The Ring of Solomon

hand.
    ‘You’re late!’ he exclaimed. ‘All banquet deliveries were due by noon!’
    I squinted at the heavens. ‘It is noon, Bosquo. Look at the sun.’
    ‘Noon is precisely two minutes gone,’ the djinni said. ‘You, sir, are late. However, we will overlook it just this once. Your name?’
    ‘Bartimaeus, bringing artichokes from the Atlas Mountains.’
    ‘A moment, a moment … We have so many slaves …’ The djinni took a stylus from behind his ear and buried himself in his scrolls. ‘– Alef …– Bet … Where’s thescroll? These modern languages … there’s no logic to them … Ah, here …’ He looked up. ‘Right. Yes. Name again?’
    I tapped a sandal upon the ground. ‘ Bartimaeus .’
    Bosquo consulted the scroll. ‘Bartimaeus of Gilat?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Bartimaeus of Tel Batash?’
    ‘No.’
    The scroll was unfurled still further. There was a long pause. ‘Bartimaeus of Khirbet Delhamiyeh?’
    ‘ No . Where in Marduk’s name is that? Bartimaeus of Uruk , also known as Sakhr al-Jinni, famous confidant of Gilgamesh and Akhenaten, and – for a time – Nefertiti’s most trusted djinni.’
    The overseer looked up. ‘Oh, it’s djinn we’re talking about? This is the foliot list.’
    ‘The foliot list?’ I gave a cry of rage. ‘What are you holding that for?’
    ‘Well, to look at you— Oh, hush. Don’t make such a squalling. Yes, yes, I have located you now. You are one of Khaba’s troublemakers, are you not? Trust me, your long-departed glories will count for little with him!’
    Bosquo broke off to issue orders to the imps, while I restrained the urge to swallow him, scrolls and all. I shook my head grimly. The only good thing about the whole embarrassing exchange was that no one else had witnessed it. I turned away –
    ‘Hello, Bartimaeus.’
    – to find myself standing face-to-face with a stocky, potbellied Nubian slave. He was bald of head and red of eye, and sported a leopard-skin skirt with a large machete tucked in the waistband. He also wore seven ivory torcs about his thick bull-neck, and a familiar expression of sardonic mirth.
    I winced. ‘Hello, Faquarl.’
    ‘There you are, you see,’ the djinni Faquarl said. ‘ I still recognize you. Your ancient greatness is not yet quite forgotten. And do not give up hope. Perhaps one day the Ballad of the Artichokes will be sung about the hearth-fires too, and your legend will live on.’
    I scowled at him. ‘What do you want?’
    The Nubian indicated over his swarthy shoulder. ‘Our delightful master requires the whole company to assemble on the hill behind the palace. You’re the last to arrive.’
    ‘The day just keeps getting better and better,’ I said sourly. ‘All right, let’s go.’
    The handsome youth and the short, squat Nubian walked together across the yard, and those lesser spirits we met, observing our true natures on the higher planes, hopped hurriedly aside. At the rear gate, vigilant demi-afrits with flies’ eyes and the ears of bats noted our names and numbers, and checked our identities against further scrolls. We were ushered through, and presently came out on an area of rough ground on the edge of the hill, with the city shimmering below.
    Not far away six other spirits stood waiting in a line.
    My recent assignments having all been solitary ones, it was the first time I’d seen my fellow offending djinn together, and I scrutinized them closely.
    ‘As revolting a group of ne’er-do-wells as have ever been assembled,’ Faquarl remarked, ‘and that was before you arrived. Not just hideous, either. Each and every one of us has killed or maimed his previous master – or, in the case of Chosroes, roundly insulted her with the harshest possible language. We are a grim and dangerous company.’
    Some of the spirits, like Faquarl, I’d known and disliked for years; others were new to me. All had adopted human guises on the first plane, their bodies in more or less correct proportions. Most had muscular torsos and sculpted limbs, though none quite as sculpted as mine; one or two had chosen bandy legs and plump, protruding bellies. All were dressed in the simple, rough-spun skirts of the typical male slave.
    As we drew close, however, I noticed that even here each of the renegade djinn had subtly undermined his human shape by adding a small demonic detail. Some had horns peeping through their hair; others had tails, large pointed ears or cloven hooves. The insubordination was risky, but