The Ring of Solomon

shadows. I could hear the girl’s breathing at my ear; her feet made not the slightest sound.
    I drew up short, and was instantly knocked into from behind.
    ‘Ow! Watch it!’
    ‘You said “follow me closely”.’
    ‘What, are you a comedy farm-hand? You’re meant to be an assassin.’
    ‘I’m not an assassin, I’m a hereditary guard.’
    ‘A hereditary idiot more like. Get behind this; I think something’s coming.’
    We ducked behind the nearest plinth, pressed close into its shadows. The girl was frowning; she sensed nothing, but I felt the reverberations on the planes.
    They trembled with sudden violence. Something entered the hall at the far end.
    Which was the self-same moment the benighted girl chose to try to speak. I clamped a hand across her mouth, made ferocious signs enjoining silence. We shrank back against the stone.
    For several painful heartbeats nothing happened. The girl was fretful; she wriggled a bit under my heavy hand. Without speaking, I pointed upwards at the tiled wall, where a vast silhouette was slowly passing, a thing of monstrous mass and bulbous shape, with swaying limbs and twitching threads of matter trailing in its wake … The girl grew still then – even rigid; I could have propped her like a broom against the wall. We stayed motionless as the visitation passed. At last it was gone; and at no time had there been a single noise.
    ‘What was it?’ the girl hissed when I released her.
    ‘From the way the planes bent,’ I said, ‘I’d guess a marid. Khaba’s servant is one of those. They’re usually pretty rare, but that’s what happens when you have the Ring of Solomon kicking about: even higher entities become two-a-shekel. 4 Aren’t you glad I didn’t let you speak just then?’
    The girl shivered. ‘I’m just glad I didn’t actually see the thing straight on.’
    ‘Oh, if you’d seen it,’ I said, ‘you’d have thought it was just a cute little blue-eyed slave boy toddling up the hall. You’d still have been chortling at its curly locks and little chubby chin when its spear-tail got you through the throat. Well, this is no time for pleasant daydreaming. We’d better get— Hold on …’
    From a side arch, midway along the hall, a node of light was drifting. A diminutive figure in white robes walked beneath it, limping slightly. And hanging like a formless cloud above his shoulder—
    ‘Get back!’ I thrust us both behind the plinth again.
    ‘What now?’ the girl hissed. ‘I thought this was meant to be a quiet shortcut.’
    ‘It normally is. It’s like Thebes marketplace tonight. This is Solomon’s vizier.’
    ‘Hiram?’ She frowned. ‘He’s got a mouse—’
    ‘It’s not a mouse on the higher planes, believe you me. With that perched on him, it’s no surprise he’s got a limp. Stay very still.’
    Unlike the marid, Hiram’s footsteps were loud enough to hear, and to begin with they appeared to be moving off in a satisfactory manner. Then, all at once, I heard the mouse squeak warily and the footsteps stop. There was a soft, wet sound and, a moment later, the smell of rotten eggs drifting down the hall.
    I knew what that meant. The foliot Gezeri.
    ‘Well?’ Hiram’s voice was clear; he must have been standing twenty paces from where we hid. ‘What do you want, creature?’
    ‘A quick chat, O great Hiram,’ Gezeri said, his tone somehow completely subverting the respectful nature of the words. ‘My master, magnificent Khaba, has lately been a little indisposed.’
    ‘I saw him at dinner.’ Hiram’s distaste was clear. ‘He was drunk.’
    ‘Yeah, well, he’s come round now, and he’s lost something. Small bottle. Mislaid it, can’t find it. Maybe rolled off the table, maybe been cleared away with the other scraps. We’ve had a look about, can’t set eyes on it. Very mysterious.’
    Hiram snorted. ‘His gift to Solomon? That’s of no consequence to me. I should have thought you would have kept an eye on it, being his slave; you, or that vile shadow of his.’
    ‘Ah no, we were in his tower, clearing up a mess that— Oh, it’s not important. Listen’ – Gezeri spoke nonchalantly; I could imagine him sitting in his cloud, twirling his tail in a casual paw – ‘you ain’t seen that Arabian girl about, have you?’
    ‘The priestess Cyrine? She will have gone to her room.’
    ‘Yeah. Which room is that, if you don’t mind telling? See, Khaba’s wondering—’
    ‘Actually, I do mind.’ Hiram’s footsteps