NINE
The Remarkable Kevin Zipp
The Remarkable Kevin Zipp was one of Kazam’s most accomplished clairvoyants. When we walked back into the offices at Zambini Towers, he was checking out baby futures. Not in a stocks-and-shares kind of way, but what a baby’s life had in store. It was a good way to earn ready cash, as Kazam was constantly short of money. Two mothers had their tots with them, and Kevin was checking by holding on to the left foot of each baby in turn.
“If she wants to go out with someone named Geoff when she’s sixteen,” he said as the first mother stared at him anxiously, “try to get her to go out with Nigel instead.”
“There’s a problem with Geoff?”
“No, there’s a problem with Nigel. Ban Geoff from her life and he’ll become unbelievably attractive and she’ll forget all about Nigel, and believe me, she needs to. Nigel is big trouble.”
“How big?”
“Really big.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Not really—although you might consider joining the National Trust and vacationing in Wales. It’s quite nice, I’m told, and not always raining.”
“Oh. Well, thank you very much.” The mother handed Kevin a ten-moolah note and moved away. The second mother presented her baby. Kevin closed his eyes and rocked slowly in his chair as he held the baby’s foot.
“This is preposterous,” said the princess. “I’ve never seen a more ridiculous load of mumbo-jumbo in my entire life!”
“This is nothing,” I said. “Lots of time to see some gold-standard mumbo-jumbo, and quite frankly, Kazam is the place to see it.”
“Concert pianist,” Kevin murmured thoughtfully, still holding the baby’s foot, “and make sure he likes boiled cabbage, tasteless stew, and runny porridge.”
“He’ll be a pianist?” asked the mother excitedly.
“No, he’s going to murder one at age twenty-six, so better get him used to prison food from an early age . . . hence the boiled cabbage.”
The mother glared at him, slapped the money on the table, and left. Kevin looked confused. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Perhaps you should temper the bad news with good,” I suggested.
“I couldn’t tell either of them the really bad news,” he replied. “The ‘concert pianist’ thing was the minority timeline; the senior timeline—the most likely one—has them both not lasting the week.”
I picked up the mail on my desk and opened a letter that was postmarked from Cambrianopolis, the capital city of the Cambrian Empire. It looked official.
“Oh, dear,” I said as I read the letter. “Once Magnificent Boo’s been arrested for ‘illegal importation of a Tralfamosaur.’”
“That’s a trumped-up charge,” said Tiger. “The Cambrian Empire has herds and herds of the things—people pay good money to hunt them, for goodness’ sake.”
“There’s a reason,” I added. “She’s been transferred to Emperor Tharv’s state-owned Ransom Clearance House, ready for negotiations.”
“The Cambrian Empire is still kidnapping people?” said Tiger. “When are they going to enter the twenty-first century?”
“I think they have to consider entering the nineteenth century first,” said Kevin.
Traditionally, it was princes and kings and knights and stuff who were ransomed because they were worth a lot of money, but in the Cambrian Empire, pretty much anyone was fair game. If you weren’t royal, the release fees could actually be fairly modest—people cost less to release than a parking ticket, which was both kind of depressing and very welcome. But the long and short of it was that if we wanted Boo back, we would have to pay. And that would mean going over there with a letter of credit and doing a deal.
Kevin nodded toward the princess. “Who’s that?”
I put the letter down. “This is Laura Scrubb. She’ll be with us awhile.” I nodded to the princess, who reluctantly shook hands with Kevin, then made a point of smelling her hand with obvious distaste before wiping it on her uniform.
“She’s the princess, isn’t she?” said Kevin with interest, peering at what might appear at first glance to be an undernourished handmaiden.
“I’m afraid so,” I replied, “but keep it under your hat. If she’s kidnapped by agents of a foreign power, we’ll have to waste a lot of time and energy getting her back.”
“Probably do her the power of good,” said Kevin, “and knock some sense into her thick, overprivileged head.”
“You are so disrespectful,” announced the princess haughtily, getting out her list and pencil again. “Name?”
“Kevin Spartacus.”
“Related to this nitwit here?” She pointed at Tiger. “That figures, and I don’t know who to pity more.”
She scribbled the name on the piece of paper while Kevin peered at her as one might gaze at a particularly intriguing variety of beetle. I was suddenly worried—I’d seen that look before. He was seeing something, or had seen something. Something in the future, and about the princess.
“This is very interesting,” Kevin said at length. “Yes, very interesting indeed. Definitely keep her identity a secret.” He prodded the princess with a bony finger. “Fascinating.”
“Okay,” said the princess, “let’s get this straight right now. No one is to prod the Royal Personage.”
We all ignored her. Technically speaking, she was an orphan, nothing more.
“You will almost die several times in the next week,” said Kevin Zipp thoughtfully, “but will be saved by people who do not like you, nor are like you, nor whom you like.”
“That’ll be you two, then,” said the princess, looking at Tiger and me.
“It might help if you were to invest in a bit of warmth,” said Kevin.
“If you have foreseen I am to be saved, then it doesn’t much matter what I do, now, does it?”
“I only foresee a version of the future,” said Kevin. “How it unfolds is up to you.”
The princess didn’t make any retort, and instead asked where the lavatory was. I told her and she stomped off.
“Was that true?” asked Tiger. “The near-death thing, I mean?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kevin with a shrug. “She’ll come within a hairsbreadth of death—may even meet it. It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest. But I’ll tell you this: the princess will be involved in the next Troll War, which will start when least expected. It will be bloody, short—and the aggressors will be victorious.”
“We will?” I asked in surprise, for past Troll Wars had been noted only for the swift manner in which humans had been utterly defeated.
“Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Then again,” Kevin added cheerfully, “I’ve been wrong before. And don’t forget that what I see is only a possible version of events—and sometimes it’s a knotted jumble of potential futures all seen as one.”
This, unfortunately, was true. Fate can never be precisely determined. All of us are somewhat clairvoyant; any future you can dream up, no matter how bizarre, retains the faint possibility of coming true. Kevin’s skill was of dreaming up future events that were not just possible, but likely. He once said, “Being a clairvoyant is ten percent guesswork and ninety percent probability mathematics.”
“So,” said Kevin, “aside from princesses looking like handmaidens, what news?”
“Lots. I need to find something called the Eye of Zoltar. Heard of it?”
“Sure. It’s had Legendary Grade III status for centuries.”
A Legendary Grade III status meant that the Eye was “really not very likely at all,” which wasn’t helpful, but better than Grade II: “no proof of existence” or Grade I: “proven nonexistence.”
“Grade III, eh?” I said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Unicorns were Grade III at one time,” said Kevin, “and the coelacanth. And we all know they exist.” He then frowned deeply, looked at me again, and a cloud of consternation crossed his face. “Who precisely wants you to look for the Eye of Zoltar?”
I told him about the meeting with the Mighty Shandar and the options regarding the refund. Kevin thought for a moment, then said, “I need to make some inquiries. Call a Sorcerer’s Conclave for an hour from now.”
I told him I would, and he dashed off without another word.
“Kevin’s seen something in the future,” said Tiger, “and I don’t think he likes it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I noticed it too. And when clairvoyants get nervous, so do I.”
The princess came back in, holding a roll of toilet paper. “Do I fold it or crumple it before I . . . you know?”
Tiger and I looked at each other.
“Don’t give me your silent-pity nonsense,” said the princess crossly. “It is a huge sacrifice to live without servants, a burden that you pinheads know nothing about. What’s more, this body I’m trapped in is covered with unsightly red rashes and I think I may be dying. My stomach has a sort of gnawing feeling inside.”
“You’re hungry,” I said simply. “Never felt that before?”
“Me, a princess? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re going to have to trust that body when it starts telling you things. Let me have a look at the rash. Growing up in an orphanage tends to make you an expert on skin complaints.”
She made a harrumph noise and I led her off in the direction of the lavatory.
Fortunately for the princess and for Laura Scrubb, the rash was not bad and likely the result of sleeping on damp hay. After instructing her—not assisting her—on the toilet paper problem, I took her down to the Kazam kitchens and introduced her to our cook, known by everyone as Unstable Mabel, but not called that to her face.
“Where did you find this poor wee bairn?” said Mabel, ladling out a large portion of leftover stew and handing it to the princess. “She looks as though she has been half starved and treated with uncommon brutality. From the palace, is she?”
“That’s an outrageous slur against a fine employer,” said the princess, shoveling down the stew. “I’ll have you know that the royal family are warm and generous people who treat their servants with the greatest respect and rarely leave them out in the rain for fun.”
Unstable Mabel, who was not totally without lucid moments, looked at me and arched an eyebrow. “She’s the princess, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The princess stopped mid-gulp, her manners apparently forgotten in her hunger. “How does everyone know it’s me?”
“Because,” said Mabel, always direct in speech and manner, “you’re well known in the kingdom as a spoiled, conniving, cruel, bullying little brat.”
“Right,” said the princess, getting out her piece of paper. “You’re going on the list too. Everyone on it will be flogged for disrespect. Name?”
“Mabel . . . Spartacus.”
The princess started to write, then clued in to the ongoing Spartacus gag.
“You’re only making it worse for yourself,” scolded the princess. “When I’m in my own body again, none of you will be laughing, I can tell you.” And she gave us both a pouty glare and folded her arms.
Mabel turned to me. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Yes, please.”
“Take her down to the orphan labor pool and have her allocated to sewer-cleaning duties for twenty-four hours. She’ll have to live outside for a couple of days afterward due to the stench that no amount of scrubbing will remove, but it might teach her some humility.”
“I hate all of you,” said the princess. “I hate your lack of compassion and the meager respect you show your obvious betters. If you don’t take me home right now I will hold my breath until I turn blue, and then you’ll be sorry.”
I stared at her for a moment. “No need for that,” I said with a sigh, taking my car keys from my pocket. “I’ll just apologize to the king and the queen and tell them their daughter is beyond my help, and probably anyone else’s. You can live out your spoiled life without effort, secure in the depths of your own supreme ignorance, and die as you lived: without purpose, true fulfillment, or any discernibly useful function.”
She opened her mouth only to shut it again.
I continued. “You don’t need me to drive you home, Princess. You know where the door is and you can walk out any time you want. But I’d like you to appreciate that Laura Scrubb, the orphan with whom you are not even worthy to share skin disorders, cannot walk out a door to anywhere until she’s eighteen, and even then it’s to a life of grinding poverty, disappointment, backbreaking toil, and an early death, if she’s lucky.”
The princess was silent for a moment, then pulled up a sleeve and looked at Laura’s rash.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m staying. But only because I choose to do so for educational reasons and not because any of your words meant anything to me, which they didn’t.”
“Good,” I said, “and you’ll choose to do what I tell you rather than endlessly complaining and putting people on your list?”
The princess shrugged. “I might choose to do that, yes.”
I stared at her and she lowered her eyes, took the list out of her pocket, and tore it into tiny pieces. “Pointless anyway,” she grumbled, “what with everyone called ‘Spartacus.’”
And she chuckled at the joke. It showed she had a sense of humor. Perhaps she might become bearable in time.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s get you into some clean clothes and out of that terrible maid’s outfit.”
“Thank you,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I’d like that.”
I led her up to my bedroom, found some clothes about the right size, and told her not to come down until she had showered and washed her hair. She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse until I helped her.
“Hell’s teeth, Princess, did you not do anything for yourself at the palace?”
“I did my own sleeping,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Usually.”
I gathered up her tattered clothes as she took them off, then chucked them into the recycling. As I left to alert everyone about the Sorcerer’s Conclave, I heard her scream as she mishandled the temperature dial on the shower.