Ponder removed his hat. What he needed right now, he felt, was a bath. And then another bath.

‘I'm not exactly a rocket wizard, am I?’ he said, wiping bits of dragon off his face.

But an hour later another flame lanced over the waves, thin and white with a blue core… and this time, this time, the dragon merely smiled.

‘I'd rather die than sign my name,’ said Boy Willie.

‘I'd rather face a dragon,’ said Caleb. ‘One of the proper old ones, too, not the little fireworky ones you get today.’

‘Once they get you signin' your name, they've got you where they want you,’ said Cohen.

‘Too many letters,’ said Truckle. ‘All different shapes, too. I always put an X.’

The Horde had stopped for a breather and a smoke on an outcrop at the end of the green valley. Snow was thick on the ground, but the air was almost mild. Already there was the prickly sensation of a high magical field.

‘Readin', now,’ said Cohen, ‘that's another matter. I don't mind a man who does a bit of readin'. Now, you come across a map, as it might be, and it's got a big cross on it, well, a readin' man can tell something from that.’

‘What? That it's Truckle's map?’ said Boy Willie.

‘Exactly. Could very well be.’

‘I can read and write,’ said Evil Harry. ‘Sorry. Part of the job. Etiquette, too. You've got to be polite to people when you march them out on the plank over the shark tank… it makes it more evil.’

‘No one's blaming you, Harry,’ said Cohen.

‘Huh, not that I could get sharks,’ said Harry. ‘I should've known better when Johnny No Hands told me they were sharks that hadn't grown all their fins yet, but all they did was swim around squeaking happily and start beggin' for fish. When I throw people into a torture tank it's to be torn to bits, not to get in touch with their inner self and be one with the cosmos.’

‘Shark'd be better than this fish,’ said Caleb, making a face.

‘Nah, shark tastes like piss,’ said Cohen. He sniffed. ‘Now that…’

‘Now that,’ said Truckle, ‘is what I call cookery.’

They followed the smell through a maze of rocks to a cave. To the minstrel's amazement, each man drew his sword as they approached.

‘You can't trust cookery,’ said Cohen, apparently as an attempt at an explanation.

‘But you've just been fighting monstrous mad devil fish!’ said the minstrel.

‘No, the priests were mad, the fish were… hard to tell with fish. Anyway, you know where you stand with a mad priest, but someone cooking as well as that right up here – well, that's a mystery.’

‘Well?’

‘Mysteries get you killed.’

‘You're not dead, though.’

Cohen's sword swished through the air. The minstrel thought he heard it sizzle.

‘I solve mysteries,’ he said.

‘Oh. With your sword… like Carelinus untied the Tsortean Knot?’

‘Don't know anything about any knots, lad.’

In a clear space among the rocks, a stew was cooking over a fire and an elderly lady was working at her embroidery. It was not a scene the minstrel would have expected out here, even though the lady was somewhat… youngly dressed for a grandmother, and the message on the sampler she was sewing, surrounded by little flowers, was EAT COLD STEEL PIGDOG.

‘Well, well,’ said Cohen, sheathing his sword. ‘I thought I recognised the handiwork back there. How're you doing, Vena?’

‘You're looking well, Cohen,’ said the woman, as calmly as though she had been expecting them. ‘You boys want some stew?’

‘Yeah,’ said Truckle, grinning. ‘Let the bard try it first, though.’

‘Shame on you, Truckle,’ said the woman, putting aside her embroidery.

‘Well, you did drug me and steal a load of jewels off me last time we met…’

‘That was forty years ago, man! Anyway, you left me alone to fight that band of goblins.’

‘I knew you'd beat the goblins, though.’

‘I knew you didn't need the jewels. Morning, Evil Harry. Hello, boys. Pull up a rock. Who's the thin streak of misery?’

‘This is the bard,’ said Cohen. ‘Bard, this is Vena the Raven-Haired.’

‘What?’ said the bard. ‘No, she's not! Even I've heard of Vena the Raven-Haired, and she's a tall young woman with – oh…’

Vena sighed. ‘Yes, the old stories do hang around so, don't they?’ she said, patting her grey hair. ‘And it's Mrs McGarry now, boys.’

‘Yes, I heard you'd settled down,’ said Cohen, dipping the ladle into the stew and tasting it. ‘Married an innkeeper, didn't you? Hung up your sword, had kids…’

‘Grandchildren,’ said Mrs McGarry, proudly. But then the proud smile faded. ‘One of them's taken over the inn, but the other's a paper-maker.’

‘Running an inn's a good trade,’ said Cohen. ‘But there's not much heroing in wholesale stationery. A paper cut's just not the same.’ He smacked his lips. ‘This is good stuff, girl.’

‘Its funny,’ said Vena. ‘I never knew I had the talent, but people will come miles for my dumplings.’

‘No change there, then,’ said Truckle the Uncivil. ‘Hur, hur, hur.’

‘Truckle,’ said Cohen, ‘remember when you told me to tell you when you were bein' too uncivil?’

‘Yeah?’

‘That was one of those times.’

‘Anyway,’ said Mrs McGarry, smiling sweetly at the blushing Truckle, ‘I was sitting around after Charlie died, and I thought, well, is this it? I've just got to wait for the Grim Reaper? And then… there was this scroll…’

‘What scroll?’ said Cohen and Evil Harry together. Then they stared at one another.

‘Y'see,’ said Cohen, reaching into his pack, ‘I found this old scroll, showing a map of how to get to the Mountains and all the little tricks for getting past—’

‘Me too,’ said Harry.

‘You never told me!’

‘I'm a DarkLord, Cohen,’ said Evil Harry patiently. ‘I'm not supposed to be Captain Helpful.’

‘Tell me where you found it, at least.’

‘Oh, in some ancient sealed tomb we was despoilin'.’

‘I found mine in an old storeroom back in the Empire,’ said Cohen.

‘Mine was left in my inn by a traveller all in black,’ said Mrs McGarry.

In the silence, the minstrel said, ‘Um? Excuse me?’

‘What?’ said all three together.

‘Is it just me,’ said the minstrel, ‘or are we missing something here?’

‘Like what?’ demanded Cohen.

‘Well, these scrolls all tell you how to get to the mountain, a perilous trek that no one has ever survived?’

‘Yes? So?’

‘So… um… who wrote the scrolls?’

Offler the Crocodile looked up from the playing board which was, in fact, the world.

‘All right, who doth he belong to?’ he lisped. ‘We've got a clever one here.’

There was a general craning of necks among the assembled deities, and then one put up his hand.

‘And you are…?’ said Offler.

‘The Almighty Nuggan. I'm worshipped in parts of Borogravia. The young man was raised in my faith.’

‘What do Nugganoteth believe in?’

‘Er… me. Mostly me. And followers are forbidden to eat chocolate, ginger, mushrooms and garlic.’

Several of the gods winced.

‘When you prohibit you don't meth about, do you?’ said Offler.

‘No sense in forbidding broccoli, is there? That sort of approach is very old-fashioned,’ said Nuggan. He looked at the minstrel. ‘He's never been particularly bright up till now. Shall I smite him? There's bound to be some garlic in that stew, Mrs McGarry looks the type.’

Offler hesitated. He was a very old god, who had arisen from steaming swamps in hot, dark lands. He had survived the rise and fall of more modern and certainly more beautiful gods by developing, for a god, a certain amount of wisdom.

Besides, Nuggan was one of the newer gods, all full of hellfire and self-importance and ambition. Offler was not bright, but he had some vague inkling that for long-term survival gods needed to offer their worshippers something more than a mere lack of thunderbolts. And he felt an ungodlike pang of sympathy for any human whose god banned chocolate and garlic. Anyway, Nuggan had an unpleasant moustache. No god had any business with a fussy little moustache like that.