Snibril's senses screamed at him to turn round and face the creature, but he stood still and thought desperately. The termagant began to jingle towards him.

Snibril turned, holding the polished shield before his eyes. Under it he could see the termagant's feet scraping towards him. They were bony and clawed. And they didn't stop ...

It ought to have turned to stone. It saw itself! So much for bright ideas, he thought. And it was the only one I had.

He started to back away. And then the termagant did stop. For it had seen another termagant. There, in the shield, a scaly green face looked back at it.

A necklace hung over one ear. For a moment the creature had found company. Then, because he was shaking with fear, Snibril tilted the shield. The face vanished.

After a moment of shocked silence the termagant let out a howl of anguish that echoed around the hairs. A massive foot stamped. Then the creature collapsed on the floor, put its paws over its eyes, and began to sob. Every now and then it'd drum its back feet on the floor. The sobs started at the tail end, by the look of it, and got bigger and bigger as they gulped their way up towards the mouth.

It wasn't only terrifying. It was also embarrassing. Nothing should have that many tears in it.

Snibril watched the pool of tears spread out over the floor, and touch the statue of a hairhog by the wall. It twitched its nose. Wider and wider went the pool. Some statues awoke as it touched them, but some of the oldest, all covered in dust and creepers, stood unchanged. Little creatures swam valiantly to freedom between their ankles.

Snibril scooped up the tears in the shield and splashed them over Roland. Then it was the turn of the little pony, which stared up at Snibril in amazement. He ran to the warrior by the treasure, and drenched him.

Nothing happened for a moment. An eyelid flickered. The hand with the necklace started to move. The little warrior was suddenly very much alive. He dropped the necklace and glowered at Snibril. "Kone's Bones, where did you spring from?"

Then he saw the termagant in its pool of tears. His hand went to his throat, and found the creeper.

He looked thoughtfully at Snibril.

"How long have I been here, stranger?"

"I don't know. This is the third year after the second Counting in the reign of the Emperor Targon at Ware," said Snibril.

"You're a Dumii?" said the released statue, unwinding the creeper.

"Sort of."

"I'm not," said the little warrior, proudly. "We don't Count. But I've heard of Targon. Before I came here it was the twenty-second year of his rule."

"Then you must have been here a year," said Snibril.

"A year ... a year away," said the warrior. "Far too long." He bowed solemnly. "A thousand pardons, stranger," he said. "You shall be rewarded for this. I, 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 just wanted 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 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 ... "