“Welcome . . . uh . . . sirs,” said Misolu. “Be warned that war has been declared upon Shûme, and all who pass through must declare their allegiances and enter certain . . . um . . .”

“I believe the usual term is ‘undertakings’,” said Mister Fitz.

“Undertakings,” echoed Misolu. He was very young. Two bright spots of embarrassment burned high on his cheekbones, just visible under the four bars of his lobster-tailed helmet, which was a little too large for him, even with the extra padding, some of which had come a little undone around the brow.

“We are free lances, and seek hire in Shûme, Cornet Misolu,” said Hereward. “We will give the common undertakings if your city chooses to contract us. For the moment, we swear to hold our peace, reserving the right to defend ourselves should we be attacked.”

“Your word is accepted, Sir Hereward, and . . . um . . .”

“Mister Fitz,” said Hereward, as the puppet said merely, “Fitz.”

“Mister Fitz.”

The cornet chivvied his horse diagonally closer to Hereward, and added, “You may rest assured that my Dercians will remain true to their word, though Sergeant Xikoliz spoke of some feud their . . . er . . . entire people have with you.”

The curiosity in the cornet’s voice could not be easily denied, and spoke as much of the remoteness of Shûme as it did of the young officer’s naïveté.

“It is a matter arising from a campaign several years past,” said Hereward. “Mister Fitz and I were serving the Heriat of Jhaqa, who sought to redirect the Dercian spring migration elsewhere than through her own prime farmlands. In the last battle of that campaign, a small force penetrated to the Dercians’ rolling temple and . . . ah . . . blew it up with a specially made petard. Their godlet, thus discommoded, withdrew to its winter housing in the Dercian steppe, wreaking great destruction among its chosen people as it went.”