“Ah, I see. Sixty pike and two dozen musketeers in the square by the temple, of no uniform equipment or harness. Under the instruction of a portly individual in a wine-dark tunic who appears as uncertain as his troops as to the drill.”

“I doubt that Shûme has much to fear,” said Mister Fitz. “It is odd, however, that a town like Lettique would dare to strike against such a powerful neighbour. I wonder . . .”

“What?” asked Hereward as he replaced his telescope.

“I wonder if it is a matter of necessity. The river is dry. The wheat is very thin, too thin this close to harvest. The cattle show very little flesh on their ribs. I see no sign of any other economic activity. Fear and desperation may be driving this mooted war, not greed or rivalry. Also . . .”

Mister Fitz’s long, pale blue tongue darted out to taste the air, the ruby stud in the middle of what had once been a length of stippled leather catching the pallid sunlight.

“Their godlet is either asleep or . . . mmm . . . comatose in this dimension. Very strange.”

“Their god is dead?”

“Not dead,” said Mister Fitz. “When an other-dimensional entity dies, another always moves in quickly enough. No . . . definitely present, but quiescent.”

“Do you wish to make a closer inquiry?”

Hereward had not missed the puppet’s hand tapping the pannier that contained his sewing desk, an instinctive movement Mister Fitz made when contemplating sorcerous action.

“Not for the present,” said Mister Fitz, lifting his hand to grasp once again his mount’s steering chains.

“Then we will skirt the town and continue,” announced Hereward. “We’ll leave the road near those three dead trees.”