The Ring of Solomon

get back to work on … whatever it is you’re doing …’ My voice kind of drifted off at this point. I didn’t like the gleam in those big, pale eyes.
    He was doing that thin-lipped-smile thing too, leaning forward, nails gripping the lectern as if he wished to cut the ivory through. ‘Bartimaeus of Uruk,’ he said softly, ‘you can scarcely imagine that after all the ceaseless trouble you have caused me, after setting King Solomon himself against me so that I was cast out into the desert, after assaulting poor Gezeri in the quarry, after your endless litany of disobedience and cheek – you can scarcely imagine that, after all that , I should be disposed to simply let you go.’
    Put like that, I suppose it would have been a bit surprising. ‘But the bandits,’ I began. ‘It was thanks to me that—’
    ‘Without you,’ the magician said, ‘they would not have been my concern at all.’
    This was admittedly true. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘but what about the priestess? You just said that—’
    ‘Ah, yes, the charming Cyrine,’ Khaba smiled, ‘who fondly believes that a simple girl from some savage backwater can waltz straight in to talk with Solomon. Tonight she will share a banquet in my company and be beguiled by the wonders of the palace; tomorrow, perhaps, if Solomon is busy and has no time to spare, I might persuade her to take a walk with me. Perhaps she will come here. Perhaps she will forget her diplomatic mission. Who can tell? And yes, slave, I promised her that you would leave my service, and so you shall. But in recompense for the injuries you have done me, you will do me one last favour in return.’
    His hand rummaged in his robes, drew forth something white and shining, and held it up to show me. It was a bottle. A short, roundish bottle, perhaps the size of a child’s fist. It was made of thick clear crystal, bright and shiny and multi-faceted, and was lightly studded with glass flowers.
    ‘Like it?’ the magician said. ‘Egyptian rock crystal. I found it in a tomb.’
    I considered it. ‘Those flowers are a bit kitsch.’
    ‘Mmm. Styles in the third dynasty were a little basic,’ Khaba agreed. ‘Still, don’t worry yourself, Bartimaeus. You won’t have to look at them, because you’re going to be on the inside . This bottle,’ he said, angling it so the facets flashed, ‘will be your home.’
    My essence recoiled. The tiny round opening of the bottle’s mouth gaped blackly like an open grave. I cleared my throat painfully. ‘It’s a bit small …’
    ‘The spell of Indefinite Confinement,’ Khaba said, ‘is a procedure in which I have taken great interest. As you will doubtless know, Bartimaeus, it is in effect a Dismissal, but one that forces the demon into some physical prison instead of allowing it back to its own dimension. These cages here’ – he gestured behind him at the glowing monstrosities stacked beyond the pillars – ‘are filled with past servants I have “dismissed” in just this way. I would do the same with you, but this bottle will be more useful. When you are sealed in, I will present you to King Solomon as a gift, a token of my loyalty, a small addition to the curiosities of his collection. I shall call it, I think, “The Mighty Captive”, or some such twaddle. It will appeal to his primitive tastes. Perhaps, when his jugglers bore him, he will occasionally glance at your distorted features through the glass; perhaps he will simply store it with his other trinkets and never pick it up again.’ The magician shrugged. ‘But I think it might be a hundred years or more before someone breaks the seal and sets you free. Ample time in any case, as your essence slowly festers, for you to regret your wicked insolence to me.’
    My fury swelled; I took a step forward in my circle.
    ‘Come, come,’ Khaba said. ‘By the terms of your summoning you are prevented from harming me. And even if you were able, it would not be wise, little djinni. I am not unprotected, as perhaps you know.’
    He clicked his fingers. The sounds from the essence-cages went abruptly silent.
    At Khaba’s back his shadow shifted off the floor. Up it curled, like a furling scroll, high, high, taller than the magician, a paper-thin wisp of darkness without features of any kind. It rose until its flat black head brushed against the stone blocks of the ceiling, and the magician was like a doll beneath its shade. And now it spread its flat black arms, wide, wide, wide as