such things as these are fit only for termagants. Mind you, that necklace looks rather ... no ... "
Snibril had seen one or two items that he rather liked, and by the look of him Brocando could leave treasure behind because he had lots more at home, but he felt that it would look bad to argue.
With a soft jingling the termagant raised its head and opened its eyes. Snibril went to lift his shield and it slipped out of his hands, rolling down the steps.
The termagant stopped it clumsily with a claw and turned it awkwardly until it could see itself again.
To Snibril's amazement it began to coo at its reflection, and lay back again with the mirror cuddled in its arms. And then the termagant, with a clank, died peacefully in the temple that had been built for it time out of mind.
Often, later, it was said by minstrels and wandering story-tellers that the termagant died when it caught sight of itself in the mirror. Never believe what you hear in songs. They put in any old thing if they think it sounds better. They said that its reflected glance turned it to a statue. But the death of the termagant was more complicated than that. Most things are.
They dragged it up the steps and buried it under the altar stone. Snibril remembered Chrystobella and the other animals back at the camp, and collected some of the tear puddle into a small jewel-case from the heap. The remaining statues they left where they were.
"In the past they worshipped the termagants, so the story goes," said Brocando. "They were a cruel race. Let them remain. For justice."
"Actually ... " Snibril began, as they rode away, "I wouldn't mind just a small reward. If you happen to have one you want to give away. One you don't need."
"Certainly!"
"My tribe needs somewhere to stay for a while. To repair the wagons, and so on. Somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders all the time."
"Easily granted. My city is yours. My people will welcome you."
"Are they all small like you?" said Snibril, without thinking.
"We Deftmenes are correctly-built," said Brocando. "It's no business of ours if everyone else is ridiculously overgrown."
After a while, as they neared the Munrung's camp, Snibril said: "You know, I don't think you've lost a year. If you were a statue, time couldn't have passed for you. In a way, you've gained a year. Everyone else is a year older, except you."
Brocando thought about this. "Does that mean I still give you the reward?" he said.
"I think so," said Snibril.
"Right."
CHAPTER 7
They arrived at the camp just in time to stop the search party that was setting out. Brocando immediately became the centre of attention, something which he enjoyed and was obviously used to. Snibril was more or less forgotten. More or less ...
"Where have you been?" asked Pismire, relieved and angry. "Wandering off like that! Don't you know there are mouls about?"
"I'm sorry," said Snibril. "Things just happened."
"Well, never mind now," said Pismire. "What's happening over there, now? Doesn't anyone of your muddle-headed people know how to welcome a king?"
"I don't think so," said Snibril. "He's quite brave and a bit excitable and doesn't really listen to what you say."
"Sounds like a king to me, right enough," said Pismire.
Brocando was in the centre of a crowd of chattering, staring Munrungs, beaming benevolently.
"There I was," he was saying. "One step away from the treasure, when, jingle! There it was, behind me. So ... "
Pismire elbowed his way through the crowd, removed his hat, bowed till his beard touched the ground, and stuck there, confronting a surprised Brocando with a tangle of white locks.
"Greeting, oh King," said the old man. "Honoured are we that so great a son of so noble an ancestry should deem us worthy to ... er ... worthy. All we have is at your disposal, valiant sir. I am Pismire, a humble philosopher. This is ... "
He snapped his fingers wildly at Glurk, who was standing open-mouthed at the spectacle of Pismire,
Snibril had seen one or two items that he rather liked, and by the look of him Brocando could leave treasure behind because he had lots more at home, but he felt that it would look bad to argue.
With a soft jingling the termagant raised its head and opened its eyes. Snibril went to lift his shield and it slipped out of his hands, rolling down the steps.
The termagant stopped it clumsily with a claw and turned it awkwardly until it could see itself again.
To Snibril's amazement it began to coo at its reflection, and lay back again with the mirror cuddled in its arms. And then the termagant, with a clank, died peacefully in the temple that had been built for it time out of mind.
Often, later, it was said by minstrels and wandering story-tellers that the termagant died when it caught sight of itself in the mirror. Never believe what you hear in songs. They put in any old thing if they think it sounds better. They said that its reflected glance turned it to a statue. But the death of the termagant was more complicated than that. Most things are.
They dragged it up the steps and buried it under the altar stone. Snibril remembered Chrystobella and the other animals back at the camp, and collected some of the tear puddle into a small jewel-case from the heap. The remaining statues they left where they were.
"In the past they worshipped the termagants, so the story goes," said Brocando. "They were a cruel race. Let them remain. For justice."
"Actually ... " Snibril began, as they rode away, "I wouldn't mind just a small reward. If you happen to have one you want to give away. One you don't need."
"Certainly!"
"My tribe needs somewhere to stay for a while. To repair the wagons, and so on. Somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders all the time."
"Easily granted. My city is yours. My people will welcome you."
"Are they all small like you?" said Snibril, without thinking.
"We Deftmenes are correctly-built," said Brocando. "It's no business of ours if everyone else is ridiculously overgrown."
After a while, as they neared the Munrung's camp, Snibril said: "You know, I don't think you've lost a year. If you were a statue, time couldn't have passed for you. In a way, you've gained a year. Everyone else is a year older, except you."
Brocando thought about this. "Does that mean I still give you the reward?" he said.
"I think so," said Snibril.
"Right."
CHAPTER 7
They arrived at the camp just in time to stop the search party that was setting out. Brocando immediately became the centre of attention, something which he enjoyed and was obviously used to. Snibril was more or less forgotten. More or less ...
"Where have you been?" asked Pismire, relieved and angry. "Wandering off like that! Don't you know there are mouls about?"
"I'm sorry," said Snibril. "Things just happened."
"Well, never mind now," said Pismire. "What's happening over there, now? Doesn't anyone of your muddle-headed people know how to welcome a king?"
"I don't think so," said Snibril. "He's quite brave and a bit excitable and doesn't really listen to what you say."
"Sounds like a king to me, right enough," said Pismire.
Brocando was in the centre of a crowd of chattering, staring Munrungs, beaming benevolently.
"There I was," he was saying. "One step away from the treasure, when, jingle! There it was, behind me. So ... "
Pismire elbowed his way through the crowd, removed his hat, bowed till his beard touched the ground, and stuck there, confronting a surprised Brocando with a tangle of white locks.
"Greeting, oh King," said the old man. "Honoured are we that so great a son of so noble an ancestry should deem us worthy to ... er ... worthy. All we have is at your disposal, valiant sir. I am Pismire, a humble philosopher. This is ... "
He snapped his fingers wildly at Glurk, who was standing open-mouthed at the spectacle of Pismire,
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