The Carpet People

CHAPTER 11

Snibril sat outside the palace stables, watching Roland investigate the contents of a nosebag. Loose boxes built for the Deftmenes' little six-legged beasts were too small for him, and he had to be tethered in the yard with the carts. He stood there patiently chewing, and made a lighter shadow in the darkness.

Snibril could hear the celebrations going on in the main hall. If he concentrated, he could just hear Pismire playing the fluteharp; it was easy to tell, even with all the other instruments in the Deftmenes' own band, by the way the notes went all over the place without ever hitting the tune. Pismire always said there were some things you should care about enough to do badly.

When Snibril had wandered out Glurk had been delighting everybody by lifting twenty Deftmene children on a bench, and carrying them around the hall. The log fires roared and the plates were emptied and refilled again, and nobody thought of the dark hairs outside, sighing in the night wind, or the little bands of Deftmenes who were hunting down the last of the mouls.

Snibril rubbed his head. It had been aching again, and Pismire's music hadn't helped at all.

He patted Roland absently, and looked out over the city to the deep blue night in the hairs beyond.

"Well, here we are," said Snibril, "and can't even remember which direction our old village lies in. Brocando says we can stay here as long as we like. Forever, even. Safe and sound. He says he can always do with a few tall people around the place. But Bane says he's going on to Ware tomorrow, just in case. And my ears hurt."

It's a big Carpet, he thought. Brocando and Bane are both ... well, likeable, but they look at the world from opposite ends. Look at the Dumii. Half the time you can see why the Deftmenes don't like them. They're so fair about things, in an unimaginative way. And in their unimaginative way, fighting like tictoc men, they built a huge Empire. And Bane hates the idea of kings. But the Deftmenes fight as if they enjoy it, and make up life as they go along, and they'll do anything for their king. You can't expect them to get along with each other-

Roland shifted uneasily. Snibril raised his head, and heard the night breeze die away. The hairs were silent.

He felt a pricking sensation in his feet. The headache was felt like a fire now. The silent Carpet seemed to be waiting ...

Roland neighed, tugged at his tether. Down in the stables the ponies were kicking their stalls. Dogs barked, down in the city.

Snibril remembered this feeling. But he thought: not here, surely, where it was all so safe?

Yes, he told himself, even here. Fray can be anywhere.

He turned and ran up the steps into the palace.

"Fray!" he shouted. In the din, no-one heard. One or two people waved cheerily at him.

He bounded over to the band and snatched a trumpet from one startled Deftmene. He didn't know how to play one, but playing it very badly loudly enough was enough to get something approaching silence.

"Can't you feel it? Fray is coming!" he shouted.

"Coming here?" said Pismire.

"Can't you feel it? Can't you feel it?" Snibril was desperate with impatience and pain. They were looking at him as if he was mad.

"Get to the carts," snapped Pismire.

"I can't feel anything," said Brocando. "Anyway, Jeopard is safe from any enem-"

Pismire pointed upwards. There were big candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. They had begun to swing, very gently.

Kings take some time to grasp an idea, but once they've got a hold they don't let go.

"Run for it! Get everyone outside!" Brocando shouted.

The Munrungs were already streaming through the door. Tables were overturned as people scurried from the hall, grabbing their children as they ran. Pismire caught hold of a pillar to steady himself as they jostled past, and yelled above the noise: "The ponies! Harness them to the carts!"

The lamps were swinging quite noticeably now. A jug bounced off a table and shattered on the floor. A couple of candles teetered out of the crazily-weaving lamps.

There was a far-off thump. The whole rock shook.

The heavy lintel over the door shivered and sagged. Glurk strode forward among the bewildered throng and put his shoulders under it, and stood with one hand braced against each doorpost while people scrambled under his arms and between his legs.

Snibril was already leading the screaming ponies out of their stable. No sooner was each cart moving than it was loaded down with people. And still people were coming, scurrying along under treasured possessions and small children. The hall was already blazing.

He lifted four Deftmenes on to Roland's back and sent the horse after the carts, then struggled through the flow to the hall. Glurk had been forced almost to his knees, his face purple, the veins throbbing in his neck.

Snibril grabbed an arm. "Come on! The whole building is going to go!"

"No," came the low growl, "Pismire and the others are still in there."

Another tremor shook the hall. A pillar cracked, and Glurk grunted. "Get out of the way!" came a whisper from deep in his throat, "it's going to go."

The rock shook underfoot.

"I'll ... I'll get some people with beams and things!" said Snibril. "We'll soon have you out! Don't go away!"

Glurk grunted as Snibril hurried away.

Pismire appeared through the smoke, a scrap of his robe tied over his face, shepherding some bewildered revellers in front of him. He pushed them out under Glurk's arm.

"What are you doing, still here?" he said.

"Goin' to be in a story," said Glurk.

Bane groped his way out of the billows, a rag pressed over his mouth. "Come on," he said, "Brocando's got the secret door open."

"Help me with this idiot," said Pismire.

"Looks wedged to me," said Bane.

"Gonna be a hero," said Glurk.

"Shut up," said Pismire. "That's what comes of listening to stories on an empty head. Stupid idea, anyway, wedging yourself under the door like that ... "

Glurk turned his head with difficulty.

"What?" he said.

"Boneheaded, I call it," said Pismire. The ceiling at the end of the hall collapsed.

"Why, you daft ... old ... " Glurk began. He rose on one knee, then on both, then slowly raised the beam above his head. Then he stepped forward and waved a finger under Pismire's nose.

"I saved a lot-" he began. Then he toppled over.

"Right, it worked. Grab him," said Pismire. "That wall's falling in."

They took an arm each, and stumbled out of the way as the lintel thudded into the floor, splitting it. Pismire squinted at the roof.

"Quickly!"

Brocando was standing by the door to the stairway.

"Come on!"

Glurk started to cough. Pismire pushed a rag into his hand.

"Put it over your mouth and nose," he said. "Damp cloth. Helps with the smoke. Important safety information."

"Tastes of wine," said Glurk thickly, as they half-pushed, half-carried him through the doorway.

"Only thing there was," said Pismire. "Now ... down!"

The whole roof fell in.

They ran down the steps, the others carrying Glurk between them like a battering ram. The roaring died away and all that could be heard was the thudding of their feet on the stone.

"Not out of the hairs yet!" panted Brocando.

"What ... mean?" puffed Pismire.

"No torches!"

Pismire only had enough breath left to grunt.

"!"

They piled into the little door at the bottom of the steps, and lay panting in the blackness.

"Well, there's no going back up," came Brocando's voice. "The door's under a mound of rubble now."

"Do you think you can find the way to the statue in the dark?" said Bane.

"That was the first time I've ever been down here!" wailed Brocando.

"But there must be other entrances," said Pismire.

He thought of the deep crevasses and windy caves of Underlay, and the stories of the creatures that dwelt there. Of course, he didn't believe in them. He'd told them, because the handing on of an oral mythology was very important to a developing culture, but he didn't believe in supernatural monsters. He shivered. He hoped they didn't believe in him.

In the darkness he heard the creak of the door.

"If we keep together and test every step, we should be safe," came Brocando's unsteady voice. "There's four of us. What would dare attack us?"

"Lots of things."

"Apart from them."

Glurk got heavier and heavier as the hours passed. They edged him along narrow paths in the dark, and dragged him through what felt, to judge by the change in the air, to be large caves. They carried him head first and feet first, sometimes propping him up against a hair root while they inched hand in hand along strange paths. They scrambled among thick roots and crept around holes so deep that a warm wind rushed up from them.

Eventually they sat down for a rest. They were walking endlessly. It wasn't as if they were getting anywhere.

"What's below Underlay?" said Brocando.

"The Floor," said Pismire's voice, out of darkness.

"What's below that?"

"Nothing. Something has to be below everything else. That's the Floor. That's as far as there is. You might as well ask what's above the Carpet."

"Well, what is above the-"

"How should I know? We've got far too many problems down here right now to worry about what's up there."

"The Carpet can't go on forever, though."

"It goes on far enough for me!" said Pismire testily.

Brocando felt the air move in front of his face. It was strange, talking to people when everything was completely black. For all he knew, they could be sitting right on the edge of another hole. Everything had to be done by feel.

"Pismire?" he said.

"What now?"

"What about mouls? Do they come down here?"

"It's your tunnel. You should know. I can't imagine why they'd want to, though. I shouldn't think they'd like it any more than we do."

"Correct."

There was silence.

"Was that you?"

"I thought it was you."

"Brocando?"

"Pismire?"

"Bane?"

"What?"

"You see," said Gormaleesh's voice by Pismire's ear, "we can see in the dark."

They didn't fight. How could you, when you might as easily hit a friend as an enemy?

It was the darkness that was the worst bit. And then the claws that gripped them, as easily as a child grips a toy.

"Well, well," said Gormaleesh, from somewhere nearby. "What an unexpected treat."

"Is my brother with you?" said Brocando.

After a pause, Gormaleesh said, "In a manner of speaking. Now, you will do what I say. The little king will hold on to Purgish's tail. The old man hold on to the king's belt. The Dumii soldier hold on to the old man's belt. Anyone let go, anyone try to run away, that person is a dead person."

Brocando, who could count quite quickly for a king, said, "But what about-ow!"

"Sorry," said Pismire, who could count faster, "Did I accidentally kick you? Well, he's right. He's got all three of us."

"But we can't leave Gl-ow! Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes, I see. You're right." Brocando's voice suddenly took on the kind of excited conspiratorial tone that would have made anyone smell a rat who didn't already smell like a moul. "All three of us. Yes. You've definitely got all three of us. How well can you see in the dark, incidentally? Probably not one-hundred-per-cent, eh?"

Oh, no, Pismire thought. How can they not get suspicious after that?

"Ow!" said Gormaleesh.

"Moul scum," said Bane. "When I get out I'll-"

There was the sound of a slap in the darkness.

"When you get out," said Gormaleesh, "you will do exactly as I say. Bring them along."

Well done, thought Pismire. Bane can count fast as well.

They were marched in shuffling single file for quite a short time. They must have been close to a way up to the surface. Pismire felt his hands guided to a ladder. We're going up and out, he thought. If Glurk wakes up, how will he know?

He climbed a few steps, and then let himself drop again.

"Ow! My leg! Ow!" The noise echoed around the caves of Underlay.

"What is the matter with your leg, old man?" said Gormaleesh.

"Nothing," said Pismire, and climbed back up the ladder.

And if Glurk hasn't heard that, we're done for.

It was already night on the surface.

They'd climbed out into a clearing, a long way from Jeopard. It seemed to be a gathering place for the surviving mouls from the city. The prisoners were tied up with leather thongs and thrown down by a bush. Nearby, a pack of snargs eyed them hungrily.

The mouls were talking in their own language, occasionally turning to look at the prisoners.

"Can you understand them?" said Pismire.

"Very crudely," said Bane. "They're taking us somewhere. Called ... gargatass, if that means anything."

"That's their word for the High Gate Land, I think," said Pismire. "Where the Vortgorns live."

"Them? They're our mortal enemies," said Brocando.

"I thought the Dumii were your mortal enemies," said Pismire.

"We like to have several mortal enemies at one time," said Brocando. "Just in case we run out."

Pismire took no notice. He was lying a little apart from the other two, and could see behind the snarg pack. In the glow of the moul's campfire he could just make out a guard lounging by the little overgrown entrance to Underlay, with his snarg tethered to a dust bush.

An arm was slowly growing out of the bush behind the unsuspecting moul. It stopped a few inches above his head, and carefully removed his helmet. The moul turned, and met a fist coming the other way. The arm caught him before he fell and dragged him into the bush ...

A moment later the hand appeared by the snarg, and started untethering it. It looked up, and with horror Pismire saw its eyes narrow. Before it could growl, though, the hand bunched up into a knotted fist and smacked it smartly between the eyes. He heard the creature give a little sigh, and saw it fall over slowly. Before it reached the ground the tether tightened and tugged it into the bush.

Pismire didn't know why, but he felt sure that everything was going to be all right.

Or, at least, more all right than it was now.