EIGHT

The Mighty Shandar

The trip to the kingdom’s international airport did not take long. Instead of going to the main departures terminal, we were led into a large maintenance hangar that contained a Skybus 646 cargo aircraft emblazoned with Shandar’s logo: a footprint on fire. The rear cargo hold was open, and a large wooden crate was being unloaded by a forklift. I parked the Bugatti and watched as Miss D’Argento alighted elegantly from the Rolls-Royce’s rear door, held open by the manservant.

The D’Argentos had been looking after the business interests of the Mighty Shandar ever since his appearance as a featured Sorcerer to Watch in the July 1572 edition of Popular Wizarding. As far as anyone can tell, there have been eleven D’Argentos in the employ of the Mighty Shandar, and all but one female. Miss D’Argento was about eighteen and dressed as perfectly as a socialite twice her age.

I told Tiger and the princess to stay in the car. Body-swaps leave little residual post-spell echo, so Shandar was unlikely to divine who the princess really was, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

I walked across to Miss D’Argento and waited for the forklift truck to deliver the crate in front of us. Several other henchmen were dotted around the hangar, each dressed in a black suit, dark hat, white gloves, and large sunglasses. I peered at the one closest to us. There was no flesh in the small gap between where his glove ended and his shirt cuff began. It was an empty suit, animated by magic. You can usually identify a drone by its jerky and decidedly unhuman movements, but these were top class—at a distance you’d think they were human.

“Good afternoon, Miss Strange,” said Miss D’Argento in a cultivated voice, her high heels click-clicking on the concrete floor as she approached us. “Congratulations on being made Court Mystician. I reported it to the Mighty Shandar, who expressed admiration for your fortitude.”

I nodded toward the closest drone. “They move well for the nonliving.”

“Thank you,” said D’Argento. “Shandar does us all proud.”

“And from a purely professional interest,” I added, “are you running them on an Ankh-XVII RUNIX core?”

“You know your spells,” said Miss D’Argento with a smile. “We run them with the Mandrake Sentience Emulation Protocols disabled to make them less independent. Make no mistake, they are twice as dangerous as real bodyguards, for they fear no death.”

She wasn’t kidding. Pharaoh Amenemhat V of the Middle Kingdom was said to have attempted to expand Egypt along the Mediterranean with an unstoppable drone army of sixty thousand. They got as far as what is now Benghazi until Amenemhat V was killed in battle.

The forklift placed the crate in front of me and reversed away. Several of the lifeless drones unlatched the crate and wheeled the two sections apart to reveal the Mighty Shandar himself.

But it wasn’t a flesh-and-blood Shandar. It was Shandar as he spent most of his time these days: stone. Every fold in his clothes, every pore in his skin, every eyelash was perfectly preserved in glassy obsidian. This was how the Mighty Shandar could still be a serious player in the world of magic four centuries after his birth. In stone, you don’t age.

But spending time in petra was not without dangers. The world is littered with sorcerers who had turned to stone for some reason, only to have an arm, leg, or head get knocked or sawn off. Those who return to life generally bleed to death before they can be saved. But with the right storage facilities and barring erosion, accidental damage, or mischief, a sorcerer in stone could live hundreds of thousands of years without losing a second of his or her own life.

“The Mighty Shandar celebrates his four hundred and forty-fourth birthday next year,” said Miss D’Argento, “yet in his own personal life he is only fifty-eight. He doesn’t get out of stone for anything less than a million an hour, and at current life-usage rates will live until 9356.” She looked carefully at Shandar’s features, unclipped a feather duster from inside the crate, and flicked some dust from the statue.

“He spent the entire seventeenth and eighteenth centuries turned to stone,” continued Miss D’Argento proudly, “but that was mainly for tax purposes. Four generations of my family never spoke to him at all.”

“You must be very dedicated.”

“Dedication does not even begin to describe our commitment to the Mighty Shandar,” said D’Argento, “but enough chitchat. Read this.”

She passed me a sheet of paper. I scanned the contents, and my heart fell. It was a letter from Representatives of the Ununited Kingdoms to the Mighty Shandar, outlining a breach of contract they had filed with the UnUK’s highest court.

“The thing is,” said D’Argento in a half-apologetic tone as I read the lawsuit, “the Mighty Shandar doesn’t do refunds.”

The problem was this: The Mighty Shandar had been contracted to rid the kingdoms of dragons four centuries before, and was paid a lot of money to do so. His plan had required the last dragon to die of old age, a plan in which I had personally intervened to spoil. There were now two dragons left, and that was two more dragons than the contract stipulated. Unless Shandar rid the kingdoms of every dragon, he’d have to return the cash. And it was a lot of cash. Paid to him four centuries ago, the interest alone would fund at least half a Troll War.

“We have the money,” said D’Argento. “The Mighty Shandar’s share in Skybus Aeronautics would cover the debt pretty much on its own. No, it’s the principle of the matter. A job was left unfinished, and we’re not keen to make a habit of it. Clients might lose confidence, and in business, confidence counts.”

“I agree with that,” I replied, “but this is a job that doesn’t need finishing. Dragons aren’t much into eating people anymore—it’s probably the last thing on Feldspar’s and Colin’s minds.”

“They have names?”

“Certainly. In the first month of their new life, they did a goodwill tour around the world to promote their Not Eating People or Burning Stuff agenda, and they are now in Washington, D.C., reading the entire contents of the Library of Congress in order to understand a little more about humans.”

“Admirable, I’m sure,” said Miss D’Argento, “but the refund issue still stands. Don’t take my word for it, for you are to be honored: the Mighty Shandar wants to speak to you personally.”

Miss D’Argento checked her watch. As a clock struck two, the statue of Shandar turned from black to gray to a sort of off-white. There was a pause, and then Shandar took a deep breath as life returned to his body. The off-white coating burst off his skin and clothes like dry skin. He staggered for a moment, shook himself, and looked around.

“Welcome back, O Mighty Shandar.” Miss D’Argento beamed and clicked a stopwatch. “It’s two o’clock on the afternoon of the fourteenth of October. You’ve been in petra for sixty-two days. We’re currently at Madley International Airport in the Kingdom of Snodd.” She handed him a damp towel so he could refresh himself, then a clipboard and pen. “Ongoing progress reports, sir.”

His eyes scanned the text. “I’ll take two minutes.” His voice was a deep baritone that transmitted confidence, awe, and leadership in equal measure.

“This is Jennifer Strange,” said D’Argento, gesturing in my direction, “as you requested.”

He looked across at me. He was a handsome man, tanned and imposingly large. His eyes were of the brightest green, like a cat’s, and seemed to regard everything in unblinking detail.

“Miss D’Argento? Make that four minutes.” He shook my hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Jennifer Strange. A worthy opponent is the only opponent worth opposing.” His hand was firm, yet cold, which was hardly surprising; a few seconds ago he had been stone.

“You assisted the dragons in destroying my carefully laid plans,” he added in a quieter voice, “plans four centuries in the making. All that work for nothing, and now they’re asking for a refund. Worse, you have damaged my one hundred percent wizidrical success rate and bruised my credibility as a sorcerer of considerable power. For any one of those reasons, I should banish you to the icy wastes of outer Finlandia.”

“If that was your plan, you would already have done so.”

“Very true,” he said with a half smile, “but I’m not into revenge. It has a nasty habit of biting you back when you least expect it. I have a feeling that punishing you would upset the delicate good-bad balance.”

Most sorcerers believed in what they called “the balance.” Simply put, all life requires equilibrium to survive. For every death there is birth, for every light there is dark, for every ugliness something else shines with greater luster. And for every truly heinous act, there are multiple good acts to compensate. It’s why evil despots are ultimately defeated, and why a truly awful reality TV show can never go on forever.

Shandar looked at the clipboard, signed something, then continued to read while he spoke to me. Someone as powerful as Shandar would be able to read two books and converse with three people at the same time, even in different languages.

“You seem a resourceful young lady, Jennifer. I’m not often beaten, and the experience has renewed a sense of excitement that I have not felt for a long time. You appreciate that I have almost unlimited power at my disposal?”

“I know that, sir, yes.”

The Mighty Shandar pointed to a clause in one of the notes he was looking at. “Are we sure about this?”

“Yes, sir,” replied D’Argento. “They want the state of Hawaii moved to the middle of the Pacific.”

“I thought it was fine between Montana and North Dakota.”

“The venerable Lord Jack of Hawaii requested the move on account of the climate—and they want to retrofit the collective memory so everyone thinks it’s always been there.”

“Standard stuff,” said Shandar. “They didn’t quibble over the price?”

“Not a murmur.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Where have all the good negotiators gone?”

“Two minutes gone,” said Miss D’Argento, consulting her stopwatch.

“So with my power at almost unimaginably high levels right now,” Shandar continued, turning back to me, “your friends the dragons are easily exterminated. I could—and would—destroy them in a heartbeat, thus completing the contract and avoiding a refund.”

“Then you will battle with the combined power of everyone at Kazam as well, Mighty Shandar,” I said, “for we will do anything to prevent your harming a single scale of a dragon.” It was a bold speech, and I shivered in anticipation of his reaction.

He appeared not to hear me at first and spoke again to his agent. “We’re not doing this,” he said quietly as he handed an unsigned contract back to Miss D’Argento. “There are quite enough boy bands on the planet as it is.” He turned back to me. “The combined power of your sorcerers would not equal one-thousandth of my power.”

“I know that,” I replied, “and so do they. But it would not stop them. They would all die defending one of their own, and the dragons are one of us.”

The Mighty Shandar regarded me thoughtfully. I’d not consulted Kazam’s sorcerers on any of this, but I knew them well enough, and so did he.

“Then I have a proposition for you, Miss Strange. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“As you can see, my time is strictly rationed. I have no spare time to search for rare and exotic trinkets to add to my collection of Wonderful Things. Miss D’Argento is too busy managing my affairs, and drones are all very well for heavy lifting and the odd senseless act of violence, but they have no finesse. So. If you find something for me, I will leave the dragons alone and take the indignity on the chin.”

“I’m still listening,” I said. “What do you want me to find?”

“A magnificent pink ruby the size of a goose’s egg. It belonged to a wizard I admire greatly. You may find me . . . the Eye of Zoltar.”

“That’s a tall order.” I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t pay to look like an idiot in Shandar’s presence.

“One minute to go,” said Miss D’Argento.

“Do we have a deal?” asked Shandar.

I didn’t need to think for long. If I didn’t agree to find this Eye of Zoltar, then Shandar would attempt to kill the dragons, and I would be honor bound to try to stop him, and that would end in collective annihilation.

“I’ll find you the Eye of Zoltar,” I said, “whatever it takes.”

“Good choice,” said Shandar with a grin. “I knew you’d agree.”

“Any clue as to where it is?” I asked. “The world is a big place.”

“If I knew where it was,” snapped Shandar, “I’d get it myself.”

Since the meeting was clearly at an end, I returned to the car, where the princess, Tiger, and the Quarkbeast were waiting. From the Bugatti Royale we watched as Shandar talked quietly with D’Argento, signed some more forms, and, when his four minutes were up, changed rapidly back into obsidian.

The drones quickly crated him up; the forklift reappeared and placed the crate back into the rear of the cargo aircraft. Once that was done, the drones approached a clothes rack standing to one side and deftly jumped back onto their coat hangers, the empty suits returning to what they had been—creatures given life only by the will of Shandar. The human manservant wheeled the clothes rack into the back of the cargo hold, swiftly followed by Miss D’Argento at the wheel of the Phantom Twelve. A minute later the cargo door was closed, and the engines started up. By this time tomorrow, Shandar and his cohort could be anywhere on the planet.

I tapped the Helping Hand^™ to bring it out of sleep mode; it dutifully pulled the steering wheel around, and we drove out of the hangar. We paused on the perimeter track as Shandar’s aircraft lumbered into the sky, which seemed almost impossible, given the plane’s disproportionately tiny wings. Then we headed toward Zambini Towers.

“The Eye of Zoltar?” said Tiger when I’d finished relating what Shandar had said.

“What on earth’s that?” asked the princess.

“I’ve no idea,” I said. “The person to consult is someone with a clearer idea of what the future might bring.”

“I’m no clairvoyant,” said Tiger, “but I think I know who you mean.”