That was hardly reassuring, but Ozma was already standing up to face the king. “I’m ready,” she said.
The Nome King’s smile was so sinister that even the Lion’s courage faltered. He raised both arms, and his robes opened slightly, revealing an elaborate ruby necklace glittering at his throat. A ruby necklace the Lion recognized immediately. It was the necklace Glinda had shown him in the Forest of the Beasts. He blinked. Was it possible? Did the Nome King have the necklace Glinda was looking for? How had he gotten it? Ozma’s eyes narrowed. She’d seen the necklace, too. Did she know what it was?
But there was no time to think about that now. The Nome King flicked his wrist, and the cavern began to fill with a silvery, foul-smelling mist. The Lion covered his face with his paws, but he couldn’t help breathing in the noxious fumes. “Replicatum scatterorium,” the Nome King hissed, and the weird mist evaporated. Coughing, the Lion looked up. The floor of the cavern was covered with tiny silver figurines that looked exactly like the Queen of Oz, and Ozma was gone.
ELEVEN
The Nome King yawned loudly. One of his warriors hurried to bring him a silver stool. He settled onto it, stretching ostentatiously and yawning again. “Hurry up, house cat,” he said, examining his silver nails. “We haven’t got all day down here.”
The Nome King wasn’t just an evil tyrant hell-bent on taking over Oz, the Lion thought irritably. He was also incredibly annoying, and he was clearly pretty powerful. But for whatever reason, Ozma had thought this was a good idea, and now it was up to him to save her and the entire Land of Oz.
The Lion bent down to sniff at the silver figurines. Each miniature Ozma was slightly different. Some of the Ozmas were smiling, and others looked like they were about to cry. A few seemed angry. Some of the tiny Ozmas had tiny accessories: one was holding a miniature scepter, and another was carrying a giant cake. They all had one thing in common, however: each one looked exactly like the queen. The Lion almost groaned aloud. How was he supposed to tell which one was the real Ozma?
“Do I get a hint?” he asked, stalling for time. The Nome King only snorted, not bothering to reply.
The Lion didn’t have magic and he knew deep down he wasn’t particularly smart. But Ozma had seemed to know what she was doing. Why had she thought he’d be able to solve this puzzle? What did he have to help him? Courage wasn’t going to do him much good.
“I’m waiting,” the Nome King said.
“Oh, calm down,” the Lion snapped, and the Nome King looked momentarily surprised. He obviously wasn’t used to anyone talking back to him. Was that what set the Lion apart? He paced the cavern floor, examining each of the dozens of tiny Ozmas until he found one that seemed to have an extra bit of difference. Its face was just a teensy bit more realistic than the others, and something about the silver folds of its dress looked familiar. “That one,” he said, pointing with his paw. With a pop, the silver figurine exploded into confetti.
The Nome King giggled. “Not even close,” he said. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you? What was Ozma thinking, putting you in a position of responsibility? In my kingdom, only qualified people get to be in charge.”
“I wish you’d stop talking,” the Lion muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He still had two more guesses. There was still a chance to save Ozma—and Oz. But the Nome King was getting restless. His warriors shifted where they stood, their armor clanking.
“Maybe I should just kill you,” he said thoughtfully.
“You can’t,” the Lion said quickly. “You made a bargain. Ozma sealed it.”
“The deal was that if you recognized Ozma I’d let you both go,” the Nome King said. “I didn’t say anything about not killing you.”
“I can’t recognize Ozma if I’m dead,” the Lion pointed out. “So technically you did agree to keep me alive.”
“An unfortunate technicality,” the Nome King said peevishly, sinking back onto his stool. The Lion was proud of himself. That line of argument had been worthy of the Scarecrow’s brain. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe that was the secret to finding the real Ozma: using his brain. What would set enchanted Ozma apart from the rest of the silver figurines? She was the Queen of Oz, obviously. Her magic was green. She was young, but somehow also ageless. The Lion was thinking so hard he could practically feel gears turning in his brain. Was this what it felt like to be the Scarecrow? Thinking was exhausting work. He looked up. The Nome King’s soldiers had surrounded him. “You can’t kill me,” he said again, his heart pounding.
“I suppose I can’t,” the Nome King said. “But if they do it . . .” He didn’t have to finish.