' Ptaclusp sat down on the rubble, his head in his hands. It had come to this. One son normal and stupid, one flat as a shadow. And what sort of life could the poor flat kid have? He'd go through life being used to open locks, clean the ice off windscreens, and sleeping cheaply in trouser— presses in hotel bedrooms22. Being able to get under doors and read books without opening them would not be much of a compensation. IIa drifted sideways, a flat cut-out on the landscape.

'Can't we do anything?' he said. 'Roll him up neatly, or something?'

IIb shrugged. 'We could put something in the way. That might be a good idea. It would stop anything worse happening to him because it, er, wouldn't have time to happen in. I think.'

They pushed the bent statue of Hat the Vulture-Headed God into the flat one's path. After a minute or two his gentle sideways drift brought him up against it. There was a fat blue spark that melted part of the statue, but the movement stopped.

'Why the sparks?' said Ptaclusp.

'It's a bit like flarelight, I think.'

Ptaclusp hadn't got where he was today — no, he'd have to correct himself — hadn't got to where he had been last night without eventually seeing the advantages in the Unlikeliest situations.

'He'll save on clothing,' he said slowly. 'I mean, he can just paint it on.'

'I don't think you've quite got the idea, dad,' said IIb wearily. He sat down beside his father and stared across the river to the palace.

'Something going on over there,' said Ptaclusp. 'Do you think they've noticed the pyramid?'

'I shouldn't be surprised. It's moved around ninety degrees, after all.'

Ptaclusp looked over his shoulder, and nodded slowly.

'Funny, that,' he said. 'Bit of structural instability there.'

'Dad, it's a pyramid! We should have flared it! I told you! The forces involved, well, it's just too-'

A shadow fell across them. They looked around. They looked up. They looked up a bit more.

'Oh, my,' said Ptaclusp. 'It's Hat, the Vulture-Headed God…'

Ephebe lay beyond them, a classical poem of white marble lazing around its rock on a bay of brilliant blue— 'What's that?' said Ptraci, after studying it critically for some time.

'It's the sea,' said Teppic. 'I told you, remember. Waves and things.'

'You said it was all green and rough.'

'Sometimes it is.'

'Hmm.' The tone of voice suggested that she disapproved of the sea but, before she could explain why, they heard the sound of voices raised in anger. They were coming from behind a nearby sand dune.

There was a notice on the dune.

It said, in several languages: AXIOM TESTING STATION.

Below it, in slightly smaller writing, it added: CAUTION — UNRESOLVED POSTULATES.

As they read it, or at least as Teppic read it and Ptraci didn't, there was a twang from behind the dune, followed by a click, followed by an arrow zipping overhead. You Bastard glanced up at it briefly and then turned his head and stared fixedly at a very small area of sand.

A second later the arrow thudded into it.

Then he tested the weight on his feet and did a small calculation which revealed that two people had been subtracted from his back. Further summation indicated that they had been added to the dune.

'What did you do that for?' said Ptraci, spitting out sand.

'Someone fired at us!'

'I shouldn't think so. I mean, they didn't know we were here, did they? You needn't have pulled me off like that.'

Teppic conceded this, rather reluctantly, and eased himself cautiously up the sliding surface of the dune. The voices were arguing again 'Give in?'

'We simply haven't got all the parameters right.'

'I know what we haven't got all right.'

'What is that, pray?'

'We haven't got any more bloody tortoises. That's what we haven't got.'

Teppic carefully poked his head over the top of the dune. He saw a large cleared area, surrounded by complicated ranks of markers and flags. There were one or two buildings in it, mostly consisting of cages, and several other intricate constructions he could not recognise. In the middle of it all were two men — one small, fat and florid, the other tall and willowy and with an indefinable air of authority. They were wearing sheets. Clustered around them, and not wearing very much at all, was a group of slaves. One of them was holding a bow.

Several of them were holding tortoises on sticks. They looked a bit pathetic, like tortoise lollies.

'Anyway, it's cruel,' said the tall man. 'Poor little things. They look so sad with their little legs waggling.'

'It's logically impossible for the arrow to hit them!' The fat man threw up his hands. 'It shouldn't do it! You must be giving me the wrong type of tortoise,' he added accusingly.

'We ough to try again with faster tortoises.'

'Or slower arrows?'

'Possibly, possibly.'

Teppic was aware of a faint scuffling by his chin. There was a small tortoise scurrying past him. It had several ricochet marks on its shell.

'We'll have one last try,' said the fat man. He turned to the slaves. 'You lot — go and find that tortoise.'

The little reptile gave Teppic a look of mingled pleading and hope. He stared at it, and then lifted it up carefully and tucked it behind a rock.

He slid back down the dune to Ptraci.

'There's something really weird going on over there,' he said. 'They're shooting tortoises.'

'Why?'

'Search me. They seem to think the tortoise ought to be able to run away.

'What, from an arrow?'

'Like I said. Really weird. You stay here. I'll whistle if it's safe to follow me.'

'What will you do if it isn't safe?'

'Scream.'

He climbed the dune again and, after brushing as much sand as possible off his clothing, stood up and waved his cap at the little crowd. An arrow took it out of his hands.

'Oops!' said the fat man. 'Sorry!'

He scurried across the trampled sand to where Teppic was standing and staring at his stinging fingers.

'Just had it in my hand,' he panted. 'Many apologies, didn't realise it was loaded. Whatever will you think of me?'

Teppic took a deep breath.

'Xeno's the name,' gasped the fat man, before he could speak. 'Are you hurt? We did put up warning signs, I'm sure. Did you come in over the desert? You must be thirsty. Would you like a drink? Who are you? You haven't seen a tortoise up there, have you? Damned fast things, go like greased thunderbolts, there's no stopping the little buggers.'

Teppic deflated again.

'Tortoises?' he said. 'Are we talking about those, you know, stones on legs?'

'That's right, that's right,' said Xeno. 'Take your eyes off them for a second, and vazoom!'

'Vazoom?' said Teppic. He knew about tortoises. There were tortoises in the Old Kingdom. They could be called a lot of things

— vegetarians, patient, thoughtful, even extremely diligent and persistent sex-maniacs — but never, up until now, fast. Fast was a word particularly associated with tortoises because they were not it.

'Are you sure?' he said.

'Fastest animal on the face of the Disc, your common tortoise,' said Xeno, but he had the grace to look shifty.

'Logically, that is,' he added23.

The tall man gave Teppic a nod.

'Take no notice of him, boy,' he said. 'He's just covering himself because of the accident last week.'

'The tortoise did beat the hare,' said Xeno sulkily.

'The hare was dead, Xeno,' said the tall man patiently.

'Because you shot it.'

'I was aiming at the tortoise. You know, trying to combine two experiments, cut down on expensive research time, make full use of available-' Xeno gestured with the bow, which now had another arrow in it.

'Excuse me,' said Teppic. 'Could you put it down a minute? Me and my friend have come a long way and it would be nice not to be shot at again.'

These two seem harmless, he thought, and almost believed it.

He whistled. On cue, Ptraci came around the dune, leading You Bastard. Teppic doubted the capability of her costume to hold any pockets whatsoever, but she seemed to have been able to repair her make-up, re-kohl her eyes and put up her hair. She undulated towards the group like a snake in a skid, determined to hit the strangers with the full force of her personality. She was also holding something in her other hand.

'She's found the tortoise!' said Xeno. 'Well done!'

The reptile shot back into its shell. Ptraci glared. She didn't have much in the world except herself, and didn't like to be hailed as a mere holder of testudinoids.

The tall man sighed. 'You know, Xeno,' he said, 'I can't help thinking you've got the wrong end of the stick with this whole tortoise-and-arrow business.'

The little man glared at him.

'The trouble with you, Ibid,' he said, 'is that you think you're the biggest bloody authority on everything.'

The Gods of the Old Kingdom were awakening.

Belief is a force. It's a weak force, by comparison with gravity; when it comes to moving mountains, gravity wins every time. But it still exists, and now that the Old Kingdom was enclosed upon itself, floating free of the rest of the universe, drifting away from the general consensus that is dignified by the name of reality, the power of belief was making itself felt.

For seven thousand years the people of Djelibeybi had believed in their gods.

Now their gods existed. They had, as it were, the complete Set.

And the people of the Old Kingdom were learning that, for example, Vut the Dog-Headed God of the Evening looks a lot better painted on a pot than he does when all seventy feet of him, growling and stinking, is lurching down the Street outside.

Dios sat in the throne room, the gold mask of the king on his knees, staring out across the sombre air. The cluster of lesser priests around the door finally plucked up the courage to approach him, in the same general frame of mind as you would approach a growling lion. No-one is more worried by the actual physical manifestation of a god than his priests; it's like having the auditors in unexpectedly.

Only Koomi stood a little aside from the others. He was thinking hard. Strange and original thoughts were crowding along rarely-trodden neural pathways, heading in unthinkable directions. He wanted to see where they led.

'O Dios,' murmured the high priest of Ket, the This-Headed God of Justice. 'What is the king's command? The gods are striding the land, and they are fighting and breaking houses, O Dios. Where is the king? What would he have us do?'

'Yea,' said the high priest of Scrab, the Pusher of the Ball of the Sun. He felt something more was expected of him. 'And verily,' he added. 'Your lordship will have noticed that the sun is wobbling, because all the Gods of the Sun are fighting for it and-' he shuffled his feet — 'the blessed Scrab made a strategic withdrawal and has, er, made an unscheduled landing on the town of Hort. A number of buildings broke his fall.'

'And rightly so,' said the high priest of Thrrp, the Charioteer of the Sun. 'For, as all know, my master is the true god of the-'

His words tailed off.

Dios was trembling, his body rocking slowly back and forth. His eyes stared at nothing. His hands gripped the mask almost hard enough to leave fingerprints in the gold, and his lips soundlessly shaped the words of the Ritual of the Second Hour, which had been said at this time for thousands of years.

'I think it's the shock,' said one of the priests. 'You know, he's always been so set in his ways.'

The others hastened to show that there was at least something they could advise on.

'Fetch him a glass of water.'

'Put a paper bag over his head.'

'Sacrifice a chicken under his nose.'

There was a high-pitched whistling noise, the distant crump of an explosion, and a long hissing. A few tendrils of steam curled into the room.

The priests rushed to the balcony, leaving Dios in his unnerving pool of trauma, and found that the crowds around the palace were staring at the sky.

'It would appear,' said the high priest of Cephut, God of Cutlery, who felt that he could take a more relaxed view of the immediate situation, 'that Thrrp has fumbled it and has fallen to a surprise tackle from Jeht, Boatman of the Solar Orb.'

There was a distant buzzing, as of several billion bluebottles taking off in a panic, and a huge dark shape passed over the palace.

'But,' said the high priest of Cephut, 'here comes Scrab again . . . yes, he's gaining height . . . Jeht hasn't seen him yet, he's progressing confidently towards the meridian, and here comes Sessifet, Goddess of the Afternoon! This is a surprise! What a surprise this is! A young goddess, yet to make her mark, but my word, what a lot of promise there, this is an astonishing bid, eunuchs and gentlemen, and . . yes . . . Scrab has fumbled it! He's fumbled it! . . .'

The shadows danced and spun on the stones of the balcony.

'. . . and . . . what's this? The elder gods are, there's no other word for it, they're co-operating against these brash newcomers! But plucky young Sessifet is hanging in there, she's exploiting the weakness. . . she's in! . . . and pulling away now, pulling away, Gil and Scrab appear to be fighting, she's got a clear sky and, yes, yes . . . yes! . . . it's noon! It's noon! It's noon!'

Silence. The priest was aware that everyone was staring at him.

Then someone said, 'Why are you shouting into that bulrush?'

'Sorry. Don't know what came over me there.'

The priestess of Sarduk, Goddess of Caves, snorted at him.

'Suppose one of them had dropped it?' she snapped.

'But . . . but . . .' He swallowed. 'It's not possible, is it? Not really? We all must have eaten something, or been out in the sun too long, or something. Because, I mean, everyone knows that the gods aren't . . . I mean, the sun is a big flaming ball of gas, isn't it, that goes around the whole world every day, and, and, and the gods… well, you know, there's a very real need in people to believe, don't get me wrong here-'

Koomi, even with his head buzzing with thoughts of perfidy, was quicker on the uptake than his colleagues.

'Get him, lads!' he shouted.

Four priests grabbed the luckless cutlery worshipper by his arms and legs and gave him a high-speed run across the stones to the edge of the balcony, over the parapet and into the mud— coloured waters of the Djel.

He surfaced, spluttering.

'What did you go and do that for?' he demanded. 'You all know I'm right. None of you really-'

The waters of the Djel opened a lazy jaw, and he vanished, just as the huge winged shape of Scrab buzzed threateningly over the palace and whirred off towards the mountains.

Koomi mopped his forehead.

'Bit of a close shave there,' he said. His colleagues nodded, staring at the fading ripples. Suddenly, Djeibeybi was no place for honest doubt. Honest doubt could get you seriously picked up and your arms and legs torn off.

'Er,.' said one of them. 'Cephut's going to be a bit upset, though, isn't he?'

'All hail Cephut,' they chorused. Just in case.

'Don't see why,' grumbled an elderly priest at the back of the crowd. 'Bloody knife and fork artist.'

They grabbed him, still protesting, and hurled him into the river.

'All hail-' They paused. 'Who was he high priest of, anyway?'

'Bunu, the Goat-headed God of Goats? Wasn't he?'

'All hail Bunu, probably,' they chorused, as the sacred crocodiles homed in like submarines.

Koomi raised his hands, imploring. It is said that the hour brings forth the man. He was the kind of man that is brought forth by devious and unpleasant hours, and underneath his bald head certain conclusions were beginning to unfold, like things imprisoned for years inside stones. He wasn't yet sure what they were, but they were broadly on the subject of gods, the new age, the need for a firm hand on the helm, and possibly the inserting of Dios into the nearest crocodile. The mere thought filled him with forbidden delight.

'Brethren!' he cried.

'Excuse me,' said the priestess of Sarduk.

'And sistren-'

'Thank you.'

'-let us rejoice!' The assembled priests stood in total silence. This was a radical approach which had not hitherto occurred to them. And Koomi looked at their upturned faces and felt a thrill the like of which he had never experienced before. They were frightened out of their wits, and they were expecting him — him — to tell them what to do.

'Yea!' he said. 'And, indeed, verily, the hour of the gods-'

'-and goddesses-'

'-yes, and goddesses, is at hand. Er.'

What next? What, when you got right down to it, was he going to tell them to do? And then he thought: it doesn't matter. Provided I sound confident enough. Old Dios always drove them, he never tried to lead them. Without him they're wandering around like sheep.

'And, brethren — and sistren, of course — we must ask ourselves, we must ask ourselves, we, er, yes.' His voice waxed again with new confidence. 'Yes, we must ask ourselves why the gods are at hand. And without doubt it is because we have not been assiduous enough in our worship, we have, er, we have lusted after graven idols.'

The priests exchanged glances. Had they? How did you do it, actually?

'And, yes, and what about sacrifices? Time was when a sacrifice was a sacrifice, not some messing around with a chicken and flowers.'

This caused some coughing in the audience.

'Are we talking maidens here?' said one of the priests uncertainly.

'Ahem.'

'And inexperienced young men too, certainly,' he said quickly. Sarduk was one of the older goddesses, whose female worshippers got up to no good in sacred groves; the thought of her wandering around the landscape somewhere, bloody to the elbows, made the eyes water.

Koomi's heart thumped. 'Well, why not?' he said. 'Things were better then, weren't they?'

'But, er, I thought we stopped all that sort of thing. Population decline and so forth.'

There was a monstrous splash out in the river. Tzut, the Snake-Headed God of the Upper Djel, surfaced and regarded the assembled priesthood solemnly. Then Fhez, the Crocodile-Headed God of the Lower Djel, erupted beside him and made a spirited attempt at biting his head off. The two submerged in a column of spray and a minor tidal wave which slopped over the balcony.

'Ah, but maybe the population declined because we stopped sacrificing virgins — of both sexes, of course,' said Koomi, hurriedly. 'Have you ever thought of it like that?' They thought of it. Then they thought of it again.

'I don't think the king would approve-' said one of the priests cautiously.

'The king?' shouted Koomi. 'Where is the king? Show me the king! Ask Dios where the king is!'

There was a thud by his feet. He looked down in horror as the gold mask bounced, and rolled towards the priests. They scattered hurriedly, like skittles.

Dios strode out into the light of the disputed sun, his face grey with fury.

'The king is dead,' he said.

Koomi swayed under the sheer pressure of anger, but rallied magnificently.

'Then his successor-' he began.

'There is no successor,' said Dios. He stared up at the sky. Few people can look directly at the sun, but under the venom of Dios's gaze the sun itself might have flinched and looked away. Dios's eyes sighted down that fearsome nose like twin range finders.

To the air in general he said: 'Coming here as if they own the place. How dare they?'

Koomi's mouth dropped open. He started to protest, and a kilowatt stare silenced him.

Koomi sought support from the crowd of priests, who were busily inspecting their nails or staring intently into the middle distance. The message was clear. He was on his own. Although, if by some chance he won the battle of wills, he'd be surrounded by people assuring him that they had been behind him all along.

'Anyway, they do own the place,' he mumbled.

'What?'

'They, er, they do own the place, Dios,' Koomi repeated. His temper gave out. 'They're the sodding gods, Dios!'

'They're our gods,' Dios hissed. 'We're not their people. They're my gods and they will learn to do as they are instructed!'

Koomi gave up the frontal assault. You couldn't outstare that sapphire stare, you couldn't stand the war-axe nose and, most of all, no man could be expected to dent the surface of Dios's terrifying righteousness.

'But-' he managed.

Dios waved him into silence with a trembling hand.

'They've no right! ' he said. 'I did not give any orders! They have no right!'

'Then what are you going to do?' said Koomi.

Dios's hands opened and closed fitfully. He felt like a royalist might feel — a good royalist, a royalist who cut out pictures of all the Royals and stuck them in a scrapbook, a royalist who wouldn't hear a word said about them, they did such a good job and they can't answer back — if suddenly all the Royals turned up in his living room and started rearranging the furniture. He longed for the necropolis, and the cool silence among his old friends, and a quick sleep after which he'd be able to think so much more clearly . . .

Koomi's heart leapt. Dios's discomfort was a crack which, with due care and attention, could take a wedge. But you couldn't use a hammer. Head on, Dios could outfight the world.

The old man was shaking again. 'I do not presume to tell them how to run affairs in the Hereunder,' he said. 'They shall not presume to instruct me in how to run my kingdom.'

Koomi salted this treasonable statement away for further study and patted him gently on the back.

'You're right, of course,' he said. Dios's eyes swivelled.

'I am?' he said, suspiciously.

'I'm sure that, as the king's minister, you will find a way. You have our full support, O Dios.' Koomi waved an uplifted hand at the priests, who chorused wholehearted agreement. If you couldn't depend on kings and gods, you could always rely on old Dios. There wasn't one of them that wouldn't prefer the uncertain wrath of the gods to a rebuke from Dios. Dios terrified them in a very positive, human way that no supernatural entity ever could. Dios would sort it out.

'And we take no heed to these mad rumours about the king's disappearance. They are undoubtedly wild exaggerations, with no foundation,' said Koomi.

The priests nodded while, in each mind, a tiny rumour uncurled the length of its tail.

'What rumours?' said Dios out of the corner of his mouth.

'So enlighten us, master, as to the path we must now take,' said Koomi.

Dios wavered.

He did not know what to do. For him, this was a new experience. This was Change.

All he could think of, all that was pressing forward in his mind, were the words of the Ritual of the Third Hour, which he had said at this time for — how long? Too long, too long! — And he should have gone to his rest long before, but the time had never been right, there was never anyone capable, they would have been lost without him, the kingdom would founder, he would be letting everyone down, and so he'd crossed the river. . . he swore every time that it was the last, but it never was, not when the chill fetched his limbs, and the decades had become — longer. And now, when his kingdom needed him, the words of a Ritual had scored themselves into the pathways of his brain and bewildered all attempts at thought.

'Er,' he said.

You Bastard chewed happily. Teppic had tethered him too near an olive tree, which was getting a terminal pruning. Sometimes the camel would stop, gaze up briefly at the seagulls that circled everywhere above Ephebe city, and subject them to a short, deadly burst of olive stones.

He was turning over in his mind an interesting new concept in Thau-dimensional physics which unified time, space, magnetism, gravity and, for some reason, broccoli. Periodically he would make noises like distant quarry blasting, but which merely indicated that all stomachs were functioning perfectly.

Ptraci sat under the tree, feeding the tortoise on vine leaves.

Heat crackled off the white walls of the tavern but, Teppic thought, how different it was from the Old Kingdom. There even the heat was old; the air was musty and lifeless, it pressed like a vice, you felt it was made of boiled centuries. Here it was leavened by the breeze from the sea. It was edged with salt crystals. It carried exciting hints of wine; more than a hint in fact, because Xeno was already on his second amphora. This was the kind of place where things rolled up their sleeves and started.

'But I still don't understand about the tortoise,' he said, with some difficulty. He'd just taken his first mouthful of Ephebian wine, and it had apparently varnished the back of his throat.

''S quite simple,' said Xeno. 'Look, let's say this olive stone is the arrow and this, and this-' he cast around aimlessly — 'and this stunned seagull is the tortoise, right? Now, when you fire the arrow it goes from here to the seag — the tortoise, am I right?'

'I suppose so, but-'

'But, by this time, the seagu — the tortoise has moved on a bit, hasn't he? Am I right?'

'I suppose so,' said Teppic, helplessly. Xeno gave him a look of triumph.

'So the arrow has to go a bit further, doesn't it, to where the tortoise is now. Meanwhile the tortoise has flow — moved on, not much, I'll grant you, but it doesn't have to be much. Am I right? So the arrow has a bit further to go, but the point is that by the time it gets to where the tortoise is now the tortoise isn't there. So, if the tortoise keeps moving, the arrow will never hit it. It'll keep getting closer and closer but never hit it. QED.'

'Are you right?' said Teppic automatically.

'No,' said Ibid coldly. 'There's a dozen tortoise kebabs to prove him wrong. The trouble with my friend here is that he doesn't know the difference between a postulate and a metaphor of human existence. Or a hole in the ground.'

'It didn't hit it yesterday,' snapped Xeno.

'Yes, I was watching. You hardly pulled the string back. I saw you,' said Ibid.

They started to argue again.

Teppic stared into his wine mug. These men are philosophers, he thought. They had told him so. So their brains must be so big that they have room for ideas that no-one else would consider for five seconds. On the way to the tavern Xeno had explained to him, for example, why it was logically impossible to fall out of a tree.

Teppic had described the vanishing of the kingdom, but he hadn't revealed his position in it. He hadn't a lot of experience of these matters, but he had a very clear feeling that kings who hadn't got a kingdom any more were not likely to be very popular in neighbouring countries. There had been one or two like that in Ankh-Morpork — deposed royalty, who had fled their suddenly— dangerous kingdoms for Ankh's hospitable bosom carrying nothing but the clothes they stood up in and a few wagonloads of jewels. The city, of course, welcomed anyone — regardless of race, colour, class or creed — who had spending money in incredible amounts, but nevertheless the inhumation of surplus monarchs was a regular source of work for the Assassins' Guild. There was always someone back home who wanted to be certain that deposed monarchs stayed that way. It was usually a case of heir today, gone tomorrow.

'I think it got caught up in geometry,' he said, hopefully. 'I heard you were very good at geometry here,' he added, 'and perhaps you could tell me how to get back.'

'Geometry is not my forte,' said Ibid. 'As you probably know.'

'Sorry?'

'Haven't you read my Principles of Ideal Government?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Or my Discourse on Historical Inevitability?'

'No.'

Ibid looked crestfallen. 'Oh,' he said.

'Ibid is a well-known authority on everything,' said Xeno. 'Except for geometry. And interior decorating. And elementary logic.' Ibid glared at him.

'What about you, then?' said Teppic.

Xeno drained his mug. 'I'm more into the destruct testing of axioms,' he said. 'The chap you need is Pthagonal. A very acute man with an angle.'

He was interrupted by the clatter of hooves. Several horsemen galloped with reckless speed past the tavern and on up the winding, cobbled streets of the city. They seemed very excited about something.

Ibid picked a stunned seagull out of his wine cup and laid it on the table. He was looking thoughtful.

'If the Old Kingdom has really disappeared-' he said.

'It has,' said Teppic firmly. 'It's not something you can be mistaken about, really.'

'Then that means our border is concurrent with that of Tsort,' said Ibid ponderously.

'Pardon?' said Teppic.

'There's nothing between us,' explained the philosopher.

'Oh, dear. That means we shall be forced to make war.'

'Why?'

Ibid opened his mouth, stopped, and turned to Xeno.

'Why does it mean we'll be forced to make war?' he said.

'Historical imperative,' said Xeno.

'Ah, yes. I knew it was something like that. I am afraid it is inevitable. It's a shame, but there you are.'

There was another clatter as another party of horsemen rounded the corner, heading downhill this time. They wore the high plumed helmets of Ephebian soldiery, and were shouting enthusiastically.

Ibid settled himself more comfortably on the bench and folded his bands.

'That'll be the Tyrant's men,' he said, as the troop galloped through the city gates and out on to the desert. 'He's sending them to check, you may depend upon it.'