The Eye of Zoltar Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    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