The Eye of Zoltar

The doors closed behind me and I looked around. Log fires crackled in hearths the size of beds at both ends of the room, and instead of courtiers, military men and advisers milling about, there were maids, servants and other domestic staff. This wasn’t so much Business at Court, but home life. The King’s spectacularly beautiful wife Mimosa was present, as were their Royal Spoiltnesses, Prince Steve and Princess Shazine. The Princess was engaged in studies but because she was so utterly spoilt, she had a university lecturer to do her schoolwork for her.

The whole scene looked suspiciously relaxed and informal. The King, I think, wanted me to see his softer side.

‘Ah!’ said the King as he spotted me. ‘Approach, subject!’

King Snodd was neither tall nor good looking nor had any obvious attributes that might make him even the tiniest bit likable. Of the many awards he’d won at the annual unUnited Kingdom Despot Awards, the high points were: ‘Most Hated Tyrant’ (twice), ‘Most Corrupt King of a medium-sized Kingdom’ (once), ‘Best original act of despotism adapted from an otherwise fair law’ (three times), ‘Worst Teeth’ (once) and ‘Despot most likely to be killed by an enraged mob with agricultural tools’. He was, in short, an ill-tempered, conniving little weasel with a mind obsessed only with military conquests and cash. But weasel notwithstanding, he was the King, and today seemed to be in a good mood.

I approached and bowed low, and he permitted me to kiss his large gold signet ring.

‘Your Majesty,’ I said with all due solemnity.

‘Greetings, Miss Strange,’ he said cheerfully, spreading an arm wide to indicate the hall. ‘Welcome to our little oasis of domestic normality.’

Normality was not a word I’d choose. I didn’t know anyone whose food taster had a food taster, nor anyone who had made mice illegal, taxed nose hairs or changed their curtains hourly ‘so as not to afford good hiding places for assassins’.

‘And an apology may be due for that regrettable incident two weeks ago,’ he added, ‘when it might have appeared that I used the power of the state to attempt to win the magic contest.’

‘Water under the bridge,’ I said diplomatically.

‘Your forgiving air does you credit,’ came a melodious voice close at hand. It was Queen Mimosa, who was as elegant a figure as I had seen anywhere. She held herself with poise and quiet dignity, and whenever she moved it was as though she were walking on silk.

‘Your Majesty,’ I said, bowing again.

The King and the Queen could not have been more different. The sole reason the Kingdom of Snodd enjoyed a better-than-normal reputation these days was Queen Mimosa’s guiding hand. Popular rumour said she agreed to marry the King and bear his children in order to give a better life to his subjects, and if true, this would be a very noble sacrifice indeed. Before marriage she had been just plain Mimosa Jones, a medium-ranked sorceress in her own right, and it was rumoured that the Queen was a Troll War orphan herself, which might explain the large amount of charity work she did on their behalf.

‘Now then,’ said the King, eager to get down to business as he had, apparently, an execution to witness at midday, and didn’t want them to start without him, ‘since you and the rest of those irritatingly disobedient enchanters have the odd notion that magic should be for the good of many, I am having to come to terms with the fact that my relationship with sorcerers cannot be as one-sided as I might wish. Wife? Translate.’

‘He means,’ said Queen Mimosa, ‘that he knows he can’t boss you around.’

‘Exactly,’ said the King, ‘but there is a matter of extreme delicacy that we need to speak about.’

He turned to where his daughter the Princess was waiting for her homework to be done for her.

‘Peaches, would you come over here, please?’

‘What, now?’ she asked, rolling her eyes.

‘If it’s not too much trouble, sweetness.’

The Princess walked over in a sultry manner. I was the same age as her, but we could not have had more different upbringings. While I spent my first twelve years eating gruel and sharing a dormitory with sixty other girls, Princess Shazine had been indulged in every possible way. She wore clothes cut from the very finest cloth, bathed in rainwater imported at huge expense from Bali, and had her food prepared by Michelin-starred chefs. In short, her every whim satisfied in the most expensive way possible. But while extremely obnoxious she was undeniably very pretty with glossy raven-black hair, fine features and large, inquisitive eyes. Although I’d never met her, she was very familiar. She could barely catch a cold or be seen with an inappropriate prince without it becoming front-page news.

‘Yes?’ said the Princess in a pouty kind of voice, arms folded.

‘This is Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Shazine Blossom Hadridd Snodd,’ announced the King, ‘heiress to the Kingdom of Snodd.’