The Ring of Solomon by Jonathan Stroud Page A

at an end. I crossed high above the Kidron Gate, above the teeming markets and bazaars, and finally swung low over the palace and its gardens. In these last few moments my burden felt particularly heavy, and it was fortunate for Solomon that he wasn’t at that moment promenading along his gravel walkways. If I’d seen him, I’d have been sorely tempted to zoom down and offload my cargo of ripe artichokes directly on his preening head, before chasing his wives into the fountains. But all was still. The phoenix continued sedately towards its appointed landing site: namely a scrappy compound at the back end of the palace, where sour smells rose from the slaughtering sheds, and the gates to the kitchens were always open.
    I descended swiftly, dropped my burden to the ground and alighted, taking the form of a handsome youth as I did so. 7
    A band of imps scampered forward, ready to carry my net towards the kitchen. Stalking alongside came a plump djinni overseer, long papyrus scrolls in 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