Brocando, Son of Broc, Lord of Jeopard, King of the Deftmenes, promise you that. Yes. Rewarded.’
‘I didn’t do it for any reward,’ said Snibril. ‘I justwanted the thing to stop turning everything into statues.’
‘What brings you this far from home, then?’ Brocando asked, with a glint in his eye. ’The treasure, eh?’
‘No . . . look, do you think we’d better go?’ said Snibril, glancing at the termagant again. ‘It might get up.’
Brocando flourished his sword.
‘One year of my life!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll make it pay for that!’
Snibril looked at the creature again. It was lying quite still.
‘I don’t think there’s much more you can do to it,’ he said. ‘It looks miserable enough to me.’
Brocando hesitated. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘There is no revenge on a witless beast. As for this . . .’ he swept his arm over the shimmering heap, ‘I have lost the taste for it. Let it lie here.’ He sniffed. ‘It is in my mind that 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 shieldand 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.’
‘Actully . . .’ Snibril began, as they rode away, ‘Iwouldn’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
‘I didn’t do it for any reward,’ said Snibril. ‘I justwanted the thing to stop turning everything into statues.’
‘What brings you this far from home, then?’ Brocando asked, with a glint in his eye. ’The treasure, eh?’
‘No . . . look, do you think we’d better go?’ said Snibril, glancing at the termagant again. ‘It might get up.’
Brocando flourished his sword.
‘One year of my life!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll make it pay for that!’
Snibril looked at the creature again. It was lying quite still.
‘I don’t think there’s much more you can do to it,’ he said. ‘It looks miserable enough to me.’
Brocando hesitated. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘There is no revenge on a witless beast. As for this . . .’ he swept his arm over the shimmering heap, ‘I have lost the taste for it. Let it lie here.’ He sniffed. ‘It is in my mind that 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 shieldand 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.’
‘Actully . . .’ Snibril began, as they rode away, ‘Iwouldn’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
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