The Ring of Solomon

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.