The Eye of Zoltar (7 page)

‘If she wants to go out with someone named Geoff when she’s sixteen,’ he said as the first mother stared at him anxiously, ‘try to get her to go out with Nigel instead.’

‘There’s a problem with Geoff?’

‘No, there’s a problem with Nigel. Ban Geoff from her life and he’ll become unbelievably attractive and she’ll forget all about Nigel, and believe me, she needs to. Nigel is big trouble.’

‘How big?’

‘
Really
big.’

‘Okay. Anything else?’

‘Not really – although you might consider joining the National Trust and holidaying in Wales. It’s quite nice, I’m told, and not always raining.’

‘Oh. Well, thank you very much,’ said the mother. She handed Kevin a ten-moolah note and moved off. The second mother presented her baby to Kevin, who once again held the baby’s foot. He closed his eyes and rocked slowly in his chair for a moment.

‘This is preposterous,’ said the Princess. ‘I’ve never seen a more ridiculous load of mumbo-jumbo in my entire life!’

‘You’re young yet,’ I said, ‘lots of time to see some gold-standard mumbo-jumbo, and quite frankly, this is the place to see it.’

‘Concert pianist,’ Kevin murmured thoughtfully, still holding the baby’s foot, ‘and make sure he likes boiled cabbage, tasteless stew and runny porridge.’

‘He’ll be a pianist?’ asked the mother excitedly.

‘No, he’s going to murder one – aged twenty-six – so better get him used to prison food from an early age … hence the boiled cabbage.’

The mother glared at him, slapped the money on the table, and left the room. Kevin looked confused.

‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘Perhaps you should temper the bad news with good,’ I suggested.

‘I couldn’t tell them the
really
bad news,’ he replied. ‘The “concert pianist” thing was their
minority
timeline; their
senior
timeline – the most likely one – has them both not lasting the week. Oh, before I forget: this came in today.’

He handed me a letter. It was postmarked from Cambrianopolis, the capital city of the Cambrian Empire, and looked official.

‘Oh dear,’ I said as I read the letter. ‘Once Magnificent Boo’s been arrested for “illegal importation of a Tralfamosaur”.’

‘That’s a trumped-up charge,’ said Tiger. ‘The Cambrian Empire has herds and herds of the things – people pay good money to hunt them, for goodness’ sake.’

‘There’s a reason,’ I added. ‘She’s been transferred to Emperor Tharv’s State-Owned Ransom Clearance House, ready for negotiations.’

‘The Cambrian Empire are
still
kidnapping people?’ said Tiger. ‘When are they going to enter the twenty-first century?’

‘I think they have to consider entering the fifteenth century first,’ said Kevin.

Traditionally, it was princes and kings and knights and stuff that were ransomed as you could get a lot for them, but pretty much anyone was fair game in the Cambrian Empire. If you weren’t royal, the release fees could actually be fairly modest – some people cost less to release than a parking clamp, which is kind of depressing and very welcome, both at the same time. But the long and short of it was that if we wanted Boo back, we would have to pay. And that would mean going over there with a letter of credit and doing a deal of some sort.

‘I spoke to Moobin and he’s writing you out a note that will be good for twenty thousand. I think he wants you to nip over there and negotiate.’

Cambrianopolis was less than a couple of hours’ driving from here, but I didn’t relish the idea, even with a ‘Safe Conduct’ voucher attached to the letter.

‘Why me?’ I asked.

‘Because you’re about the most sensible person in the building. Who’s that?’

He had noticed the Princess for the first time.

‘This is Laura Scrubb. She’ll be with us for a week or two.’

I nodded to the Princess, who reluctantly shook hands with Kevin, then made a point of smelling her hand with obvious distaste before wiping it on her uniform.

‘She’s the Princess, isn’t she?’ said Kevin with interest, peering more closely at what might appear, at first glance, to be an undernourished handmaiden.

‘I’m afraid so,’ I replied, ‘but keep it under your hat. If she’s kidnapped by agents of a foreign power we’ll have to waste a lot of time and energy getting her back.’

‘Probably do her the power of good,’ said Kevin, ‘and knock some sense into her thick overprivileged head.’

‘You are
so
disrespectful,’ announced the Princess haughtily, getting out her list and pencil again. ‘Name?’

‘Kevin Spartacus.’

‘Related to this nitwit here?’ she said, pointing at Tiger. ‘That figures, and I don’t know who to pity more.’

She scribbled the name he’d given her on the piece of paper while Kevin peered at her as one might gaze at a particularly intriguing variety of beetle. I was suddenly worried – I’d seen that look before. He was seeing something, or he had
seen
something. Something in the future, and something about the Princess.

‘This is very interesting,’ he said at length. ‘Yes, very interesting indeed.
Definitely
keep her identity a secret.’

And so saying, he prodded the Princess with a bony finger and said: ‘Fascinating.’

‘I’m not here to be studied,’ said the Princess. ‘I am here to study
you
.’

‘You will almost die several times in the next week,’ said Kevin Zipp thoughtfully, ‘but will be saved by people who do not like you, nor are like you, nor that you like.’

‘That’ll be you lot, then,’ said the Princess, looking at Tiger and me.

‘It might help if you were to invest in a bit of warmth,’ said Kevin.

‘If you have foreseen I am to be saved then it doesn’t much matter what I do, now, does it?’

‘I only foresee a version of the future,’ said Kevin, ‘how it unfolds is up to you. Despite what I can see, we are all of us, in some way or another, responsible for our own destinies.’

The Princess didn’t make any retort to this, and instead asked where the lavatory was. I told her and she stomped off.

‘Was that true?’ asked Tiger. ‘The near-death thing, I mean?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Kevin with a shrug, ‘she’ll come within a hair’s breadth of death – may even meet it. It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest. But I’ll tell you this: the Princess will be involved in the next Troll War, which will be when least expected. It will be bloody, short – and the aggressors will be victorious.’

‘We will?’ I asked in surprise, for in the past the Troll Wars had been noted only for the swift manner in which humans had been utterly defeated.

‘Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Then again,’ he added cheerfully, ‘I’ve been wrong before. And don’t forget that what I see is only a
possible
version of events – and sometimes a knotted jumble of potential futures all seen as one.’

This, unfortunately, was true. Fate is never precisely determined. The strange thing is that
all
of us are clairvoyant. Any future you can dream up, no matter how bizarre, still retains the faint possibility of coming true. Kevin’s skill was of dreaming up future events that were not just
possible
but
likely
. As he once said: ‘Being a clairvoyant is ten per cent guesswork and ninety per cent probability mathematics.’

‘So,’ said Kevin, ‘aside from princesses looking like handmaidens, what news?’

‘Lots. I’m looking for something called the Eye of Zoltar. Heard of it?’

‘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:

‘You don’t need me to drive you home, Princess. You know where the door is and you can walk out of it any time you want – but I’d like you to appreciate that Laura Scrubb, the orphan with whom you are not even worthy to share skin disorders, cannot walk out of a door to anywhere until she’s eighteen, and even then it’s to a life of grinding poverty, disappointment, back-breaking toil and an early death, if she’s lucky.’

The Princess was silent for a moment, then pulled up a sleeve and looked at Laura’s rash.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m staying. But only because I choose to do so for educational reasons, and not because any of your words meant anything to me, which they didn’t.’

‘Good,’ I said, ‘and you’ll
choose
to do what I tell you rather than endlessly complaining and putting people on your list?’

The Princess shrugged.

‘I might
choose
to do that, yes.’

I stared at her and she lowered her eyes, took the list out of her pocket and tore it into tiny pieces.

‘Pointless anyway,’ she grumbled, ‘what with everyone called Spartacus.’

And she chuckled at the joke. It showed she had a sense of humour. Perhaps she might become bearable, given time.

‘Okay, then,’ I said, ‘let’s get you into some clean clothes and out of that terrible maid’s outfit.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, with a resigned sigh, ‘I’d like that.’

I led her up to my bedroom, found some clothes about the right size and told her not to come down until she had showered and washed her hair.

She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse uselessly until I helped her.

‘Hell’s teeth, Princess, did you not do
anything
for yourself at the palace?’