The Eye of Zoltar

Angel Traps

Prince Nasil was already up when I walked into the converted dining room we used as the ‘nerve centre’ of Kazam. It was here that the the day’s work was arranged, and where all sorcery-related meetings took place. It had been two weeks since the Tralfamosaur escapade, and the company had returned to what we called normality.

‘Hello, Jennifer,’ said Prince Nasil cheerily. ‘Any news of Boo?’

‘Nothing yet,’ I replied, ‘but we know she got there as she released a homing snail once landed, which told us she and the Tralfamosaur were safe in the Cambrian Empire.’

‘If my carpet hadn’t been damaged so much on that trip up to the Troll wall,’ said the Prince wistfully, ‘I might have been able to help.’

He was referring to a recent high-speed flight to Trollvania. The trip had further damaged an already worn-out magic carpet, and the Prince needed it rebuilt if he were to resume any sort of aerial work.

‘Look at that,’ said the Prince, holding up a tatty and threadbare excuse for a rug, ‘already ten thousand hours and two centuries past rebuild.’

‘What can we do?’ I asked.

‘We need more angel’s feathers,’ he announced, in much the same way as you might ask for an oil change on a car.

‘O-kay,’ I replied as angel’s feathers were, by their very definition, somewhat tricky to obtain, ‘and where would we find angels?’

‘Oh, they’re everywhere,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘keeping an eye on stuff. But they’re fleet of wing and catching them is the devil’s own job. Here.’

He handed me a wire-mesh box that had a hinged flap on a tensioned spring.

‘An angel trap,’ he said without a shred of shame. ‘Baited with marshmallows, it’s possible we might be able to catch one.’

I looked at the trap dubiously as Tiger walked in. The Prince handed him an angel trap too, explained what it was and that the first person to trap an angel won a Mars bar.

‘Should we be trapping angels?’ asked Tiger, who, despite being not that old, knew right from wrong. ‘I mean, is that ethical?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ replied the Prince cheerfully, ‘but it’s a lot better than running intensive angel farms like they used to in the old days – that was the real reason behind the dissolution of the monasteries.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Not many people do.’

‘Where’s the best place to leave an angel trap?’ asked Tiger as soon as the Prince had gone.

‘Angels are everywhere,’ I said, ‘but usually only intervene during times of adversity.’

‘You should have had one of these when you were chased by the Tralfamosaur,’ said Tiger, and I nodded in agreement.

‘Have you seen this?’ asked Wizard Moobin as he walked into the offices holding a newspaper. ‘The unUnited Kingdoms are gearing up for Troll War V. The foundries have been working overtime – the orphan workforce are receiving extra gruel allowances.’

Moobin was referring to the Kingdom’s main source of income, which was manufacturing landships, primarily to fight the Trolls.

‘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.