The Ring of Solomon

encouragingly. Over in the line of demons, the portly djinni took a few hesitant steps forward. Bartimaeus had frozen where he was, mid-supplication, eyes flicking from her to the magician and back again.
    For the first time Khaba’s own smile faltered; his hand stayed on his whip. ‘Released …? Dear Priestess, you are an innocent indeed! It is the nature of all slaves to perform such services. They cannot and should not expect freedom for every small success they have. Demons in particular must be treated with a heavy hand.’
    ‘But these djinn—’ Asmira said.
    ‘Believe me, they shall get their due reward!’
    ‘A reward which should surely be—’
    ‘Priestess’ – the thin smile had returned; it was wider than before – ‘dear Priestess, this is not the time or place. Let us discuss such things later, when we are at leisure at the palace. I promise I shall hear you out then. Will that satisfy you?’
    Asmira nodded. ‘Thank you. I am grateful.’
    ‘Good. Come then! Your transport awaits …’
    Khaba gestured with a long, pale arm; Asmira shouldered her leather bag and proceeded with him towards the waiting carpet, and the silent demons moved back to let them pass. Neither then, nor as the carpet ascended into the air, did she look back at Bartimaeus; indeed, in moments she had forgotten all about him.
    The distance to Jerusalem was forty miles, and would have taken the camel train a further day; Asmira and the magician covered the distance in little under an hour.
    The demon that transported them was out of sight beneath the carpet, though Asmira could hear the creaking of its wings and, sometimes, muttered swear-words. It kept a smooth and level course high above the darkening Earth, once or twice dropping awkwardly as it met a downdraught over some ridge of hills. On such occasions, the magician cracked the whip over the edge of the carpet, spurring the slave to better efforts with fizzing yellow bands of light.
    Some invisible protective shell encased the carpet, for the wind that howled around them in the darkness did not engulf them with full force, and the carpet’s central section was spared the ice that crystallized on the rearmost tassels. Even so, it was chill. Asmira sat with her bag upon her lap and the magician’s cloak around her shoulders, feeling the violent undulation of the frail cloth beneath, trying not to imagine the fall should the demon decide to shrug them off. The magician sat alongside her, naked to the waist, calm, cross-legged, staring ever forwards. Somewhat to her relief he did not look at her, nor attempt further conversation – this would have been impossible anyway, thanks to the roaring of the wind.
    Night fell during their time aloft. Far to the west Asmira saw the sun’s red tail staining the horizon, but the lands beneath were black below the stars. Far off gleamed the lights of settlements she could not have named; it seemed to Asmira that if she had stretched out a hand she might have easily cupped them and snuffed them out.
    And then at last Jerusalem was before her, clinging like an iridescent butterfly to the dark stem of its hill. Watch fires burned on the crenellated ribbon of the outer walls, green witch-lights in the towers strung upon its length. Within its loop spread a thousand smaller flames of humble homes and market stalls, and high atop the summit, presiding over all, the mighty palace of King Solomon blazed with light – as big and magnificent and invulnerable as all the stories said. Asmira felt her mouth going dry; in the secret warmth of her cloak, her hidden fingers touched the dagger at her belt.
    They descended steeply; a moment later there was a sudden beat of leather wings and a presence in the darkness beside them. Fires flared in a gaping throat, a guttural voice called out a challenge. Asmira’s skin crawled. Khaba scarcely looked up, but made a certain sign, and the watcher, satisfied, fell back into the night.
    Asmira shrank down further into her cloak, ignoring the sickly-sweet mortuary scent that clung to it. Truly was it said that the great king’s city was well protected – even in the air, even in the night. Queen Balkis, as in all things, had been quite right. An army could not have entered Jerusalem, nor yet an enemy magician.
    But she , Asmira, was doing precisely that. The Sun God was watching over her still. With his grace and blessing, she would survive a little longer to do what must be done.
    Her stomach