The Eye of Zoltar

‘Sure. It’s had Grade III legendary status for centuries.’

A Grade III legendary status meant that the Eye was ‘really not very likely at all’, which isn’t helpful, but better than Grade II: ‘No proof of existence’, and especially Grade I: ‘Proven non-existence’.

‘Grade III, eh?’ I said. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘So were unicorns at one time,’ said Kevin, ‘and the coelacanth. And we all know they exist.’

Kevin then frowned deeply, looked at me again, and a cloud of consternation crossed his face.

‘Who precisely wants you to look for the Eye of Zoltar?’

I told him about the meeting with the Mighty Shandar and the options regarding the refund, and Kevin thought for a moment.

‘I need to make some enquiries. Call a Sorcerers’ Conclave for an hour’s time.’

I told him I would, and he dashed off without another word.

‘Kevin’s seen something in the future,’ said Tiger, ‘and I don’t think he likes it.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I noticed it too. And when clairvoyants get nervous, so do I.’

The Princess came back in, holding a roll of loo paper.

‘Do I fold it or crumple it before I … you know?’

Tiger and I looked at one another.

‘Don’t give me your silent-pity claptrap,’ said the Princess crossly, ‘it is a huge sacrifice to live without servants, a burden that you pinheads know nothing about. What’s more, this body is covered with unsightly red rashes and I think I may be dying. My stomach has a sort of gnawing feeling inside.’

‘Have you had it long?’

‘Since I’ve been in this hideous body.’

‘You’re hungry,’ I said simply. ‘Never felt that before?’

‘Me, a princess? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You’re going to have to trust that body when it starts telling you things. Let me have a look at the rash. Growing up in an orphanage tends to make you an expert on skin complaints.’

She made what I can only describe as a ‘hurrumph’ noise and I led her off grumbling in the direction of the Ladies.

Fortunately for the Princess and for Laura Scrubb, the rash was not bad and likely the result of sleeping on damp hay. After instructing her – and not assisting her – on the loo-paper problem, I took her down to the Kazam kitchens and introduced her to our cook, who was known by everyone as Unstable Mabel, but not to her face.

‘Where did you find this poor wee bairn?’ said Mabel, ladling out a large portion of leftover stew and handing it to the Princess. ‘She looks as though she has been half starved and treated with uncommon brutality. From the palace, is she?’

‘That’s an outrageous slur against a fine employer,’ said the Princess, shovelling down the stew. ‘I’ll have you know that the Royal Family are warm and generous people who treat their servants with the greatest of respect and only rarely leave them out in the rain for fun.’

Unstable Mabel, whose insanity did not stretch so far for her to be totally without lucid moments, looked at me and arched her eyebrow.

‘She’s the Princess, isn’t she?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

The Princess stopped mid-gulp, her manners apparently forgotten in her hunger.

‘How does everyone know it’s me?’

‘Because,’ said Mabel, who was always direct in speech and manner, ‘you’re well known in the Kingdom as a spoilt, conniving, cruel, bullying little brat.’

‘Right,’ said the Princess, getting out her piece of paper, ‘you’re going on the list too. Everyone on it will be flogged due to the disrespectful manner in which I have been treated. Name?’

‘Mabel … Spartacus.’

The Princess started to write, then stopped as she realised the ongoing Spartacus gag was doubtless a leg-pull.

‘You’re only making it worse for yourself,’ she scolded. ‘I hate every single one of you and can’t wait for the moment when I leave.’

And she gave us both a pouty glare and folded her arms. Mabel turned to me.

‘Can I make a suggestion?’ she said.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Take her down to the orphan labour pool and have her allocated to sewer cleaning duties for twenty-four hours. She’ll have to live outside for a couple of days afterwards due to the stench that no amount of scrubbing will remove, but it might teach her some humility.’

‘I hate all of you,’ said the Princess. ‘I hate your lack of consideration, lack of compassion and the meagre respect you show your obvious betters. If you don’t take me home right now I will hold my breath until I turn blue, and then you’ll be sorry.’

I stared at her for a moment.

‘No need for that,’ I said with a sigh, taking my car keys from my pocket. ‘I’ll just apologise to the King and the Queen and tell them their daughter is beyond my help, and probably anyone else’s. You can live out your spoilt life without effort, secure in the depths of your own supreme ignorance, and die as you lived, without purpose, true fulfilment or any discernibly useful function.’

She opened her mouth but shut it again and said nothing. I carried on: