Jasper Fforde - The Song of the Quarkbeast

‘A rare moment of clarity from someone usually capable only of stupidities,’ remarked Lady Mawgon. ‘Our work here is done.’

She was right. We returned to the lay-by in silence and Lady Mawgon departed on her motorcycle without another word. I sighed. Earning one’s keep by magic was rarely plain sailing. For every simple job there are others, like this one. If the ring had a potential curse, then its return would definitely cause unpleasantness for Miss Shard or anyone associated with it. But then again, five grand would support our key function: the dignity and majesty of the wizidrical arts. But then again, where was the dignity in just finding lost stuff and doing loft conversions? And as Lady Mawgon had said: it’s none of our business.

I walked up to where the Rolls-Royce was still parked, the gold ring in the palm of my hand. I tapped on the tinted window, which lowered with a hum.

‘Did the finding exercise meet with a modicum of positive fortitude?’ asked Miss Shard.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Did you find it?’

I paused for a moment, and held the ring tightly in my fist.

‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, returning the other ring, the one she had lent us. ‘Please offer our apologies to your client. We did all we could.’

‘No hints at all as to where it might be?’ she asked, mildly surprised.

‘None at all,’ I replied. ‘It’s been over thirty years, after all.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Shard, ‘I’m grateful to you nonetheless. Perhaps my client will look for it personally when he returns.’

And after she had bade me good day, the Rolls-Royce purred out of the rest area, rejoined the morning traffic and headed off. I watched the car go with an odd feeling of foreboding. About what, I wasn’t sure. I popped the ring back in the pot, and wedged my handkerchief in as a stopper.

As we drove back into town without the five grand, I considered my action over the ring. I had done the right thing. The power we had was power abused if we didn’t accept responsibility for any adverse outcomes, and spell-curses damaged our already poor standing. I smiled to myself. I think it’s what the Great Zambini would have done.

All in all, it had been quite a morning.

I parked the car in the yard at the back of Zambini Towers and after telling Tiger to go and have a shower to remove the stinking well-mud, I made my way through the building. In more glory-scented days Zambini Towers had been the Majestic Hotel, one of only four hotels to ever host the coveted ‘Despot of the Decade’ award ceremony and was featured in What Hotel? as ‘the most luxurious hotel to be found in the lesser Kingdoms’, where, it noted, ‘food poisoning was likely, but by no means a certainty’.

That was then.

Today, the Majestic was a shabby relic far removed from its former glory. The ballroom, where once B-list princes wooed their consorts to the dulcet tones of string quartets, was now a dining room that smelled strongly of burnt toast and damp, and the presidential suite, long ago the playground for an exotic array of noblemen, was these days the dwelling place of the Mysterious X, who was less of a who, and more of a what – with peculiar and borderline disgusting personal habits.

I walked past the lobby, where a mature oak tree had grown, its gnarled boughs wrapped tightly around the furniture and ornate cast-iron railings of what had once been the lobby café. David, the younger of the Price brothers and known to all and sundry as ‘Half’, had grown it as a first-year student project twenty years ago, but had never got round to ungrowing it.

I walked into the Kazam offices, flicked on the light, dumped my bag on a chair and put the small terracotta pot in my desk drawer. This office was the nerve centre of the company, and a half-century ago, during the days of full-power magic, would have been humming with action as the thirty or so managers fielded calls and scheduled enchantments. The desks were all empty these days, but we kept the tables, chairs and telephones, just to remind us how good it had once been, and if we had our way, would be again.

I sat down at my desk, thought for a moment about the morning’s adventure, made a few notes on my pad, then picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory.

‘iMagic,’ came a snotty voice on the other end, ‘better, faster and cheaper than Kazam and home to the All Powerful Blix. Can I help you?’

‘That’s not helpful, Gladys,’ I said. Competition had become fiercer between the two companies since the Big Magic, but at least we at Kazam never stooped to badmouthing the opposition.

‘Only speaking the truth, Jennifer,’ she sneered. ‘I’ll get the All Power – I mean, the Amazing Blix, for you.’

I thought for a moment while I was connected. Conrad Blix was not only the Head Wizard over at Industrial Magic, but also general manager, doing what I did here at Kazam. The Great Zambini had disliked Blix intensely, and not just because he was the grandson of the infamous ‘Blix the Hideously Barbarous’, but because they had never seen eye to eye as regards the direction of the Mystical Arts. Zambini saw them as a tool for social justice and good in general, but Blix saw them as more of a way to make cash, and lots of it.

‘Strange by name, Strange by nature,’ came a supercilious voice, intentionally to irritate. ‘I’m busy, dear girl, so better make it quick.’

Despite the animosity between the two companies, we were compelled to agree on a number of matters to be able to function at all. After all, we all drew our power from the same wizidrical energy source, and any usage above five thousand Shandars was worth a phone call.

‘What’s with the “iMagic” name change?’ I said without preamble.

‘Industrial Magic was a bit of a mouthful,’ he explained. ‘Besides, putting “i” in front of anything makes it more hip and current. Is that why you called?’

‘No. We’ve got a ten-kilo spell cooking at eleven fifteen this morning and I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t clash.’

‘We’ve got nothing big on until half past four this afternoon,’ replied Blix suspiciously. ‘What are you up to? Ten Meg is a serious chunk of crackle to be using at short notice.’

‘You weren’t jamming us yesterday, were you?’ I asked, ignoring his question and referring to some interference we’d been having at a routine scaffold-build the previous afternoon.

‘Jennifer, when you say things like that you really hurt me,’ retorted Blix insincerely. ‘We are a professional outfit, and accusations of jamming insult our integrity.’

‘If a shred of integrity fell into your soul it would die a very lonely death.’

‘One day I will make you eat your impertinence, Jennifer – and you won’t enjoy it. Anything else?’

‘Actually, there is. Since when did your accolade jump from “the Amazing” to “the All Powerful”?’

Accolades were self-conferring, and making yourself seem more astounding than you were was not against any written rules, but bad manners. And sorcerers were big on dignity and honour – or were meant to be, anyway.

‘I can’t think how that happened,’ he replied insincerely. ‘I’ll speak to Gladys about it.’

‘I’m most grateful. And don’t forget that we want a clear hour at two o’clock for Perkins’ licence application.’

‘Already in the diary, dear girl. In fact, I might even see you there.’

‘That would be joyous.’

‘You’re very disrespectful, Jennifer.’

‘Mr Zambini made me promise. Sandop kale n’baaa , Amazing Blix.’

‘ Sandop kale n’baaa , Miss Strange.’

And having exchanged the ancient salutation required of us, we both hung up. I thought for a moment. If Blix was attempting to give himself the accolade ‘All Powerful’, there might be trouble brewing. Wizards on a self-aggrandising kick usually set the alarm bells ringing.