ZOLIN - A ROCKIN' GOOD WIZARD

By
 
BARRY IRELAND
 

INTRODUCTION 
Sometimes new-born babies get mixed up in the hospital
and end up with the wrong parents.
But sometimes, babies are even born into the wrong universe.
Such misbirths have to be corrected ...
 
 
CHAPTER 1
 
"Goodly morrow, Your Highness. Usual?"
   "Hello, Marcus. Yes, put it on the slate, will you? I'll settle up at the end of the month."
   "Naturally, Sire," replied the barman, already starting to pull the black ale into the king's personal stein.
   The strange beer did not behave like a normal liquid; it poured more slowly ... as if it were thinking about it. And when it was in the pot, it sent up little bubbles from its surface that popped and issued puffs of purple smoke. King Maharad took a large gulp and swallowed the wickedly strong beer. Almost immediately, he was kicked in the hormone centre of his brain by a powerful white mare wearing skimpy red satin underwear.
   "WOWEE!" He blinked and straightened his crown. "Good stuff, Old Hadrak The Witch's Five Star Magic Blend Real Man's Real Ale!"
   "Indeed, Sire, indeed," agreed the barman. Marcus polished a glass. "Was Sire watchful of the gladiatorial contest of yesterday's post meridian?"
   "No, had to miss it. Damned castle public relations meeting. But what a win, eh?"
   "Aye, by two gladiators and fourteen slaves to but nine slaves! A comprehensive victory of outstanding merit."
   "That's three matches in a row, two of them away from home. And now we're in the semi-finals."
   "We are of a marked betterness since Ybby Sonrob succeeded to management."
   "Yes ... I made an excellent choice there, didn't I?"
   "Indeed, Sire, indeed."
   "I like the way he plays Sartakus up front, striker-wise."
   "A masterful stratagem. That affords young Kaltherni freedom on the wings. He is of such a quickness. He nips in and bingo! Another opponent in the net."
   "And Sarty does the business with the old trident. Brilliant! And I got him cheap in that out-of-season transfer from Chaddley United. I'll bet old Ironhand is fairly kicking himself."
   "A judgemental triumph of rare occasion, Sire." Marcus polished another glass. "Ah. Here approaches the Wizard Thrupmaster. Goodly meridian of the ante variety, Sire Wizard ... usual?"
   "Morning, Your Highness. Morning, Marcus. No thanks; had a very heavy session on gladiatorial spells last evening ... got a bit of a magic hangover. Just a fruit juice, but not orange."
   "Let me get that," offered the king. "By the way, bloody good spells, old chap. Two and fourteen to only nine. Great score!"
   "Thank you, Your Majesty."
   "That's perfectly all right. Well deserved, I say."
   "It wasn't that easy. Those Northwesterners are a tough bunch."
   "Absolutely. Anyway, my favourite wizard; I wanted a word with you about something else. Well, two things, really. Firstly, my wife. She's miserable, ugly, unfriendly and to be honest, totally repulsive in every way. Is there a very special spell that would make her desirable, beautiful and sexy, Excru?"
   The wizard blew out his cheeks. "Forgive me, Sire, but that is asking rather a lot."
   "Thought as much." His reply was forlorn and resigned.
   "I could try, Your Highness, but failure of such heavy spells invariably results in the lady being made even more ugly ... permanently. Heavy spells like that ain't easy."
   "Forget that one, then. How about lumps in your plaster?"
   The wizard's face took on a worried expression. "Lumps, you say? In your plaster, you say?"
   "Yes; appeared just the other day. I've got a plasterer coming this afternoon to have a look at them -- he comes highly recommended by my Chancellor. I've already had two builders in and both said there was nothing they could do. They reckoned it was settlement. Settlement, I ask you. The bloody castle's been standing there for five thousand years! Settlement, indeed! I had the lying buggers bullwhipped to within an inch of their lives."
   "You were always more than lenient, Sire. But this worries me. Lumps. Where are these ... lumps?"
   "On my bedchamber wall. Either side of my wife's mirror. They weren't there a couple of days ago, I swear."
   "Oh dear. Oh very dear." Excru's face paled.
   "What's up, Excru? You look like you've seen a ghost."
   "Ghosts are not a problem, but lumps in plaster ... either side of a mirror, too! Oh deary me. Lumps in plaster either side of a mirror do not bode well, Sire. I fear that this means we are soon to witness a negative event of some significance. Perhaps even a disaster."
   "What? You mean like losing next week's semi-final?"
   "Worse than that. Far worse. I fear that someone or something from a different ... er, how can I put it? Yes, dimension, is attempting to break through into our time and space continuum."
   "You bloody WHAT?"
   "Something from a parallel universe, Sire. A different place and time in the same place and time ... but not quite; an existence in a different dimensiversal phase. You know, what those scruffy physicists used to go on about?"
   "You mean that bunch of raving heretics I had hung, drawn and thrupped and fed to the dragons for practising illegal sorcery?"
   "Yes, them."
   "And now you're agreeing with what they said?"
   "Oh, no, Sire!" Excru swallowed nervously, knowing his king's abhorrence for anything remotely resembling science. "It's just that such things do exist in higher magic; the magic of Nature itself. But they called it ... what was the word? Science? Yes, that was it; science. Balderdash, skulduggery and illegal sorcery to be sure. You were right to have them put down, Sire."
   "But if what you say is true, what do we do? Could this ... whatever-it-is be dangerous?"
   "Without doubt. Terribly dangerous. We could be overrun by all manner of demonic creatures, hellish spectres and ... and nasty thingies drooling green slime. But do not worry. I'll go over to the castle later this afternoon and weave some spells to get rid of the lumps in the plaster and to stop the whatever-it-is from getting through. I'll sort it out!"
   "Well done, old chap. That's a load off my mind. Now, back to my old woman, queen Agathia. Are you absolutely sure that there's nothing you can do to make her beautiful and sexy, Excru?" The king looked hard into the wizard's eyes. "I could make you a very rich wizard ..."
 
 
"I can assure you that this has never happened to me before, Angelica." He experienced a burning that welled from deep within, manifesting itself as only the severest form of embarrassment can -- the facial flush of professional humiliation.
   The master carpenter had no excuse to offer. It was totally out of character for him to read drawings wrongly, especially when it was he who had drawn them. So when he fixed up the shelves at young widow Angelica Macrami's house in Portsmouth Road and misread the measurement of four feet up from the floor as fourteen feet, it was a professional disaster; the shelves now hovered six feet above the flat roof -- outdoors. And they were determined to stay there, no matter what he did. He tried to prise off the brackets that held them but they would not budge. He even hit them hard with his mallet but they just ‘boi-oinged' back into place. Ajax Gilmour was mightily perplexed by the fundamental problem; to what did the brackets hold the shelves? He was also bothered by something else. For someone born, bred and living in Hampshire, England, he had a most unusual first name. Everyone he knew had ordinary and kind-of reliable first names. First names that went with their surnames, too. His rather flashy one served only to elicit sarcastic remarks about mythical Greek heros or present day toilet cleansers. With all that mental preoccupation, he gave not a thought to the fact that the old scar on his knee had been itching and pricking for the past two days.
   And his client Angelica Macrami was less than pleased. She could not reach her cosmetics that Ajax had so thoughtfully put on those shelves before he left on an emergency call.

"So you think you can do it, eh?" The king stared hard at the tradesman.
   "No probs, Your Maj. I'll just knock off the old stuff and slap some new plaster on. Splosh, splosh, over in a tosh, that's what I always say."
   "You do, do you?" Maharad sounded unimpressed.
   "Yeah. See, Your Maj, it's only a case of drying out. Plaster's dried right out. Stands to reason, don't it? Age. It's dried out with age an' it's breakin' away."
   "Oh, has it? Is it? And will it be a perfect job? This is your king's bedchamber."
   "Perfect job? Not much! When the muck's dry an' I slap on a coat of paint, you won't even see the joins."
  King Maharad settled down in a large comfortable chair, folded his arms and watched as the plasterer chiselled off the lumps on the wall either side of the mirror. The plasterer whistled as he worked. This added to the king's annoyance. When the tradesman had finished re-plastering, the wall was perfectly smooth and free from lumps.
   "There you go, Your Maj." He turned to face the king. "Like I said; splosh, splosh, over in a tosh." Without turning to look at his workmanship he pointed back over his shoulder with a thumb and added, "Perfect job, eh, Your Maj."
   King Maharad leaned, somewhat theatrically, to one side to get a better view of the re-plastered areas. "Is it?" He scowled darkly.
   The smile left the tradesman's face with not so much a "see you later", but more a "I'm outta here!" The plasterer knew something was wrong. When he turned to look at the wall he went very pale. "Lords above!"
   Two very pronounced lumps had re-appeared, one either side of the mirror, in the new plaster.
   King Maharad sighed. "Guards!"
Two soldiers rushed into the room.
   "Arrest this man. Thrash him with the bullwhip to within an inch of his life. No, make that to within half an inch of his life. ‘Your Maj', indeed." Maharad smiled at the unfortunate who was now crying. "Lash, lash, over in ... not less than an hour, that's what I always say."
 
 
Widow Angelica Macrami had a hot date that evening and she wanted to look her best. So she was delighted when the carpenter returned within the hour, as promised.
   "Now, Ajax darling, do fix those shelves where I can reach my make-up this time," she purred huskily in her strong foreign accent.
   "I'm sure I will, this time," replied the carpenter.
 
 
King Maharad Ahk Gibson leaned his elbows on the stone windowsill, an expression of smug satisfaction illuminating his face. From far below in the castle's B courtyard there echoed horrific cries.
   "Ah, good. That scabby cur of a plasterer is getting his just punishment. Lumps, indeed! He knocked off the old stuff and re-plastered the wall. No sooner had he finished than the lumps appeared again! I'm having him thrashed to within half an inch of his life at this very moment."
   "Eh?"
   "I said; that plasterer ... oh, just forget it."
   "Um."
   The king looked at his wife, or rather the back of her head, and cursed under his breath. She was always peering into that damned mirror at her damned miserable ugly face. And she was always rubbing in new anti-wrinkle potions.
   ‘If it were up to me, I'd have that  phoney beauty consultant of hers de-gizzled and ... huh, but she will insist that he is doing her good. Can't bloody see it myself,' he thought. "Right!" he boomed, intending to break into her self-indulgent solitary mental world, "I'm going hunting for a few hours. But first, I'm going to get thoroughly rat-arsed, ravish three teenage virgins at a devil-worshipping orgy and cut off your tits and boil them in a tarpot."
   "Um ..." Queen Agathia replied with the most positive response that she could muster. The king's words had as much chance of getting through to her brain as thick pea soup has of passing through a ten Denier stocking.
   He knew very well that she had heard not one word that he had said. "Oh, sod you," muttered Maharad. "Anyway, Excru will sort it all out later, I'm sure."
 
 
It was not that she did not trust his skills; no, that was not the reason she stayed to watch him work. It was to see his muscular arms as he planed wood and screwed in screws. She became aroused at the spectacle of his strong tanned shoulders exposed by the skimpy vest that he wore.
   Ajax sensed her watching and glanced around. She was smiling a fixed smile and her eyes had a glazed far away look.
   Angelica came out of her trance and flushed a little. "Oh ... er ... cup of tea, Ajax?"
   "Thanks."
   She skipped off down the stairs. He chuckled. Angelica was an attractive woman, obviously of foreign descent, he considered, and about the same age as himself. He wondered why she had been widowed at such a young age ... several times. He realised that she fancied him, but he had heard rumours that she entertained rather a lot of different men. In his Letters Of Guildmanship it stated quite clearly that master carpenters should lead clean and pure lives; clean and pure like the wood with which they worked. He wasn't too bothered about clean and pure; it was the number of ex-Mr Macrami's that put him off. Just how did they ... go?
   "No sugar, that's right, isn't it?" Even this simple question overflowed with a heavy swell of seduction.
   He moved from his kneeling position and sat with his back against the wall. He sipped the tea and watched her. "Tell me, Angelica; were you born in a foreign country?"
   "Ah, my dear Ajax. My family were wealthy land owners in eastern Europe; my grandfather was an arch-duke of very high order, my grandmother a beautiful princess from the next kingdom. She was a magic princess and never aged." Angelica became solemn. "But in the Peoples' Revolution ... they were murdered and the land taken for farms for The Peoples' Agricultural Movement. My father and mother were young refugees of the revolution and quite separately escaped to Austria. Years later they met, fell in love and married. I was born and grew up in the clear air of the mountains. It was beautiful there. But I am my grandmother reincarnated. I am exactly one hundred years old this July!"
   "Er ... fine," he said, but thought: ‘another nut case. Why do I always attract nutters?'
   "In our family, you see," she continued oblivious to his instant loss of interest, "we can only die by violent means, not old age. But if we are killed so, we are reincarnated. See, I'm lucky, am I not?"
   "Very." Ajax Gilmour was neither convinced nor impressed.
 
 
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, but it has to be done."
   "Oh, shhhhit!" cursed king Maharad Ahk Gibson, stamping his foot. "And I really needed a good ride on Skyrunner this afternoon."
   "We had to take him in, Sire. One thousand mile services are a must if we are to observe the warranty conditions," assured Duncan, the king's chief stableman.
   "Warranty conditions? What bloody warranty conditions? I'll bet my best crown it's a bloody conspiracy by the dealers to make even more money out of me. Jarker! Jarker, where the bloody hell are you, man?"
   "Here, Sire." The court Chancellor, a man half the king's height and carrying a huge leather bound tome, spoke quietly. He was standing two paces back and one to the side from the king, as required by custom: thus, he could not reach his master with a sword.
   "Ah, so you are. Is that correct?" He scowled darkly at the man. "And remind me to have a word with you later about that bloody plasterer!"
   "Of course, Sire. Er ... let me see ... Yes, Sire. On the forty-forth of Januberry eleven years ago, you decreed that all Main Horse Dealers must offer twelve months warranty on thoroughbred horses, three months on crossbreds, and even seven days on trade-ins from the back yard."
   "Did I really? How jolly clever of me. Right, but what about this servicing thing being a condition of the warranty?"
   "I can see nothing about that in the relevant paragraphs, Sire."
   "Then those cheeky chiselling buggers have made up that part for themselves. Right! Call out the guard! I want every director of every main horse-dealer rounded up and arrested. Servicing a condition, indeed? I'll bloody see about that. Charge them with treason ... no, high treason! Lock the buggers in the dungeons with the spiders and rats for a few days to scare the living crap out of them. Give the fat bastards a health-diet of bread and water, too! Then let them go with the understanding that they ... wait a minute ... yes, by law, always give a customer a courtesy horse of similar size and standard when their best hunter is in for this servicing business. I'll give them conditions if they want them," he glowered. "But I can't go hunting today, and I want to! Buggerbuggerbugger!!" he raged, stamping his feet rapidly like a spoilt child.
   "May I make so bold as to offer a suggestion, Sire?" asked the stableman.
   "Uhhhhh, it had better be a bloody good suggestion." The king was simmering and close to the boil. "Or I'll have your left buttock severed by the royal butcher, marinated in larks' saliva, thyme and fennel for a week, gently barbecued over the finest willow charcoal ..." he thrust his face very close to that of the stableman, "... and fed to my ravens!"
   "Sire, your generosity knows no bounds. But if Sire sends a king's messenger to a main dealer demanding that a salesman brings along their best demonstration hunter for Sire to test-ride ... Sire could then get the salesman drunk, even offer him a serving wench for the afternoon, and give the demonstration horse a right good thrashing of a hunt. I've often worked similar scams myself."
   The king's expression changed slowly from darkly threatening to knowing smile. He thumped the man hard on the back. "Well done, Duncan Two Buttocks! Good thinking." Maharad started to walk away at a brisk pace, but stopped, turned and smiled brightly. "No. Too late ... gone off the hunting idea. If anybody wants me, I'm going to the City Criers News office ... then my pub." He strode off again, but stopped and turned to face the stableman once more. "Like your new name, eh? Duncan Two Buttocks! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
 
 
"There," said Ajax with professional pride, "two shelves, one four feet up from the floor and one five feet, all square and firm and eminently capable of carrying madam's considerable cosmetic collection."
   "And indoors as well. Umm," sighed Angelica Macrami dreamily. "You are such a masterful master carpenter. Now; how about a nice little afternoon drinky with me?" Her voice was husky and seductive.
   "Um ... er ... got to get back to Romsey Street ... very urgent, yes, Judge Lassiter's house; door sticking badly ... must be off." He was tempted to stay, but the job was urgent and the judge was a valued customer. He departed so quickly that he left something behind.
   "Funny boy," muttered Angelica. "Now, where's my new blusher? Oh, no; everything's still outside on those funny floating shelves. I know; if I can borrow some steps or a ladder, I can get it all down myself."
   Young widow Macrami used her charm on the next door neighbour, Alec Dobson, a retired tailor, and borrowed his short ladder. She offered him a quiet afternoon cup of tea and a piece of cake, should he fancy a bit. Angelica pushed the ladder up through the skylight and climbed out on to the flat roof. She pulled up the ladder and set it against the shelves to retrieve her cosmetics. "Ah, that's better ... my best Mary Quant stuff ... whoooops ... OOOOOOH!!"
 
 
King Maharad took his third favourite horse, the lithe and beautiful, if rather snooty, dark mare Mannequin Nimblefoot Naomi from the stable and galloped across the castle drawbridge and towards the city. There were two attractive girls working at the CCN office. He fancied one in particular, but not the other one ... not any more; she was likely trouble.
 
 
In the air, several feet above the flat roof of Angelica Macrami's house, hovered two shelves. Just above the uppermost one, a pair of shapely legs in fishnet stockings kicked about frantically. The mini skirt flapped in the breeze, but above the waist, there was ... nothing. The top half of the young widow's body was somewhere else.
   "Who the hell are you?" shouted queen Agathia.
   "Who the hell are you?" shouted Angelica.
   "I am the queen."
   "The queen? Of where?"
   "Dragonthrup Southeast! I was the queen of all Dragonia before Partition, but that's another story."
   "And I'm widow Angelica Macrami from Fordhamptonbridge. Don't just stand there gawping. Push me back or pull me through or something!"
   Widow Macrami had slipped and fallen half-through an interdimensional membrane; the one to which Ajax had inadvertently screwed the first pair of shelves. The queen's mirror was another side of the membrane (there would be others -- in yet other dimensions) and a point of weak surface tension between these two dissimilar dimensions. The top part of Angelica was through the mirror and in a whole new dimensiverse that was a different place. But the same place. It could be said that the two halves of her body were also in different times. The time difference could have been five nanoseconds or seven hundred billion years. But as time does not exist as a separate reality, even learned physicists would have to argue the point for a long time. (But would only admit to it being a discussion of extended duration; after all, they know very well that time does not exist as etc. etc.).
   If there is one thing that Inter-Dimensiverse Rules do not permit, it is the passage through a membrane of a large dense object. Some very small ones can pass through without causing too much of a problem. For example, when you lose something small, like a suitcase key, that you know was on your dressing table, that's probably where it has gone; through a membrane and into another dimension. But people, especially whole people, that's different. The Rules do not allow that, except under I-D.R 32 (Exceptional), which in certain rare circumstances permits the swapping of two persons who were born into the wrong dimensiverses, provided that they each possess exactly the same Importance Quotient (I.Q). I.Q. is a function of a person's mental ability and social status. Equality of I.Q. is referred to as Exactitude (E). The calculation for ascertaining Exactitude is made by using the equation Exactitude equals mental ability times calibre times calibre, generally expressed as E=mc².
 
 
There was a loud knock at the bedchamber door. It creaked open.
   "The Wizard Excrucien to see you, Your Highness," announced the servant girl while keeping her eyes towards the floor. She did not look into the room; she was not permitted to do so.
   "Oh ... er ... let him in. And get those hinges oiled!"
   Excru rapidly assessed the scene; the dressing table with the mirror above it and the lumps in the plaster either side of the mirror. He realised immediately that his suspicions had been correct; a reflective surface -- like a mirror or a body of still water -- was often the point of weak surface tension in a membrane between dimensions. From seeing only the top half of Angelica, he could appreciate that she was a most attractive young lady. Yes, a nice figure -- so far, anyway -- and she looked so damnably ... sexy. She hardly constituted the terrible threat from another dimension that Excru had expected. He had imagined life-threatening foul demons or evil entities beyond description.
   Queen Agathia was endeavouring to pull Angelica through the mirror. The reason that the queen could not move her was that Angelica had been half way through the membrane for several minutes. Each dimension thought that each half of her was theirs and simply would not let go.
   The wizard saw an opportunity here. He knew all about the Inter-Dimensiversal Rules and E having to equal mc², and instantly concluded that Agathia and Angelica would never satisfy the criteria for Exactitude, no matter what you squared. He remembered the king's words; "... a very rich wizard ..." All he could think about now was the right move on his part equalling a very rich wizard. Very rich, like rich²! Exactitude or no Exactitude, he had to make it happen.
   "Right! It's all right! I'm here now!" he shouted as he rushed towards the surreal tableau whilst thinking quickly; he would have to make this up as he went along. "Right! Do exactly as I command. It is imperative that we do this to save ... er, yes, save the world from complete collapse ... and disaster ... yes, collapse and disaster ... oh, and destruction. Yes, everything will collapse and disast and destruct unless you do precisely what I command!"
   "Thank goodness you're here!" gasped the queen.
   "Hurry up, then ... and try not to ladder my new stockings," requested Angelica.
   "Quickly! Do this, Your Highness. Climb up onto the dressing table and press your hands hard against the mirror -- lean against it. Yes, that will ... er ... earth down the static charge, yes, no, magic charge ... did I just say static charge when I meant magic charge? Anyway, it'll earth it down for ... to, um ... for safety."
   "Yes!" The queen climbed up as instructed and pushed hard against the mirror. "Like this?"
   "Perfect."
   With one swift movement, Excru shoved against the substantial buttock of the queen with his shoulder and grabbed Angelica's hands and tugged. There was a kind of squelching sound. The queen screamed and disappeared through the mirror and Angelica fell headlong across the dressing table, knocking Excru to the floor. On one side of the membrane, the heavy queen fell onto the shelves knocking them down from their hovering position. They clattered to the roof with her following closely. On the other side of the dimensional membrane Angelica lay on top of the wizard. He was rather enjoying the experience but Angelica quickly got up, brushed herself down and examined her stockings for damage. Excru watched the latter operation with close interest, then struggled to his feet. He was mightily pleased, if somewhat baffled as to the cause, to see that the lumps in the plaster had completely disappeared.
   "Now look, Mistress ...?"
   "Angelica Macrami ..."
   "Mistress Macrami; listen very carefully, we may not have much time. Just get this right and you could be the new queen to the great king Maharad Ahk Gibson. He's a very good king, really. He hated his old queen; well, you saw her. She was as miserable as she was ugly ... worse, even. He's a handsome man; big and strong and he likes sexy ladies. By the way, nice stockings! And he's extremely wealthy. Extremely. I suggest that you play along with my plan and become his queen. At least give it a shot. I don't know what you do or where you come from, but it can't be as good as being an extremely rich and pampered queen here, now, can it?"
   "Well, I am of royal descent myself; my grandfather was an arch-duke of ..."
   "Later! Good. If you're royal, you'll know how to behave like a queen."
   "Naturally. I do it all the time."
   "Excellent. Then this is the story you must tell the king. Firstly, I wove a complex spell to change you, queen Agathia, into you Angelica Macrami ... but you are still queen Agathia. Got that? Like, you are her, but changed, understand? Then I cast a long and difficult spell which got rid of those lumps in the plaster. You saw them go, right? You could make the king very happy and grateful. And when the king is happy and grateful, he is most generous, if you get my meaning. And it would make me reasonably ... cheerful, too."
   "Er ... Well, I appear to be stuck here, so ... OK ... why not?"
 
 
CHAPTER 2
 
Ajax drove towards Romsey Street in his pea green Morris Minor pick-up truck. He was reflecting on the vision of widow Macrami's shapely legs in those sexy seamed fishnet stockings. His hormones reminded him, mentally and physically, that he was a man. His face flushed and he tried to whistle a tune to help eradicate the vivid vision of her well-formed thighs. He endeavoured to remember a tune but in his mental turmoil could not think of even one, so the resulting noise was just a series of disharmonious whistles. It was not that he found the image unpleasant; he just did not want to run into the back of the number 44A bus from Southampton that he was following.
   An eerie sensation helped to dissolve the sexy leg spectre; the Morris Minor pick-up and his tools and pieces of timber felt too light. The combined weight of the vehicle and equipment was just under seventeen hundredweight, but suddenly it felt half a pound or so short. The feeling transformed into one of missing a friend. He mentally checked the travelling itinerary as he drove: pick-up, himself, his sandwiches, rip saw, tenon saw, jack plane, brace, wood bits, try ... Ah! That was it; he could not sense the presence of his try-square. He stopped the vehicle, got out, and peered into his toolbag in the back of the truck. No try-square.
   "Oh dear. I've left it at the widow's place."
   Ajax considered his position; it was exactly half way between Angelica Macrami's and the judge's house. Should he go back? Would he need his try-square for the door job? Would it be safe at the widow's house? Was it a good excuse to go straight back and see the unusually sensuous lady? Well ... he decided to press on and to go back for the missing tool later. In the whole sequence of events that would overtake the carpenter, this decision made not a blind bit of difference to anything; a fatalistic schedule was already running. But even he pondered for a while on how the mislaying of a seemingly inanimate object such as a try-square could have had such a pronounced effect on him.
 
 
Queen Agathia Mh Gibson sat bewildered on the roof. Around her was the debris of the fallen shelves and a ladder. She rubbed her bruised elbow. Her first coherent thought was about how she looked; she must find a mirror and quickly.
   Down in Angelica's bedroom she found what she was looking for. Well, it should no longer be referred to as Angelica's bedroom as she would possibly never see it again. Even probably. Having decided that she had weathered the fall quite well, the queen took stock of her surroundings. Everything looked quite ... strange. Things were a different shape to those from where she came. Where were the arched windows? The bed was so tiny and there were no animal skins on it. She needed a drink; where were those damned servants? Perhaps they were out in the courtyard sunning themselves. She would teach the lazy beggars a lesson or two! Bustling down the stairs and out of the front door, she was about to bark orders when the full visual and audible glory of 1969 urban England assaulted her senses. She froze. Having taken a deep breath and with her mouth fully open in pre order barking mode, she looked like the statue of some stateswoman who was remembered mainly for dying from severe shock.
   A large green carriage-thing with people sitting in it roared along Portsmouth Road. It ran on strange round things, which she viewed with particular suspicion, and made a dreadful din, she thought. And it issued foul smoke from a pipe at the rear. A smaller red carriage-thing passed the other way; this had only one person in it. There was a whistling roar from overhead. She looked up. A silver thing flew over, high in the sky. The noise reminded her of the super-dragons that she used to see when she was a young girl. Only this dragon's wings did not flap.
   The buildings were small and unimpressive, rather like ‘downtown' in her home city. The queen decided that she did not much like this place, wherever it was, and turned on her heel in disgust. Back in the house she continued to look around. In the small room that she assumed was the kitchen she saw implements that she suspected were for cooking; not that she had ever lowered herself to enter a kitchen before. How did one make a cup of tea? She had no idea. What was tea, anyway? Did it come in a bottle? Did one actually have to cook it? She had no idea.
   ‘Huh. Can't see any point in my being here at all. I shall have to get back to the castle.' In the hall, she kicked against something on the floor. It had a blue steel blade and a dark mahogany handle with brass rivets. She picked it up. It was old and looked more like something from Dragonthrup Southeast than from this strange place. ‘No doubt something that grubby oiky tradesmen use. Still, it might be useful.'
 
 
As wizard Excru strode down the causeway from the castle he spotted the king wobbling his way back from his favourite pub in the city. It was his favourite pub because he owned it, and only he and chosen friends and subjects were permitted to drink in it. The Kings Arms was not a public public house. He liked to run up his credit there and every few months argue with the barman Marcus about paying. After a good set-to, he would begrudgingly settle his account. It made him feel more like one of the boys. More often than not, he would get cross with himself for owing himself such a lot of money. And when he eventually did pay up, he would offer himself a sarcastic ‘thank you'.
      Mannequin Nimblefoot Naomi had soon become fed up with waiting outside the King's Arms and had trotted back to the castle stables in Courtyard C. She considered that a horse of her breeding and beauty should never be kept waiting at all, and especially outside a public house.
   Four armed guards kept the prescribed ‘two-back-and-one-to-the-side' distance from the king. They were not allowed to get closer; that was, unless he passed out from too much drink and had to be carried home. (Though sometimes close, never an actuality).
   "Sire! Sire!" called the wizard.
   The king attempted to focus on him through bleary eyes. At first he saw three wizards and thought how jolly clever they were to be waving in perfect synchronisation. Then he realised: "Ezzz ... hic ... cruuu, it's you, you old lizard-lover, you. Look, chaps!" he shouted, turning to address the guards with a wild swing of his torso, his arms flailing about like thick strands of soggy spaghetti, "it's me old magic mate Ezzz ... cruuu."
   "Yes, Sire! Of course, Sire!" they replied crisply and in unison.
   He squinted at them for a second. "Hey, you ... lot !" he bellowed, "if you're taking the piss ... I'll ... I'll ..."
   "Sire!" interjected Excru, not wanting particularly to see four quite decent soldiers thrashed to within an inch of their lives for insubordination, "Sire, I've done it!"
   "What ... exactly have you ... achieved, this fine ... burrrrrp ... afternoon, may I enquire?"
   "The lumps, Your Majesty; the lumps have gone. And your wife, Sire: your wife is now beautiful and so ... sexy!" the wizard proclaimed proudly.
   The king's face screwed up with an expression of hard straining. He let out an extremely long and loud fart. The guards tried in vain to stifle their giggles. "By the Fires Of Saradroth, that's better. That damned witch's brew gives me the wind something terrible." He blew out his cheeks with a small burp, then opened his throat for the real thing. The roar echoed all the way to the castle walls and back again. "Now I've got rid of that lot, explain yourself, Excru."
   "I used one of my special strong spells ... and it worked; the queen is now a young, beautiful and very sexy lady. Another spell, a far more difficult one that I had expected, got rid of the lumps in the plaster."
   "For good?" asked the king.
   "I would be surprised should they return."
   "Not the bloody lumps, man. The bloody woman! Will she stay like that, or will the spell wear off? Like that one you did on me when I caught crabs from that downtown skin-dancer."
   "No, Sire; this was a permanent spell."
   The king studied him for a second or two and instantly sobered up. "Then show me. Come along." He strode off towards the castle. "What're her legs like, Excru?" He could not disguise his excitement.
   Wizard Excru ran to keep up. "The finest, Sire. Their shape is ... is ... better than those of the sexiest skin-dancer in all four Dragonthrups ... and beyond. Aye, better even than those of a far-island dweller and Sire knows what they are like."
   "And the bosom? What of the bosom?" The king paced even faster.
   "Sizeable, but firm. And a good shape."
   The king stopped abruptly and Excru almost ran into the back of him. "And what about her ... other bits?" The primary effect of Hadrak The Witch's Five Star Magic Blend Real Man's Real Ale was on the male hormones, and right now, the king's were so active that he was in danger of reaching testosterone critical mass.
   "Everything is of the sweetest, the fullest, the hottest, the juiciest, the ... the firmest, the softest, the silkiest ... the deepest that the finest magic can delight itself in creating, Sire."
   "Come on, Excru, keep up." The king bounded off again. "I want you there when I first see her. If you're fibbing to me ... I'll ..." he let out another loud burp.
   "And if it is the truth, as I swear by my wizardry that it is, you said something about ... a very rich wizard?"
   "Aye! The richest in all four Dragonthrups ... and beyond ... and even further ... and back again, my old chum!"
 
 
Ajax drove back towards Angelica's house, which was no longer Angelica's. The Morris Minor pick-up was urged to go faster than it wanted. Ajax missed his best try-square; it had been in his family for generations ... or so he had been told.
   On the roof, queen Agathia was moving the ladder about in the area where she fell through the interdimensiversal membrane and crashed down on the shelves. In one place the ladder rested against something that was not visible. It just leaned against thin air. She climbed the ladder and felt around. Nothing. Just thin air. "Strange. This must be where I came in. Ah, the tool; perhaps that will help." She took Ajax's try square and poked around in the air. In one place she felt a rubbery resistance. "That's it! That's the place!" With a powerful thrust she poked the tool at the invisible membrane between the dimensiverses. There was a sucking sound and it was ripped from her grasp. She plunged forward, attempting to follow the try-square through the membrane. There was the noise that would be created by a two hundred pound wrestler bouncing off a trampoline; a quiet heavy sound. This was rapidly followed by another noise like a two hundred pound wrestler falling on his arse on a flat roof; a decidedly loud heavy sound. The interdimensional membrane had refused to let her pass through -- it was in the Rules.
 
 
In the queen's bedchamber ... well, it was no longer queen Agathia's, because it was possible that she would never see it again, even probable. It was now Angelica Macrami's bedchamber, but as she was now queen, it is still correct to refer to it as the queen's bedchamber ... In the queen's bedchamber, there was a metallic clatter as the try-square fell through the mirror and dropped onto the dressing table. Angelica turned to see what had happened. She immediately recognised it as one of Ajax's tools. She picked it up. On the handle was written the name, Ajax Gilmour Gesbaumtechnishe, which translated from Old Aralic, was Ajax Gilmour The Carpenter, or more precisely, Ajax Gilmour The Wood Technician. But as the writing was in wizards' magic lightwriting, she could see nothing of it; only wizards could see that. Angelica thought it best if the king did not see the tool. That was a good decision, because if he had, he would ask from where it came. She tucked it under some clothing in the bottom drawer of the dressing table. Just in time, because immediately after, she heard heavy footsteps coming along the hall towards the bedchamber door. It sounded to her like the footfall of a tall, dark, handsome, strong king. She checked her make-up. Right in the back of the mirror she thought she saw the image of a large ugly woman with a very cross expression on her face.
 
 
The thump was so loud that Ajax heard it on the ground floor. He rushed up the stairs and saw the open skylight.
   "Hello? Angelica?"
   "Help!"
   He climbed up and out onto the flat roof. "You're not Angelica Macrami!"
   "No! I'm the queen ... Queen Agathia. And don't shout at me like that, you ... you common tradesman!"
   "What are you doing up here? Where's Angelica?"
   "She fell through my mirror. I fell this way. She is in my bedchamber. I'm in ..."
   "Portsmouth Road, Fordhamptonbridge, ma'am," he said, bowing courteously.
 
 
As Excru half-walked half-ran along the corridor after the king, he was gripped by terrible fear. The sort of fear that gives you carnivorous butterflies that gnaw at your intestine walls and create excessive amounts of digestive gas into the bargain. What if something has gone wrong? What if the two women had swapped back? What if the lumps in the plaster had returned? He was dead scared. The consolation was that he would not be scared dead.
   The king threw open the door. Angelica Macrami was sitting on the stool with her legs crossed.
   "By The Fires Of Saradroth! By the riches of all the rich kings that ever were! By the might of Morg The Mighty! By the strength of Bolzarn The Beefy! By the ... by the ..."
   "... Beard of the White Wizard Nowquzan?" suggested Excru.
   "Thanks. By the beard of the White Wizard Wotsisname. Check out those horny thighs!"
   Angelica was indeed revealing quite a lot of fishnet stockinged, and bare, thigh. She rose daintily, fluttering her false eyelashes, and smoothed her mini-skirt down slowly with her hands ... and managed a little wiggle of her hips as she did so.
   "Your Highness," she said huskily, executing a sexy little curtsey.
   The king's mouth dropped open, but only a choked squeak issued from his throat. It was something about, "...'king cleavage!" He shook his head as if to clear it. And coughed. "Ag... Agathia," he started, "you look ..."
   "Hm, hm," interjected Excru. "A word, Sire."
   "Uh?"
   The wizard drew very close to the king's ear and whispered. "Sire; it was a very strong spell. I'm afraid that there were certain ... side effects. Like, she now thinks that she is a magic princess called Angelica Macrami ... like, her memory about ... everything ... is not too good. Sire will have to patient with her. It is as if she were now a totally new person. She remembers nothing about the castle, the city, Dragonthrup Southeast ... or anything like that. If Sire is willing to take a wise old wizard's advice, he would treat the queen ... well, like she were a new girlfriend. Court her, romance her, teach her the ways of the land and the castle. Sire would enjoy teaching her things, no doubt."
   The king looked uncertainly at the wizard. The wizard winked.
   Maharad started to smile. "Court her? Romance her? Teach her? Oh ... oh, I see what you mean, Excru." He beamed and licked his lips.
   Excru nodded enthusiastically and grinned, anticipating the king's growing conviction that this was a good deal. He whispered again "... and forgive me Sire, but if I were you, I wouldn't mention the name Agathia again. She is like ... a totally different person now. Princess, well, only if it pleases you, queen Angelica Mh¹ Gibson."
   The king's brain worked overtime. Like a totally different person? She would not remember the rows and fights, his meanderings with servant girls and skin-dancers, his late nights down the pub, his fishing trips that were not really fishing trips ... and the time that he took the castle PR girl on the journey to Dragonthrup Northwest to sign up a new gladiator. He whispered to Excru from the corner of his mouth. "It pleases me. Oh, yes, it certainly pleases me. You old bugger, you. You old son of Lythanthus The Lecher. How does it feel to be a very, very rich wizard?"
 
 
Widow Macrami's first impression on seeing king Maharad Ahk Gibson was one of "Hello, sailor!" He was a man of well over six feet in height with long, flowing, wavy golden hair. He had a beard; not a straggly beard like that of a wizard, but a well trimmed neat and fashionable beard. That was golden, too. He wore a smart tunic of burgundy velvet with gold and silver piping, white leggings and shiny black riding boots. At his side hung an impressive king's sword secured in a beaten silver scabbard. The hilt was encrusted with jewels. And he wore a proper crown. Sure, it was only his lightweight daytime crown; not his lightweight evening dress crown, nor his Sunday crown, nor his superbly beaten ‘gladiator team home colours' crown, nor either his heavy ceremonial crown or his really impressive important visitors crown; but he actually wore a proper gold crown.
   ‘Um,' she thought, ‘at last, a fellow who is more my type. Not one of your ordinary singles club desperados, not a sensible tradesman, not a boring bank clerk, but a true and colourful royal; like myself.'
   He reminder her of the sort of swashbuckling king you'd get in a Fifties movie. Yes, he was very ... Hollywood-looking.
   ‘I'll bet he can swash and buck and ling better than any movie star: he's the real thing! And he's so handsome! Cor, what a hunk of manhood.'
   She pictured him being at home as the hero in any circumstance: the medieval English king fighting the invading French, the first man to walk to the North Pole, the dashing Spitfire pilot in WW2, the newspaper reporter who saves the world from tyrannical alien invaders from outer space ... the tough guy in the sweltering desert in that new lager advert on television ...
   But this was not Hollywood and he was not a movie star; he was a real king with a real crown and a real sword ... and a real ancient castle. And the guy with the straggly grey beard and floppy pointed hat was apparently a real wizard.
   ‘But wizards are supposed to wear long flowing cloaks,' she thought, ‘... not brown warehouse coats. I wonder where I am? What world? What country? What century? What the hell ...'
 
Have you Got A Minute To Discuss This Misbirth Thing?
 
Oh, Yes: I'll Be With You In Just A Jiffy
 
A Jiffy? Your Jiffy Will Be Next Year!
 
Sorry; Forgot Again. Half A Jiffy, Then
 
 
 
CHAPTER 3
 
 
The social revolution of the Swinging Sixties had Britain fizzing like hyperactive Pepsi Cola. Pop music bands were, overnight, exalted to hallowed stars and it was not just teenagers who wore the bright new radical fashions. But Grant Rideout had already tired of the commercial pop scene; the music, to his way of thinking, was bland and repetitive. He had the echo of a new sound trying to burst out of his brain; he wanted to produce a heavy, raw, raunchy music that would grab the world by its ears and make it howl for mercy. He visualised a super-group filling stadiums world-wide and blowing the minds of vast audiences. Grant could play not one note on any instrument, but as an ambitious young show-business entrepreneur, he drove himself to realise this new sound with the determination of a Centurion tank with an attitude problem, and with the energy of a ferret on amphetamines.
   It worked. By hard graft and chance encounters, he collected together a unique band of individual session musicians and an unknown folk club singer from the Black Country. The chemistry was volatile and at times almost cataclysmic. But the music they produced was what he had yearned for; it was basic and harsh and horny and spectacular. It grabbed Rhythm and Blues by the balls, and Rock and Roll by its long hair, shot them full of orgasmic cries and screams of tortured souls, and fused them in a nuclear caldron to assault the listeners' ears like a sonic Atilla the Hun. The band rapidly gained a strong underground following.
   Grant bothered and harried reluctant record companies until one released his band's first single. It was a moderate hit with the public in general but a big hit with their growing subterranean legion of fans. The word spread like a midsummer heath fire. Record producers now took notice. The band's second single record sold out within thirty minutes of its release and had a queue of record companies elbowing each other out of the way to shower Grant with a confetti of contracts. And now, on the final leg of their massive 1969 world tour, Krome Karz had taken over the U S A on a bewilderingly lucrative super-stadium super-gig programme.
   They earned enough between them in one month to pay off the British national trading deficit. Grant was pleased with the income, but more delighted with the immeasurable feeling of success. This success was due equally to the radical uncompromising music of the band and Grant's military precision in planning everything down to the finest detail. Whether the band was in the recording studio or on tour, nothing was left to chance. Grant stop-watch-timed, logged, analysed, re-considered, improved and rationalised every operation. Rather like the NASA team at Cape Canaveral which was also enjoying some success at this very time by ferrying people to the moon and back. And with his dynamic promotional skills he got just that little bit more publicity for his band than any manager of rival bands. Grant Rideout was in his element organising the U S A super-tour.
   Ten giant GMC trucks rolled along the freeway towards San Francisco. They carried Krome Karz own electronically controlled moving stage, the lighting towers and gantries, The Eye, the smoke machines, the pyrotechnic displays, the huge banks of specially-constructed heavy duty loudspeakers that blasted out over sixty thousand Watts of stereophonic surround-sound, the great amplifiers that pumped them up, the latest special effects units, the musical instruments, the luxurious catering facilities and hundreds of spare parts. In the five coaches that followed were the rigging crew, the sound engineers, the electricians, the carpenters, the painters, the tailors, the doctor and nurses, and the travelling portion of the administration and public relations staff. The fifth coach was Grant's mobile home and fully equipped office. He checked the map and his chronometer. They were in precisely the correct place at precisely the correct time.
   Twenty five thousand feet overhead, the five members of the band were in a leased Boeing 707. The aircraft was painted specially in the band's livery and fitted out like a luxury apartment. Robert Platt, the singer and principal songwriter watched the other members of the band. Three indulged in deep chemical-inspired philosophy. The fourth, the drummer, was carnally involved with one of the several beautiful young girls who decorated the cabin. The air was rich with the odour of herbal cigarettes. While Robert had experimented with most drugs in the past, to improve his wildly energetic stage performances he was now on a ‘clean and fit' routine. The others were still energetically ‘experimenting'.
   Robert slid back the window cover and looked out. The fluffy clouds below appeared tangible enough to lie on. The sun, low in the western sky, was a dark red orb and it tinted the clouds with several shades of pink. Oh, man, what a cool scene! What would it be like to walk on those clouds? To fall about on them, roll down the slopes with abandon; to make love to a beautiful girl on them ... two beautiful girls. He soared off into lateral thought extensions, his mind filled with the colours, sounds, feelings and tastes. He was floating over those clouds with a warm scented breeze wafting in his face. He was flying. Perhaps the hallucinogens in the smoky atmosphere were getting into his bloodstream; perhaps he still had enough strange chemical residue in his body from the past ... but the words to express the mental experience came easily to him.
   "Guys. I've an idea for a new song."
   "Uh?"
   "Eh?"
   "Wassat, man?"
   "Like; a new song. An idea, guys."
   "Cool."
   "Right on."
   "Let's hear it, Rob."
   "Yeah. Lay it on us."
   Robert Platt was an accomplished poet and the words just flowed from his brain like a trickle of warm honey laced with absinthe. He closed his eyes and sang a blues-based erotic fantasy about making love to beautiful girls on warm puffy pink clouds. The words and tune started soft and slow and warm, got harder and quicker and hotter, then climaxed in a crescendo that was raw and bluesy and overtly orgasmic.
   "Dead cool, man."
   "I'd say frickin' groovy."
   "I'm really into what your sayin'. Let's do that one; we could play it tomorrow night. I've got an idea for the bass line already. Boom, boom, boom."
   "An' I'll turn out an intro that'll blow your minds."
   "Yeah." The quiet voice of the drummer indicated agreement. "I got a feel f'this one, yeah? It builds up, right? Like a good screw, right? We must do the full accelerando bit towards the end." He demonstrated the principle of increasing the tempo by thrusting his pelvis. His girl appreciated exactly what he meant, probably better than any of the others.
   "Yeah," said Robert quietly. A young worshipper slid her hand up the inside of his leg and nuzzled her face against his jeans. "Right," he whispered as he stared out at the fluffy pink clouds.
 
 
It was July 16th 1969. A few weeks previously, The Doors leader Jim Morrison had been arrested for exposing himself to a 10,000-strong audience at The Dinner Key Auditorium in Miami. A week before, the Beatles new single ‘The Ballad Of John And Yoko' had been banned by most American AM radio stations for including the words ‘Christ, you know it ain't easy'. The same day, bassist Noel Redding had announced that he would be leaving the brilliant Jimi Hendrix Experience, but that did not stop Jimi playing possibly the biggest gig of his lamentably short musical career at the legendary three-day Woodstock festival a week later. Earlier today, Buzz Alderin, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins had blasted off in Apollo 11 and were now racing at twenty-five thousand miles an hour for their momentous rendezvous with the Moon. And at this exact moment the slick Krome Karz machine headed for San Francisco where the band would create rock and roll history by attracting over 360,000 fans to just three nights of gigs. But somewhere else ...
 
Look, It Was You Who Wanted This Meeting
                      
I Know But I'm Short Of Time Now
 
Huh, It's All Right When It Suits You
 
Me? With You In That Mood, We'd Only ARGUE
 
A Mood? What About You, Then? I Can't Mention Anything But You Fly Off The Handle
 
Oh, All Right. Give Me A Couple Of Minutes
 
You Realise That's Several Months For Me?
 
 
Excrucien the Thrupmaster bore a pale, shocked appearance. "Another, Marcus," he said gravely. He blew out his cheeks and shook his head slowly.
   "May one enquire as to the matterness of your perturbation, Sire?" asked the barman as he poured the tiny drink.
   Excru sighed. "You'll never know, Marcus, just how ... chancy it is being the king's wizard. One could so easily lose one's head if one made a mistake."
   "‘Lose' as defined as having it severed from one's body?"
   The wizard swallowed, imagining the cold businesslike steel of a decapitating axe slicing through his living tissue. "‘Severed' as defined as finally and irrevocably ..." He took the tiny glass of drink and downed it in one. His tongue sizzled under a sherbet and aniseed detonation, his tonsils were scoured by ten thousand diamond-sharp tips of an alcoholic grinding wheel, and his upper alimentary tract was assaulted by a battalion of scampering dwarf soldiers wearing boots made from hell-fire and carrying burning pitch torches. That was the least pleasant part. Drinkers of Schzzz, a liqueur distilled by the secret Ecstaticus order of monks and distributed by Co-operative Marketing For Products Of Secret Orders Of Monks (CoMPoSoM), put up with the nasty bit in order to enjoy the next, pleasant effect.
   "Hm.....Hmmmmmmmm!" A weird twisted smile slowly curled his lips and the vacancy of his eyes indicated that his mind had gone on a little trip of its own. Waves of warm ecstasy radiated from his stomach downwards to the tip of his toes. These appendages of doubtful cleanliness quivered. The waves bounced back up his legs to his stomach, paying particular attention to his groin area when passing. The upwards travelling oscillations met others on the way down and the resulting sensation was one of being tickled with warm feathers inside his bones. The tremulations of ecstasy washed upwards through his torso to his head and much the same thing happened with them on their return journey. The effect compounded until the waves rippled and caressed and massaged in a continuous symphony in every cell of his body. And that was only the physical result. Inside the brain, the rapturous machinations were such that they are best left to the privacy of the drinker. Suffice it to say that in Excru's case, they had a lot to do with a husky female voice and smooth thighs above fishnet stockings. The fortunate thing for a Schzzz drinker's sanity was that the effects lasted only several seconds.
   "Another, Sire Wizard?"
   "I judge that as not being prudent, Marcus."
   "Indeed, Sire. Two Schzzz are of a sufficientness for most men."
   "Er ... Marcus?" requested Excru quietly. "How many can the king ...?"
   The barman leaned over to be closer to the wizard and to ensure the confidentiality of the reply. "I have witnessed his majesty imbibe half of one dozen, between steins of his favourite Hadrak's ale, too."
   "Full steins?"
   "To the veriness of the brim, so I live and breathe."
   The two men looked at each other in wide-eyed silence. Both of them understood the unspoken statement: "Well, now you know why he's the king!"
   After a pause, Excru made an emphatic statement. "Mind, I don't think he'll be needing Schzzz any more."
   "And perhaps Sire will explain the whyness of that conclusion?"
   "His good lady wife, the queen Agathia, is now, thanks to my talent as the most capable purveyor of magic in all four kingdoms, and beyond, very beautiful and remarkably, yes, remarkably sexy."
   "Sire is indeed all he purports, and more, should that statement be of a truthfulness."
   Excru was indignant. "As most surely it is!"
   "So our beloved king will get his Schzzz kicks at home, shall we say; a thing of sensual reality, rather than with the goodly compliments of the fine Ecstaticus monks."
   "Indeed, Marcus, indeed!"
 
 
It had not really sunk in. Not that evening, nor that night. But when the introductory twitterings of the morning chorus awoke him, Excru's first thought was: ‘By the Fires of Wotsisname! I am a very, very rich wizard!' He sat up quickly. How would this wealth be manifested? Gold? Jewels? Shares in CoMPoSoM? Could he trust the king to carry out his promise to make him a very, very rich wizard? He stroked his beard. Yes, of course he could trust the king's word; they were old friends. He lay back again, his hands clasped behind his head.
   Excru smiled and relaxed. One of the things that this new wealth would mean was that he could take his rightful place in the order of wizardry. He could get his title changed and his wizardly status considerably elevated; someone else could be the lowly Wizard Thrupmaster. Was not his magic now of sufficient quality and quantity for him to be promoted to a colour wizard? Even with his great wealth, they would never make him Excrucien The White. They may stretch to Excru The Grey. No, even that was wishful thinking. Excru The Brown? That would be more like it. He sat up abruptly again. Oh, heavens! Suppose they would only bestowed him Excru The Orange? How he hated orange! A loud knock at his front door broke his train of thought. He got up and poked his head out of the tiny bedroom window and glared down into the street. The sun was just rising and the air was sweet, but it was early.
   "Who dares wake me thus with uncouth pounding at my portal at this unearthly hour?" Wizards were allowed to be irascible. It was expected. Excru did his level best to be irascible, but he was, in reality, very happy.
   "Forgive me, Sire," came a young voice from below.
   "Show yourself, scoundrel."
   A young man stepped back from the front porch and looked up. The hood of his coarse robe fell back to expose a fresh face and a fine head of long dark hair. A battered old guitar hung across his back.
   "Gods! Should I receive beggars and vagrant strolling minstrels with the dawn of every day? Should I be so lucky?"
   "Sire, a beggar or strolling minstrel I am not. I am a newly bestowed novice wizard and I have been sent here by The Council Of Wizards to benefit from your teachings ... and to get kitted out. You are the Wizard Thrupmaster ?"
   "Aye, that is so." But not for much longer, he thought. "What is your name, boy?"
   "Colin Beavis, Sire."
   "Colin Beavis? Colin Beavis!" Excru displayed as much incredulity as he could muster this early in the day. "That is not a befitting name for a wizard, even an impudent novice wizard. Go away! They would never grant novicehood to a Colin Beavis. You are nothing but an imposter, young man. Stop wasting my time or I'll call out the castle guard and have you thrown in the deepest and dampest of the dungeons."
   "But Sire, it is true. The council sent you a memo. And I have walked for ten days from the south to get here."
   "A memo? A memo? I have seen no ..." The wizard suddenly remembered receiving an envelope with the crest of The Council Of Wizards on it. He had not even bothered to open it. Well, it had been a manila envelope with a transparent window; the sort that usually contained a bill. He had thought it to be an invoice for something petty and had filed it away unopened, as he always did with invoice envelopes. Payments can wait; they always send statements and reminders, anyway. "... memo."
   "But Sire; I have journeyed across the fearsome Evermore Heath, endured the living nightmares of The Lowland bogs, and climbed the thousand feet of The Scarp by the narrow and treacherous crumbling outlaws' paths ..."
   Excru thought for a few seconds. Anyone making the journey by that route must be barmy ... or very determined and brave. He would give this lad a chance. "Oh, all right. Wait a minute and I'll be down. But if I find you are jesting with me, I'll turn you into a flee-ridden mutt with three legs and no claws. I do not tolerate philanderers!" He considered his attitude to be of sufficient irascibility to be convincing. As he ran down the stairs, he chuckled.
 
 
The retired tailor's conscience could not longer stand the noise of the crying; he just had to go to find out who it was and why they were so upset. He found Agathia sitting forlornly in what was formerly Angelica Macrami's kitchen.
   "Who are you?" she moaned between the sobs that sent shudders through her body.
   "Next door neighbour. Retired tailor ..."
   "Oh, just another tradesman," she sighed.
   That was a terrible understatement. Alec Dobson, bespoke tailor, had enjoyed a strong following of important clients. He had crafted the best business suits, the best lounge suits and the best evening dress suits in all Hampshire. And beyond. And back again. "Oh well. If that's your attitude, you can sit and cry all by yourself." Alec was indignant, and with his head held high with ex-professional pride, turned to leave.
   "No, wait. I'm ..." (it was hard for her to apologise to a mere trades person, especially a retired trades person) "... sorry ... a little bit."
   "Well then. Who are you and where is my neighbour, Miss Macrami?"
   "I am queen Agathia of Dragonthrup Southeast. Miss Macrami and I seem to have exchanged places. I am so hungry."
   "Then why not find some food and cook it?"
   "I cannot. I do not know how to prepare a meal. I cannot even make a cup of tea. I've never had to; it is always done for me. Where has that nice young carpenter Mr Gilmour gone? He was helpful and considerate."
   "Oh, very well, I'll get you something to eat. But only just this once."
   Alec Dobson went about preparing some lunch for her. As she ate, he watched and pondered his next move. Being a helpful person had its drawbacks; she could have him waiting on her hand and foot. But being a helpful and thoughtful person, Alec was concerned for a fellow human being's wellbeing. How would she survive if she did not know how to cook meals? On balance, he considered it best to try to help her. But of what else was she incapable? Washing herself? Dressing? Shopping? She likely had no money. Even though he had plenty of spare time, he would need some assistance with this, if only in the form of moral support.
   Back in his own house, he telephoned the carpenter. Ajax had done several jobs for him.
   "Ajax? It's Alec Dobson."
   "Oh yes. Hello."
   "I've got a problem."
   "The so-called queen?"
   "That's the one. I need some help."
   "How can I help?"
   "She asked for you. Anyway, I don't think I can handle this on my own."
   "That's what I thought, too. I'd better pop round. Perhaps between us we can think of what to do. I reckon we've got to get her back."
   "Back where?"
   "Her home. She mentioned something about a Dragonthrup Southeast."
   "I've heard that, too. Where the hell is that?"
   "Search me! Somewhere up on the roof, by all accounts."
   "The roof?"
   "She said that was where she ‘came in'."
   "She's got a funny accent, Ajax. Do you suppose she's a communist spy from behind the Iron Curtain? She could have dropped by parachute onto the roof last night. She could have orders to infiltrate our society."
   "Somehow, I think a spy would be trained better; be able to cook and such things."
   "Could be a ploy, that helplessness; to get us to look after her while she wheedled her way into our community. And what's happened to Angelica Macrami? Is she a spy, too? She has a funny accent. Was this one sent to get rid of her?"
   "Huh. I'm not a great believer in all that Cold War intrigue, Alec. No, I think that there's even more to it than that. A lot more. I'll be round in an hour or so." The scar on his knee irritated.
   Ajax had the scar from a silly accident. When he was an apprentice, he was using a chisel on a piece of wood balanced on his knee. The wood should, of course, have been held firmly in a vice, but being young ... the chisel slipped, cut through his overalls and stuck in his flesh. The resulting scar seemed to detect the imminence of something unusual, either good and bad, happening, and warned him with a tingling sensation.
 
 
"And to the south, my dear," said king Maharad, "my kingdom stretches to the sea; six whole days ride away."
   "Oh, that's a long way."
   "Indeed. This is a large kingdom to control."
   "And what are the other kingdoms, to the east, north and west?"
   "To the north? Er ... hmm. Well, to the northeast we have Dragonthrup Northeast; it's very flat and boring and cold up there. And dangerous. The few people that live there are miserable and untrustworthy. To the northwest, we have Dragonthrup Northwest; also cold ... and very wet, too. They're trouble-makers; always used to be starting wars that they couldn't win. Peasants, the whole damned lot of them! And to the southwest, across The Plain, there's Dragonthrup Southwest. They're not too bad down there, really. Rather backward, but no trouble. Funny thing, though ..."
   "What is?"
   "They have no decent gladiator teams. Not one. Can't fight for toffee."
   King Maharad Ahk Gibson stood with Angelica Macrami at the crenellations of the highest turret of the castle. In the early morning sun he was showing her his kingdom, or rather that small part which could be seen. He wore a long nightshirt and still had on his nightcap. Angelica's attire was one of his day shirts and this went right down to her ankles. The king was not one to mince words, so the previous night, Angelica's first in Dragonthrup Southeast, he had taken it for granted that as she was his wife -- only changed considerably -- she would sleep in the matrimonial bed. Angelica was not one to waste time either, and she gladly accepted. The two were eminently compatible; he liked sexy ladies, she liked big strong handsome men. And she certainly did not need much courting ... and far less teaching. Game, set and perfect match.
 
 
Castle Gibson stood on a mound to the south of Gibson City. The track from the castle to the city's Southgate ran on a raised embankment which sloped downwards from the castle. It was named The Causeway and where it passed over the moat, there were three arches. There was a heavy timber drawbridge to isolate the castle in the event of an invasion, but nowadays, this was left permanently in the down position. Since Partition, and the end, for now anyway, of the Thrup Wars, there was a peace -- albeit an uneasy one -- between the four kingdoms of the Dragonia subcontinent.
   "Can you remember how to ride, Ag... sorry, Angelica?"
   "A horse? Yes, of course."
   "Then after breakfast we shall ride. To the east, I think; that gives the best view of the castle. And we might get in a bit of dragon hunting as well."
   "Dragon hunting? Isn't that dangerous?"
   "Huh! You forget that I am the best, most courageous hunter in all four kingdoms."
   "Oh ... I did forget."
   "Now. What do you fancy for breakfast? A whole fillet of steak from the beech chippings grill? Or perhaps young chicken stuffed with quails eggs, garlic and the livers of baby lambs?"
   "Um ... do we have any high fibre bran flakes and low fat yogurt?"
   "Of course. Anything for my queen!"
   "That'll do nicely, Sire."
 
 
"You have a letter of introduction?"
   "Of course, Sire ... here." The youth delved into his robe and produced a sealed envelope.
   "You have not ventured to open it, I trust?"
   "On my oath, Sire, no."
   "Very well." Excru went over to the window to read the letter in better light. The pale blue parchment had the gold and red crest of The Council of Wizards. The pale blue signified that it was from a Blue Wizard; a medium-to-high rank in the order of wizardry, between Brown and Grey. To anyone other than a wizard the letter appeared as normal white parchment and with no crest. Very clever, these wizards.
 
           Excru, you old son of an illegitimate sow. How the very devil are you?
This new recruit was endowed to us by his father, a poor fisherman
from Herringhaven. Sorry about his name; perhaps you can come up
with something more suitable. He seems quite a clever lad. Why do you
not come to The Council meetings any more? It would do your career a
lot of good. Do you remember when we were at The Citadel together
doing our basic training? Those pranks we used to play on the Elders.
We are still the talk of The Council, you know! Anyway, give this lad
a good going over. He's done very well at The Citadel, but now needs
some practical magicking; so we thought of you.
          Don't be a stranger, now. Regards, Baz The Blue.
 
   ‘Pah! Bazantine The Blue; you fool,' he thought. ‘Trust you to be a Blue already. Bloody crawler. Damnable cloak-lifter. Couldn't weave a decent spell if your life depended on it. Still, that's where you get if you laugh at the Elders pathetic jokes, I suppose ... and come from a rich family ...' Then it struck him. He was rich now. He saw a mental image of himself swirling into The Citadel in expensive gold embroidered robes to receive his promotion. He'd make the buggers look up! And especially that idiot Bazantine The Blue. He cast a sideways look at Colin Beavis. Yes ... being wealthy and having a decent spell-weaving track record was one thing, but taking the full credit for training the finest young wizard ever, as well, would be the final flourish of his coup de grace. He'd get his own back on The Council for making him Wizard Thrupmaster for all these years.
   "Right, young Colin Beavis. Let's get you out of that old tat and find you a decent wizard's outfit. I, Excrucien The ... well, Excrucien The Something, am going to make a proper wizard out of you!"
 
 
The king's pigeon-postman sprinted on his stubby legs across C Courtyard and towards the stables. The chief stableman, he of perfect anatomical detail in the buttocks department, sat on a straw bale smoking a clay pipe.
   "Duncan! Duncan!"
   "Mornin' Cabarn. What's all the excitement?"
   "Duncan! Be the king's very bestest tallest white hunter back from the Main Dealer?"
   "You speak of Sono Skyrunner Supreme? Aye, he's back."
   "What of the sixteen hands high pure white mare?"
   "Sono Bianca Silkiness IVth be back too. An' she's in very neat trim."
   "Then thy arse be saved ... once again. And mine, too. For by ten of the clock, thee are to have both horses tacked out in full huntin' ceremonial."
   "The mare as well?"
   "Aye. The queen be goin' ridin' too, mate."
   "But the queen never rides."
   "She be bloody ridin' today, mate! An' the king's in awful high spirits. He's full of himself. Watch thy arse, Duncan, mate."
 
END Chapter Three