Raucous laughter, maniacal laughter, laughter off the leash, charged along corridors and stairwells of Belial’s palace. It came from the throne room. Sizma headed towards the source and shrugged to others who could hear the racket, but didn’t understand what was causing it.

She held back a little, peered through the gap in the doors and waited for Belial to lift his head. He slumped in his throne, rubbed his eyes, breathed out and collapsed back into hysterics. There was no option but to investigate.

“Majesty.” Sizma pushed the door open with great caution and took one careful step into the throne room. She was hit by a falling bucket and drenched with cold water. Belial staggered as if hit by an invisible spear. His shrieking laughter no comfort for the soaked jacket and the rivulets of water running down Sizma’s back. A slippery tail of hair clung to her face and then the real joke became apparent. The bucket handle was caught on her right horn.

Speechless and gasping for breath Belial beckoned her forward. She complied and the floor opened. She plunged into a shallow pit and on the way down witnessed her master’s total collapse into debilitating fits of laughter. When he was able to move, he staggered towards her half in, half out the pit, her arms stuck, unable to lever herself out of the hole in the ground.

“Dear Chamberlain Sizma, let me. . . .” He pulled her up, slipped the bucket off her horn and glanced back at the door. “What a day.” He guided her towards a chair. “Do sit down, no hang on, not that one. This one. There.”

She sat down and activated a disgusting noise from a cushion she had never seen before. Belial roared. “Don’t you ever wish there was more brevity in this place Chamberlain Sizma? More laughter?”

“Is that a trick question, Majesty?”

“No, it’s rhetorical. I already know the answer. Yes, there should be more laughter. Look outside, the smoke is clearing, my beautiful realm is re-emerging.” He drifted towards the open window, took in great lungfuls of air and coughed on the lingering specks of ash that continued to find a way across the border. “Still a way to go, obviously. But look out there Chamberlain, look at my realm. Look how astounding I’ve made it.”

“It is indeed a testament and reflection of your greatness, Majesty. We should be grateful we can see it again.”

“Indeed.”

“May I ask why I was just drenched with water, plunged into a pit and forced to make farting noises?”

“Good question Chamberlain.” A servant entered the throne room and brought a foul stench with him. “Er, please, outside, here take it.” Belial pinched his nose and handed the servant the bucket with his outstretched arm. “Don’t bring the manure into the throne room.” The servant apologised, took the bucket and backed away. Sizma guided him around the trap door in the floor that was still open.

“You were saying, Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, some obnoxious fellow has come down here. A magician and trickster. Says something about him he was buried surrounded by his paraphernalia. But he may well have been a, an irreversible sinner, but his contraptions are astounding. His tricks, his jokes. I can’t get enough of them, Chamberlain.”

The servant returned with the bucket, but the stench still lingered. “Above the door.” Belial ordered the servant to replace the bucket in a position where it would fall on the next person to enter. A steaming watery bomb of horse manure. But with the bucket in place the servant was unable to leave.

“Chamberlain, open the window, help him out.” The throne room was on the second floor of the palace and the servant, heaved out of the window, hit the cobbles with a dull thud.

“What do you plan to do, Majesty?”

“I have invited Lord Demon Trinistis. I hate him. He thinks he should be wearing my crown and has the audacity to say so on a regular basis.” Belial stood inches from the throne room door. “Let’s see how he enjoys wearing a crown such as this.”

After ten minutes of waiting in silence footsteps approached the door. Two pairs of footsteps. Sizma rushed forward. “Halt. Whoever approaches the door please remember the correct etiquette. The most senior member of the visitation must enter first.”

“Understood,” said an unseen voice.

Belial smirked and winked at Sizma. The door opened. Lord Demon Trinistis stepped into the throne room. . . .

Sizma attended to her majesty’s collapse; the unknown attendant scurried around Trinistis daubing his master with a hopeless bit of cloth, smearing the manure into the weave of his gilded cloak. Trinistis batted him away. “Is this a joke?”

“Of course it’s a joke.” Belial gasped for air and tried to stand up. “Have you no sense of humour?” Upright and faced with a Lord Demon dripping manure off his chin Belial’s mood suddenly darkened. “I’m not sure how many of you have eyes on my throne, but let me tell you. I always thought you were a shithead and now it seems I’m right.” He called for guards and instructed them to take Trinistis away and do something about his head. The guards understood.

“Shall I call for the Royal Cleaner, Majesty?”

“Yes. Get rid of that stink.”

After a short search the Royal Cleaner, weighed down with fluids and mops, brushes and shovels burst into the throne room, the door free of falling objects.

He clattered to a halt. “Gracious Majesty, Overlord of All Glorious Territory, High Council of Culture and Creativity, Overseer and Overprotector of All Settlements and Realms, no I’ve got that the wrong way round haven’t I? Realms and Settlements and-“

“There’s no and,” said Sizma.

“Sorry. Grand Justice and Supreme Magistrate, Fair and,” he looked for help, “Fair and Equitable?” Sizma nodded. “Fair and Equitable High Monarch and Defender of Valleys, Townships, Lowlands and All Roads and Byways?” She shook her head and mouthed the correct word, “All Routes and Byways, Arbiter of Wit and Intellect, and Perennial Champion of Concerns Becoming and Suitable of All Monarchs and Prime Leaders. Praise in Eternity Be To You.” He bowed and dropped his gloves.

“What a mess,” said Belial.

“Nothing that can’t be cleaned up, Most Gracious Majesty.”

“I meant what you just said. Guards.” The guards rushed in. The blood drained out of the Royal Cleaner’s face. “No, sorry. Just joking.” Belial clicked his fingers and stopped Sizma from sitting down. “Sit over there.”

“You are most merciful, Gracious Majesty,” said the Royal Cleaner.

“Quite so. And contrary. I wasn’t joking. Guards.” They rushed forward again, but were held back by Belial’s regal hand. “No,” he laughed, “I was just joking, come sit here, Royal Cleaner.” He directed the Royal Cleaner to the chair and sat him down and watched him disappear in a deafening explosion of cloud and wood.

When he stopped laughing Belial said to Sizma. “See what happens when you sit in the exploding chair?” She followed him out and made a mental note to send for the Assistant Royal Cleaner to clean away the remains of the ex-Royal Cleaner. Down the hallway she passed falling servants tripped by wires at the tops of staircases, a waiter hung by the ankle next to a storage cupboard. And at the end of the hallway a pair of legs dangled through another wretched trapdoor in the ceiling.

“Chamberlain Sizma, I want you to go out to the towns and villages and find me more practical jokes. The more the merrier. Nothing is too extreme. No joke too cruel, no trick too painful. If you think it will cheer me up bring it back.”

“I thought the smoke clearing would be reason enough to cheer you up, Majesty.”

“It does, but you know me, Chamberlain.” Belial stood to one side of the door to his ante-room.

“Yes, I do, Majesty.” Sizma turned the door handle and felt a shock surge up her arm.

“Obviously not, Chamberlain.” Belial giggled and heaved the door open. “I’m sure there are lots of ideas to be discovered. Take your time.” He adjusted the hands on the large clock next to the window.

Sizma checked her own watch. “It’s one hour later than that, Majesty.” She corrected the time. The clock came alive and a tiny wooden fist punched her in the face. Dabbing the blood away from her nose she said, “I’ll see to it straight away, Majesty.”

“You take a joke with such grace, Chamberlain.”

“As is your wish, Majesty.” On the way out of the room she pulled the door closed with her hoof.

Without the smoke to conceal her presence Sizma was forced to endure the nervous glances of the villagers. Chatting women were filled with a sudden need to preoccupy themselves with repairs, whimpering children and wayward dogs. Men slipped through their front doors and limped away down alleys and ginnels. In the Palace her presence blended into the background, but in the mundane setting of the villages she was a dangerous symbol of Belial’s unpredictable wrath: the crimson leather coat reflected his temper, her long horns announced his demonic status, and the tail; so few demons possessed the sharpened triangular tip and it whipped and flinched with barely concealed menace.

The first tavern she came too was full and noisy until she stepped up to the bar. “Good morning. I have an unusual request.” The landlord waited. “Do any of you know any practical jokes?”

“Practical jokes?”

“Yes. Buckets of water above doors, trapdoors in the floor, cuckoo clocks that punch you in the face. Anything?”

The drinkers thought for a moment, but only one man spoke up. “There’s the poisoned grass trick.”

“What does that involve?”

“Well,” the old man had seen better days, but he had the mischievous eyes of a prankster, “you visit someone’s garden in the dead of night, take a strong weed killer with you, pour it across the lawn to spell out a message. Then you clear off and a few days later the owner of the house looks out of his window and there’s a message where the grass has died. You old tosser, sheep shagger, that type of thing.” The other drinkers stared at him. “Not that I’ve ever done anything like that.”

Sizma wrote down the trick in her notebook. “Any other ideas?”

“Pavlov, the blacksmith, he used to have some bits of metal that sounded like crockery smashing when he dropped them on the floor.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Used to drive his wife mad with that trick.”

“She killed him, didn’t she?”

“Aye. Red hot poker up the rectum. But if you find a blacksmith they might have bits of metal of their own.”

“Thank you, I’ll look out for one.” She made a note: blacksmith, metal sounds like crockery, risk of red hot pokers. “Any more?”

“Stuffed rat on a shelf in a kitchen,” shouted one voice.

“Horse glue on a toilet bowl.”

“Mouse trap inside a shoe.”

“Just a minute, just a minute.” Sizma scribbled down the suggestions flying at her. Five minutes later she had filled ten pages of practical jokes that ranged from the inconsequential (sheep droppings fed to someone else’s obnoxious children) to the life threatening (sawing through the rungs of a roofer’s ladder).

She thanked everyone and left a purse of money to pay for drinks. Outside, she peered through the keyhole and watched the landlord bite the coins, hold them up to the light, try to bend them, anything to check they were real. Which they were. Sizma was no fan of practical jokes herself.

As she headed down the street to find a blacksmith and a carpenter with a very sharp saw she was called back by two demons alert to their own sinister appearance. “You come from the Royal Palace?”

“Yes.”

“Practical jokes? Has Belial requested these?”

“His Gracious Majesty to you.”

“Sorry. Has His Gracious Majesty sent you out to find these practical jokes?”

“Yes, he has.”

“We know a good one.”

“Tell me more.”

They relocated to a street corner where a small house added a squat punctuation mark to the row of stone and timber buildings. A dim light shone in one of the windows. “Fellow who lives there used to be an undertaker.” One of the demons lit a long slender pipe and offered it to Sizma.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Before he came down here he used to tell a tale of a man who rose from his coffin. They shut the lid, left him in there with an air supply and then on the day they were due to put him in the ground he burst open the coffin and scared the shit out of the mourners. Course, being paranoid, he’d been lying there for days listening to everyone and what they really thought about him.”

“Something Belial might find useful.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, His Gracious Majesty. He’d find out who his real enemies were.”

What were the words he had used: I’m not sure how many of you have eyes on my throne. Borderline paranoia, as every long standing leader became. Belial was one on the brink. This could be the trick with a double purpose.

“Can he still make coffins?” said Sizma.

“You never forget. We’ll bring it up to the palace for you. Tell us when.”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll be there.”

She left them to their pipe and planning and hurried back to the palace with a notebook full of ideas. Ideas that would entertain the leader and eradicate his enemies. He’d be pleased, so pleased he might stop playing practical jokes on her.

When Belial heard about the coffin trick he mobilised his servants. The throne room was dressed for his lying in state. The news was prepared, the Royal Messengers who managed to remember his full title dispatched, and invitations to the funeral distributed.

“Tell me, Chamberlain Sizma, how unpopular do you think I am? You must hear the talk when you’re out and about.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of anyone wanting to kill you.”

“Yes, go on.”

“And sometimes you simply leave people speechless.”

“Ah. Is that a good thing, do you think?”

“People tend not to speak when they are in awe, Gracious Majesty. Don’t worry about what the people think. You provide well for them. They do not live in fear of you.”

“Don’t they?”

“No, Majesty.”

“We can’t have that.”

“And you will find out what people think when you are lying in state. If there are any malcontents they won’t be around for much longer.”

“Quite so, yes, Chamberlain. You’re right.” He continued the habit of leaving and then turning back. Sizma was ready for him. “You don’t have any ambitions to, you know. . . .”

“Know what, Majesty?”

“Well, do me in, that sort of thing.”

“No, Majesty. Betrayal is the ugliest sin of all.”

“Yes. Parents taught you that, did they?”

“Along with many other qualities, Majesty.”

He thought about it for a moment and then, half satisfied with the exchange, left to prepare himself for his own funeral.

The coffin arrived. Sizma organised the receipt, signing delivery notes and positioning the huge timber casket in the throne room. The same demons heaved it into place, fiddled about with the lid, puffed up the cushion and smoothed out the rich ruby lining. “Head goes at this end,” said one of the demons.

“I thought it might.” The demons lingered waiting for further instructions. “Anything else?”

“We’ll be off then. Go and get our payment deposited.”

“Oh payment, yes. Sorry.” She went to find the Royal Accountant, new to the job and still finding his feet. But she had to go back, find out what the final bill was and as she approached the door to the throne room stopped a moment, Belial’s paranoia creeping up on her, and listened at the door.

Inside, the demons discussed the coffin and the best place for the poison. “Under the cushion. Before he can turn over and move it, he’ll be gassed out of his head.”

“No, put it at his feet. When the lids nailed shut he can’t reach it down there.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

Sizma had no need for the bill and wouldn’t be issuing a receipt. The day after, Belial took his place before the mourners had gathered, still tucking into their funeral day breakfasts. Sizma helped Belial clamber into the casket. It fitted him perfectly. “Quite comfortable actually,” he said. Sizma closed the lid and opened it again when Belial tapped on the underside. “Do you think they’ll realise I’m immortal? Won’t they wonder what I’m doing here?”

“No one is immortal, Majesty. Not even a prime demon. I think they’re here.” She closed the lid and took her place at the door to the throne room. The Royal Greeter met each visitor as they came in. Lord Demons, Initiates, Infernal Magistrates and Ambassadors. Astaroth’s new Chamberlain, Lestrat, asked the question on everyone’s lips.

“How did it happen?”

“He was inspecting one of his towers. At the top he remembered he had no head for heights and fell off. Quite an artistic fall, but he was a bit of a mess after he landed. That’s why we’re keeping the lid closed. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Really? Extraordinary. Still, hitting the ground from a great height is fairly instant.”

“Yes. I’m not sure about the drop leading up to it.”

“Or down to it.”

“Or down to it, yes.” They both huddled in a fit of giggles and straightened up when Lord Demon Borozaek frowned at them.

In the middle of the crowd, genteel and hushed, the two demons with the original idea lingered and hovered, occasionally whispering to higher demons. Sizma made it her job to bring people close to the casket and engage them in testimonials and platitudes. Opinion was split between those who thought he was a great leader, forward thinking, cultured, creative (most of them had never met him). And the ones that had met him considered him to be vain, stupid, impetuous and ungrateful. Sizma nodded in acknowledgement of all opinions, but added none of her own.

When the time came to carry his casket to the chosen mausoleum where he would rest forever, the two demons offered to be pallbearers. She stopped them from fastening the lid closed. “How can he burst out if it’s fastened down,” she whispered.

“Oh, yes. Forgot about that. Got carried away by the occasion.”

She gathered her bag from beside the throne and led the coffin and the mourners out of the throne room, out of the palace, across the gardens to a glade in a light forest where his mausoleum sat like a lost object. Square and squat with a pyramidal top, some muttered it was not his best commission, but he wouldn’t see much of it anyway.

They rested the coffin at the door and waited for Sizma to make an announcement. She opened her bag and held up the small bottle of poison the two demons had tried to leave in the coffin. She held it up, watched the demons’ legs buckle and tapped the lid of the coffin.

After a second of struggling, the lid blew open and Belial heaved himself upright. The mourners gasped and backed away. “So, thought I were dead, did you? Well, I’m feeling a lot better, thank you. Must have been that fish I ate the other night, eh Chamberlain?”

“Remind me not to order haddock any more, Gracious Majesty,” said Sizma.

“Indeed so.” He then went on to harangue various mourners who had been lulled into indiscretion. “You bastard,” he pointed at Lord Demon Haversage. “Two faced? You think I’m two faced, do you, you bastard. And you, Lord Demon Forker. Yes, right Forker you turned out to be. You think I have the artistic qualities of a shellfish. What do you know about it anyway? Look at that coat you’re wearing. You look like a tobacconist.” And on he went for ten minutes, settling the scores, returning the insults. “I hope you’re making a note of all these names, Chamberlain.”

“All in here, Majesty.” She tapped her forehead.

But his real wrath was reserved for the two demons who came up with the original idea. “I have a nice surprise for you two.” He beckoned forward four of his guards. “The Royal Torturer if you would.” Off they went, Sizma in tow, leaving her gracious majesty to enjoy his practical joke which for many of the mourners wasn’t funny at all.

In the bowels of the palace, a cold hard warren of cells and shadows, the demons were dragged into a pit and tied to the ceiling. Sizma stared at them until the Royal Torturer arrived. The family resemblance was obvious to the demons transferring their astonishment from one figure to the next. Sizma, the Chamberlain, smart and presentable, her tail carried with casual insouciance, horns neat and sharp. The Royal Torturer strode into the pit, lowering her wings as she passed through the stone portal.

“Only two?” she said.

“For now. I think there may be a bit of a rush later on.”

“Good.” The Royal Torturer’s blackened tongue flicked around her lips as she inspected her new subjects. “You can leave us now,” she said to Sizma. “Let your sister get on with her work.”

At the end of a complex but satisfying day, Sizma returned to her room and found a gift on a bedside table. She inspected it for hidden explosives, spring mounted blades or funny smells, but it was a simple box of small cakes. Her favourites. The black card next to the box had Belial’s sigil and a handwritten message in white ink.

To my most loyal Chamberlain to whom I am grateful for your enduring loyalty, your comprehensive intelligence and your unconditional ability to take a joke. Such as this card. . . .

She checked her fingers and made sure she didn’t touch anything until she had a chance to wash off the powdery pesky black ink all over her fingers.