The Ring of Solomon

of Bartimaeus as he ran towards her …
    She heard and saw it all, but she did not act.
    Throughout the tribulations of the journey Asmira had maintained an iron discipline learned over many solitary years. The dangers of the palace, the interview with Solomon, even being brought face-to-face with the Spirit of the Ring – none of this had entirely daunted her. She understood the sacrifice she was prepared to make, and she understood why she did so. Her clarity gave her purpose and her purpose gave her clarity. From the beginning she moved towards her likely death in a mood of fierce serenity.
    But death, in the end, had not come – Bartimaeus had instead. And suddenly the king was at her mercy, the Ring was in her grasp, and she was still alive. Everything was possible that she had long desired … And now Asmira found, quite suddenly, that she was no longer certain what to do.
    Even before she fled from Solomon’s room, she had been struggling to come to terms with what had happened. The king’s story, his helplessness, his denial of his guilt, the way he crumpled in his chair … None of this had been expected; all of it jarred with her preconceptions. And then there’d been the Ring itself, the Ring that supposedly made its wearer the luckiest of men. Except that it burned him and made him old before his time … She thought of Solomon’s ravaged face, of the pain she’d felt when she too had picked it up. Nothing made sense. Everything was upside-down.
    At first Asmira had sought to ignore the conflict in her mind and to complete her mission as best she could. But then, thanks to Bartimaeus, she found her deepest doubts and motivations laid bare beneath the stars.
    Much of what he said she had always known, secretly, deep down, ever since the moment when her mother had collapsed upon the lap of the impassive, indifferent queen. For years she had denied that knowledge, cloaked it beneath her angry dedication and her pleasure in her skill. But now, with the cold night’s clarity, she found she no longer trusted what she was and what she had aspired to be. Her energy and self-belief were gone, and the accumulated weariness of the previous two weeks descended abruptly on her back. She felt both very heavy – and hollow, like a shell.
    Onward came the rushing cloud. Asmira did nothing.
    The djinni ran towards her, grasping the little green demon by the neck. In his other hand he had the ball of parchment, held outstretched. ‘Here,’ he shouted. ‘The Ring! Take it! Put it on!’
    ‘What?’ Asmira frowned dully. ‘I – I can’t do that.’
    ‘Can’t you see? Khaba’s coming!’ Bartimaeus was right beside her now, still in his dark youth guise. He was wide-eyed with agitation. He thrust the ball into her hands. ‘Put it on quick! It’s our only chance.’
    Even through the crumpled parcel Asmira could feel the intense heat of the Ring. She fumbled it, almost dropped it to the floor. ‘ Me? No … I can’t. Why don’t you—?’
    ‘Well, I can’t do it, can I?’ the djinni cried. ‘The pull of the Other Place will tear my essence in two! Do it! Use it! We’ve got barely seconds!’ The young man gave a spring, hopped onto the balustrade and, tucking the foliot beneath his arm, sent a succession of scarlet bolts shooting through the night towards the cloud. None got near: all exploded against an invisible obstruction, sending plumes of dying magic high into the air, or down in fizzing arcs to set the cypress trees aflame.
    Asmira picked hesitantly at the edges of the parchment. Put it on? But this was a royal treasure, worn by kings and queens. Who was she to dare to use it? She was nothing, not even a proper guard … And besides – she thought of Solomon’s ravaged face – the Ring burned .
    ‘Do you want Khaba the Cruel to get it?’ Bartimaeus shouted down at her. ‘Put the thing on! Ah, what kind of master are you? This is your chance to do something right !’
    From the crook of his arm the little green demon gave a rich and fruity chuckle. Asmira recognized it now; it was Khaba’s creature. She had glimpsed it in the gorge. ‘You’ve got a dud one there, Barty,’ the foliot remarked. ‘Useless. Was it her who put that package in plain sight on the balustrade? I saw that a mile off.’
    The djinni made no answer but spoke a word. The foliot froze with its mouth open, engulfed in a web of smoke. Still firing bolts towards the cloud with his other hand, Bartimaeus tossed the