The Ring of Solomon

right for some ,’ the dour man said. ‘But I don’t hold with waiting. There’s famine coming in the Hittite lands, and we need help now. Why he can’t just send out his demons to help all of us straight off, rather than this bloody hanging about, I’ll never know. Enjoying himself too much up there, I reckon.’
    ‘Wives,’ said the first man.
    ‘He’ll get to us in time,’ the woman said. Her bright eyes sparkled. ‘I can’t wait to see him.’
    ‘Have you not even seen Solomon?’ Asmira cried. ‘Not in five whole weeks?’
    ‘Oh no, he never comes down here. He’s up in his apartments across the gardens. But next council day I’ll see him, sure enough. You get to stand before him, so I’m told, but then he’s up on a throne, of course, top of some steps, so it’s not exactly close , but even so …’
    ‘How many steps?’ Asmira said. She could throw a dagger forty feet with perfect accuracy.
    ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. You’ll see soon enough, dear. In a month or two.’
    Asmira sat back from the conversation after this, a smile carefully maintained upon her face and a dull-edged stab of panic prodding in her gut. She did not have two months. She did not have one. She had two days to gain access to the king. Yes, she was in the palace, but that meant little, if she was expected to sit around with these fools, waiting. She shook her head as she regarded them, still busily discussing their hopes and needs. How blind they were! How fixated on their own small purpose! Solomon’s wickedness was invisible to them.
    She stared angrily about the crowded hall. Clearly the king did not rely purely on terror to maintain his rule, but laced it with charitable deeds so that some good would be spoken of his name. All very fine, but the upshot for her was that he was out of reach. And that was only the half of it. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to gain access to his very next council, it didn’t sound as if she would be allowed to approach the king at all. That wasn’t good enough. She needed to be so close that neither he, nor his demons, had time to act. Without that, her chances of success were small indeed.
    She needed to find another way.
    The voices of the nearby diners stilled; their hands hovered above their plates.
    Asmira’s skin prickled; she sensed a presence at her back.
    Grey fingers brushed against her sleeve, wine fumes plumed about her neck.
    ‘And what,’ the magician Khaba said, ‘are you doing sitting here ?’
    He wore an elegant tunic of black and grey and a short grey cape. His face was flushed with wine. When he held out his hand to her, she noticed how long his nails were.
    Asmira attempted a smile. ‘The vizier, Hiram, said I should—’
    ‘The vizier is a fool and should be hung. I have been waiting for you at high table this last half-hour! Up with you, Cyrine! No, leave your cup – you’ll get another. You shall sit with the magicians now, not among this rabble.’
    The people all about her stared. ‘Someone’s got friends in high places,’ a woman said.
    Asmira rose, waved farewell, followed the magician through the ranks of tables to a raised platform. Here, at a marbled table piled high with delicacies, and attended by several hovering djinn, sat a number of richly apparelled men and women, who stared at her blankly. All carried about them the casual assurance that came with power; one or two had small animals sitting on their shoulders. At the far end sat Hiram; he, like Khaba, and most of the other magicians, had already consumed a good deal of wine.
    ‘These are the Seventeen,’ Khaba said. ‘Or what’s left of them, Ezekiel being dead. Here, take a seat by me, and we shall talk some more, get to know each other better.’
    Hiram’s eyes widened over the rim of his cup at the sight of Asmira, and his green-eyed mouse wrinkled its nose in distaste. ‘What’s this, Khaba? What’s this?’
    A sharp-featured woman with long braided hair frowned: ‘That is Reuben’s chair!’
    ‘Poor Reuben has the marsh fever,’ Khaba said. ‘He stays in his tower, swears he’s dying.’
    ‘Small loss if he is,’ a little, round-faced man grunted. ‘Never pulls his weight. So, Khaba – who’s this girl?’
    ‘Her name,’ Khaba said, taking his cup of wine and pouring another for Asmira, ‘is Cyrine. She is a priestess of … I do not recall the exact location. I saved her on the desert road today.’
    ‘Ah, yes. I heard,’ another