kick and counter-punch I ploughed my way towards the altar—
And saw the next trap waiting.
A net of fourth-plane threads hung all around the golden serpent, glowing emerald green. The threads were very thin, and faint even to my djinni’s gaze.3 Feeble as they looked, however, I had no wish to disturb them. As a general principle, Sumerian altar-traps are worth avoiding.
I stopped below the altar, deep in thought. There were ways to disarm the threads, which I would have no trouble employing, provided I had a bit of time and space.
At that moment a sharp pain disturbed me. Looking down, I discovered that a particularly disreputable-looking corpse (who in life had clearly suffered many skin ailments and doubtless looked upon mummification as a sharp improvement to his lot) had snuck up and sunk his teeth deep into the essence of my forearm.
The temerity! He deserved special consideration. Shoving a friendly hand inside his rib-cage, I fired a small Detonation upwards. It was a manoeuvre I hadn’t tried in decades, and was just as amusing as ever. His head blew clean off like a cork from a bottle, cracked nicely against the ceiling, bounced twice off nearby walls and (this was where my amusement smartly vanished) plopped to earth right beside the altar, neatly snapping the net of glowing threads as it did so.
Which shows how foolish it is to go enjoying yourself in the middle of a job.
A deep concussion echoed across the planes. It was fairly faint to my hearing, but over in the Other Place it would have been hard to ignore.
For a moment I stood quite still: a thin young man, dark of skin and light of loincloth, staring in annoyance at the writhing filaments of broken thread. Then, swearing in Aramaic, Hebrew and several other languages, I leaped forward, plucked the serpent from the altar and backed hurriedly away.
Eager corpses came clamouring behind me: without looking I unleashed a Flux and they were whirled asunder.
Up beside the altar the fragments of thread stopped twitching. With great speed they melted outwards, forming a pool or portal upon the flagstones. The pool spread beneath the corpse’s upturned head. The head dropped slowly down into the pool, out of existence, away from this world. There was a pause. The pool shone with the myriad colours of the Other Place, distant, muffled, as if seen from under glass.
A tremor passed across its surface. Something was coming.
Turning swiftly, I considered the distance to the shattered patch of ceiling where I’d first broken through: trickles of loose sand still spooled down into the chamber. My tunnel had probably collapsed with the weight of sand; it would take time to push my way back up – time I didn’t presently have. A Trigger-summons never takes long.
I spun back reluctantly to face the portal, where the surface of the pool was flexing and contorting. Two great arms issued forth, shimmering green and veinous. Clawed hands grasped the stonework on either side. Muscles flexed and a body rose into the world, a thing of nightmare. The head was human in semblance,4 and surmounted by long black coils of hair. A chiselled torso came next, and this was of the same green stuff. The components of the bottom half, which followed, seemed to have been chosen almost at random. The legs, corded with muscle, were those of a beast – possibly a lion or some other upscale predator – but ended sinisterly in an eagle’s splaying claws. The creature’s rear end was mercifully cloaked by a wrap-around skirt; from a slit in this rose a long and vicious scorpion tail.
There was a pregnant pause as the visitation pulled free of the portal and stood erect. Behind us, even the last few milling dead were somewhat hushed.
The creature’s face was that of a Sumerian lord: olive-skinned and handsome, black hair coiled in shining ringlets. The lips were full, the squared beard oiled. But the eyes were blank holes torn in the flesh. And now they looked on me.
‘It’s … Bartimaeus, isn’t it? You didn’t trigger this, did you?’
‘Hello, Naabash. Afraid so.’
The entity stretched its great arms wide so that the muscles cracked. ‘Ohhh, now what’d you go and do that for? You know what the priests say about trespassers and thieves. They’ll have your guts for garters. Or rather … I will.’
‘The priests aren’t that fussed about the treasure now, Naabash.’
‘They aren’t?’ The blank eyes looked around the temple. ‘It does seem a little dusty. Has it been a while?’
‘Longer than you think.’
‘But the charge still holds, Bartimaeus. Can’t do anything about that. While stone stands on stone and our city lasts … You know the score.’ The scorpion tail juddered up with a dry and eager rattle, the shiny black sting jerking forwards above his shoulder. ‘What’s that you’re carrying? Not the sacred serpent?’
‘Something to look at later, when I’ve dealt with you.’
‘Ah, very good, very good. You always were a chipper one, Bartimaeus, always spoke above your station. Never known anyone get the flail so often. How you vexed the humans with your backchat.’ The Sumerian lord smiled, showing neat double rows of sharply filed teeth. The hind legs moved slightly, the claws dug into stone; I watched the tendons tensing, ready for sudden movement. I didn’t take my eyes off them. ‘Which particular employer are you vexing now?’ Naabash went on. ‘The Babylonians, I assume. They were on the up last time I looked. They always coveted Eridu’s gold.’
The dark-eyed youth ran a hand through his curly hair. I smiled bleakly. ‘Like I say, it’s been longer than you think.’
‘Long or short, it matters not to me,’ Naabash said softly. ‘I have my charge. The sacred serpent stays here in the temple heart, its powers lost to common men.’
Now, I’d never heard of this serpent. To me it just seemed a typical bit of tat the old cities used to war over, a kitsch little number in rolled gold. But it’s always good to know exactly what you’re stealing.
‘Powers?’ I said. ‘What does it do?’
Naabash chuckled, wistful melancholy suffusing his voice. ‘Nothing of consequence. It contains an elemental that will emit jets of water from the mouth when the tail is tweaked. The priests used to bring it out in times of drought to inspire the people. If I remember correctly, it is also rigged with two or three little mechanical traps designed to dismay robbers who meddle with the emerald studs upon the claws. Notice the hinges hidden beneath each one …’
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.5 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.
1 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.
2 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.
3 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.
4 See? How grotesque can you get? Yeuch.
5 ‘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.1
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 Flame2 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;3 nor had the water elemental4 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.
The pretty maiden tossed the serpent to the floor. She stepped forward out of her constraining pentacle. Away across the room, the magician had been winded; he lay there helpless, flapping like a fish.
The maiden passed the goat’s-fat candles, and as she did so, every single one of them winked out. Her foot glanced against a bowl of ward-herbs; rosemary spilled upon her skin, which fizzed and steamed. The maiden paid no heed; her big dark eyes were fixed upon the magician, who struggled now to raise his head a little, saw my slow approach.
He made one desperate effort, wet and winded as he was. A shaking hand was raised and pointed. His mouth moved; he stammered out a word. From his forefinger a sputtering Essence Lance leaped forth. The maiden made a gesture; the spears of lightning exploded in mid-air and shot off at random angles to strike the walls, the floor and ceiling. One gout plumed out of the nearest window and arced out into the valley to startle the peasants far below.
The maiden crossed the room; she stood above the magician and held out her hands, and the nails on her fingers, and indeed the fingers themselves, were much longer than hitherto.
The old man looked up at me. ‘Bartimaeus—’
‘That’s my name,’ I said. ‘Now, are you going to get up, or shall I come to you?’
The answer he made was incoherent. The pretty maiden shrugged. Then she bared her pretty teeth and fell upon him, and any further sounds he made were swiftly stilled.
Three small watch-imps, drawn perhaps by a disturbance on the planes, arrived just as I was finishing. Wide-eyed and wondering, they clustered together on the sill as the slender young woman got unsteadily to her feet. She was alone in the room now; her eyes glowed in the shadows as she turned to face them.
The imps sounded the alarm, but it was all too late. Even as the air above was rent with rushing wings and talons, the pretty maiden smiled and waved goodbye – to the imps, to Jerusalem, to my latest bout of slavery on Earth – and without a word was gone.
And that was the end of the old magician. We’d been together a while, but I never got to know his name. Still, I remember him with fond affection. Foolish, greedy, incompetent and dead. Now that’s the kind of master worth having.
1 I’d chosen the girl’s form again for continuity’s sake, and also because I knew it irritated my master. In my experience most magicians can be discomfited if you choose the right form. Apart from the high priests of Ishtar back in Babylon, mind you. Ishtar was goddess of love and war, so her magicians were unfazed by both pretty girls and gore-spattered monsters. This unfortunately eliminated most of my repertoire.
2 Dismal Flame: a swift and painful expunction. In later periods, following its refinement by Zarbustibal of Yemen, it was known as the Shrivelling Fire. It was the ultimate sanction for spirits who simply refused to carry out their master’s commands, and its threat by and large ensured our (grudging) obedience.
3 Dissemblers as we sometimes are when conversing with humans, higher spirits almost always speak truth among themselves. The lower orders, sadly, are less civilized, foliots being variable, moody and prone to flights of fancy, while imps just enjoy telling absolute whoppers.
4 Elemental: most spirits incorporate within their essence two or more of the four elements (the finest djinn, naming no names, are perfectly balanced entities of fire and air). Those spirits formed of air, earth, fire or water alone, however, are elementals – a different kettle of fish altogether. They entirely lack the finesse or charm that make a select few of us so fascinating, but compensate for this with raw, bludgeoning power.
King Solomon the Great of Israel, High Magician and Protector of his People, sat forward on his throne and frowned an elegant frown. ‘Dead?’ he said, and then – more loudly, after a ferocious pause in which the heartbeats of four hundred and thirty-seven people skipped and jolted in anticipation – ‘Dead?’
The two afrits that sat before his chair in the form of goldmaned lions lifted their golden eyes to look at him. The three winged djinn that hung aloft behind the chair, carrying fruit and wines and sweetmeats for the refreshment of the king, trembled so hard, the plates and glasses rattled in their hands. High in the rafters the doves and swallows dropped from their roosts, and dispersed beyond the pillars to the sunlit gardens. And the four hundred and thirty-seven humans – magicians, courtiers, wives and supplicants – who were gathered in the hall that morning bent their heads and shuffled their feet and looked intently at the floor.
Rarely, even in matters of war or wives, did the great king ever raise his voice. Such occasions did not bode well.
At the foot of the steps Solomon’s vizier bowed low. ‘Dead. Yes, master. But, on a happier note, he got you a very fine antiquity.’
Still bowing, he indicated with an outstretched hand the nearest plinth beside him. On it sat a serpent statuette of twisting gold.
King Solomon regarded it. The hall was silent. The lion-afrits blinked down at the people with their golden eyes, their velvet fore-paws lightly crossed, their tails flicking occasionally on the stones behind. Above the throne the djinn hung waiting, motionless save for the lazy beat of their eagle wings. Out in the gardens butterflies moved like flecks of sunlight among the brightness of the trees.
At last the king spoke; he sat back upon the cedar throne. ‘It is a pretty object. With his last act, poor Ezekiel served me well.’ He raised a hand to signal to the djinn for wine, and since it was his right hand, a ripple of relief ran around the hall. The magicians relaxed; the wives began arguing amongst themselves; and one by one the assembled petitioners of a dozen lands raised their heads to gaze in fearful admiration at the king.
In no way was Solomon ill-favoured. He had been spared the poxes in his youth, and though now into middle age, his skin remained smooth and creamy as a child’s. In fifteen years upon the throne, indeed, he had not changed markedly, remaining dark of eye and skin, narrow-faced, with black hair hanging loose about his shoulders. His nose was long and straight, his lips full, his eyes lined with green-black kohl after the Egyptian style. Above his splendid silken robes – sent as a gift from the magician-priests of India – he wore many wondrous treasures of gold and jade, sapphire earrings, necklaces of Nubian ivory, amber beads from far Cimmeria. Silver bangles hung about his wrists, while on one ankle rested a thin gold band. Even his kid-skin sandals, a dowry present from the King of Tyre, were studded with gold and semi-precious stones. But his long slim hands were naked of jewels or decoration – save for the little finger of the left, which bore a ring.