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Things gibbered in the trees. Small iridescent birds barrelled through the air. Greebo glared up at them. He would sort them out later.
And the cockerel had vanished.
Greebo's ears flattened against his head.
There was still the birdsong and the whine of insects, but they were elsewhere. Here there was silence - hot, dark and oppressive - and trees that were somehow much closer together than he remembered.
Greebo looked around.
He was in a clearing. Around its sides, hanging from bushes or tied to trees, were things. Bits of ribbon. White bones. Tin pots. Perfectly ordinary things, anywhere else.
And in die centre of the clearing, something like a scarecrow. An upright pole with a crosspiece, on which someone had put an old black coat. Above the coat, on the tip of the pole, was a top hat. On top of the hat, watching him thoughtfully, was Legba.
A breeze blew through the stifling air, causing the coat to flap gently.
Greebo remembered a day when he'd chased a rat into the village windmill and had suddenly found that what had seemed merely a room with odd furniture in it was a great big machine which would, if he put a paw wrong, crush him utterly.
The air sizzled gently. He could feel his fur standing on end.
Greebo turned and stalked away haughtily, until he judged himself out of sight, whereupon his legs spun so fast that his paws skidded.
Then he went and grinned at some alligators, but his heart wasn't in it.
In the clearing, the coat moved gently again and then was still. Somehow, that was worse.
Legba watched. The air grew heavier, just as it does before a storm.
"This used to be a great old city. A happy place. No-one tried to make it happy. It just happened, all by itself,' said Airs Gogol. 'That was when the old Baron was alive. But he was murdered.'
'Who done it?' said Nanny Ogg.
'Everyone knows it was the Duc,' said Airs Gogol.
The witches looked at one another. Royal intrigues were obviously a bit different in foreign parts.
'Pecked to death, was he?' said Nanny.
'A foul deed?' said Granny.
'The Duc is a title, not a bird,' said Mrs Gogol patiently. 'The Baron was poisoned. It was a terrible night. And, in the morning, the Duc was in the palace. Then there was the matter of the will.'
'Don't tell me,' said Granny. 'I bet there was a will leaving everything to this Duc. I bet the ink was still wet.'
'How did you know that?' said Airs Gogol.
'Stands to reason,' said Granny loftily.
'The Baron had a young daughter,' said Mrs Gogol.
'She'd be still alive, I reckon,' said Granny.
'You surely know a lot of things, lady,' said Airs Gogol. 'Why'd you think that, then?'
'Well . . .' said Granny. She was about to say: because I know how the stories work. But Nanny Ogg interrupted.
'If this Baron was as great as you say, he must have had a lot of friends in the city, right?' she said.
'That is so. The people liked him.'
