The Eye of Zoltar

‘I can’t think there’s much appetite for another Troll War,’ added Moobin. ‘Most nations in the unUnited Kingdoms are still bankrupt from the last one. The only ones who really benefit are King Snodd and the weapons manufacturers.’

We all fell silent for a moment, contemplating a potential Troll War V. This, I knew with sadness, would produce only three things: profit for the King, more orphans – and Troll War VI.

‘Speaking of kings,’ I said, ‘I have an audience with His Majesty at eleven.’

‘Any idea what he wants to see you about?’ asked Moobin. ‘If he wanted to have us executed for losing the Tralfamosaur, he would already have done so.’

‘I think he blames Boo for that. Besides, given our recent triumph, even he would think twice about any monkey business.’

The ‘recent triumph’ in question was the appointment to the Royal Advisory Position known as Court Mystician, a job the King wanted to award to a corrupt sorcerer named Blix, in order that the King could more easily exploit the power of magic. We had fought and won a magic competition over it, with Blix’s House of Enchantment now absorbed into ours. Blix himself was currently transformed to granite, which was bad for him but good for Hereford museum, which had him as their chief exhibit.

‘Even so,’ said Moobin, ‘be careful of the King. Ah! Customers!’

The bell had just sounded in our consulting room, and we got to work. The morning was spent discussing jobs from potential clients who had heard about our triumph in the magic competition, and were waking up to the idea that home improvements could be done by magic. We discussed realigning houses to face the sun better, and having entire trees moved. We agreed to find some lost keys, animals and grannies, and then, inevitably, had to turn down the usual half-dozen who wanted us to do what we couldn’t do: make people fall in love, bring someone back from the dead and, on one occasion, both.

The most interesting client was a man who proposed that we send him into orbit within a steel ball, from there ‘to watch the sunset upon the earth, and muse upon immortality’ until his air ran out. It was a ridiculous idea, of course, but luckily ‘ridiculous’ was never a word treated with much scorn at Kazam – most of magic was far, far beyond ridiculous. Magnetic worms, for instance, or removing the moles from Toledo, or giving memory to coiled cables on telephones, or echoes, or bicycles staying upright – or most strangely, the once serious proposition to magic a third ear on to the Earth’s four billion rabbits to ‘lessen pain when lifting’.

‘Right,’ I said, checking my watch as soon as we had told our low-earth orbit client to return with a doctor’s note that declared him sane, ‘time for a trip to the palace.’

I’d had to find another car the morning after my Volkswagen floated away. Luckily, there were many forgotten cars lying dormant under dust sheets in the basement of Zambini Towers. After looking at several I’d chosen a massive vintage car called a Bugatti Royale. Inside it was sumptuously comfortable, and outside, the bonnet was so long that in misty weather it was hard to make out the radiator ornament. I chose it partly because it started pretty much first time, partly because it looked nice, but mostly because it was the biggest.

The Royale, however, had one major drawback: the steering, which was unbelievably heavy. Lady Mawgon dealt with the problem by spelling me a simple Helping Hand^™, which looks more or less like a severed hand but can do all manner of useful hand-related work such as kneading bread, copying letters or even taking the Quarkbeast for a walk. Although helpful, having a disembodied hand on the Bugatti’s steering wheel was admittedly a bit creepy, especially as this one was hairy and had ‘No More Pies’ tattooed on the back.

I took Tiger and the Quarkbeast, and ten minutes later was weaving through Hereford’s mid-morning traffic.

Audience with the King

The castle at Snodd Hill was outside the Kingdom’s capital, not far from where the nation shared a long border with the Duchy of Brecon, and a short one with the Cambrian Empire. The sun had enveloped the castle with its warm embrace, which was fortunate, as it made the dark, stone-built structure less dreary than was usual. The ‘Medieval Chic’ fashion was still very much the rage, which is okay if you don’t mind lots of weather-beaten stone, mud, funny smells, poor sanitation and lots of beggars dressed in blankets.

I left the car in the reserved Court Mystician parking place with Tiger and the Quarkbeast settling down to a game of chess, then trotted past an ornate front entrance guarded by two sentries who were holding halberds that were polished to a high sheen. I gave my name to a nearby footman, who looked at me disparagingly, consulted a large ledger, sniffed, and then led me down a corridor to a pair of large double doors. He rapped twice, the doors opened and he indicated I should enter.