The Carpet People

CHAPTER 19

Snibril was also learning something. He was learning about the power of sergeants.

Careus had found the palace kitchens, because sergeants always know how to find a kitchen. It was a long low room, with half a dozen fireplaces and a blackened ceiling.

And then he'd found the head cook, who was an old friend.

"This is Mealy," he said, introducing Snibril to a huge red-faced man with a scar across his nose, a patch over one eye and only one arm. "He used to be in the army, like me."

"Was he a sergeant too?" said Snibril.

"That's right," said Mealy, grinning. The scar seemed to grin, too. When he stepped around the table, Snibril saw that he had a wooden leg. "Seen action in dozens o' campaigns," said Mealy, following his gaze. "Then one day Careus here picked me up and carried me back to safety and said Mealy, boy, you better retire right now while there's still some of you left to send home. Good to see you again, mate."

"Strange stuff happening, Mealy," said the sergeant.

"No error. Top brass been sacked all over the place. No-one's seen the Emperor for a fortnight. Spends all his time in his rooms. Has all his meals sent in."

"And these advisers," said Snibril. "What about them?"

"No-one's seen 'em," said Mealy, scratching his back with a ladle. "But I bin up there with a tray one time and they smell-"

"Moulish?" said Snibril.

Several other cooks had wandered up and were listening with interest. They all looked very similar to Mealy. There were half a dozen of them, but only enough arms and legs and ears and eyes for about four whole people. And most of them had scars that you could play noughts-and-crosses on.

"Right," said Mealy. "And I bin pretty close to mouls enough times to know what I'm smellin'. We don't like it. But there's only the handful of us. If we had some lads with us ... "

Careus and Snibril looked at one another.

"They're right here, in the palace," said Snibril.

He looked around at the cooks. They were all very big men.

"You were all sergeants, weren't you," he said. "I can tell."

"Well, you see," said Mealy, "you learn about arranging things, when you're a sergeant. Like, you make sure that when you retires you gets a cushy number. In the warm all day. Regular meals. Old sergeants gets everywhere."

"Let's go and-" Snibril began.

He stared into the darkness at the end of the sooty kitchen.

"Who's she?" he said.

"Who?"

The sergeants turned.

Snibril hesitated. "There was someone there," he mumbled. "In white. And this white animal by her. And she was saying-"

He stopped.

"No women in the kitchens," said Mealy. "The reason being, women aren't any good at sergeanting."

Snibril shook himself. Must have imagined it, he told himself. It's been a busy time ...

"Sergeant Careus, can you get back and bring the army?" he said.

"To attack Ware?" said Careus.

"To defend it," said Snibril.

"Who will we be fighting?"

"By the time you get back I hope we'll have an enemy," said Snibril. "Have you cooks got any weapons?"

Mealy grinned. He picked up a long meat cleaver from a big wooden table, swung it in his one arm, and brought it down on a chopping block. The chopping block split.

"Who, us?" he said.

The guards on the palace gate were nervous anyway. They didn't like their job. But orders are orders, even if you're not sure where they came from. At least, they are to a Dumii. If we didn't obey orders, where would we be?

And they were even more nervous when four heavily-cloaked wights turned up at the gate, pushing a cart. One of the guards stepped forward.

"Halt!" he said.

His companion nudged him. "They're wights," he said, "I don't think you can say Halt to wights. They must have a reason to go in."

"That's right," said one of the wights.

The first guard said, doubtfully, "But one of them's eating a cucumber ... "

"I expect wights have to eat."

"And there's only four of them. There ought to be seven," said the first guard.

"We've been ill," said a wight.

Another wight added, "Although, of course, when we say we we don't mean-"

A wight nudged him in the ribs. The first guard was not going to give up easily.

"I don't think you're wights at all," he said. The wight who was eating cucumber turned its hood towards him.

"Can prove it," it said. "Can tell you the future."

"Oh, yes?"

The wight took a club off the cart.

"Going to get hit," said Glurk.

"Not too hard," said Bane, pushing his hood back. "He's just in the way. He's not an enemy."

Glurk hit the guard in as friendly a way as possible. The second guard started to draw his sword and opened his mouth to shout, but he felt something pointed touch his back.

"Drop the sword," said Pismire.

"And when we say drop, we mean let go of in a downward direction," said Owlglass, hopping up and down. "Isn't this exciting!"

Mealy knocked on a large, ornate door. Two cooks behind him were pushing a trolley. It was a large one; a white tablecloth hung down on all sides.

After a while a courtier opened the door.

"Dinner," said Mealy. "Bring it in?"

"Oh. The cook. Very well," said the courtier. The trolley was wheeled through. There were a couple of guards sitting on the bench in the room beyond. They didn't look very happy.

There was another door beyond. The courtier opened it. There was yet another room beyond. It was empty. There was another closed door in the opposite wall.

"Leave it in there," said the courtier. "Then be off."

"Right, right," said Mealy. The cooks pushed the trolley into the next room. Then they filed out obediently. The courtier closed the inner door.

"Don't you ever wonder what happens next?" said Mealy.

"It's not my job to wonder about the Emperor's business," sniffed the courtier, "and certainly not with a cook."

"In fact," said Mealy, taking off his tall cook's hat, I'm a sergeant. You lads there-attention!"

The two guards stood to attention before they realized what they were doing. Several more cooks filed into the room. Each of them was carrying something sharp.

"This is-" the courtier began, and then realized that he was in a room with half a dozen large armed men, who probably were not ready to be shouted at.

"-against orders," he said.

"We've put the food in there. That was orders," said Mealy. He limped over to the door and put his one ear to it. "We're just waiting to see what happens next."

The long cloth made a sort of mobile tent.

He heard the door shut behind him. After a minute or two, another door opened.

He smelled moul. It was not in fact a particularly bad smell; they smelled like a fur coat that hadn't been brushed for too long.

The trolley moved. The door shut, and this time it shut behind him, in a very final kind of way.

The moul smell was overpowering. And only now did he hear voices.

"Your dinner, sire." A moul voice.

"I'm not hungry!" A human voice, but with a sulky whine in it that suggested that its owner had been given too many sweets when he was young and not enough shoutings-at. It was the kind of voice that's used to having its life with the crusts cut off.

"Sire must eat," moul voice, "otherwise there will be nothing left of sire."

"What's happening outside? Why won't you tell me what's happening outside? Why doesn't anyone do what I tell them?" Snibril thought he heard a foot stamp. He'd never believed that people really did that outside stories.

"The civil war rages on," another moul voice, "you have enemies on all sides. Only we can protect you. You must let us do that, sire."

"Call Fray down on them!" The Emperor, thought Snibril, horrified. Only well-bred people can be as rude as that.

"Soon, soon, just as we did in Jeopard," a third moul voice. "In the meantime, my people are fighting hard on your behalf. Perhaps we shall have to call on Fray, in time."

"I am surrounded by enemies!" whined the Emperor.

"Yes, yes," said a moul voice, as if it was talking to a baby.

"And everyone must do what I say!"

"Yes, yes," moul voice. "Within reason."

"You know what happens to enemies," said the Emperor. "They get sent away. To a bad place!"

Our village wasn't that bad, thought Snibril. Pismire used to say it was full of homely comfort. I thought the Emperor was going to be noble!

"I'm hungry now. Have you finished tasting my food?"

"Not quite, sire."

"But it's nearly all gone!"

"Poison could be even in the last bite," said a moul voice, and it occurred to Snibril it was speaking with its mouth full.

"Yeh. Yes, of course you're right," said the Emperor uncertainly. "I've never trusted those cooks. They've got far too many bits missing. Even so-perhaps a crust?"

"Why, certainly, sire. And I think we can trust a little of this gravy ... "

We've come all this way to defend this? thought Snibril.

And then he thought: what would Bane say about this?

He'd say: he's the Emperor, whatever else he might be. You've got to do something.

All right, what would Pismire say? He'd say: listen and observe and then take unprecipitate action based on received information. So that's not much help.

Brocando would say, no, he'd shout: Attack!

Glurk wouldn't even wait to shout.

Oh well. I just hope Mealy is still outside.

Bane peered around a corner, and then beckoned the others.

"Don't look too conspiratorial," said Pismire. "If we walk as if we've got a right to be here, the guards won't take any notice."

"I'm fed up with skulking around," said a very small wight behind him. "That's no way for a king to behave."

Bane threw off his robe.

"I thought those guards took it very well, considering," said Pismire.

"Considering what?" said Glurk.

"Considering we've just hit them. They positively wanted to be tied up, I thought. They didn't like what they had to do."

"They still did it, though," said Brocando. "They still obeyed orders. Stupid. What would Deftmenes be if we went around obeying orders all the time?"

"They might be ruling the Carpet," said Pismire.

"Ha!" said Brocando, "half the trouble about obeying orders is, it becomes a habit. And then everything depends on who's giving the orders."

They reached another archway. There were two more guards there, Glurk gripped his stick.

"No," said Bane. "Let's do it my way this time."

He stepped forward.

"You men-eyes face! Preeeesent armssss! Very good. Very good. Come on, people-"

One of the soldiers looked doubtful.

"Got orders to let no-one through," he managed.

"We're not anyone," said Bane. "And that's an order."

The guard stood to attention.

"Yessir. Verygoodsir!" he said.

"Don't talk to me, I'm not here," said Bane.

The guard started to speak, and then nodded instead.

"Good man. Come on."

Owlglass tapped the guard on the shoulder as he passed through.

"Of course, when we say 'not here' we mean only in a figurative or-"

Pismire grabbed him by his collar. "Come on!"

There were four mouls in the room, staring at Snibril in astonishment. There was also a young man of about his age, who oddly enough was reacting faster than the mouls. By the time he spoke he'd passed right through astonishment and into anger. The Emperor raised a pudgy hand, covered in rings.

"He's not a cook!" he wailed. "He's all there! So why's he here?"

Snibril dropped his spear and grabbed the arm. "You come with me," he said, and added, "sire." He waved his sword at the mouls. "It's one against four," he said. "That means I'm four times more likely to hit one of you, and who knows which one it'll be?"

The mouls hadn't moved. Then one of them smiled. The Emperor struggled in Snibril's grip.

"Very wise, sire," said the moul who had smiled.

"I'm here to rescue you!" said Snibril. "These are mouls! They're destroying the Empire!"

"The Empire is safe and well," said the Emperor smugly.

Snibril was astonished. "What about Fray?" he said.

"Jornarileesh and his people can control Fray," said the Emperor. "Fray only strikes my enemies. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, sir," said the one called Jornarileesh. He was a tall moul. This one's not like Gormaleesh, Snibril thought. This one looks clever.

"It's striking everywhere!" shouted Snibril.

"That proves I have a lot of enemies," said the Emperor.

The mouls were advancing and, suddenly, the Deftmene way of calculating odds was beginning to seem a lot less attractive.

"Drop the sword and let go of him," said Jornarileesh. "If you don't we will call down Fray."

"Right now?" said Snibril.

"Yes!"

"Right this minute?"

"Yes!"

"Do it, then."

"No!" wailed the Emperor.

Snibril's head felt quite clear. "You can't," he said. "They can't, sire. It's just a threat. They can't do it. They're no different than me!"

Now he had time to look around he could see, in one corner of the big room, a hole. It had bits of hair around the edges.

"You came up from Underlay," he said. "That was clever. Dumii obey orders, so all you had to do was be in the-the centre, where they start. All you had to do was frighten this ... this idiot!"

The Emperor went red with anger. "I will have you exec-" he began.

"Oh, shut up," said Snibril.

The mouls drew their swords and dashed towards him. But four on to one was a disadvantage; it meant that each one was really waiting for one of the other three to make the first move.

There wasn't any cutting, thrusting and parrying; that only happens when people are fencing with swords for fun. When it's for real, it's like two windmills with sharp edges. The idea is to cut the other person very badly, not to look impressive.

Snibril backed towards the door, fending off blows as best he could. One of the mouls shouted something in its own language, and another couple of heads appeared over the edge of the hole.

Snibril kicked the door. "Mealy! Open up!"

The door swung open. The room beyond was empty. Snibril dragged the Emperor into it.

And the mouls made the mistake of chasing them. The cooks had been standing behind the doors. They stepped, or at least hopped, out.

Mealy hit a moul over the head with a ladle.

"There's seven of us and four of them," he said. "It's not fair. Three of us won't have anyone to hit. Get 'em, lads!"

"There's more coming out of a hole in the floor!" said Snibril, still hanging on to the Emperor.

"Good!"

"What's happening? Why is all this happening?" said the Emperor. He didn't look angry any more. He looked frightened, and a lot younger. Snibril almost felt sorry for him.

The cooks were disappointed. Most of the mouls scurried back into the Emperor's chambers, diving into the hole and colliding with one another in their desperation to escape.

Mealy's kitchen army dragged a heavy table across the room and upended it over the hole.

Mealy wiped his hand on his apron. "There," he said. "All done."

"I'm afraid we're only just beginning," said Snibril. "There could be thousands of them underneath us right now-"

"Everyone must do what I say!" screamed the Emperor. "I am in charge!"

The sergeants turned to look at him.

"We ought to protect the Emperor," said one of them.

"We could shove him down the hole with those friends of his," said Mealy. "They'd protect him all right."

The Emperor's little piggy eyes glanced from Mealy to the table to Snibril and back again.

Then he shouted, "Guards!"

The door to the passageway banged open, and a couple of armed men stepped into the room.

"I want these men locked up!" shouted the Emperor.

"Really?" said Bane. "What for?"

An hour makes a lot of difference. They brought the army in. In order to save a lot of explaining, they did it by getting a signed order from the Emperor.

It was signed of his own free will, after Glurk explained patiently that if it wasn't signed of his own free will, there would be trouble.

Then there was a council of war.

"I always knew this would happen," said Bane. "Once upon a time the Emperor was elected. Then Targon made it hereditary, so that stupid brat of his could take over. Hardly anyone objected! It's as bad as having kings."

"That's going too far!" said Brocando.

"I'm sorry. You're right. At least the Deftmenes have had kings for a long time. At least you're good at being kings."

"Don't start arguing," said Snibril. "We ought to be wondering what the mouls are doing."

"They're doing what they always do," said Bane. "They're waiting for Fray, so they can attack when everyone is disorganized. They just got a bit impatient here."

"We might be lucky," said Owlglass. "Of course, when I say lucky-"

"It'll happen," said Pismire, despondently. He waved a map in front of him. "The village and Jeopard and Ware are more or less in a straight line."

"Does that mean anything?" said Snibril.

"Nothing good," said Pismire. "Where's the Emperor?"

"Glurk and the cooks have got him locked up in the kitchens," said Bane. "Best way. He can't eat and shout at the same time." He looked down at a scrap of paper in front of him. "With every fighting man we've got, we're still less than fifteen hundred people," he said.

"Less than that, in fact," said Pismire. "You can't leave women and children and old people in the city. Remember Tregon Marus. Buildings fall down. We'll have to get them to safety and guard them."

"No. Arm the women," said Brocando.

"Don't be stupid," said Bane. "Women don't know how to fight."

"Deftmene women do," said Brocando.

"Oh, yes? Who with?"

"Deftmene men," said Brocando.

"He's got a point," said Pismire. "My granny had a wallop like a wrestler. I think she could go through a moul like a hot knife through runny butter."

"I absolutely forbid it," said Bane. "Women fighting? That's not warfare. That's just a vulgar mess. No. I mean it. I want that absolutely understood, Your Majesty. Get them to safety, yes-but no fancy ideas. Besides, they wouldn't have the first idea about tactics."

"Fine," said Brocando. "All right. No fighting women." Snibril noticed that he was grinning in a funny way.

"Besides," said Bane, "there's not enough weapons to go round as it is."

"There's a whole armoury in the palace!" said Owlglass.

"When we unlocked it there was nothing in there but a hole in the floor," said Bane. "The mouls have got them."

"Well, then-" Brocando began.

"You're going to suggest we attack the mouls to get weapons off them, aren't you," said Bane coldly.

"Well-" Brocando began.

"Don't," said Bane. He slapped his hand on the table. "They're out there," he said, "and down there. I know it. Just waiting. After Fray strikes, they'll attack. That's how it'll happen. That's how they do it, if they can't worm their way in from inside."

Snibril had been listening to this. When he finally spoke, he felt as though he was reading words off a page. These were the words he had to say now.

"I can help," he said. They all looked at him.

"I can sense when Fray is coming," he said. "I'm not as good at it as the mouls, but I'm better than most animals."

"It's true," said Sergeant Careus. "I've seen him do it."

"Well, that'll be a help," said Bane.

"No, you don't understand," said Snibril. "What do the mouls do before Fray strikes?"

"How should I know," said Bane. "Lie down and put their hands over their eyes, if they're sensible. And then attack immediately."

He seemed to think about this.

"When they expect to find a crushed enemy," he said.

Snibril nodded.

Pismire said, "It might work, you know. Forewarned is forearmed."

There was silence. And then Brocando said, "Four armed? Does that mean we can hold twice as many swords?"