Free The Ring of Solomon by Jonathan Stroud

Faquarl. That incident was totally over-reported. There was no real harm done—’
    The bat-eared Chosroes gave a cry of indignation. ‘No harm? An inundation from Ur to Shuruppak, so that only the flat white rooftops protruded above the waters? It was like the world was drowned! And all because you , Bartimaeus, built a dam across the river for a bet!’
    ‘Well, I won the bet, didn’t I? Get things in perspective.’
    ‘At least he can build something, Chosroes.’
    ‘What? My building projects in Babylon were the talk of the town!’
    ‘Like that tower you never finished?’
    ‘Oh come now, Nimshik – that was down to problems with foreign workers.’
    My work was done. The argument was going nicely; all discipline and focus had vanished, and the magician was a satisfying shade of purple. All complacency had gone from the foliot Gezeri too, who was gawping like a trout.
    Khaba gave a cry of rage. ‘All of you! Be still.’
    But it was far too late. Our line had already disintegrated into a bickering melee of shaking fists and jabbing fingers. Tails whirled, horns flashed in the sun; one or two previously absent claws slyly materialized to reinforce their owners’ points.
    Now, I’ve known some masters to give up at this juncture, to throw their hands in the air and dismiss their slaves – if only temporarily – just to get a bit of peace. But the Egyptian was made of sterner stuff. He took a slow step backwards, his features twisted, and unhooked the essence-flail from his belt. Clasping it firmly by its handle and shouting out an incantation, he cracked it once, twice, three times above his head.
    From each of the whirling thongs emerged a jagged spear of yellow force. The spears stabbed out, impaled us all and snatched us burning into the sky.
    Up under the hot sun we swung, higher than the palace walls, suspended on yellow snags of burning light. Down below us the magician spun his arm in looping circles, high and low, faster and faster, while Gezeri hopped and capered in delight. Round we flew, limp and helpless, colliding sometimes with each other, sometimes with the ground. Showers of wounded essence trailed behind us, hung shimmering like oily bubbles in the desert air.
    The Gyration ceased, the essence-skewers were withdrawn. At last the magician lowered his arm. Eight broken objects fell heavily to Earth, our edges sloughing like pats of melting butter. We landed on our heads.
    The dust clouds slowly settled. Side by side we sat there, wedged into the ground like broken teeth or tilting statues. Several of us were gently steaming. Our heads were half buried in the dirt, our legs sagged in the air like wilting stems.
    Not far away, the heat haze shifted, broke, re-formed, and through its fractured strands the magician strode, his long black shadow flowing at his back. Wisps of yellow force still radiated from the flail, snapping faintly, slowly fading. On all the hill this was the only sound.
    I spat out a pebble. ‘I think he forgives us, Faquarl,’ I croaked. ‘Look, he’s smiling.’
    ‘Remember, Bartimaeus – we’re upside-down.’
    ‘Oh. Right.’
    Khaba came to a halt and stared down at us. ‘This,’ he said softly, ‘is what I do to slaves who disobey me once.’
    There was a silence. Even I didn’t have much to say.
    ‘Let me show you what I do to slaves who disobey me twice.’
    He held out his hand and spoke a word. A glimmering point of light, brighter than the sun, floated suddenly in the air above his palm. Soundlessly it expanded to become a luminous sphere, cupped by his hand but still not touching it – a sphere that darkened now, like water filled with blood.
    Within the sphere: an image, moving. A creature, slow, blind and in great pain, lost in a place of darkness.
    Silent, upside-down and sagging, we watched the lost, maimed thing. We watched it for a long time.
    ‘Do you recognize it?’ the magician said. ‘It is a spirit like you, or was so once. It too knew the