It was unusual for this sort of person to be presented to him; usually his courtiers kept them out. He always got suspicious of his courtiers when they did something out of character. He knew that-naturally-they feared and respected him, but sometimes he thought they wouldn’t be beyond talking behind his back or having little plans of their own.

Anyway, he didn’t like the monk’s face. There was something too narrow and sharp and penetrating about it, and there was a look of amused contempt about his expression that suggested he found the King or his Kingdom ridiculous. He distrusted the monk instantly. People had died for less. A lot less.

One of his courtiers mumbled into his ear about the monk’s mission. The King was mildly surprised by what he was told, but still suspicious.

“So,” he said to the monk, “you are of an Order which also despises the Great Infernal Wizard.”

“Indeed, your gracious Majesty,” the monk said, looking down modestly at the carpet. His voice sounded respectful. “Our Belief-perhaps not so dissimilar from your own, more venerable and more widely followed creed-is that God is a Mad Scientist and we His experimental subjects, doomed forever to run the Maze of Life through apparently random and unjust punishments for meaningless and paltry rewards and no discernible good reason save His evil pleasure.”

The King stared at the skinny monk. The man’s accent was off-putting and his language complicated, but he had the odd impression that the monk had actually been complimentary just there. He leaned forward in the gently swinging throne.

“D’you hate God too?” he said, wrinkling his nose and frowning.

The skinny monk, clad in a black cassock embellished only with a small metal box tied on a thong round his neck, smiled in an odd way and said, “Yes, your Majesty. We do, with a vengeance.”

“Good,” the King said. He sat back and studied the skinny monk. The monk glanced at the courtier who’d briefed the King, but the courtier kept shaking his head. One did not speak to the King until one was spoken to.

The King prided himself on being something of a statesman; he knew the value of having allies, even though the Kingdom itself was quite self-sufficient and under no immediate external threat. There were bandits and rebels in the deep country, as ever, and the usual closet reformers in the Kingdom and even the court, but the King knew how to deal with them; you asked a courtier and got them to check how they’d been dealt with in the past. Still, times changed on the outside even if they didn’t change here, and it never did any harm to have people in the world beyond who sympathised with Pharpech, and it had always annoyed the King that so few people out there seemed to have heard of his realm.

He’d quiz this monk. “How many of there are you?”

“Here in your realm, your Majesty? Only myself, of our Order-”

He shook his head. “No, everywhere. How many of you altogether?”

The skinny monk looked sad. “Vile number only a few thousand at the moment, your Majesty,” he admitted. “Though many of us are in positions of some power where we must, of course, keep our beliefs secret.”

“Hmm,” said the King. “Who’s your leader?”

“Majesty,” the monk said, looking troubled, “we have no leader. We have a parliament, a gathering of equals in which each man is his own high priest, and in that lies our problem.” The skinny monk looked up and smiled with more warmth. “You see, your Majesty, I have come humbly, on behalf of all my fellows, to petition you to become our spiritual leader.”

Petitions petitions petitions. The King was heartily sick of petitions. But at least this one was from outside the Kingdom, from people who didn’t owe him everything anyway and so had a damn cheek petitioning him for anything… No, this came from people who were doing it because of their respect for him and what he represented. He rather liked the idea.

“Spiritual leader?” he said, trying not to sound too taken with the title.

“Yes, your Majesty,” said the skinny monk. “We seek your approval of our humble creed because you are the head of a like-minded faith which has survived for many centuries, and so gives us hope. We wish to ask for your blessing, and-if you would be so kind as to grant it-for the ultimate blessing of your becoming head of our church. We would undertake to do nothing to disgrace your name, and to do everything to help honour the name of yourself and the Kingdom of Pharpech.” The monk looked touchingly modest. “Majesty, please believe we do not wish to impose upon your renowned good nature and generosity, but such is our heart-felt respect for you, and so great is our desire to gain your approval-undeserving wretches though we may be-that we felt we would be derelict in our duties to our faith if we did not approach you.”

The King looked confused. He didn’t want to give his blessing to people who were undeserving wretches. He had enough of those already.

“What?” he said. “You’re saying you’re undeserving wretches?”

The skinny monk looked uncertain for a second, then bowed his head. “Only compared to you, your Majesty. Compared to the unbelievers, we are the deserving and enlightened. As the saying has it; modesty is most effective when it is uncalled for.” The skinny monk smiled up at him again. His eyes looked moist.

The King didn’t quite understand that last remark-probably due to the skinny monk’s odd accent-but he knew the little fellow thought he’d said something mildly witty, and so made a little polite laughing noise and looked round his courtiers, nodding at them, so that they laughed and nodded at each other too. The King prided himself on being able to put people at their ease in this manner.

“Good monk,” he said, sitting back in the Stom Throne and adjusting his day-robe around him as the great throne swung gently, “I am minded to accept your humble request.” The King smiled. “We shall talk further, I think.” He put on his wise expression, and the skinny monk looked almost pathetically pleased. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.

How touching! the King thought.

He waved one hand graciously to the side, making a curl in the thick incense smoke. He indicated a couple of clerks standing to one side, holding cushions on which sat large flattish objects: ornate metal boxes. “Now, I understand you have brought Us some presents…”

“Indeed, your Majesty,” the skinny monk said, glancing round as the clerks came shuffling forward. They stood in a line at his side. He took the box from the first of the clerks and held it up to the King. It looked like a larger version of the little box on the thong round his neck. “It is a book, your Majesty.” He fiddled with the lock on the metallic box.

“A book?” the King said. He sat forward in the throne, gripping the edges of the Stom’s wings. He hated books. “A book?” he roared. His courtiers knew he hated books! How could they let this simpering cur come before him if they knew he’d come bearing books? He looked furiously at the nearest courtiers. Their expressions changed instantly from smirking satisfaction to shocked outrage.

“But it is God’s book, your Majesty!” the skinny monk whined, jaw trembling as his thin hands struggled to open the book’s jewelled metal casing.

“God’s book?” the King bellowed, standing up in the Stom Throne. This was… what was it called? Sacrilege! The great throne swung to and fro while the King glared down at the hapless monk. “Did you say God’s book?” he shouted. He raised his hand, to order the heretical… heretic be taken away.

“Yes, your Majesty,” the monk said, suddenly pulling the book apart, pages riffling. “Because it is blank!”

He held the book up before him like a shield, face turned away from the King’s wrath, while the flittering white pages fell fanning apart.