The Eye of Zoltar

Zambini Towers

Myself, Tiger and those forty-five sorcerers all lived in a large, eleven-storey, ornate former hotel named Zambini Towers. It was in a bad state of repair and even though we had some spare magic to restore it to glory, we decided we wouldn’t. There was a certain charm about the faded wallpaper, warped wood, missing windowpanes and leaky roof. Some argued that this added a certain something to the surroundings that made it peculiarly suitable for the Mystical Arts. Others argued that it was a fetid dump suitable only for demolition, and I kind of sat somewhere between the two.

When the call came in I was standing in the shabby, wood-panelled lobby of Zambini Towers.

‘There’s a Tralfamosaur loose somewhere between here and Ross,’ said Tiger, waving a report that had just been forwarded from the police. They’d taken the call but had passed it on to the zoo, who passed it on to Mountain Rescue, who passed it back to the police, who then passed it on to us when the zoo refused it a second time.

‘Anyone eaten?’ I asked.

‘All of two railway workers and part of a fisherman,’ said Tiger, who was only just twelve and, like me, a foundling. He was stuck here for four years and after that he could apply for citizenship, or earn it fighting in the next Troll War, which probably wouldn’t be far off. Troll Wars were like Batman movies: both are repeated at regular intervals, feature expensive hardware, and are broadly predictable. The difference being that during the Troll Wars, humans always lost – and badly. In Troll War IV eight years ago, sixty thousand troops were lost before General Snood had even finished giving the order to advance.

‘Three eaten already?’ I repeated. ‘We need to get Big T back to the zoo before he gets hungry again.’

‘How long will that be?’ asked Tiger, who was small in stature but big on questions.

I swiftly estimated how much calorific value there was in a railway worker, and matched that to what I knew of a Tralfamosaur’s metabolism with a rough guess at how much of the fisherman had been consumed, and came up with an answer.

‘Three hours,’ I said, ‘four, tops. Which sorcerers are on duty right now?’

Tiger consulted a clipboard.

‘Lady Mawgon and the Wizard Moobin,’ he replied.

‘I’ll help out,’ said Perkins, who was standing next to me. ‘I haven’t been terrified for – ooh – at least a couple of days.’

Perkins was Kazam’s youngest and newest graduate, having had a licence for less than a week. He was eighteen, so two years older than me, and while not that powerful magically, showed good promise – most sorcerers didn’t start doing any really useful magic until their thirties. More interestingly, Perkins and I had been about to have our first date when the call came in, but that was going to have to wait.

‘Okay,’ I said to Tiger, ‘fetch Mawgon and Moobin, and you should also call Once Magnificent Boo.’

‘Got it,’ said Tiger.

‘Take a rain check on that date?’ I said, turning to Perkins. ‘In the Magic Industry, it’s kind of “Spell First, Fun Second”.’

‘I kind of figured that,’ he replied, ‘so why don’t we make this assignment the date? Intimate candlelit dinners for two are wildly overrated. I could even bring some sandwiches and a Thermos of hot chocolate.’

‘Okay,’ I said, touching his hand, ‘you’re on. A sort of romantic uncandlelit “recapturing a dangerously savage beast for two” sort of date – but no dressing up and we split the cost.’

‘Game on. I’ll go and make some sandwiches and that Thermos.’

And with another chuckle, he left.

While I waited for the other sorcerers to arrive, I read what I could about Tralfamosaurs in the Codex Magicalis, which wasn’t much. The creature was created magically in the 1780s on the order of the Cambrian Empire’s 1st Emperor Tharv because he wanted ‘a challenging beast to hunt for sport’, a role it played with all due savagery. Even today, over two hundred years later, people still pay good money to try to hunt them, usually with fatal consequences for the hunter. Oddly, this made Tralfamosaur hunting more popular as it seemed citizens were becoming increasingly fond of danger in these modern, safety-conscious times. The Cambrian Empire was now making good money out of what it called ‘jeopardy tourism’ – holidays for those seeking life-threatening situations.

The first to arrive in the lobby was Wizard Moobin, who, unlike all the other sorcerers, was barely insane at all. Aside from his usual magical duties he also worked in magic research and development. Last month, Moobin’s team had been working on a spell for turning oneself momentarily to rubber to survive a fall, the use of instantaneous ‘turning to stone’ enchantments as a way of transporting badly damaged accident victims to surgery, and a method of reliable communication using snails. Aside from this he was good company, aged a little over forty, and was at least polite and gave me due respect for my efforts. Tiger and I liked him a great deal.

‘The Tralfamosaur escaped,’ I told him when he walked into the lobby, ‘when you and Patrick surged this afternoon during the bridge rebuilding. Two quarter-ton blocks of stone were catapulted into the sky.’

‘I wondered what happened to them,’ said Moobin thoughtfully.

‘One fell to earth harmlessly in an orchard near Belmont, and the other landed on the Ross-to-Hereford branch line, derailing a train that was transporting the Tralfamosaur to Woburn Safari Park as part of some sort of dangerous animal exchange deal.’

‘Ah,’ said Moobin, ‘so we’re kind of responsible for this, aren’t we?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I replied, ‘and it’s already eaten three people.’

‘Whoops,’ said Moobin.

‘Whoops nothing,’ said Lady Mawgon, who had arrived with Tiger close behind, ‘civilians have to take risks with the rest of us.’

Unlike Moobin, Lady Mawgon was not our favourite sorcerer, but was undeniably good at what she did. She was originally the official sorcerer to the Kingdom of Kent before the downturn of magical power, but her fall from that lofty status had made her frosty and ill tempered. She had recently entered her seventieth decade, scowled constantly, and had the unsettling habit of gliding everywhere rather than walking, as if beneath the folds of her large black dress she was wearing roller skates.

‘Even so,’ I said diplomatically, ‘it’s probably not a good idea to let the Tralfamosaur eat people.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Lady Mawgon. ‘What about Once Magnificent Boo?’

‘Already in hand,’ I replied, indicating where Tiger was speaking on the phone.

Once Magnificent Boo had, as her name suggested, once been magnificent. She could have been as powerful as the Mighty Shandar himself, but was now long retired and saddled with a dark personality that made Lady Mawgon seem almost sunny by comparison. The reason for this was simple: she had been robbed of her dazzling career in sorcery by the removal of her index fingers, the conduit of a sorcerer’s power. The fingers had remained hidden for over three decades until recently recovered by us, but even reunited with the dry bones, the only magic she could do was wayward and unfocused. These days she studied Quarkbeasts and was the world’s leading authority on Tralfamosaurs, which was the reason we needed her.

‘She’ll meet you there,’ said Tiger, replacing the receiver. ‘I’ll stay here and man the phones in case you need anything sent over.’

Once Perkins had returned with the sandwiches we trooped outside to my Volkswagen Beetle. There were arguably much better cars in the basement at Zambini Towers but the VW was of huge sentimental value: I was found wrapped in a blanket on the back seat outside the Ladies of the Lobster orphanage one windswept night many years before. There was a note stuffed under the windscreen wiper:

Please look after this poor dear child as her parents died in the Troll Wars.

PS: I think the engine may need some oil and the tyre pressures checked.

PPS: We think her name should be Jennifer.

PPPS: The child, not the car.

PPPPS: For her surname, choose something strange.

The car was kept – all items left with a foundling were, by Royal Decree – and was presented to me when the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster sold me to Kazam aged fourteen. After I’d checked the tyre pressures and added some oil it started first time, and I drove to my first job in my own car. If you think fourteen is too young to be driving, think again. The Kingdom of Snodd grants driving licences on the basis of responsibility, not age, something that can frustrate forty-something blokes no end when they fail their responsibility test for the umpteenth time.

‘Shotgun!’ yelled Lady Mawgon, and quickly plonked herself in the passenger seat. Everyone groaned. Being in the back of the Volkswagen meant sitting next to the Quarkbeast, a creature that was often described as a cross between a labrador and an open knife drawer, with a bit of velociraptor and scaly pangolin chucked in for good measure. Despite its terrifying appearance and an odd habit of eating metal, the Quarkbeast was a loyal and intelligent companion.

‘Right,’ I said as we moved off, ‘does anyone have a plan as to how we’re going to recapture the Tralfamosaur?’

There was silence.

‘How about this,’ I said. ‘We modify our plans with regard to ongoing facts as they become known to us, then remodify them as the situation unfolds.’

‘You mean make it all up as we go along?’ asked Perkins.

‘Right.’

‘It’s worked before,’ said Lady Mawgon.

‘Many times,’ replied Moobin.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast.