The Ring of Solomon

advice and just put the Ring on, none of this would have happened. Instead she could have destroyed Ammet, killed Khaba, travelled in a twinkling to Sheba, booted out her queen, and installed herself in opulence and splendour on the throne. She could have done all this and been sitting back, watching a belly-dancing floorshow, before breakfast.
    That was what all my previous masters would have done. 6 But not the girl.
    She was an odd mix all right. On the one hand determined and resolute, with more courage in one of her shapely eyebrows than any conventional magician I’d ever met. On the other, confused, contrary and utterly unsure of herself, and with an all-time gift for making the wrong decisions. She’d got me into possibly the worst night I’d experienced in two thousand years, yet had stood by my side while we pinched the Ring of Solomon. She had fluffed the chance to wear the Ring herself, but had chopped off Khaba’s finger without a moment’s hesitation. She’d probably condemned me to my death, but had apologized as well. An odd mix. An infuriating one.
    By rights I should have been seeking a way to countermand her order, skip the sea bit, and chuck the Ring to Ammet. Then I could have left the girl and her world to Khaba’s gentle care. Faquarl would have figured out a way to do exactly this before he’d left the palace, and chuckled in the doing. That didn’t work for me.
    Partly it was because of my loathing for my enemies. I wished to foil them if I could. Partly it was because of my inherent tidiness. It had been my skill and judgement that got us the Ring; it had been me who suggested chucking it in the sea. In short, I’d started this in style, and I wanted to finish it on my terms.
    Partly it was because I wanted to save the girl.
    But first, before any of that, I had to reach the coast in one piece, and do so well ahead of Ammet. If he was right behind me when I threw the Ring into the deep, the whole plan would come unstuck. He’d just fish the thing straight out, probably using my perforated corpse as a net, and set off back to Khaba. Somehow I had to deal with him.
    Ammet was a marid. It would be death to fight him hand-to-hand. But perhaps there was a way to slow him down.
    *
    Over a hilltop the phoenix flew, beak gently bubbling with the aura of the Ring. Behind came the shadow on black wings. Beyond was a wooded valley, thick with pines. Here and there, in the half-light before morning, were little glades, places where woodcutters had been felling trees. The phoenix’s eyes gleamed. I abruptly descended into the wood, and my tell-tale fires went out.
    Ammet, the shadow, had crested the rise just in time to see me disappear. He too dropped down beneath the canopy and hung in resin-scented blackness, listening.
    ‘Where are you, Bartimaeus?’ he whispered. ‘Come out, come out.’
    Silence in the forest.
    The shadow wove his way between the trunks, slowly, slowly, sinuous as a snake.
    ‘I smell you, Bartimaeus! I smell your fear!’ 7
    Answer came there none, as might have been expected. Down between the trees he glided, following the steep curve of the hill.
    Then, some way up ahead, a little noise: Frrt, frrt, frrt .
    ‘I hear you, Bartimaeus. I hear you! Is that your knees knocking together?’
    Frrt, frrt, frrt.
    On came the shadow, just a little faster. ‘Is that the chattering of your teeth?’
    Actually, it was neither, as any spirit who’d spent any time outdoors would know. 8 It was me using a claw to whittle the ends of two tree trunks I’d found beside a logging camp. I was making two nice long pointy stakes.
    ‘Last chance, Bartimaeus. Throw down the Ring! I can see its aura glinting in the trees. You cannot keep it from me. Run away now, and I will let you live!’
    Down through the forest stole the shadow, listening to the sound. By and by the whittling ceased; the shadow paused. But he could see the aura of the Ring of Solomon gleaming brightly up ahead.
    Quickly now he came, silent as black snow, tracing the aura to its source.
    Which turned out to be a tree-stump on the far side of a glade. There on the stump, propped provocatively against a pine-cone, was Khaba’s finger, with the Ring pulsing merrily at the end.
    Now, any ordinary spirit – those of us regularly sent delving into ancient Sumerian temples, for example – would have instantly smelled a rat. We’d have all had far too much experience of booby-traps not to be extremely wary of innocent