The village of Midden-on-Sogge has been waiting. It has been waiting, specifically, for Sir Humphrey Bumfrey — Knight of the Realm, Defender of the Somewhat Defensible, and a man who, in thirty-seven years of life, has never once arrived anywhere on time. Not to his own christening (twelve days late; the priest had gone home twice). Not to his squiring ceremony (four hours; his horse had opinions about the route). And certainly not, it is now painfully clear, to the Tournament of Considerable Significance, which was scheduled to begin at noon and which is now, by the sundial's reckoning, well into what one might generously call "late afternoon." The crowd — what remains of it — shifts. A small boy yawns. An elderly woman has begun knitting something that might, by the time Sir Humphrey arrives, become a full blanket. It has, in fact, already become a small hat. And yet, in the distance, a plume of dust rises. Armour clanks. A horse plods with the quiet dignity of an animal that has long since accepted its fate. Sir Humphrey crests the hill. He is an impressive figure, in the way that a collapsed barn is sometimes impressive — large, earnest, and slightly at odds with his surroundings. His armour, polished to a reasonable shine sometime last Tuesday, bears a crest depicting a snail rampant on a field of beige. His lance is held at what he considers a heroic angle. His expression is one of tremendous sincerity and absolutely no awareness of the time. "I have arrived," he announces, to no one in particular and forty-three people in general, "to perform deeds of great renown." Someone in the crowd drops a pasty. Humphrey does not notice. He has decided — recently, firmly, in the particular way that men decide things when they have run out of other options — that today will be different. Today, he will not be the man people snigger about in taverns, or mime falling asleep while imitating at the inn. Today is the day the laughter stops and the legend begins. He surveys the field with great purpose. He squares his shoulders with even greater purpose. He is only four hours late. Which is, for him, practically early.