The Eye of Zoltar

The Princess seemed to see the sense in this.

‘She doesn’t have a name. We called her “poo-girl” if we called her anything at all.’

I told her to take the orphan ID card out of her top pocket.

‘Well, how about that,’ said the Princess, reading the card. ‘She does have a name after all, but it’s awful: Laura Scrubb, Royal Dog Mess Removal Operative Third Class, aged seventeen. Laura Scrubb? I can’t be called that!’

‘You are and you will be,’ I said, ‘and that’s the Quarkbeast.’

‘It’s hideous,’ said the Princess. ‘In fact, you all are. And why is there a disembodied hand attached to the steering wheel?’

‘It’s a Helping Hand^™,’ explained Tiger, ‘like power steering, only run by magic.’

‘Magic? How vulgar. I am so very glad I inherited no powers from my mother.’

I reversed the Royale out of the parking place and headed back towards town. The Princess, once past her fit of indignation at how hideously unsophisticated we all were, spent the time staring out of the window.

‘I’m not allowed past the castle walls,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a billboard advertising toothpaste.’

‘Doesn’t it come ready squeezed on to your toothbrush every morning and evening?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Really? So how does it get from the tube to the toothbrush?’

I didn’t have time to answer as a car had swerved in front of us. I stamped on the brakes and recognised it immediately: a six-wheeled Phantom Twelve Rolls-Royce, with paintwork so perfectly black you felt as though you could fall into it. There was only one person I knew who was driven around in the super-exclusive Phantom Twelve, and I was certain that this was not a chance encounter.

An impeccably dressed manservant in dark suit, white gloves and dark glasses climbed out of the Phantom Twelve, walked across and tapped on the window.

‘Miss Strange?’ he said. ‘My employer would like to discuss a matter that concerns you both.’

We were stuck in the middle of a roundabout.

‘What, here?’

‘No, miss. At Madley International Airport. Follow us, please.’

The Rolls-Royce pulled away and we followed. The car would contain Miss D’argento, an agent, like me. But she wasn’t any ordinary agent – she didn’t look after film stars, singers, writers or even sorcerers. She didn’t even look after careless kings who found themselves temporarily without a kingdom and needed a public relations boost. No, she was the agent for the most powerful wizard either living, dead or, in his case, otherwise: the Mighty Shandar.

The Mighty Shandar

The trip to the Kingdom’s international airport did not take long, but instead of going to the main departures terminal we were led into a large maintenance hangar that contained a Skybus 646 cargo aircraft which was emblazoned with Shandar’s logo – a footprint on fire. The rear of the cargo aircraft was open, and a large wooden crate was being unloaded by a forklift. I parked the Bugatti and watched as Miss D’argento alighted elegantly from the rear door, held open by the manservant.

The D’argentos were what was termed a ‘Dynastic Agency’ in that they had been looking after the business interests of the Mighty Shandar ever since his appearance as a featured ‘Sorcerer to Watch’ in the July 1572 edition of Popular Wizarding. As far as anyone can tell, there have been eleven D’argentos in the employ of the Mighty Shandar, and all but one female. Miss D’argento was perhaps a year or two older than me – about eighteen – and was dressed as perfectly elegantly as a socialite twice her age.

I climbed out of the car and waited for the forklift truck to deliver the crate in front of us. While this happened, I noticed several other henchmen dotted around the hangar. They were all dressed in black suits, dark hats, white gloves and large sunglasses. I peered at the one closest to us. There was no flesh in the small gap between where his glove ended and his shirt cuff began. It was an empty suit, animated by magic. Usually you can tell a drone by their mildly jerky and decidedly unhumanlike movements, but these ones were top class – at a distance you’d never know at all.

‘Notice anything odd about the henchmen?’ whispered Tiger.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘drones.’

‘Drones?’ asked the Princess.

‘Watch and listen,’ said Tiger.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Strange,’ said Miss D’argento in a cultivated voice, her high heels click-clicking on the concrete floor as she approached us, ‘congratulations on winning The Magic Contest. I reported it to the Mighty Shandar, who expressed admiration for your fortitude.’

I nodded towards the closest drone.

‘They move well for the non-living.’

‘Thank you,’ said D’argento. ‘Shandar does us all proud.’

‘And from purely professional interest,’ I added, ‘are you running them on an Ankh-XVII RUNIX core?’