THE CARPET PEOPLE
Terry Pratchett
[28 aug 2002-proofed for #bookz]


To Lyn, for then and now.
AUTHOR'S NOTE 
This book had two authors, and they were both the same person. 
The Carpet People was published in 1971. It had a lot of things wrong with it, 
mostly to do with being written by someone who was seventeen at the time. 
And it sold a bit, and eventually it sold out. And that was it. 
And then about seven years ago the Discworld books began to sell, and people 
would buy them and say, "Here, what's this book The Carpet People by The Same 
Author?" and the publishers got so fed up with telling people that there was no 
demand for it that they decided it was time for a new edition. 
Which was read by Terry Pratchett, aged forty-three, who said: hang on. I wrote 
that in the days when I thought fantasy was all battles and kings. Now I'm 
inclined to think that the real concerns of fantasy ought to be about not having 
battles, and doing without kings. I'll just rewrite it here and there ... 
Well, you know how it is when you tweak a thread that's hanging loose ... 
So this is it. It's not exactly the book I wrote then. It's not exactly the book 
I'd write now. It's a joint effort but, heh heh, I don't have to give him half 
the royalties. He'd only waste them. 
You asked for it. Here it is. Thanks. Incidentally, the size of the city of Ware 
is approximately&#8594;. 
-Terry Pratchett 
15 September 1991 
PROLOGUE 
They called themselves the Munrungs. It meant The People, or The True Human 
Beings. 
It's what most people call themselves, to begin with. And then one day the tribe 
meets some other people, and gives them a name like The Other People or, if it's 
not been a good day, The Enemy. If only they'd think up a name like Some More 
True Human Beings, it'd save a lot of trouble later on. 
Not that the Munrungs were in any way primitive. Pismire said they had a rich 
native cultural inheritance. He meant stories. 
Pismire knew all the old stories and many new ones and used to tell them while 
the whole tribe listened, enthralled, and the nighttime fires crumbled to ashes. 

Sometimes it seemed that even the mighty hairs that grew outside the village 
stockade listened, too. They seemed to crowd in closer. 
The oldest story was the shortest. He did not tell it often, but the tribe knew 
it by heart. It was a story told in many languages, all over the Carpet. 
"In the beginning," said Pismire, "there was nothing but endless flatness. Then 
came the Carpet, which covered the flatness. It was young in those days. There 
was no dust among the hairs. They were slim and straight, not bent and crusty 
like they are today. And the Carpet was empty." 
"Then came the dust, which fell upon the Carpet, drifting among the hairs, 
taking root in the deep shadows. More came, tumbling slowly and with silence 
among the waiting hairs, until the dust was thick in the Carpet." 
"From the dust the Carpet wove us all. First came the little crawling creatures 
that make their dwellings in burrows and high in the hairs. Then came the 
soraths, and the weft borers, tromps, goats, gromepipers and the snargs." 
"Now the Carpet had life and noise. Yes, and death and silence. But there was a 
thread missing from the weave on the loom of life." 
"The Carpet was full of life, but it did not know it was alive. It could be, but 
it could not think. It did not even know what it was." 
"And so from the dust came us, the Carpet People. We gave the Carpet its name, 
and named the creatures, and the weaving was complete. We were the first to give 
the Carpet a name. Now it knew about itself." 
"Though Fray, who hates life in the Carpet, may tread upon us, though shadows 
grow over us, we are the soul of the Carpet, and that is a mighty thing. We are 
the fruit of the loom." 
"Of course, this is all metaphorical but I think it's important, don't you?"" 
CHAPTER 1 
It was the Law that, every tenth year, the people of all the tribes in the Dumii 
Empire should come and be Counted. 
They did not go all the way to the great capital city of Ware, but to the little 
walled town of Tregon Marus. 
The Counting was always a great occasion. Tregon Marus would double in size and 
importance overnight as tribal tents were pitched outside its walls. There was a 
horse market, and a five-day fair, old friends to be met, and a flood of news to 
be exchanged. 
And there was the Counting itself. New names were added to the crackling scrolls 
which, the people like to believe, were taken to Ware, even to the Great Palace 
of the Emperor himself. The Dumii clerks laboriously wrote down how many pigs 
and goats and tromps everybody had, and one by one the people shuffled on to the 
next table and paid their taxes in furs and skins. That was the unpopular part. 
So the queue wound round Tregon Marus, in at the East Gate, through the postern 
and stables, across the market square, and through the countinghouse. Even the 
youngest babies were carried past the clerks, for the quill pens to wobble and 
scratch their names on the parchment. Many a tribesman got a funny name because 
a clerk didn't know how to spell, and there's more of that sort of thing in 
History than you might expect. 
On the fifth day the Governor of the town called all the tribal chieftains to an 
audience in the market square, to hear their grievances. He didn't always do 
anything about them, but at least they got heard, and he nodded a lot, and 
everyone felt better about it at least until they got home. This is politics. 
That was how it had always happened, time out of mind. 
And on the sixth day the people went back to their homes, along the roads the 
Dumii had built. They went east. Behind them the road went west, until it came 
to the city of Ware. There it was just one of the many roads that entered the 
city. Beyond Ware it became the West Road, becoming narrower and more winding 
until it reached the furthermost western outpost of Rug. 
Such was the Dumii Empire. It covered almost all of the Carpet from the Woodwall 
to the wasteland near Varnisholme in the north. 
In the west it bordered Wildland and the uttermost fringes of the Carpet, and 
southwards the roads ran as far as the Hearthlands. The painted people of the 
Wainscot, the warlike Hibbolgs, even the fire-worshippers of Rug, all paid their 
tribute to the Emperor. 
Some of them didn't like the Dumii much, usually because the Empire discouraged 
the small wars and cattle raids which, in the outlying regions, were by way of 
being a recreational activity. The Empire liked peace. It meant that people had 
enough time to earn money to pay their taxes. On the whole, peace seemed to 
work. 
So the Munrung tribe went east, and passed out of the chronicles of the Empire 
for another ten years. Sometimes they quarrelled among themselves, but on the 
whole they lived peacefully and avoided having much to do with history, which 
tends to get people killed. 
Then, one year, no more was heard from Tregon Marus ... 
Old Grimm Orkson, chieftain of the Munrungs, had two sons. The eldest, Glurk, 
succeeded his father as chieftain when old Orkson died. 
To the Munrung way of thinking, which was a slow and deliberate way, there 
couldn't have been a better choice. He looked just like a second edition of his 
father, from his broad shoulders to his great thick neck, the battering centre 
of his strength. Glurk could throw a spear further than anyone. He could wrestle 
with a snarg, and wore a necklace of their long yellow teeth to prove it. He 
could lift a horse with one hand, run all day without tiring, and creep up so 
close to a grazing animal that sometimes they'd die of shock before he had time 
to raise his spear. Admittedly he moved his lips when he was thinking, and the 
thoughts could be seen bumping against one another like dumplings in a stew, but 
he was not stupid. Not what you'd call stupid. His brain got there in the end. 
It just went the long way around. 
"He's a man of few words, and he doesn't know what either of them mean," people 
said, but not when he was within hearing. 
One day towards evening he was tramping homeward through the dusty glades, 
carrying a bone-tipped hunting spear under one arm. The other arm steadied the 
long pole that rested on his shoulder. 
In the middle of the pole, its legs tied together, dangled a snarg. At the other 
end of the pole was Snibril, Glurk's younger brother. 
Old Orkson had married early and lived long, so a wide gap filled by a string of 
daughters, that the chieftain had carefully married off to upright and respected 
and above all well-off Munrungs, separated the brothers. 
Snibril was slight, especially compared with his brother. Grimm had sent him off 
to the strict Dumii school in Tregon Marus to become a clerk. "He can't hardly 
hold a spear," he said, "maybe a pen'd be better. Get some learning in the 
family." 
When Snibril had run away for the third time Pismire came to see Grimm. 
Pismire was the shaman, a kind of odd-job priest. 
Most tribes had one, although Pismire was different. For one thing, he washed 
all the bits that showed at least once every month. This was unusual. Other 
shamen tended to encourage dirt, taking the view that the grubbier, the more 
magical. 
And he didn't wear lots of feathers and bones, and he didn't talk like the other 
shamen in neighbouring tribes. 
Other shamen ate the yellow-spotted mushrooms that were found deep in the hair 
thickets and said things like: "Hiiiiya/iya/iheya! Heyaheyayahyah! Hngh! Hngh!" 
which certainly sounded magical. 
Pismire said things like, "Correct observation followed by meticulous deduction 
and the precise visualization of goals is vital to the success of any 
enterprise. Have you noticed the way the wild tromps always move around two days 
ahead of the sorath herds? Incidentally, don't eat the yellow-spotted 
mushrooms." 
Which didn't sound magical at all, but worked a lot better and conjured up good 
hunting. Privately some Munrungs thought good hunting was more due to their own 
skill. Pismire encouraged this view. "Positive thinking," he would say, "is also 
very important." 
He was also the official medicine man. He was a lot better, they agreed (but 
reluctantly, because the Munrungs respected tradition) than the last one they 
had had, whose idea of medicine was to throw some bones in the air and cry 
"Hyahyahyah! Hgn! Hgn!" Pismire just mixed various kinds of rare dust in a bowl, 
made it into pills, and said things like "Take one of these when you go to bed 
at night and another one if you wake up in the morning." 
And occasionally he offered advice on other matters. 
Grimm was chopping sticks outside his hut. "It'll never work," said Pismire, 
appearing behind him in that silent way of his. "You can't send Snibril off to 
Tregon again. He's a Munrung. No wonder he keeps running away. He'll never be a 
clerk. It's not in the blood, man. Let him stay. I'll see he learns to read." 
"If you can learn him, you're welcome," said Grimm, shaking his head. "He's a 
mystery to me. Spends all his time moping around. His mother used to be like 
that. Of course, she got a bit of sense once she got married." 
Grimm had never learned to read, but he had always been impressed by the clerks 
at Tregon Marus. They could make marks on bits of parchment that could remember 
things. That was power, of a sort. He was quite keen to see that an Orkson got 
some of it. 
So Snibril went to Pismire's village school with the other children, and learnt 
numbers, letters, and the Dumii laws. He enjoyed it, sucking in knowledge as 
though his life depended on it. It often did, Pismire said. 
And, strangely, he also grew up to be a hunter almost as good as his brother. 
But in different ways. 
Glurk chased. Snibril watched. You don't have to chase around after creatures, 
Pismire had said. You watch them for long enough, and then you'll find the place 
to wait and they'll come to you. There's nearly always a better way of doing 
something. 
When old Grimm died he was laid in a barrow dug out of the dust of the Carpet, 
with his hunting spear by his side. Munrungs had no idea where you went when you 
died, but there was no reason to go hungry once you got there. 
Glurk became chieftain, and would have to take the tribe to the next Counting. 
But the messenger to summon them to Tregon Marus was long overdue, and that 
worried Glurk. Not that he was in a hurry to pay taxes, and actually going to 
see why the messenger was late seemed a bit too, you know, keen, but usually the 
Dumii were very reliable, especially over tax-gathering. 
But as he and his brother wandered homeward that evening he kept his thoughts to 
himself. Snibril grunted, and heaved the pole on to his other shoulder. He was 
shorter than his brother, and he was going to get shorter still, he thought, if 
he couldn't shed the load for a minute or two. 
"I feel as though my feet have worn right off and my legs have turned up at the 
ends," he said. "Can't we stop for a rest? Five minutes won't hurt. And ... my 
head aches ... " 
"Five minutes, then," said Glurk. "No more. It's getting dark." 
They had reached the Dumii road, and not far north of it lay the Woodwall, home 
and supper. They sat down. 
Glurk, who never wasted his time, started to sharpen the point of his spear on a 
piece of grit, but both brothers gazed down the road, shining in the dim evening 
air. The road stretched west, a glowing line in the darkness. The hairs around 
it were full of growing shadows. It had fascinated Snibril, ever since his 
father had told him that all roads led to Ware. So it was only the road that lay 
between the doorway of his hut and the threshold of the Emperor's palace, he 
thought. And if you counted all the streets and passages that led off the road 
... Once you set foot on it you might end up anywhere and if you just sat by the 
road and waited, who might pass you by? Everywhere was connected to everywhere 
else, Pismire had said. 
He put his head in his hands. The ache was worse. It felt as though he was being 
squeezed. 
The Carpet had felt wrong too, today. The hunting had been hard. Most of the 
animals had vanished, and the dust between the hairs did not stir in the 
breathless air. 
Glurk said, "I don't like this. There hasn't been anyone on the road for days." 
He stood up and reached out for the pole. 
Snibril groaned. He'd have to ask Pismire for a pill ... 
A shadow nickered high up in the hairs, and flashed away towards the south. 
There was a sound so loud as to be felt by the whole body, hitting the Carpet 
with horrible suddenness. The brothers sprawled in the dust as the hairs around 
them groaned and screamed in the gale. 
Glurk gripped the rough bark of a hair and hauled himself upright, straining 
against the storm that whipped round him. Far overhead the tip of the hair 
creaked and rattled, and all round the hairs waved like a grey sea. Smashing 
through them came grit, man-sized boulders half rolling and half flying before 
the wind. 
Holding on tightly with one hand, Glurk reached out with the other and hauled 
his brother to safety. Then they crouched, too shaken to speak, while the storm 
banged about them. 
As quickly as it had come, it veered south, and the darkness followed it. 
The silence clanged like gongs. 
Snibril blinked. Whatever it was, it had taken the headache with it. His ears 
popped. 
Then he heard the sound of hooves on the road as the wind died away. 
They got louder very quickly and sounded wild and frightened, as though the 
horse was running free. 
When it appeared, it was riderless. Its ears lay back flat on its head and its 
eyes flashed green with terror. The white coat glistened with sweat, reins 
cracked across the saddle with the fury of the gallop. 
Snibril leapt in its path. Then, as the creature hurtled by him, he snatched at 
the reins, raced for a second by the pounding hooves, and flung himself up into 
the saddle. Why he dared that he never knew. Careful observation and precise 
determination of goals, probably. He just couldn't imagine not doing it. 
They rode into the village, the quietened horse carrying them and dragging the 
snarg behind it. 
The village stockade had broken in several places, and grit boulders had smashed 
some huts. Glurk looked towards the Orkson hut and Snibril heard the moan that 
escaped from him. The chieftain climbed down from the horse's back and walked 
slowly towards his home. 
Or what had been his home. 
The rest of the tribe stopped talking and drew back, awed, to let him pass. A 
hair had fallen, a big one. It had crushed the stockade. And the tip of it lay 
across what was left of the Orkson hut, the arch of the doorway still standing 
bravely amid a litter of beams and thatch. Bertha Orkson came running forward 
with her children round her, and flung herself into his arms. 
"Pismire got us out before the hair fell," she cried. "Whatever shall we do?" 
He patted her absently but went on staring at the ruined hut. Then he climbed 
along up the mound of wreckage, and prodded about. 
So silent was the crowd that every sound he made echoed. There was a clink as he 
picked up the pot that had miraculously escaped destruction, and looked at it as 
though he had never seen its design before, turning it this way and that in the 
firelight. He raised it above his head and smashed it on the ground. 
Then he raised his fist above him and swore. He cursed by the hairs, by the dark 
caverns of Underlay, by the demons of the Floor, by the Weft and by the Warp. He 
bellowed the Unutterable Words and swore the oath of Retwatshud the Frugal, that 
cracked bone, or so it was said, although Pismire claimed that this was 
superstition. 
Curses circled up in the evening hairs and the night creatures of the Carpet 
listened. Oath was laid upon oath in a towering pillar vibrating terror. 
When he had finished the air trembled. He flopped down on the wreckage and sat 
with his head in his hands, and no-one dared approach. There were sidelong 
glances, and one or two people shook themselves and hurried away. 
Snibril dismounted and wandered over to where Pismire was standing gloomily 
wrapped in his goatskin cloak. 
"He shouldn't have said the Unutterable Words," said Pismire, more or less to 
himself, "It's all superstition, of course, but that's not to say it isn't real. 
Oh, hello. I see you survived." 
"What did this?" 
"It used to be called Fray," said Pismire. 
"I thought that was just an old story." 
"Doesn't mean it was untrue. I'm sure it was Fray. The changes in air pressure 
to begin with ... the animals sensed it ... just like it said in the ... " He 
stopped. "Just like I read somewhere," he said awkwardly. 
He glanced past Snibril and brightened up. 
"You've got a horse, I see." 
"I think it's been hurt." 
Pismire walked to the horse and examined it carefully. "It's Dumii, of course," 
he said. "Someone fetch my herb box. Something's attacked him, see, here. Not 
deep but it should be dressed. A magnificent beast. Magnificent. No rider?" 
"We rode up the road a way but we didn't see anyone." 
Pismire stroked the sleek coat. "If you sold all the village and its people into 
slavery you might just be able to buy a horse like this. Whoever he belonged to, 
he ran away some time ago. He's been living wild for days." 
"The Dumii don't let anyone keep slaves any more," said Snibril. 
"It's worth a lot is what I was trying to say," said Pismire. 
He hummed distractedly to himself as he examined the hooves. 
"Wherever he came from, someone must have been riding him." 
He let one leg go and paused to stare up at the hairs. "Something scared him. 
Not Fray. Something days ago. It wasn't bandits, because they would have taken 
the horse too. And they don't leave claw marks. A snarg could have made that if 
it was three times its normal size. Oh, dear. And there are such," he said. 
The cry came. 
To Snibril it seemed as though the night had grown a mouth and a voice. It came 
from the hairs just beyond the broken stockade, a mocking screech that split the 
darkness. The horse reared. 
A fire had already been lit at the break in the wall, and some hunters ran 
towards it, spears ready. 
They stopped. 
On the further side there was a mounted shape in the darkness, and two pairs of 
eyes. One was a sullen red, one pair shimmered green. They stared unblinking 
over the flames at the villagers. 
Glurk snatched a spear from one of the gaping men and pushed his way forward. 
"Nothing but a snarg," he growled, and threw. The spear struck something, but 
the green eyes only grew brighter. There was a deep, menacing rumble from an 
unseen throat. 
"Be off! Go back to your lair!" 
Pismire ran forward with a blazing stick in his hand, and hurled it at the eyes. 

They blinked and were gone. With them went the spell. Cries went up and, ashamed 
of their fear, the hunters surged forward. "Stop!" shouted Pismire. "Idiots! 
You'll chase out into the dark after that, with your bone spears? That was a 
black snarg. Not like the brown ones you get around here! You know the stories? 
They're from the furthest Corners! From the Unswept Regions!" 
Prom the north, from the white cliff of the Woodwall itself, came again the cry 
of a snarg. This time it did not die away, but stopped abruptly. 
Pismire stared north for a second, then turned to Glurk and Snibril. "You have 
been found," he said. "That was what brought this horse here, fear of the 
snargs. And fear of the snargs is nothing to be ashamed of. Fear of snargs like 
that is common sense. Now they have discovered the village you can't stay. 
They'll come every night until one night you won't fight back hard enough. Leave 
tomorrow. Even that might be too late." 
"We can't just-" Glurk began. 
"You can. You must. Fray is back, and all the things that come after. Do you 
understand?" 
"No," said Glurk. 
"Then trust me," said Pismire. "And hope that you never do have to understand. 
Have you ever known me be wrong?" 
Glurk considered. "Well, there was that time when you said-" 
"About important things?" 
"No. I suppose not." Glurk looked worried. "But we've never been frightened of 
snargs. We can deal with snargs. What's special about these?" 
"The things that ride on them," said Pismire. 
"There was another pair of eyes," said Glurk uncertainly. 
"Worse than snargs," said Pismire. "Got much worse weapons than teeth and claws. 
They've got brains." 
CHAPTER 2 
"Well, that's the lot. Come on," said Glurk, taking a last look at the ruins of 
the hut. 
"Just a minute," said Snibril. 
His possessions fitted easily into one fur pack, but he rummaged through them in 
case anything had been left behind. There was a bone knife with the carved 
wooden handle, and a spare pair of boots. Then there was a coil of bowstrings, 
and another bag of arrowheads, a piece of lucky dust and, right at the bottom, 
Snibril's fingers closed round a lumpy bag. He lifted it out carefully, taking 
care not to damage its contents, and opened it. Two, five, eight, nine. All 
there, their varnish catching the light as he moved his fingers. 
"Huh," said Glurk, "I don't know why you bother with them. Another bag of 
arrowheads would fill the space better." 
Snibril shook his head, and held up the coins which gleamed with varnish. 
They had been shaped from the red wood of the Chairleg mines. On one side each 
coin carried a carving of the Emperor's head. They were Tarnerii, the coins of 
the Dumii, and they had cost many skins at Tregon Marus. In fact they were 
skins, if you looked at it like that, or pots or knives or spears. At least, so 
Pismire said. 
Snibril never quite understood this, but it seemed that so great was the Dumii's 
love for their Emperor they would give and take the little wooden pictures of 
him in exchange for skins and fur. At least, so Pismire said. Snibril wasn't 
sure that Pismire understood finance any more than he did. 
The two of them made their way to the carts. It was less than a day since Fray 
had come. But what a day ... 
Arguments, mostly. The richer Munrungs hadn't wanted to leave, especially since 
no-one had a clear idea of where they would go. And Pismire had gone off 
somewhere, on business of his own. 
Then, in the middle of the morning, they had heard snarg cries in the south. 
Someone saw shadows gliding among the hairs. Someone else said he saw eyes 
peering over the stockade. 
After that, the arguments stopped. The Munrungs were used to travelling, as 
people suddenly pointed out. They moved around every year or so, to better 
hunting grounds. They'd been planning this move for months, probably. It wasn't 
as if they were running away, everyone said. No-one could say they were running 
away. They were walking away. Quite slowly. 
Before mid-afternoon the area inside the stockade was filled with carts, cows 
and people carrying furniture. Now the bustle was over, and they all waited for 
Glurk. His cart was the finest, a family heirloom, with a curved roof covered 
with furs. It needed four ponies to pull it; huts were things you built to last 
a year or so, but carts were what you handed down to your grandchildren. 
Behind it a string of pack ponies, laden with the Orkson wealth in furs, waited 
patiently. Then came the lesser carts, none as rich as the Orkson cart, though 
some almost equalled it. After them came the poorer handcarts, and the families 
that could only afford one pony and one-third shares in a cow. And last came the 
people on foot. It seemed to Snibril that those who carried all their personal 
goods in one hand looked a bit more cheerful than those who were leaving half 
theirs behind. 
Now they needed Pismire. Where was he? 
"Isn't he here?" said Glurk. "Well, he knows we're going. He'll be along. I 
don't think he'd expect us to wait." 
"I'm going on ahead to find him," said Snibril shortly. 
Glurk opened his mouth to warn his brother and then thought better of it. 
"Well, tell him we'll be moving along towards Burnt End, along the old tracks," 
he said. "Easy place to defend tonight, if it comes to it." 
Glurk waited until the last straggler had left the stockade, and then dragged 
the gate across. Anyone could get in through the broken walls, but Glurk still 
felt that the gates should be shut. That was more ... proper. It suggested that 
they might come back one day. 
Snibril was trotting up the road ahead of the procession. He rode the white 
horse, a little inexpertly, but with determination. The horse had been named 
Roland, after an uncle. No-one questioned his right to name it, or to own it. 
The Munrungs, on the whole, agreed with Dumii laws, but finders-keepers was one 
of the oldest laws of all. 
A little way on he turned off the road, and soon the dazzling white wooden cliff 
of the Woodwall rose above the hairs. Roland's hooves made no sound on the thick 
dust that lay about, and the Carpet closed in. Snibril felt the great immensity 
of it all around him stretching far beyond the furthermost limits of the Empire. 
And if the Dumii road might lead to distant places, where might this old track 
lead? 
He sat and watched it sometimes, on quiet nights. The Munrungs moved around a 
lot, but always in the same area. The road was always around, somewhere. Pismire 
talked about places like the Rug, the Hearth and the Edge. Faraway places with 
strange-sounding names. Pismire had been everywhere, seen things Snibril would 
never see. He told good stories. 
Several times Snibril thought he heard other hooves nearby. Or were they black 
paws? Roland must have heard them too, for he trotted along smartly, always on 
the edge of a canter. 
Dust had drifted up between the hairs here, forming deep mounds where herbs and 
ferns grew thickly and made the air heavy with their scent. The path seemed to 
grow drowsy, and wound aimlessly among the dust mounds for a while. It opened 
out into a clearing right by the south face of the Woodwall. 
It had dropped from the sky, many years before. It was a day's march long, and a 
good hour's walk wide. Half of it had been burned-unimaginably burned. Pismire 
said there had been one or two others, elsewhere in the far reaches of the 
Carpet, but he used the Dumii word: matchstick. 
Pismire lived in a shack near the old wood quarry. There were a few pots lying 
around the door. Some thin half-wild goats skipped out of the way as Roland 
trotted into the clearing. Pismire was not there. Nor was his little pony. 
But a freshly-tanned snarg skin was hanging by the cave. And someone was lying 
on a heap of ferns by a small fire, with his hat pulled down over his face. It 
was a high hat that might once have been blue, but time had turned it into a 
shapeless felt bag about the colour of smoke. 
His clothes looked as though they had gathered themselves round him for warmth. 
A tattered brown cloak was rolled under his head as a pillow. 
Snibril left Roland in the shade of the hairs and drew his knife. He crept 
towards the sleeper and made to raise his hat brim with the knifepoint. 
There was a blur of activity. It ended with Snibril flat on his back, his own 
knife pressed to his throat, the stranger's tanned face inches from his own. 
The eyes opened. He's just waking up, Snibril thought through his terror. He 
started moving while he was still asleep! 
"Mmm? Oh, a Munrung," said the stranger, half to himself. "Harmless!" He stood 
up. 
Snibril forgot to be frightened in his haste to be offended. 
"Harmless!" 
"Well, by comparison to things like that," said the stranger, indicating the 
skin. "Pismire said one of you might show up." 
"Where is he?" 
"Gone off to Tregon Marus. He should be back soon." 
"Who are you?" 
"I like the name Bane." 
He was clean-shaven, unusual in anyone but young Dumii boys, and his red-gold 
hair was bound up in a plait down his back. Although in some ways he did not 
appear much older than Snibril himself, his face was hard and lined except for 
his grin. At his belt hung a fierce-looking short sword, and there was a spear 
beside his pack. 
"I was following mouls," he said, and saw the blankness in Snibril's face. 
"Creatures. From the Unswept Regions, originally. Nasty pieces of work. They 
ride around on these things." 
He indicated the skin again. 
"Weren't you afraid of the eyes?" 
Bane laughed, and picked up his spear. 
Then Pismire was with them, the rangy figure riding into the clearing, long legs 
almost touching the ground on either side of his pony. The old man showed no 
surprise that Snibril was there. 
"Tregon Marus has fallen," he said slowly. Bane groaned. 
"I mean fallen," said Pismire. "Destroyed. The temples, the walls, everything. 
And snargs everywhere in the ruins. Fray has crushed the town. It was at the 
epicentre-right underneath," he went on wearily. "It has been a long, horrible 
day. Where've the tribe gone? Burnt End? Good enough. Very defensible situation. 
Come on." 
Bane had a small pony, grazing among the hairs. They set off, keeping close to 
the wooden cliff. 
"But what is Fray?" said Snibril. "I remember you telling stories about old 
times ... but that was long ago. Some kind of monster. Not something real." 
"The mouls worship it," said Bane. "I'm ... something of an expert." 
Snibril looked puzzled. The Munrungs didn't have gods. Life was complicated 
enough as it was. 
"I have theories," said Pismire. "I've read some old books. Never mind about the 
stories. They're just metaphors." 
"Interesting lies," translated Bane. 
"More like ... ways of telling things without having to do much explaining. Fray 
is some kind of force. There were people who used to know more, I think. There 
were old stories about old cities that suddenly vanished. Just legends, now. Oh, 
dear. So much gets forgotten. Written down and then lost." 
The little old tracks that ran everywhere in the Carpet did not go straight, 
like the road, but wound in and out of the hairs like serpents. Any traveller 
who walked them, and few did, rarely met anyone else. Yet the paths were never 
overgrown. The Dumii said that they had been made by Peloon, the god of 
journeys. The Munrungs privately held that the Carpet itself had made them in 
some mysterious way, although they didn't say this in front of the Dumii. They 
didn't have any gods themselves but were generally polite about those belonging 
to other people. 
Beneath the rugged tip of the Woodwall that was called Burnt End the track 
divided, going west and north. Glurk stopped his cart and looked up at the 
burnt, black crags. For a moment he thought he saw a movement high above. He 
sniffed the air. 
"I have forebodings," he told his wife. "We'll wait for Snibril." 
He jumped down from the cart and walked back along the track. There it was 
again, something scrambling away ... no, just a shadow. Glurk sniffed again, 
then shook himself. This was no way to behave, jumping at shadows. He cupped his 
hands round his mouth. "Gather the carts round in a circle," he cried. "We'll 
camp here." 
If you could put up with the unpleasantness and the ash, Burnt End was a safe 
place to be. The hairs had broken, when the Woodwall fell on to the Carpet, so 
there was not much cover for attackers. And the sheer white wood wall on one 
side reduced the chances of an attack. But the feel of the place was unsettling. 
Glurk bullied the tribe until the carts formed a wall, ponies and cattle penned 
inside. He ordered an armed man to sit on top of every cart, and set others to 
lighting fires and readying the camp for the night. 
Keep 'em busy. That was one of the three rules of being chief that old Grimm had 
passed on to him. Act confidently, never say "I don't know", and when all else 
fails, keep 'em busy. He'd hunted around Burnt End before, and the deathliness 
around the blackened wood could be unnerving even at the best of times. The only 
thing to do was work, laugh loudly or sing or march about with spears, before 
everyone's fears got the better of them. 
Soon, cooking fires sprang up within the ring. Glurk climbed on top of his cart, 
and peered back down the track. Fires got seen by ... things. Yet there was 
nothing like it to embolden the heart, and a hot meal did wonders for the 
courage. Were snargs out there? Well, they could deal with snargs. They had 
always been about, the nasty cowardly things. Snargs had just enough brains to 
know not to attack a village. They preferred to track the lone traveller, if the 
odds were high enough. Glurk didn't like the change. 
After a while Glurk climbed down and took his hunting knife from under the seat. 
It was carved out of a snarg's thighbone and as good as a sword if it had to be. 
He thrust it into his belt, and accepted a bowl of soup from his wife. 
Night wore on, and the guards nodded. Outside the bright ring deeper shadows 
padded among the hairs ... and it seemed as though, around the ring of light, a 
darker ring had grown. 
They attacked to the south of the ring. There was a howl. Then a cart rocked. 
Its guard leapt for his life. It was Gurth, Glurk's eldest son. 
"All arm! All arm! Hold the ring!" cried Glurk, and leapt across the fire with a 
spear in either hand. One he hurled as he ran, and he heard it hit. 
These were not like the snargs he knew, came a cold thought out of his mind. 
They were daring to attack, and they carried men on their backs, or things like 
men at least, with green eyes and long teeth. For a moment Glurk hesitated, and 
an arrow grazed his arm. 
Horses screamed and pulled the picket stakes out of the ground, stampeding 
through the running people. 
Glurk saw another cart go over, and then above him loomed a snarg with a shining 
collar. There was a roar, and a crash, and ... darkness spread along his arm, 
and drifted across his mind like nightfall. 
The fires made a beacon for the three as they led their mounts down from the 
hidden path. 
"We should head into the Empire," said Pismire. "Things won't be any-" 
He stopped. Bane was drawing his sword. He dismounted quietly, and inched 
forward. With his free hand he motioned Pismire to go on talking. 
"And of course Ware is so nice at this time of year," said Pismire hurriedly, 
"And there are many interesting byways and historic-" 
"Have you known Bane long?" said Snibril, watching the stranger walk warily 
ahead. 
"He's an old friend." 
"But who is-" 
Bane took one step forward, then whirled round and brought his sword whistling 
down into the shadows at his side. There was a grunt, and a body fell silently 
across the path, a crude black sword dropping from its hands. 
Snibril gasped, and drew back. It wore armour of black leather, sewn with bone 
rings. At first sight the figure was manlike but when Snibril went closer he saw 
the hairy pelt and paws, and the long animal face. 
"Mouls," said Bane. "I can smell 'em!" 
"We must make haste!" said Pismire. "They never move alone!" 
"But it's like a human!" said Snibril. "I thought there were only monsters and 
animals in the Unswept Regions." 
"Or a cross between the two," said Bane. 
The distant fires were blotted out for an instant, and a snarg cried. 
Before it had died away Snibril was in Roland's saddle and away, the others in 
close pursuit. There was shouting up ahead, and black shapes were moving across 
the light. As they entered the clearing and the broken ring of carts Snibril 
felt the horse bunch itself together for the leap. 
He clung on tightly as they cleared a cart's roof with some inches to spare and 
landed, lightly, inside the ring. His arrival was hardly noticed in the battle 
that flowed around him. 
In one place the fallen carts were on fire, and that stopped the creatures. But 
some had broken through, and each was roaring at the people that slashed at it. 
Glurk lay still beneath one huge paw of a snarg, the biggest Snibril had ever 
seen. The great burning eyes moved, and saw Snibril. He wanted to run, but the 
horse did not budge. The rider on the snarg's back had also seen him. It grinned 
unpleasantly. 
Snibril slipped from the horse's back and picked up Glurk's spear. It was 
heavy-Glurk went in for spears that other people could barely lift, let alone 
throw. He held it cautiously, keeping the point aimed directly at the snarg. 
The snarg and its rider turned to follow him as he moved around. He could see 
the huge creature tensing itself to spring. 
And he could see Roland. He'd sidled in a half circle, and now the snarg and its 
rider were behind the horse. Roland's tail twitched. 
And he kicked. Both hooves struck together. 
The rider sailed past Snibril's shoulder. He was dead already. No-one could look 
like that and still be alive. 
The snarg growled in astonishment, glared at Snibril, and leapt. 
You should never have to chase prey, Pismire had always said. With proper 
observation and care, you should be waiting for them. 
Snibril didn't even think. He left the butt end of the spear wedged in the 
ground, and held on tightly. The snarg realized that it had done something 
stupid when it was in mid-air, but by then it was too late, because it was 
hurling itself not at some weak creature but at a spearhead ... 
That was the first battle. 
CHAPTER 3 
When Snibril awoke the night was nearly past. He was lying by a dying fire, a 
pelt covering him. He felt warm and aching. He shut his eyes again, hurriedly. 
"You're awake," said Bane, who was sitting with his back against a barrel and 
his hat, as usual, over his eyes. Roland was tethered to a nearby hair. 
Snibril sat up and yawned. "What happened? Is everyone all right?" 
"Oh yes. At least, what you would call all right. You Munrungs are difficult to 
kill. But plenty were injured, your brother the worst, I fear. Mouls rely on 
poison on their swords, and they cause a ... a sleep that you don't wake up 
from. Pismire is with him now. No, stay there. If anyone can cure him, then 
Pismire can. It won't help to have you under his feet. Besides," he added 
quickly, when he saw the look in Snibru's eyes, "how about you? We had to pull 
you out from under that creature." 
Snibril murmured something, and looked around him. The camp was as peaceful as a 
camp could be, which was to say the early dawn was filled with noises and 
shouts, and the sounds of people. And they were cheerful sounds, with a note of 
defiance. 
The attack had been beaten off. For a moment with first light glimmering in the 
hairs, the Munrungs felt in the mood to take on Fray and all his snargs. Some, 
like Bane, who never seemed to sleep, had stayed up by their fires, and early 
breakfasts were being cooked. 
Without saying a word Bane raked a bundle out of the ashes. Warm smells rose 
from it. "Haunch of snarg, baked in its own juices," he said, slitting the burnt 
outer crust. "I killed the owner myself, I'm pleased to say." 
"Protein is where you find it. I will have a piece with no fat on it," said 
Pismire, stepping down from the Orkson cart. 
Snibril saw the weariness in the old man's face. His herb bag lay beside him, 
almost empty. Pismire ate in silence for a while, and then wiped his mouth. 
"He's as strong as a horse," he said in answer to their unspoken question. "The 
gods of all large amiable creatures must have been present at his birth, whether 
he believes in them or not. He'll still be weak, though, until the poison has 
completely gone. He should stay in bed for at least two days, so I told Bertha 
six. Then he'll fret and bully her into letting him up the day after tomorrow, 
and feel a lot better for having outwitted me. Positive thinking, that's the 
style." 
He looked at Snibril. "What about you? You might not have escaped half so 
easily. Oh, I know it's useless to say all this," he added, catching Bane's 
grin, "but I wish that the people who sing about the deeds of heroes would think 
about the people who have to clear up after them." 
He held up his herb bag. "And with this," he said. "Just different types of 
dust, a few useful plants. That's not medicine. That's just a way of keeping 
people amused while they're ill. We've lost such a lot." 
"You said that before," said Snibril. "What have we lost?" 
"Knowledge. Proper medicine. Books. Carpography. People get lazy. Empires, too. 
If you don't look after knowledge, it goes away. Look at this." He threw down 
what looked like a belt, made up of seven different coloured squares, linked 
together with thongs. 
"That was made by wights. Go on ... ask me." 
"I think I've heard them mentioned ... wights?" said Snibril obediently. 
"You see? A tribe. In the old days. The tribe. The first Carpet people. The ones 
who crossed the Tiles and brought back fire. They quarried wood at the Woodwall. 
They found out how to melt varnish off achairleg. Don't see them so much 
nowadays, but they used to be around a lot, pushing these big varnish-boilers 
from tribe to tribe, it's amazing the stuff they could make out of it ... 
Anyway, they used to make these belts. Seven different substances, you see. 
Carpet hair, bronze from the High Gate Land, varnish, wood, dust, sugar and 
grit. Every wight had to make one." 
"Why?" 
"To prove they could. Mysticism. Of course, that was long ago. I haven't seen 
wights for years. And now their belts turn up as collars on these ... things. 
We've lost so much. We wrote too much down, and forgot it." He shook his head. 
"I'm going to have a nap. Wake me up when we leave." He wandered off to one of 
the carts and pulled a blanket over his head. 
"What did he mean?" said Snibril. 
"A nap." said Bane. "It's like a short sleep." 
"I mean about writing down too much. Who wrote down too much? What does that 
mean?" 
For the first time since Snibril had met him, Bane looked uncomfortable. 
"That's up to him to tell you," he said. "Everyone has ... things they 
remember." 
Snibril watched him patting Roland absently on the muzzle. Who was Bane, if it 
came to that? He seemed to generate a feeling that made it hard to ask. He 
looked like a wild man, but there was something about him ... It seemed to 
Snibril that if a pot that was about to boil over had arms and legs, that would 
be Bane. Every move he made was deliberate and careful, as if he'd rehearsed it 
beforehand. Snibril wasn't sure if Bane was a friend. He hoped so. He'd be a 
terrible enemy. 
He lay back with the belt in his lap and thought of wights. Eventually he slept. 
At least, it seemed like sleep, but he thought that he could still hear the camp 
around him and see the outline of Burnt End across the clearing. But he wondered 
afterwards. It seemed like a dream. He saw, in a little blurred picture hanging 
in the smoke-scented air, the Carpet. He was flying through the hairs, well 
above the dust. It was night-time and very dark although, oddly enough, he could 
see quite clearly. He drifted over grazing herds, a group of hooded 
figures-wights!-pushing a cart, a sleeping village ... and then, as if he had 
been drawn to this spot, to a tiny figure walking among the hairs. As he drifted 
down towards it, it became a person, all in white. Everything about it was 
white. It turned and looked up at him, the first creature he had seen who seemed 
to know he was there ... and he sank towards those pale, watchful eyes ... 
He woke suddenly, and the picture faded, while he sat up clutching the seven 
squares tightly in both hands. 
A little later they broke camp, with Pismire driving the leading cart. 
Glurk lay inside, white and shaken but strong enough to curse colourfully every 
time they went over a bump. Sometimes Fray rumbled far off in the south. 
Bane and Snibril, now wearing the belt around his waist, rode on ahead. 
The Carpet was changing colour. That in itself was not strange. Around the 
Woodwall the hairs were dark green and grey, but west in Tregon Marus they were 
a light, dusty blue. Here the green was fading to yellow, and the hairs 
themselves were thicker and gnarled. Some bore fruit, large prickly balls that 
grew right out of the trunk of the hair. 
Bane cut into one with his knife, and showed Snibril the thick sweet syrup. 
Later they passed far under some kind of construction high in the hairs. Striped 
creatures peered down from their lofty fortress and hummed angrily as the carts 
passed beneath. 
"They're hymetors," called out Pismire, while the noise thrummed above their 
heads. "Don't take any notice of them! They're peaceful enough if you leave them 
alone, but if they think you're after their honey they'll sting you!" 
"Are they intelligent?" said Snibril. 
"Together they are. Individually, they're stupid. Hah! The opposite of us, 
really. Incidentally, their stings are deadly." 
After that no-one as much as looked at a syrup ball, and Bane spent a lot of 
time glancing upwards with one hand on his sword. 
After a while they reached a place where two tracks crossed. A cairn of grit 
marked the crossroads. On the cairn, their packs at their feet, sat a man and a 
woman. They were ragged creatures; their clothes made Bane's clean tatters look 
like an Emperor's robe. 
They were eating cheese. Both started to back away when Bane and Snibril 
approached, and then relaxed. 
The man wanted to talk. Words seemed to have piled up inside him. 
"Camus Cadmes is my name," he said. "I was a hair-cutter for the sawmill in 
Marus there. I suppose I'm still a hair-cutter now, too, if anyone wants to 
employ me. Hmm? Oh. I was out marking hairs for cutting and Lydia here had 
brought out my dinner and then there was this sort of heavy feeling and then-" 
And then he'd got to a point where words weren't enough, and had to be replaced 
by arm-waving and a look of extreme terror. 
"When we got back I don't think there was a yard of wall left standing. The 
houses just fell in on themselves. We did what we could but ... well, anyone who 
could just left. You can't rebuild from something like that. Then I heard the 
wolf things, and ... we ran." 
He took the piece of meat that Snibril gave him and they ate it hungrily. 
"Did no-one else escape?" said Snibril. 
"Escape? From that? Maybe, those outside the walls. There was Barlen Corronson 
with us until yesterday. But he went after the syrup of those humming things, 
and they got him. Now we're going east. I've got family that way. I hope." 
They gave them new clothes and full packs, and sent them on their way. The 
couple hurried off, almost as fearful of the Munrungs as they were of the other 
sudden terrors of the Carpet. 
"Everyone ran," said Snibril. "We're all running away." 
"Yes," said Bane looking down the west path with an odd expression. "Even 
these." He pointed, and there coming slowly up the path, was a heavy wagon drawn 
by a line of bent, plodding figures. 
CHAPTER 4 
"Wights," said Bane. "Don't speak to them unless they speak first." 
"I saw them last night in a dream ... " began Snibril. 
Pismire showed no surprise. "You've got one of their belts. You know when you 
really work hard at something, you're really putting yourself into your work? 
They mean it." 
Snibril slipped the belt from his tunic and, without quite knowing why he did 
it, slipped it into his pack. 
Behind them the rest of the carts slowed down and drew to the side of the path. 
The wight-drawn wagon rumbled on until it reached the cairn. Both parties looked 
across at the others. Then a small wight left the cart and walked across to 
Snibril and Bane. Close to, its robe could be seen to be, not just black, but 
covered in a crisscross of faint grey lines. The deep hood covered its face. 
"Hello," said the wight. 
"Hello," said Bane. 
"Hello," nodded the wight again. 
It stood there, and said nothing else. 
"Do they understand language?" said Snibril. 
"Probably," said Pismire. "They invented it." 
Snibril felt its steady gaze from the hidden eyes. And he felt the hardness of 
the belt rubbing into his back, and shifted uneasily. The wight turned its gaze 
on Bane. "Tonight we eat the Feast of Bronze. You are invited. You will accept. 
Seven only. When the night-time fires are lit." 
"We accept," said Bane, gravely. 
The wight turned on his heel and strode back to the wagon. "Tonight?" said 
Pismire. "The Feast of Bronze? As if it was Feast of Sugar or Hair? Amazing. I 
thought they never invited strangers." 
"Who's invited who?" growled someone from inside the cart. There was a stamping 
about, and Glurk's head poked through the curtains over the front. 
"You know what I said about getting up ... " Pismire began, but since Glurk was 
already dressed there was very little he could do, except wink slyly at Bane and 
Snibril. 
"Wights? I thought they were just a children's story," Glurk said, after it had 
been explained to him. "Still, it's a free meal. What's wrong with that? To tell 
the truth I don't know more'n a scrap about them, but I never heard of a bad 
wight." 
"I'd hardly heard of wights at all until now," said Snibril. 
"Ah, but you weren't alive when old Granddad was," said Glurk. "He told me he 
met one in the hairs once. He lent it his axe." 
"Did he get it back?" said Pismire. 
"No." 
"That was a wight all right, then," said Pismire. "They tend to be too 
preoccupied to think about simple things." 
"He said it was a good axe, too." 
"There's no question of refusing to go," said Pismire. 
"That's right," said Bane. 
"But it's so easy to get things wrong. You know how sensitive they are. They've 
got all kinds of strange beliefs. You've got to know that, you two. Tell them, 
General." 
"Well," said Bane, "seven's very important to them. Seven elements in the 
Carpet, seven colours-" 
"Tell them about the Chays." 
"I was coming to that ... seven Chays. They're like ... periods of time. But not 
regular ones. Sometimes they're short, sometimes they're long. Only the wights 
know how long. Remember the belt? Seven squares, and each represents a Chay. So 
the Chay of Salt, you see, is a time when people prosper and trade, and the Chay 
of Grit is when they build empires and walls ... am I going too fast?" 
General? thought Snibril. That's what Pismire said. He wasn't thinking. And a 
general's a chief soldier ... and now they're all looking at me. None of them 
noticed! 
"Hmm?" he said. He tried to recall what Bane had been saying. "Oh ... so 
tonight's Feast means we're in the Chay of Bronze, yes?" 
"It means it's starting," said Pismire. "It's a time of war and destruction." 
Glurk coughed. "How long does this last, then?" 
"It'll last as long as the wights think it will. Don't ask me how they know. But 
tonight wights all over the Carpet will celebrate the Feast of Bronze. It's 
something to do with their memories." 
"Sounds a bit unbelievable to me," said Glurk. 
"Oh, yes. But that doesn't mean it isn't true." 
"You certainly know a lot about them," said Snibril. 
"I don't," said Pismire, simply. "You never know anything where wights are 
concerned. You remember tales, see things, pick up little bits of knowledge here 
and there, but you never know anything for certain." 
"All right," said Glurk. He stood up on the driving-board of the cart. "We'll 
go. Don't see we can do nothing else, anyway. Bertha'll come, and Gurth, and, 
let's see ... yes, Damion Oddfoot. It strikes me that when a wight asks you to 
dinner you go, and that's it. In sevens." 
They entered the wights' little camp sheepishly, keeping together. 
Wights always travelled in numbers of seven, twenty-one or forty-nine. No-one 
knew what happened to any wights left over. Perhaps the other ones killed and 
ate them, suggested Glurk, who had taken a sort of ancestral dislike to 
axe-stealing wights. Pismire told him to shut up. 
The oldest wight in the group was the Master. There were twenty-one in this 
group and Pismire, looking at their cart, pointed out the big varnish-boiler on 
top of it. Wights specialized in smelting the varnish that was mined at the 
Varnisholme, the giant pillar of red wood in the north known as achairleg in 
Dumii. Then they went from village to village, selling it. Varnish could be cast 
into a spear head, or a knife, or just about anything. 
Snibril wondered how long would it be before anyone noticed he had shoved the 
belt back in his pack? But he wasn't going to give it up, he told himself. 
They'd be bound to want it back if they saw it. 
There were seven fires, close together, and three wights around each. They 
looked identical. How do they tell one another apart, Snibril wondered? 
"Oh, there's something else I forgot to tell you," said Pismire, as the wights 
busied themselves over their cooking pots. "They have perfect memories. Um. They 
remember everything. That's why they find it so hard to talk to ordinary 
people." 
"I don't understand," said Snibril. 
"Don't be surprised if they give you answers before you've asked the question. 
Sometimes even they get confused," Pismire went on. 
"Never mind about them. I'm confused." 
"They remember everything, I said. Everything. Everything that's ever going to 
happen to them. Their minds ... work differently. The past and the future are 
all the same to them. Please try to understand what I'm saying. They remember 
things that haven't happened yet." 
Snibril's jaw dropped. 
"Then we could ask them-" he began. 
"No! We mustn't! Why, thank you," Pismire continued, in a more normal voice, 
taking a plate from a wight, "that looks ... um ... delicious." 
They ate in silence. Snibril thought: do they say nothing because they already 
know what it was they said? No, that can't be right-they'd have to speak now to 
remember having said it ... or ... 
"I am Noral the kilnmaster," said the wight on his left. 
"My name-" 
"Yes." 
"We-" 
"Yes." 
"There was-" 
"I know." 
"How?" 
"You're going to tell me after dinner." 
"Oh." Snibril tried to think. Pismire was right. It was almost impossible to 
hold a conversation with someone who'd already heard it once. "You really know 
everything that's going to happen?" was all he could think of. 
There was the trace of a smile in the depths of the hood. 
"Not everything. How can anyone know everything? But a number of things I do 
know, yes." 
Snibril looked around desperately. Bane and Pismire were deep in conversation 
with wights, and were not paying him any attention. 
"But ... but ... supposing you knew when you were going to die? Supposing a wild 
animal was going to attack you?" 
"Yes?" said Noral politely. 
"You could just make sure you weren't there?" 
"Weren't there when you died?" said the wight. "That would be a good trick." 
"No! I mean ... you could avoid-" 
"I know what you mean. But we couldn't. It's hard to explain. Or easy to explain 
and hard to understand. We have to follow the Thread. The one Thread. We mustn't 
break it." 
"Doesn't anything ever come as a surprise?" said Snibril. 
"I don't know. What is a surprise?" 
"Can you tell me what's going to happen to me? To all of us? You know what's 
been happening already. It would help a lot to know the future." 
The dark hood turned towards him. 
"It wouldn't. It makes living very hard." 
"We need help," said Snibril, in a frantic whisper. "What's Fray? Where can we 
go to be safe? What should we do? Can't you tell us?" 
The wight leaned closer. 
"Can you keep a secret?" it said, conspiratorially. 
"Yes!" said Snibril. 
"Really keep a secret? Even though you'd give anything to tell other people? 
Even though it's like trying to hold a hot coal in your hand? Can you really 
keep a secret?" 
"Er ... yes." 
"Well," said the wight, leaning back again. "So can we." 
"But-" 
"Enjoy your meal." 
"Will I?" 
"Yes. You certainly did." The wight went to turn away, and then turned back. 
"And you may keep the belt." 
"Oh. You know I've got the belt." 
"I do now." 
Snibril hesitated. "Hang on," he said, "I only said that because you-" 
"It's best if you don't try to understand," said Noral, kindly. 
Snibril ate for a while, but the questions kept bothering him. 
"Listen. Everything happens," said Noral. "Like a Thread of the Carpet. Nothing 
can be changed. Even the changes are ... already part of the future. That's all 
you need to know." 
It was a strange meal. You could never be certain if the person you were talking 
to was listening to what you were going to say in ten minutes' time. It only 
cheered up a bit when one of the wights gave Glurk an axe. It was his 
grandfather's, although the handle and the blade had been replaced a few times. 
Bane and Pismire were quiet when the travellers went back to their carts. 
"Did they tell you anything?" asked Snibril. 
"No," said Pismire. "They never do. But ... " 
"It's the way they acted," said Bane. "They can't help it." 
"They don't like what it is they're not telling us," said Pismire. 
CHAPTER 5 
A week passed. The carts went on northward. Around them the Carpet changed. On 
either side of the narrow track the hairs towered up, and now they were deep 
red. The fluff bushes, too, even the dust briars, grew in every shade of red. 
To Snibril it seemed as though they were walking through a great fire that had 
been frozen suddenly. But it was cool and peaceful and at night, for the first 
time since they had left the village, they heard no snargs. 
And that, of course, made people want to stop. "At least for a few weeks," said 
Cadmic Hargolder, the spearmaker, when several villagers came to Glurk's cart 
one evening. "They've probably forgotten about us, anyway, and perhaps we can go 
home." 
"They don't forget," said Bane. "Not them. Besides, we must go on. Head for 
Ware." 
"You two can, if you like," said Cadmic. "As for me ... " 
"As for us, we'll keep together, Cadmic, at least while I'm chief of this 
tribe," said Glurk. "I won't think we're safe till I'm certain the nearest moul 
is a long way away. Makes sense to head for Ware. Things'll be better there, 
you'll see. If any of you think different, well ... " 
There was something in that "well". It was a very deep "well". It was full of 
unspoken threats. 
But there were still angry mutterings. Then they came across the moul. 
It was while Snibril and Bane were walking ahead along the track, out of sight 
but within hearing of the carts. Snibril said little. He kept thinking about 
"General". 
He'd seen Dumii officers occasionally. Not often. Tregon Marus wasn't very 
important. They didn't like it much, so far from home. Bane moved like a 
soldier. People called 'General' shouldn't go around looking so shabby ... And 
now they were going to Ware, apparently. No-one had discussed it. Suddenly it 
just seemed to be happening. 
Things would be all right in Ware, though. It was the most famous place in the 
Carpet. Better than anywhere else. Safe. There were legions and legions of 
soldiers there ... 
Bane was probably sensing his thoughts, but he was, unusually for him, chatting 
aimlessly about nothing in particular. 
Neither saw the moul until they were almost on top if it. It sat astride its 
snarg in the middle of the track, hand halfway to sword hilt, staring straight 
at them with a look of terror. 
Bane gave a grunt and drew his sword, then almost fell over when Snibril's arm 
shot out and grabbed his shoulder. 
"What are you doing, you idiot?" 
"Look at it," said Snibril. Observe, Pismire always said, before acting ... 
The moul had not moved. Snibril crept forward. Then, reaching up, he tapped the 
creature on its snout. Without saying a word he pointed to the snarg's legs. 
Thick drifts of dust lay undisturbed around them. 
There was even a film of dust on the moul. It sat there, a statue, staring 
blankly at nothing. 
"How could it-" Snibril began. 
"Don't know. Pismire might," said Bane, rather roughly, because he felt a bit of 
a fool. "Come on. You take its head and I'll take its legs." 
They gingerly unseated it from its snarg and carried it, still in a sitting 
position, back to the carts. 
Snibril stuck his knife in his belt where he could reach it easily, just in 
case. But the moul seemed to be made out of grit. 
They found Pismire already fully occupied. Glurk had been out hunting and had 
come back with a wild pig. Or at least the statue of one. 
"There was a whole herd of these," Glurk was saying. 
He tapped the pig with his spear. It went boinnng. 
"Should go "oink"," he told them. "Not boinnng." 
Pismire took Snibril's knife and rapped the moul on the chest. It went ping. 
"Should go "Aaaggh!"' said Glurk. 
"Are they dead?" asked Snibril. 
"Not sure," said Pismire, and one or two of the more nervous watchers strolled 
hurriedly away. "Look." 
Snibril looked into the moul's eyes. They were wide open, and a dull black. But 
deep in them there was something ... just a nicker, a tiny imprisoned spark in 
the pool of darkness. 
Snibril shuddered and turned away, meeting Pismire's steady gaze. "Amazing. 
Premature fossilization. And I didn't know there were any termagants in these 
parts. Tonight's guards had better be picked for their hearing." 
"Why?" said Glurk. 
"Because they'd better wear blindfolds." 
"Why?" 
There was a shout, and Yrno Berius came running up with one of his hounds in his 
arms. 
"Heard him bark," he gasped. "Went to find him, found him like this." 
Pismire examined it. 
"Lucky," he said, vaguely. 
"I don't think so!" said Yrno. 
"Not him," said Pismire. "You." 
The dog was still in a crouched position, ready to spring, with its teeth bared 
and its tail between its legs. 
"What's a termagant?" asked Snibril, finally looking away. 
"There have been quite a lot of descriptions of their back view," said Pismire. 
"Unfortunately, no-one who's looked at one from the front has been able to tell 
us much. They get turned to stone. No-one knows why. Amazing. Haven't heard of 
any for years. Thought they'd all died out." 
And that evening Pismire himself nearly died out. He always held that goat's 
milk was essential for a philosopher, so not long after they had left the 
Woodwall he had bought a nanny goat from Glurk's small flock. 
Her name was Chrystobella, and she hated Pismire with deep animal hatred. When 
she didn't feel like being milked, which was twice a day, it was part of camp 
life to watch her skitter between carts with a hot and breathless Pismire 
cursing in pursuit. Mothers would waken their children to come and watch. It was 
a sight they'd remember for the rest of their lives, they said. 
This time she hurled out between the carts and into the hairs with a taunting 
bleat. Pismire scrambled after her, leapt down into the darkness, and tripped 
over her ... 
Something backed hastily into the shadows, with a faint jingling. 
Pismire came back holding the statue of a goat. He put it down silently, and 
tapped its muzzle. 
It went ping. 
"Should go "blaaarrrrt"," said Pismire. "No-one go out of the camp tonight." 
That night ten men stood around the ring, their eyes tightly shut. Snibril was 
among them and he stood by Roland, who wore blinkers. 
And they did it the next night, too. And the one after that, after a cow 
belonging to the widow Mulluck started to go ping when it should have gone 
'mmmmmyaooooo'. 
No-one wanted to move on. They didn't break camp but, without anyone actually 
giving any orders, brought the wagons into a tighter circle. 
Once or twice they thought they heard jingling noises. 
And then, on the third night, Snibril was on guard by one of the carts, almost 
asleep, when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Something big was in the 
bushes. He could hear it breathing. 
He was about to spin around when he heard the jingle of metal. 
It's here, he thought. It's right behind me. If I turn around, I'll be turned to 
stone. But if I don't turn around, will I be turned to supper? 
He stood quite still for a hundred years or so ... 
After a while the shuffling grew fainter, and he risked the briefest look. In 
the dim light he could see something bulky, at least twice as tall as he was, 
disappearing among the hairs. 
I ought to call everyone, he thought. But they'll run around and shout and give 
one another orders and trip over things, and then it will have long gone. But 
I've got to do something. Otherwise we'll soon have a statue that goes ping when 
it should go "Hello". 
He found Roland, and quickly put his bridle on. There was no time for the 
saddle. And then he led the horse, very quietly in the direction of the 
jingling. 
The termagant was so old that he could not remember a time when he'd been young. 
He could dimly remember when there had been other termagants, but he was strong 
then, and had driven them out. 
Later on there had been a people who had worshipped him and built a temple for 
him to live in, thinking that he was some kind of a god. They had worshipped him 
because he was so destructive, which is what often happens, but that sort of 
religion never works out in the long term; after he had turned many of them to 
statues the ones that were left had fled and left him in his temple. 
He had no company now. Even the wild creatures kept away from the temple. In 
vain did he wander abroad and call out to his people in the south. There was no 
answer. He probably was the last termagant in the Carpet. 
Sometimes he went to find some company. Anything would do. Just some other 
living things. He wouldn't even eat them. But it never worked. He only had to 
get near and they'd get stiff and cold and unfriendly for some reason. 
So he tramped back to his ruined temple, his tail dragging behind him. He was 
almost at the door before he smelt the smell, the forgotten smell of company. 
Snibril had reached the ruined temple just before. He felt Roland's hooves trot 
over hard wooden paving. Around him, lit by a faint glow, he could see fallen 
walls, littered with statues. Some were holding out boxes and bowing low, some 
were crouched back, hands to their eyes. There were small wild animals there, 
too ... unmoving. 
In the centre of the temple there was a ruined altar, and that was the source of 
the glow. On it and around it were piled treasures. There were stones of salt 
and black jet, boxes of clear varnish and red wood, carved bone rings, crowns of 
bronze, all heaped anyhow. 
By the treasure was another statue. It was a small warrior, hardly half Snibru's 
height. Magnificent moustaches hung down almost to its waist. In one hand it 
held a sword and round shield, in the other a necklace of glittering salt 
crystals. Its face was turned up in an expression of surprise. A fluff creeper 
had crept across the floor to him, giving him a necklace of living red flowers. 
Snibril tethered Roland to a pillar, and shuddered. 
Someone else had tethered their mount there before him. It still stood there. It 
looked like a pony, but it was no larger than a Munrung dog, and had six legs. 
Snibril could have picked it up in both hands. There it stood, wearing a thin 
coat of dust. Roland lowered his head and sniffed at the still muzzle, puzzled. 
Snibril padded over to the mound of treasure and stared in awe. There were even 
coins there, not Tarnerii, but large wooden discs bearing strange signs. There 
were heavy swords, and chests of carved grit, set with salt gems. He stood and 
stared, and saw the warrior out of the corner of his eye. 
Hand reaching out ... 
That was why he had come. And the termagant had found him. 
There was a jingling noise. Snibril saw a reflection in the statue's polished 
shield. It showed something scaly and very nearly shapeless. 
It's in the doorway, Snibril thought. Right behind me ... 
But if I turn around ... 
He unhooked the shield, holding it up so that he could see over his shoulder. 
The termagant jingled. Around its leathery neck were chains of varnish and red 
wood. Every claw was aglitter with rings. Bracelets were threaded on the scaly 
tail. Every time it moved its big beaked head it sent a little tinkling noise 
echoing round the temple. 
It peered at the altar and sniffed. Even in the shield the eyes frightened 
Snibril. They were large and misty blue, not frightening at all. Eyes you could 
get lost in, he thought, and turn to stone. 
Roland gave a whinny, but it ended in mid-air. Then there was another statue in 
the cold hall. 
Snibril's senses screamed at him to turn round and face the creature, but he 
stood still and thought desperately. The termagant began to jingle towards him. 
Snibril turned, holding the polished shield before his eyes. Under it he could 
see the termagant's feet scraping towards him. They were bony and clawed. And 
they didn't stop ... 
It ought to have turned to stone. It saw itself! So much for bright ideas, he 
thought. And it was the only one I had. 
He started to back away. And then the termagant did stop. For it had seen 
another termagant. There, in the shield, a scaly green face looked back at it. 
A necklace hung over one ear. For a moment the creature had found company. Then, 
because he was shaking with fear, Snibril tilted the shield. The face vanished. 
After a moment of shocked silence the termagant let out a howl of anguish that 
echoed around the hairs. A massive foot stamped. Then the creature collapsed on 
the floor, put its paws over its eyes, and began to sob. Every now and then it'd 
drum its back feet on the floor. The sobs started at the tail end, by the look 
of it, and got bigger and bigger as they gulped their way up towards the mouth. 
It wasn't only terrifying. It was also embarrassing. Nothing should have that 
many tears in it. 
Snibril watched the pool of tears spread out over the floor, and touch the 
statue of a hairhog by the wall. It twitched its nose. Wider and wider went the 
pool. Some statues awoke as it touched them, but some of the oldest, all covered 
in dust and creepers, stood unchanged. Little creatures swam valiantly to 
freedom between their ankles. 
Snibril scooped up the tears in the shield and splashed them over Roland. Then 
it was the turn of the little pony, which stared up at Snibril in amazement. He 
ran to the warrior by the treasure, and drenched him. 
Nothing happened for a moment. An eyelid flickered. The hand with the necklace 
started to move. The little warrior was suddenly very much alive. He dropped the 
necklace and glowered at Snibril. "Kone's Bones, where did you spring from?" 
Then he saw the termagant in its pool of tears. His hand went to his throat, and 
found the creeper. 
He looked thoughtfully at Snibril. 
"How long have I been here, stranger?" 
"I don't know. This is the third year after the second Counting in the reign of 
the Emperor Targon at Ware," said Snibril. 
"You're a Dumii?" said the released statue, unwinding the creeper. 
"Sort of." 
"I'm not," said the little warrior, proudly. "We don't Count. But I've heard of 
Targon. Before I came here it was the twenty-second year of his rule." 
"Then you must have been here a year," said Snibril. 
"A year ... a year away," said the warrior. "Far too long." He bowed solemnly. 
"A thousand pardons, stranger," he said. "You shall be rewarded for this. I, 
Brocando, Son of Broc, Lord of Jeopard, King of the Deftmenes, promise you that. 
Yes. Rewarded." 
"I didn't do it for any reward," said Snibril. "I just wanted the thing to stop 
turning everything into statues." 
"What brings you this far from home, then?" Brocando asked, with a glint in his 
eye. "The treasure, eh?" 
"No ... look, do you think we'd better go?" said Snibril, glancing at the 
termagant again. "It might get up." 
Brocando flourished his sword. 
"One year of my life!" he shouted. I'll make it pay for that!" 
Snibril looked at the creature again. It was lying quite still. 
"I don't think there's much more you can do to it," he said. "It looks miserable 
enough to me." 
Brocando hesitated. "You may be right," he said. "There is no revenge on a 
witless beast. As for this ... " he swept his arm over the shimmering heap, "I 
have lost the taste for it. Let it lie here." He sniffed. "It is in my mind that 
such things as these are fit only for termagants. Mind you, that necklace looks 
rather ... no ... " 
Snibril had seen one or two items that he rather liked, and by the look of him 
Brocando could leave treasure behind because he had lots more at home, but he 
felt that it would look bad to argue. 
With a soft jingling the termagant raised its head and opened its eyes. Snibril 
went to lift his shield and it slipped out of his hands, rolling down the steps. 

The termagant stopped it clumsily with a claw and turned it awkwardly until it 
could see itself again. 
To Snibril's amazement it began to coo at its reflection, and lay back again 
with the mirror cuddled in its arms. And then the termagant, with a clank, died 
peacefully in the temple that had been built for it time out of mind. 
Often, later, it was said by minstrels and wandering story-tellers that the 
termagant died when it caught sight of itself in the mirror. Never believe what 
you hear in songs. They put in any old thing if they think it sounds better. 
They said that its reflected glance turned it to a statue. But the death of the 
termagant was more complicated than that. Most things are. 
They dragged it up the steps and buried it under the altar stone. Snibril 
remembered Chrystobella and the other animals back at the camp, and collected 
some of the tear puddle into a small jewel-case from the heap. The remaining 
statues they left where they were. 
"In the past they worshipped the termagants, so the story goes," said Brocando. 
"They were a cruel race. Let them remain. For justice." 
"Actually ... " Snibril began, as they rode away, "I wouldn't mind just a small 
reward. If you happen to have one you want to give away. One you don't need." 
"Certainly!" 
"My tribe needs somewhere to stay for a while. To repair the wagons, and so on. 
Somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders all the time." 
"Easily granted. My city is yours. My people will welcome you." 
"Are they all small like you?" said Snibril, without thinking. 
"We Deftmenes are correctly-built," said Brocando. "It's no business of ours if 
everyone else is ridiculously overgrown." 
After a while, as they neared the Munrung's camp, Snibril said: "You know, I 
don't think you've lost a year. If you were a statue, time couldn't have passed 
for you. In a way, you've gained a year. Everyone else is a year older, except 
you." 
Brocando thought about this. "Does that mean I still give you the reward?" he 
said. 
"I think so," said Snibril. 
"Right." 
CHAPTER 7 
They arrived at the camp just in time to stop the search party that was setting 
out. Brocando immediately became the centre of attention, something which he 
enjoyed and was obviously used to. Snibril was more or less forgotten. More or 
less ... 
"Where have you been?" asked Pismire, relieved and angry. "Wandering off like 
that! Don't you know there are mouls about?" 
"I'm sorry," said Snibril. "Things just happened." 
"Well, never mind now," said Pismire. "What's happening over there, now? Doesn't 
anyone of your muddle-headed people know how to welcome a king?" 
"I don't think so," said Snibril. "He's quite brave and a bit excitable and 
doesn't really listen to what you say." 
"Sounds like a king to me, right enough," said Pismire. 
Brocando was in the centre of a crowd of chattering, staring Munrungs, beaming 
benevolently. 
"There I was," he was saying. "One step away from the treasure, when, jingle! 
There it was, behind me. So ... " 
Pismire elbowed his way through the crowd, removed his hat, bowed till his beard 
touched the ground, and stuck there, confronting a surprised Brocando with a 
tangle of white locks. 
"Greeting, oh King," said the old man. "Honoured are we that so great a son of 
so noble an ancestry should deem us worthy to ... er ... worthy. All we have is 
at your disposal, valiant sir. I am Pismire, a humble philosopher. This is ... " 

He snapped his fingers wildly at Glurk, who was standing open-mouthed at the 
spectacle of Pismire, still bent double in front of the dwarf warrior. 
"Come on, come on. Protocol is very important. Bow down to the king!" 
"What's a king?" said Glurk, looking round blankly. 
"Show some respect," said Pismire. 
"What for? Snibril rescued him, didn't he?" 
Snibril saw Bane, standing at the back of the crowd with folded arms and a grim 
expression. He hadn't liked school in Tregon Marus, but he'd learned some 
things. The Dumii didn't like kings. They preferred Emperors, because they were 
easier to get rid of. 
And on the way back from the temple he'd asked Brocando what he'd meant when he 
said his people didn't Count. It meant they had nothing to do with the Dumii. 
"Hate them," Brocando had said, bluntly. "I'd fight them because they straighten 
roads, and number things, and make maps of places that shouldn't be mapped. They 
turn everything into things to Count. They'd make the hairs of the carpet grow 
in rows if they could. And worst of all ... they obey orders. They'd rather obey 
orders than think. That's how their Empire works. Oh, they're fair enough, fair 
fighters in battle and all that sort of thing, but they don't know how to laugh 
and at the end of it all it's things in rows, and orders, and all the fun out of 
life." 
And now he was about to be introduced to one of them. 
At which point, Brocando amazed him. He walked up to Glurk and shook him warmly 
by the hand. When he spoke, it wasn't at all in the way he'd used in the temple. 
It was the kind of voice that keeps slapping you on the back all the time. 
"So you're the chieftain, are you?" he said. "Amazing! Your brother here told me 
all about you. It must be an incredibly difficult job. Highly skilled, too, I 
shouldn't wonder?" 
"Oh, you know ... you pick it up as you go along ... " Glurk muttered, taken 
aback. 
"I'm sure you do. I'm sure you do. Fascinating! And a terrible responsibility. 
Did you have to have some sort of special training?" 
" ... er ... no ... Dad died and they just gives me the spear and said, you're 
chief ... " said Glurk. 
"Really? We shall have to have a serious chinwag about this later on," said 
Brocando. "And this is Pismire, isn't it? Oh, do get up. I'm sure philosophers 
don't have to bow, what? Jolly good. And this must be ... General Baneus Catrix, 
I believe." 
General! Snibril thought. 
Bane nodded. 
"How many years is it, your majesty?" he said. 
"About five, I think," said the king. "Better make that six, in fact." 
"You know each other?" said Snibril. 
"Oh, yes," said Brocando. "The Dumii kept sending armies to see us and suggest, 
most politely, that we submit and be part of their Empire. We always told them 
we didn't want to join. We weren't going to be Counted-" 
"I think it was the paying of taxes you objected to," said Bane, calmly. 
"We did not see what we would get for our money," said Brocando. 
"You would be defended," said Bane. 
"Ah ... but we've always been quite good at defending ourselves," said Brocando, 
in a meaningful tone of voice. "Against anyone." He smiled. "And then the 
General here was sent to suggest it to us again, with a little more force," he 
said. "I remember he said that he was afraid that if we did not join the Empire, 
there would be hardly any of us to be Counted." 
"And you said there'd be hardly anyone left to do the Counting," said Bane. 
Snibril looked from one to the other. He realized he was holding his breath. He 
let it out. "And then what happened?" he said. 
Bane shrugged. "I didn't attack," he said. "I didn't see why good people should 
die. I went back and told the Emperor that Brocando's people would make better 
allies than unwilling subjects. Anyway, only a fool would attack that city." 
"I always wondered what he replied," said Brocando. 
Bane looked down at his ragged clothes. "He shouted quite a lot," he said. 
There was a thoughtful pause. 
"They did attack, you know, after you ... been recalled," said Brocando. 
"Did they win?" 
"No." 
"You see? Fools," said Bane. 
"I'm sorry," said Brocando. 
"You needn't be. It was only one of a number of disagreements I had with the 
Emperor," said Bane. 
Snibril took each of them by the shoulder. "Anyway," he said, "just because 
you're sworn enemies doesn't mean you can't be friends, does it?" 
When they were having the evening meal Glurk said to his wife: "He's very 
gracious. Asked all about me. I've met a king. He's very important. He's called 
Protocol, I think." 
"Good name. Sounds royal," she said. "And Pismire's a philosopher, he says." 
"I never knew that. What's a philosopher?" 
"Someone who thinks, he says," said Glurk. 
"Well, you think. I've often seen you sitting and thinking." 
"I don't always think," said Glurk conscientiously. "Sometimes I just sits." 
He sighed. "Anyway, it's not just thinking. You've got to be able to talk about 
it entertainingly afterwards." 
CHAPTER 8 
The people turned west. It was a cheerful journey to Jeopard, with Brocando 
riding by the leading cart. They were going somewhere that only a fool would 
attack. 
Many of the Munrungs were frankly in awe of the small king, but Glurk was fast 
becoming an uncritical royalist. Brocando sensed his respectful audience, and 
chatted to him in that special way royalty has for commoners, which leaves the 
commoner feeling really cheered up without actually remembering very much about 
what was said to him. 
Snibril jogged along on the other side of the cart, listening with half an ear 
for any signs of Fray and half to the Deftmene's chatter. "And then in the north 
wing of the palace my ancestor, Broc, built a temple to Kone the Founder. It 
took the wights seven years, carving pillars of varnish and wood and laying the 
great mosaic of the Carpet for Broc. We're still paying them for it. The walls 
were set with jet and salt, the altar of red wood inlaid with bronze. Really 
that was the centre of the present palace, which was built by my 
great-grandfather, the Seventh Broc, who added the Wood Gate when he was made 
king. And I mustn't forget the treasure rooms. I think there's at least nine. 
And only the reigning king may enter. Tarma the Woodcarver himself made the 
Crown. Seven pointy bits, with salt crystals on each one." 
"We had a rug in our hut," said Glurk. 
And so it went on, Glurk eagerly following the Deftmene through the treasury and 
the armoury, the banqueting halls and the guest bedrooms, while the carts got 
nearer and nearer to Jeopard. 
Gradually the Carpet changed colour again, from red to deep purple and then dark 
blue. They camped under blue hairs, hunted the small shelled creatures that 
dwelt in dust holes, and wondered if Jeopard was as good as Brocando made out 
because if it was, it looked as though they'd better stop eating and drinking 
right now so as to leave room for the feasts they were going to have. 
The track began to turn into a road, not a great white road like the Dumii 
built, but a neatly laid track of thick planks on a bank of dust. On either side 
the hairs grew thinner, and Snibril noticed many stumps. That was not all. No 
Munrung ever planted a seed. They liked vegetables when they could get them, and 
knew what grew where and which hairs dropped seeds that could be eaten, but 
except for Pismire's private herb garden everything that grew around them grew 
wild. The reason was quite obvious, to a Munrung: if you planted something you 
had to stop and watch it grow, fight off the animals and any hungry neighbour 
that happened to be passing, and generally spend your time, as Glurk put it, 
hanging around. Vegetables to a Munrung were something to give the meat a bit of 
a special taste. 
But in the blue land of Jabonya, around the little city of Jeopard, the 
Deftmenes had turned the Carpet into a garden. There were hairs there that even 
Pismire had not seen before, not the great sturdy trunks that crowded the rest 
of the Carpet, but delicate stems, their branches laden with fruit. Dust had 
been carefully banked up beneath them to make soil for all sorts of shrubs and 
vegetables. The travellers were shown ripe purple groads, that tasted of pepper 
and ginger, and big Master Mushrooms that could be dried and stored for years 
and still kept their delicate flavour. Even the track had been raised above the 
gardens, and small shrublike hairs grew along its border in a low hedge. It was 
an ordered land. 
"I never noticed that it looked like this," said Bane. 
"It certainly looks better without Dumii armies camped on it," said Brocando. 
"The men under my command were always instructed to treat the country with 
respect." 
"Others were less respectful." 
"Where are the people?" asked Glurk. "I'll grant you that a nice baked root goes 
down well, but all this didn't grow by being whistled at. You're always having 
to hang about poking at the ground, when you're a farmer." 
There were no people. The fruit hung heavy in the bushes along the roadside, but 
there were none to pick it, except the Munrung children, who did it very well. 
But there was no-one else. 
Snibril took up his spear. This was like hunting. You learned about the 
different kinds of silence. 
There was the silence made by something frightened, in fear of its life. There 
was the silence made by small creatures, being still. There was the silence made 
by big creatures, waiting to pounce on small creatures. Sometimes there was the 
silence made by no-one being there. And there was a very sharp, hot kind of 
silence made by someone there-watching. 
Bane had drawn his sword. Snibril thought: soldiers learn about silences, too. 
They looked at one another. 
"Shall we leave the carts here?" said Snibril. 
"Safer to stick together. Don't divide forces unnecessarily. First rule of 
tactics." 
The carts moved on, slowly, with everyone watching the hairs. 
"The bushes just up on the right there," Bane said, without moving his head. 
"I think so, too," said Snibril. 
"They're in there watching us." 
"Just one, I think," said Snibril. 
"I could put a spear into it from here, no trouble," said Glurk. 
"No. We might want to ask it questions afterwards," said Bane. "We'll circle 
around it on either side." 
Snibril crept towards the bush around one side of a hair. He could see it moving 
slightly. Bane was on the other side of it and Glurk, who could walk very 
quietly for such a big man, appeared as if by some kind of magic in front of it, 
with his spear raised. 
"Ready?" 
"Ready." 
"Yeah." 
Bane took hold of a dust frond, and tugged. 
A small child looked up at three trembling blades. 
"Um," it said. 
And ten minutes later ... 
A small group of Deftmenes were labouring in the vegetable lines between the 
hairs. They did not look happy or, for that matter, very well-fed. Several 
guards were watching them. Even from here, Snibril could see the long snouts. 
Among the hairs was Jeopard itself. 
It was built on a piece of grit. The actual city was a cluster of buildings at 
the very top; a spiral roadway wound several times around the grit between the 
city and the floor. It had a gate at the bottom, but that was just for show. 
No-one could have got up that road if the people at the top didn't want them to. 

There was a movement in the dust, and Glurk crawled up beside Snibril. 
"The boy was right. There's mouls and snargs everywhere," he said. "The whole 
place is crawling with them." 
"They've got the city?" said Snibril. 
Glurk nodded. "That's what comes of running around looking for treasure when he 
ought to have been at home, reigning," he said, disapprovingly. 
"Come on," said Snibril. "Let's get back to the camp." 
The carts had been dragged into the undergrowth some way off, and people were on 
guard. 
Pismire, Bane and Brocando were sitting in a semi-circle, watching the little 
boy drinking soup. He had a bottomless capacity for food but, in between 
mouthfuls, he'd answer Brocando's questions in a very small voice. 
"My own brother!" growled Brocando, as the others slipped into the camp. "But if 
you can't trust your own family, who can you trust? Turn my back for a few 
days-" 
"A year," said Bane. 
"-and he calls himself king! I never did like Antiroc. Always skulking and 
muttering and not keen on sports." 
"But how did mouls get into the city?" said Snibril. 
"He let them in! Tell the man, Strephon!" 
The boy was about seven years old, and looked terrified. 
"I ... I ... they were ... everyone fought ... " he stuttered. 
"Come on! Come on! Out with it, lad!" 
"I think," said Bane, "that perhaps you ought to wander off for a minute or two, 
perhaps? He might find it easier to talk." 
"I am his king!" 
"That's what I mean. When they're standing right in front of you, kings are a 
kind of speech impediment. If you'd just, oh, go and inspect the guard or 
something ... ?" 
Brocando grumbled about this, but wandered off with Glurk and Snibril. 
"Huh. Brothers!" he muttered. "Nothing but trouble, eh? Plotting and skulking 
and hanging around and usurping." 
Glurk felt he had to show solidarity with the unofficial association of older 
brothers. 
"Snibril never kept his room tidy, I know that," he said. 
When they got back Strephon was wearing Bane's helmet and looking a lot more 
cheerful. Bane sent him off with an instruction to do something dangerous. 
"If you want it in grown-up language," he said, "your brother took over the 
throne when you didn't come back. He wasn't very popular. There was quite a lot 
of fighting. So when a pack of mouls arrived one day-he invited them in." 
"He wouldn't!" said Brocando. 
"He thought he could hire them as mercenaries, to fight for him. Well, they 
fought all right. They say he's still king, although no-one has seen him. The 
mouls do all the ruling. A lot of people ran away. The rest are slaves, more or 
less. Quarrying grit. Forced labour in the fields. That sort of thing." 
"The mouls don't look as if they'd be interested in vegetables," said Snibril. 
"They eat meat." 
Pismire had been sitting against one of the cartwheels, wrapped in the blanket; 
travel was not agreeing with him. They'd almost forgotten about him. 
His words sunk in like rocks. In fact it wasn't the words themselves that were 
disturbing. Everyone ate meat. But he gave the word a particular edge that 
suggested, not ordinary meat ... 
Brocando went white. 
"Do you mean-?" 
"They eat animals," said Pismire, looking more miserable than Snibril had ever 
seen him before. "Unfortunately, they consider everything that's not a moul is 
an animal. Um. I don't know how to say this ... do you know what the word 'moul' 
means in moul language? Hmm? It means ... True Human Beings." 
This sunk in, too. 
"We'll attack tonight," said Brocando. "No-one's eating my subjects." 
"Er," said Glurk. 
"Oh yes," said Bane. "Yes, indeed. Fine. Five thousand soldiers couldn't attack 
Jeopard." 
"That's true," said Brocando. "So we-" 
"Er," said Glurk. 
"Yes?" said Brocando. 
The chieftain appeared to have something on his mind. "I've heard one or two 
references just recently to 'we'," he said. "I just want to get this sorted out? 
No offence. As a reward for rescuing you, we're now going to attack this city 
that no amount of Dumii soldiers could capture and fight a lot of mouls? You 
want my tribe, which hasn't got a home now, to save your city for you, even 
though this is impossible? Have I got it right, yes?" 
"Good man!" said Brocando, "I knew we could depend on you! I shall need half a 
dozen stouthearted men!" 
"I think I can let you have one astonished one," said Glurk. 
"We've got to help," said Snibril. "Everyone's too tired to run away. Anyway, 
what will happen if we don't? Sooner or later we've got to fight these things. 
It might as well be here." 
"Outnumbered!" said Bane. "And you're not soldiers!" 
"No," said Glurk. "We're hunters." 
"Well done!" said Brocando. 
Glurk nudged Snibril. "Have we just volunteered for practically certain death?" 
he said. 
"I think we may have, yes." 
"This kinging is amazing," said Glurk. "If we get out of this, I think I'm going 
to try to learn it." 
Night came. A blue badger, hunting early, nearly blundered into the line of 
would-be invaders and waddled off hurriedly. 
There was a whispered argument going on among the Deftmenes. Some of them wanted 
to sing as they went into battle, which was a tradition. Brocando kept pointing 
out that they were going into battle secretly, but one or two diehard 
traditionalists were holding out for the right to sing peaceful songs, which 
would-they said-totally confuse the enemy. In the end Brocando won by playing 
the king, and threatening to have everyone who disagreed with him put to death. 
Glurk was impressed. 
When it began to seem to Snibril that the dark Carpet had no ending they reached 
the road again and, ahead of them, torches burning along its walls, was the city 
of Jeopard. 
CHAPTER 9 
The wights built Jeopard. They brought red wood and sparkling varnish from 
achairleg to pave its streets; from the Hearthlands they led great caravans of 
the rare jet, to be made into domes and cornices, and cinder and ash for bricks 
and mortar; at the distant High Gate Land of the Vortgorns they traded their 
varnish wares for beaten bronze, for doors and pillars; salt and sugar, in great 
white crystals, were dragged between the hairs by teams of sweating horses, for 
walls and roofs. And they brought different coloured hairs from all parts of the 
Carpet. Some became planks and rafters, but most they planted around the city. 
Everywhere there were gardens. In the evening light it looked peaceful, but they 
had to lie low twice when moul cavalry went past on the road. 
"In my city, too," said Brocando. 
"You've got a plan, I hope," said Bane. 
"There's another way into the city," said Brocando. 
"I didn't know that." 
"Didn't you?" said Brocando. "Amazing. All that trouble to build a secret 
passage and we forgot to tell the Emperor. Remind me to send him a note. Turn 
right into that little hidden track there." 
"What track?" 
Brocando grinned. "Good, isn't it," he said. 
It looked like an animal path. It wound round and about the hairs. The dust 
bushes were much thicker here. 
"Planted," said Brocando. 
Eventually, when it was almost dark, they reached a small glade with another 
ruined temple in it. 
"Temples don't last long around here, do they," said Snibril, looking around at 
the crowding hairs. Here and there were more statues, half covered in dust. 
"This one was built to look ruined," said Brocando. "By the wights. For one of 
my ancestors. The one over there, with the bird's nest on his head and his arm 
raised-" He hesitated. "And you're a Dumii, and I've brought you to the secret 
place," he said. "I should have you blindfolded." 
"No," said Bane. "You want me to fight for you, then I'm wearing no blindfold." 
"But one day you might come back with an army." 
"I'm sorry you think so," said Bane stonily. 
"As me, I don't," said Brocando. "As a king, I have to think so." 
"Ha!" 
"This is stupid," said Snibril. "Why bother with a blindfold?" 
"It's important," said Brocando, sulkily. 
"You've got to trust one another sooner or later. Who are you going to trust 
instead? You're men of honour, aren't you?" said Snibril. 
"It's not as simple as that," said Brocando. 
"Then make it simple!" 
He realized he had shouted. Even Glurk was surprised. 
"Well, it's no time to argue," said Snibril, calming down a bit. 
Brocando nodded. "Yes. Very well. Maybe. I'm sure he's an honourable man. Pull 
Broc's arm." 
"What?" said Bane. 
"Behind you. On the statue. Pull the arm," said Brocando. 
Bane shrugged, and reached for the arm. 
"First time a Dumii's ever shaken a Deftmene's hand," he said. "I wonder what 
it'll lead to-" 
There was a grinding noise, somewhere under their feet. A slab in the temple 
floor slid aside, showing a flight of steps. 
"It'll lead to the palace," said Brocando, grinning. 
They stared into the square of darkness. 
Finally Glurk said: "You don't mean ... into the Underlay?" 
"Yes!" 
"But ... but ... there's terrible things down there!" 
"Just stories for children," said Brocando. "Nothing to be frightened of down 
there." 
He trotted down the steps. Bane went to follow him, and then looked back at the 
Munrungs. 
"What's the matter?" he said. 
"Well ... " said Snibril. What shall I say? Creatures from ancient tales live 
down there: thunorgs, the horrible delvers, and shadows without number or names. 
Strange things gnawing at the roots of the Carpet. The souls of the dead. 
Everything bad. Everything you get ... frightened by, when you're small. 
He looked around at the other tribesmen. They had moved closer together. 
He thought: at times like this, we all have to forget old things. 
"Nothing's the matter," he said, in what he hoped was a voice full of 
leadership. "Come on, lads. Last one in's a-" 
"Never mind about the last one," muttered a voice somewhere towards the back of 
the group. "We want to see what happens to the first one." 
Snibril tripped at the bottom of the stairs and landed on a pile of soft dust. 
Brocando was lighting a torch, taken from a rack of them on one wall of the 
little cave. One by one the band shuffled down. Brocando moved another lever and 
the statue trundled back over the hole, leaving them crowded shoulder to 
shoulder in the red-lit cave. 
"All here?" said Brocando, and without waiting for a reply he ducked into a tiny 
crevice and was gone. 
Nearly as bad as discovering all your worst fears are coming true, Snibril 
thought, is finding out that they're not. 
The walls showed up brown in the torchlight, and were covered with tiny hairs 
that glittered as the light passed them. Sometimes they crossed the entrances to 
other tunnels. But there were no monsters, no sudden teeth ... 
The path began to slope down and suddenly the light from Brocando's torch 
dimmed. Snibril started before he realized that they were entering a cavern 
under the Carpet, with walls so far away that the light was not reflected from 
them. They passed through many great caverns, the path narrowing and spiralling 
up around great columns of hair, so that they had to cling to stay on it. 
Sometimes the light sparkled on a distant wall. While they were edging along one 
place where the path narrowed almost to nothingness, and cold air rushed up from 
the depths below, Snibril slipped. Bane, who was next in line, reached out with 
great presence of mind and grabbed him by the hair just as he was about to 
totter into the darkness. But the torch slipped from his hands. They peered over 
the edge to watch it become a spark, then a speck and finally wink out. 
Something shifted in the dark depths of Underlay, and they heard it scuttle 
heavily away. 
"What was that?" said Snibril. 
"Probably a silverfish," said Brocando. "They've got teeth bigger than a man, 
you know. And dozens of legs." 
"I thought you said there was nothing to be afraid of down here!" shouted Glurk. 

"Well?", said Brocando, looking surprised. "Who's afraid of them?" 
Anything else in the depths below would hardly have seen them, little specks 
inching along the roots of the hairs. Eventually Brocando called a halt on the 
edge of another abyss. There was a narrow bridge stretching across it, and 
Snibril could just make out a door on the far side. 
The king held up the torch and said: "We are right underneath the rock now." 
The roof of the cavern was gently curved towards its centre, bowed under the 
great weight above it. 
"You are the only people apart from the kings of Jeopard to see this," Brocando 
went on. "After the secret passage was dug, Broc had all the workers personally 
put to death to stop the secret escaping." 
"Oh? That's part of kinging, too, is it?" said Glurk. 
"It used to be," said Brocando. "Not any more, of course." 
"Hah!" said Bane. 
When they had crossed the bridge Brocando pushed the little wooden door open, 
revealing a spiral staircase lit by green light filtering down from a tiny 
circle of light. It was a long climb up the winding staircase, which was so 
narrow that the boots of the ones in front tangled with the hands of the ones 
behind, and the torches made flickering shadows of giant warriors against the 
walls. Ghostly as it was, Snibril welcomed it. He hated the darkness under the 
Carpet. 
Before it reached the circle of green light the stairway opened on to a little 
landing, just big enough to hold them all. There was another door in the wall. 
"Where-" Glurk began. 
Brocando shook his head and put his finger to his lips. 
There were voices on the other side of the door. 
CHAPTER 10 
There were three voices, so loud that they could only be a metre or so from the 
hidden door. 
Snibril tried to imagine faces. One voice was thin and whiny, already raised in 
complaint. 
"Another hundred? But you took fifty only a few days ago!" 
"And now we need another hundred," said a soft voice that made Snibril's hair 
prickle. "I advise you to sign this paper, your majesty, and my guards will 
gather together this hundred and be gone. They will not be slaves. Just ... 
assistants." 
"I don't know why you don't just take them," said the first voice sulkily. 
"But you are the king," said the second voice. "It must be right, if the king 
says so. Everything signed and proper." 
Snibril thought he could hear Bane grinning in the darkness. 
"But no-one ever comes back," said first Voice. 
The third voice was like a rumble. "They like it so much in our lands we just 
cannot persuade them to return," it said. 
"I don't believe you," said First Voice. 
"That does not really matter," said Second Voice. "Sign!" 
"No! I will not! I am king ... " 
"And you think that I, who made you king, can't ... unmake you?" said Second 
Voice. "Your majesty," it added. 
"I'll report you to Jornarileesh! I'll tell on you!" said First Voice, but he 
did not sound very confident. 
"Jornarileesh! You think they care what is done here?" Second Voice purred. 
"Sign! Or perhaps Gorash here can find some other use for your hands?" 
"Yeah," said Third Voice. "A necklace." 
Brocando turned to face the others, while the voices on the other side of the 
door alternately threatened and whined. 
"That's my brother," he said. "Such as he is. Here's the plan. We rush in, and 
we kill as many mouls as possible." 
"You think that's a clever plan?" said Bane. 
"Sounds sensible to me," said Glurk. 
"But there's hundreds in the city, aren't there?" said Bane. 
"My people will rise up and overthrow them," hissed Brocando. 
"Have they got any weapons, then?" said Bane. 
"No, but the mouls have. So they'll start by getting their weapons off them," 
said Brocando placidly. 
Bane groaned. "We're all going to die," he said. "This isn't tactics. This is 
just making-it-up-as-you-go-along." 
"Let's start now, then," said Brocando. He put his foot against the door and 
pushed. It moved a fraction, and then stopped. 
"What's the matter?" said Snibril. 
"There's something on the other side," hissed Brocando. "There shouldn't be. 
Everyone give me a hand here." 
They put their shoulders to it. It resisted for a moment, and then flew open. 
There was a shriek. 
For a second the hall was motionless. 
Snibril saw a throne lying on the floor. It had blocked the door. Now it lay 
halfway down the steps and a thin Deftmene was struggling underneath it, making 
pathetic little noises. Beyond it two mouls were standing, staring at the open 
doorway. One was big, wide-shouldered, with a pale face almost hidden in his 
leather helmet. He held a coiled whip in one great paw. Voice Three, Snibril 
thought. He even looks as though he should be called Gorash. Beside him stood a 
thin moul wearing a long black cloak and a grin like a wolf that's just had 
dinner. Voice Two, said Snibril to himself. He looks like he ought to have a 
name with a lot of esses in it-something you can hiss. 
Both groups stared at one another for a second. 
Then Brocando whirred forward like an enraged chicken, waving his sword. The 
thin moul leapt backwards and drew its own sword with disheartening swiftness. 
Gorash uncurled his whip, but found that Bane was suddenly between him and the 
king. 
The Munrungs watched. There seemed to be two ways of swordfighting. Brocando 
went at it like a windmill, pushing the enemy back by sheer effort. Bane fought 
quietly, like some kind of machine-tamp, thrust, parry ... tic toe tic. 
"Shouldn't we help?" said Snibril. 
"No. Ten to two isn't fair," said Glurk. 
The doors at the end of the throne room burst open and a dozen moul guards ran 
towards them. 
"Oh. This is better, then, is it?" said Snibril. 
Glurk threw his spear. One of the guards screamed. 
"Yes," he said. 
Snibril found that spears fought well against swords, if you didn't throw them. 
They could prod, and they could parry. And as more guards poured into the room, 
he realized that it also helped if you were outnumbered. It made it easier to 
hit an enemy, for one thing. And since there were so many of them, each one 
wasn't too keen to get involved, taking the view that there was no point in 
running risks when there were all these other people to do it for them. 
This must be how the Deftmenes think, he told himself as he broke a spear over 
the head of a moul. Always pick a bigger enemy, because he's easier to hit ... 
He found himself pressed up against the back of Bane, who was still fighting in 
his tictoc way, like someone who can do it all day. 
"I've broken my spear!" 
"Use a sword!" said Bane, parrying a thrust from a desperate guard. "There's 
plenty of them on the floor!" 
"But I don't know how to use one!" 
"It's easy! The blunt end goes in your hand and the sharp end goes in the 
enemy!" 
"There must be more to it than that!" 
"Yes! Remember which end is which!" 
And then it was over. The few remaining guards fell over one another to get out 
of the door. Gorash was dead. The skinny moul dodged a last wild slash from 
Brocando's sword and dived through the open doorway to the secret passage. They 
heard it running down the steps. 
Snibril looked down at his sword. There was blood on it, and he hoped it wasn't 
his. 
"Well, that wasn't too hard," said Glurk. 
"There's hundreds more out there," said Bane, gloomily. 
Brocando went to the balcony. Early morninglight was flooding across the hairs. 
He cupped his hands around his mouth. 
"I'mmm baaaack! Brocandoooo!" 
He picked up a dead moul, dragged it to the balcony, and pushed it over. 
There were already some Deftmenes in the square below the palace. A shout went 
up. 
The king rubbed his hands together. 
"Help me with the throne," he said. 
It took three of them to lift it up. Underneath it was Antiroc, who hung limply 
from Glurk's grip as he was hauled to his feet. 
"Give me the crown," said Brocando, in deadly tones. "It's the thing on your 
head. The thing that doesn't belong to you." 
"We thought you were dead-" 
"You look overjoyed to see me back," said Brocando. His expression was terrible. 

"Someone had to be king, I had to do my best for the people-" 
There was a commotion outside. A moul backed through, with an arrow sticking in 
it. Half a dozen Deftmenes charged over it. They hardly glanced at Brocando, but 
bore down with grim determination on Antiroc, who was snatched from Glurk's 
grasp and hustled towards the balcony. 
"You can't let them do that!" said Snibril. 
Four Deftmenes had hold of Antiroc's arms and legs, and were swinging him 
backwards and forwards, high over the roofs of Jeopard. "A-one-a-two-a-three," 
they chanted, the swings getting larger. 
"Why not?" said Brocando. 
"He's your brother!" 
"Hmm? Oh, all right. Put him down, people," said Brocando. "Come on. Release 
him. I won't say let him go, you might get the wrong idea. I can't have you 
subjects throwing my family over the balcony, that would never do." 
"Good," said Snibril. 
"I'll do it myself." 
"No!" It was a chorus. Everyone joined in, especially Antiroc, who joined in 
even more than everyone else. 
"Just joking," said Brocando, who didn't look it. "Blast all this ... beholden 
to other people. You'll get me feeling guilty for throwing traitors off the rock 
now. It's a royal tradition. All right, then. He can go." 
Antiroc fell on to his hands and knees. "You can't do that! They'll kill me!" 
"All those people whose relatives you sold to the mouls?" said Brocando. "Dear 
me. Of course, you can follow your friend ... " 
He waved towards the passage doorway. Antiroc looked horrified. 
"But Gormaleesh went down there!" he wailed. 
"Was that his name? Right sort of name," said Brocando. "You can talk about old 
times." He nodded to the four who had been about to de-balcony the usurper. "If 
he won't go, give him a helping hand," he said. 
The Deftmenes advanced on Antiroc, murder in their eyes. He looked imploringly 
at Brocando, hesitated for a moment, and then dashed for the doorway. 
It slammed behind him. 
"He can kill Gormaleesh or Gormaleesh can kill him, for all I care. Or he can 
even find his way out," sighed Brocando. "But now ... let's round up the last of 
the mouls. I shouldn't think they'll put up much of a fight now." 
"What shall we do if we capture them alive, your majesty?" said one of the 
Deftmenes. 
Brocando looked tired. "Well, we haven't got many dungeons," he said. "So 
perhaps if you can avoid capturing any alive that would help." 
"You mustn't kill an enemy who has thrown down his weapons," said Bane. 
"Can't you? We live and learn. I always thought that was the best time," said 
Brocando. 
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. 
CHAPTER 12 
All that night they journeyed south. Most of the pack were mounted on their 
snargs, though the prisoners and their guards had to run along in the middle of 
the jostling bodies. Dawn came. The hairs around had changed from deep purple to 
red again. 
The next days merged for the prisoners into one continuous blur of running feet 
and moul voices. The hairs changed from crimson to orange, from orange to black. 
Feet blistered and bled, and minds were muddled by the constant pounding. Twice 
they crossed white Dumii roads, late at night, when no-one was abroad, and 
passed by sleeping villages like shadows. 
And then there was a place ... above the Carpet. 
The hairs were bent almost double under the weight of the High Gate Land of the 
Vortgorns. First it was a glimmer between the hairs. An hour later it loomed 
above them, the largest thing Pismire had ever seen. He had read about it, back 
in the old days, but the descriptions in the books had not got it right at all. 
You needed bigger words than "big". 
It looked the largest thing there could ever be. The Carpet was big, but the 
Carpet was ... everything. It didn't count. It was too big to have a size. 
But the High Gate Land was small enough to be really huge. 
It looked quite near even from a long way off. And it shone. 
It was bronze. All the metal in the Carpet came from there. Snibril knew that 
much. The Vortgorns had to trade it with the wights for food. Nothing grew on 
the High Gate Land. 
"On Epen Ny," said Pismire, under his breath, while the party stopped for a 
brief rest under the very walls of the Land. Brocando had immediately fallen 
asleep. He had shorter legs than everyone else. 
"What?" said Brocando, waking up. 
"That's the battle cry of the Vortgorns," said Pismire. "Lots of people 
remembered it, but not for very long. It was often the last thing they heard. On 
Epen Ny. It's written on the Land. Huge metal letters. I've seen pictures. It'd 
take you all day just to walk around one letter." 
"Who wrote them?" said Brocando, eyeing the guards. 
"The Vortgorns think it was done by Fray," said Pismire. "Superstition, of 
course. There's probably some natural explanation. The Vortgorns used to say 
there's letters under the Land, too. They dug tunnels and found them. Some of 
them say ... " he concentrated " ... I ZABETH II. The Vortgorns seem to think 
that's very important." 
"Giant letters can't just grow by themselves," said Brocando. 
"They might. Who knows?" 
They looked up at the Land. Around the base of it ran a road. It was wider than 
a Dumii road, yet in the shadow of that looming wall it looked thinner than a 
thread. 
"Anyone know much about the Vortgorns?" said 
Pismire. "I've read about them, but I don't remember ever seeing one." 
"Like the Dumii, but without their well-known flair and excitement," said 
Brocando. 
"Thank you," said Bane gravely. 
"Well, living on metal all the time must give you a very sombre and mystical 
view of life," said Pismire. 
"Whose side are they on?" said Brocando. 
"Sides? Their own, I suppose, just like everyone else." 
The mouls milled around aimlessly, waiting for something. 
"I suppose we're waiting to get up there," said Brocando, "but how?" 
"Dumii patrols have been all round the Land and found no way in," said Bane. 
Pismire, who was squinting upwards, said: "Ah. But I think this remarkable 
mechanism is the secret." 
High above them was a speck on the wall. Slowly it grew bigger, became a wide 
platform sliding down the bronze. They could see heads peering over the side of 
it. 
When it landed beside the pack Pismire saw that it was a simple square made of 
hair planks with a railing around them. Four bronze chains, one from each 
corner, rose up into the mists. A man stood at each corner. Each one was as tall 
as Bane. They wore helmets and body armour of beaten bronze, and carried by 
their sides long bronze swords. Their shields were bronze, round like the High 
Gate Land itself, and their hair was the colour of the metal. They had short 
square beards, and grey eyes that stared calmly ahead of them. Too much metal, 
Pismire thought. It enters the soul. 
"Er," Brocando whispered, as they were pushed forward on to the platform, "you 
haven't, er, seen or heard anyone, as it were, following us? Someone, such as it 
might be, your chief? The big fellow?" 
"Not a sign since we left Underlay," said Pismire. "I've been watching and 
listening very carefully." 
"Oh, dear." 
"Oh, no. That's good news. It means he's out there somewhere. If I had seen or 
heard anything, I'd know it wasn't Glurk. He's a hunter, you see." 
"Good point. Ow!" A whip stung Brocando's legs as the mouls led their nervous 
mounts on to the planks. 
When the last one was aboard one of the bronze guards took a trumpet from his 
belt and blew one note. The chains around them shook and rattled as they took up 
the slack and then, with a creaking, the platform swung off the ground and up 
towards the Land. 
Pismire had been forced up against one of the railings by the press of animals, 
and so it was that he saw a shadow detach itself from the dust bush by the base 
of the wall and dash for the rising platform, trying to find a handhold on the 
underside. 
He saw it leap; but at that moment the platform swung, and he could not see the 
shadow again. 
Up rose the entrance to the Land, through swirling fogs, and then he realized he 
was looking out over the Carpet. Beneath him the tips of the hairs gleamed in 
the mist. It made him dizzy, so he tried to take his mind off things by giving 
the others a short lecture. 
"The Deftmenes say that this Land fell out of the above many years ago. The 
Vortgorns were just another small tribe that lived nearby. They climbed it, too, 
and hardly ever come down." 
"Then why are mouls in the Land?" 
"I'd rather not think about it," said Pismire. "The Vortgorns may be a bit dull, 
but I've never understood them to be evil." 
The platform ground on up the wall until, suddenly, it stopped. Before them was 
a bronze gate, built on top of the wall. Just above it heavy gantries carried 
the pulleys that raised and lowered the platform. They were plated with bronze, 
and studded with spikes. The gateway was spiked, and the portcullis in it was 
tipped with more spikes. Beneath them, far beneath, lay the Carpet. 
"They like their privacy, these people," remarked Bane. 
Behind him Gormaleesh hissed. "Look your last at your precious Carpet. You will 
not see it again." 
"Ah. Melodrama," said Pismire. 
"So you think-" Gormaleesh began. 
The last word ended on a yelp. Brocando had sunk his teeth into the moul's leg. 
Whimpering with pain and rage Gormaleesh picked up the Deftmene king and rushed 
with him to the edge of the platform, raising him over his head. 
Then he lowered his arms, and smiled. "No," he said slowly. "No. Why? Soon you 
will wish that I had thrown you over. Throwing you over now would be mercy. And 
I don't feel merciful ... " 
He dropped the trembling Brocando by the others just as the portcullis rose. 
"I wasn't shaking," said Brocando. "It's just a bit chilly up here." 
The mouls marched on to the High Gate Land. Pismire saw a broad metal plateau, 
with what looked like hills in the distance. On either side as they marched were 
cages, with thick bars. They contained snargs. There were small brown snargs 
from the Woodwall lands, red snargs from the west, and black snargs with 
overlong teeth. 
Whatever their colour, they all had one thought in mind. They hurled themselves 
at their bars as the prisoners passed. 
On they went, and there were compounds where snargs were being broken in and 
trained. Further, and there were more cages, bigger than those of the snargs. 
They contained ... strange creatures. 
They were huge. They had fat barrel bodies with ridiculous small wings, and long 
thin necks tipped with heads that wobbled slowly round as they passed. At the 
other end they had a stubby little tail. Their legs didn't look thick enough to 
support them. Oh, they were thick-but something that big ought to have legs as 
thick as giant hairs. 
One of the creatures poked its head through the bars and looked down at Pismire. 
Its eyes were large but bright and oddly intelligent, and topped by enormous 
bushy brows. 
"A pone," he said. "A pone! From the utter east, where the very fringes of the 
Carpet touch the Floor. The biggest things in the Carpet. Oh, if we had a few of 
those at our command-" 
"I think perhaps they are under the command of the mouls," said Bane. 
The pone watched him pass. 
They reached the angular metal hills and went through a dark archway. Inside 
they were handed over to other, swarthier, mouls. 
There was a maze of tunnels that echoed with the chip-chip of hammers, but these 
they passed, going deeper, until they came to a dimly-lit hall lined with doors. 
One was opened, and they were thrown inside. 
As they struggled on the dank floor Gormaleesh's grinning face appeared at the 
bars, lit red in the torchlight of the dungeons. "Enjoy the hospitality of our 
dungeons while you may. Soon you'll go to the mines. There you will not sleep. 
But you'll be safe from Fray!" 
"Why do they talk like that?" said Pismire. "Melodrama. I'm amazed he doesn't go 
'har-har-har'." 
"Gormaleesh!" said Bane. 
The moul reappeared. "Yes, lowly scum?" he said. 
"Lowly scum," said Pismire. "Imagination of a loaf of bread, that one." 
"When we get out of here I'm going to find you and kill you," said Bane, in 
quite normal conversational tones. "I thought I ought to tell you now. I 
wouldn't want you to say afterwards that you hadn't been warned." 
Gormaleesh stepped back; and then said, "Your threats I treat with scorn. 
Har-har-har!" 
Pismire nodded happily. "Knew he would, sooner or later," he said to himself. 
They lay in the darkness, listening to the distant knocking of the hammers. 
"So these are the mines," said Brocando, "where my people have been taken. 
Mining metal." 
"Everyone's people, by the sound of it," said Pismire. 
He lay staring at the dark, wondering about Glurk. He could have imagined the 
shadow. And Snibril ... well, perhaps he did get out before the roof fell in ... 

They were roughly woken by the prodding of a spear. 
Two mouls were standing in the doorway, grinning down at them. "These three for 
the mines, eh?" 
"Aye," came a growl from outside. Pismire's ears pricked. 
"That one's a bit small, and that one's an old codger. Still, use up the old 
ones first, eh?" 
"Let's see 'em," came the voice from outside. 
The prisoners were dragged upright, and had their thongs inspected before they 
were thrust out into the dim hall. A bronze-clad Vortgorn stood there, terrible 
in the half-light. 
"You stupid oafs," he snarled at the mouls. "Look at their bonds! Practically 
falling off!" And he strode forward and caught up Pismire's hands. The old man 
looked for a moment into familiar brown eyes, one of which winked at him. 
"We tightened them special!" said one moul indignantly. 
"Oh yes? Look at this one, then." 
The two mouls slunk over and stood one on either side of the Vortgorn. 
One said: "They're as tight as a ... " 
The Vortgorn reached out and placed one gnarled hand about each hairy neck. The 
voice faded into a strangled squeak. The Vortgorn brought his hands together 
with a satisfying crack, and let the stunned creatures drop. 
Glurk removed his helmet. 
"Well, here we are, then," he said. 
He couldn't resist dancing a little jig in front of their staring faces. Then he 
put his helmet back on again. 
"We left you in Underlay!" 
"How d'you come here?" 
"Was it you I saw?" asked Pismire. "It was, wasn't it?" 
"Safety first, stories later," said Glurk. 
He took a knife from his belt and cut their ropes. They rubbed some life into 
their numb wrists while he dragged the guards into the cell and locked them in, 
despite Brocando pointing out that the best time to kill an enemy was when they 
were unconscious. 
Glurk came back with their swords. "They're nasty things, but better than 
nothing if it comes to a fight," he said. "Try to look like prisoners if anyone 
sees you. There's all sorts up here. You might not be noticed." 
Glurk led, in his Vortgorn armour. Twice they met moul guards who paid no 
attention to him until it was too late. 
"Where are we going?" said Pismire. 
"I've found some friends." 
"We ought to rescue the prisoners," said Brocando. 
"There's thousands of them. Thousands of mouls, too," said Glurk. "Too many." 
That's right," said Bane. "We've got to get out. Then we can get help. And don't 
say that if they've got a lot of Deftmenes prisoner it means we've got an army 
right inside their lines." 
"I've seen some of the prisoners, too," said Glurk. "They ain't in any condition 
to fight, if you want my opinion." 
"You're talking about Deftmenes, you know," said Brocando stoutly. 
Glurk peered around a corner, and then beckoned them to follow him. "I know," he 
said. "And it's still true. What I'm saying is, it's not a case of stealing a 
bunch of keys and unlocking a few doors and shouting, "Har-har-har, my people, 
throw off your shackles". This is real. And I've been listening. You know why 
the mouls attacked Jeopard?" 
"To subjugate and enslave a proud people," said Brocando. 
"For grit." 
"Grit? 
"That's what Jeopard's built on, isn't it? Stone chisels, see. They use dozens 
of 'em just to hack out a bit of metal." 
"My lovely city-" 
"Grit," said Glurk. 
"My palace-" 
"Grit, too." 
"Metal," said Bane. "They're trying to get as much metal as they can. Metal 
weapons'll beat varnish and wood any day." 
"Why all this effort, I wonder?" said Pismire. 
"Ware's only a few days away," said Bane. "That's why. We've got to warn 
people." 
"Come on. In here," said Glurk. 
" 'Here' was a long cave mined out of the bronze. Light filtered in from holes 
in the ceiling, showing dim shadows lining the walls. The air was warm and smelt 
of animal. The prisoners heard the shifting of great feet in their stalls, and 
deep breathing. There was a movement, and a pair of green eyes came towards them 
in the semi-darkness. 
"What's your business here?" said the moul guard. 
"Ah," said Glurk, "I have brought the prisoners! Har-har-har!" 
The guard looked suspiciously at the four of them. "What for?" it said. 
Glurk blinked at him. 
"Enough of this talking, har-har-har," he said eventually, and hit the guard on 
the head. 
The green eyes went out. 
"I runs out of ideas after a while," said Glurk. 
Pismire's eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. It was a big cave, but it 
didn't look as big as it really ought to have done because of the enormous size 
of the things in it. 
"These are pones, aren't they?" said Brocando. 
"Not easy to mistake for anything else. Why are they here?" said Pismire. 
"They turns the wheels for the lifting platform," said Glurk. "They're used for 
all the heavy work. Know something? They're intelligent." 
"No, that's just a story," said Pismire airily. "They look bright, I'll grant 
you, but the head's tiny compared to the body. They've got a brain the size of a 
dried pea." 
"But a very clever dried pea," said Glurk. "I lay low in here last night. 
They've got a language. All made up of thumps and nose honks. Watch." 
A tiny head was lowered towards him out of the shadows, and two bright eyes 
blinked. 
"Er ... if you can understand me, stamp twice," he said hoarsely. 
Thud. Thud. 
Even Glurk himself looked surprised. 
"These are friends. You'll help, OK?" 
Thud. Thud. 
"That means yes," said Glurk. 
"Really?" said Pismire. 
"There's his saddle, by the stall." 
It was more like a small castle. It had wide girths made of red cloth studded 
with bronze, and a roof over it, hung with curtains and bells. Inside were 
cushioned seats, and on the decorated harness was the word 'Acretongue' in 
tarnished bronze letters. 
Pismire sidled closer to the pone while the others were manhandling the saddle, 
and held up his hand with the fingers spread out. 
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he said suspiciously. 
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 
"Aha! So much for-" 
Thud. 
"Lucky guess." 
The pone lumbered down on to his knees to let them heave the saddle on to his 
back. 
Then he opened his mouth and trumpeted. 
It sounded like the creaking of a door, magnified a thousand times-but it waved 
and changed as well, and seemed to contain a lot of busy little other sounds. 
Language, thought Pismire. Language without words, but still language. 
I wonder if the wights invented that, too? People used to have language without 
words. We still have. We say "Hmm?" and "Uh" and "Arrgh!", don't we? 
What am I thinking? These are animals. 
Just very bright ones, perhaps. Very bright indeed. 
The other pones raised their heads and answered, with a variety of blasts and 
trills. Glurk motioned the others up on to Acretongue's back. 
"The mouls will have heard that," said Pismire. 
"Won't matter," said Glurk. "The pones have decided to go home." 
"You mean they could have gone any time?" said Brocando, watching the huge 
animals leaving their stalls in an orderly line. 
"They liked it here when the Vortgorns ran the place," said Glurk. "They likes 
stuff they find interesting. The mouls don't interest them any more. They don't 
like them. I think they think we're interesting." 
"Now listen, Glurk," said Pismire, "I mean, I'm not saying you're not, you know, 
quite bright, but I don't think you could have learned a language and all these 
other things in just a few-" 
"Didn't," said Glurk, smirking. "Knew what to expect before I come here." 
"How-" 
"Enough of this talking, har-har-har," said Glurk. "Tell you later. Be polite, 
by the way. She said they understand people very well." 
"Don't believe it," said Pismire. 
One of the pones blew a raspberry in his ear. 
"That means they think you're interesting," said Glurk. 
"And who's she?" Pismire demanded. 
"Tell you soon," said Glurk. He was enjoying himself in a quiet way. For the 
whole of his life Pismire had known more than he did. It was nice, just for 
once, to be Mr. Answers. 
At the far end of the cave was a thick bronze door. The first two pones walked 
straight into it, tearing it off its hinges. Once outside the herd broke into a 
trot, with Acretongue moving up into the lead. 
On his trumpeted signal, it became a gallop. It looked ponderous and funny, 
until you realized that those great big bouncing balls would walk through a 
house without noticing it. 
Up on Acretongue's back the four of them were shaken like small peas in a big 
pot. Pismire saw a pack of mounted mouls galloping after them, spears ready to 
throw. Acretongue must have seen them too, because he bellowed like a distressed 
trumpet. 
Three pones detached themselves from the herd and turned. The mouls suddenly 
realized that they weren't chasing a herd of fleeing animals ... 
Pismire stood up in the saddle. "They've gone over them!" he said. 
"What, do you mean they jumped?" asked Brocando. 
"No! I mean just ... over." 
"They hate mouls," said Glurk. "Hate 'em more than any other creatures do. They 
think they're very uninteresting." 
Ahead of them was the archway, surrounded by a milling throng of mouls and 
Vortgorns. "But all they've got to do is lower that platform and we're done 
for," shouted Pismire. 
"They won't," yelled Glurk, and pointed. "He powers the platform!" 
Beside the gateway they noticed for the first time a large treadmill. There was 
a pone in it. A pack of mouls were attacking it with whips and goads. But it 
stood stolidly, trumpeting. Acretongue bellowed back. 
"They'll rescue it," said Glurk. "By the way-er, what was it-oh, yeah, they hate 
sharp things even more than mouls, so we got to be careful with spears and 
things ... " 
Some pones hurled themselves towards the mill, tossing mouls aside like dust. 
Their heavy jaws snapped through the bars. The caged pone shrugged itself free, 
paused for a moment to stamp on a couple of mouls who had been poking it the 
hardest, and then leapt through the gateway. 
"They must be mad!" said Pismire. "That platform won't hold them!" 
"We shall see," said Glurk, as they clattered on to it. The other pones piled on 
behind them, and Pismire noticed that, though they went out of their way to 
trample on mouls, they avoided the running Vortgorns. Vortgorns were still a bit 
interesting. 
He expected the platform to split under the weight of the pones. It 
didn't-quite-but something went clang above them and the remains of the 
treadmill spun until it was nothing but a blur. The chains shrieked over their 
pulleys. The wall rushed past. Only Glurk sat calmly. Even Pismire had crouched 
down in the saddle. They were going to be crushed when they hit the bottom, he 
knew. Brocando hung on and moaned, with his eyes shut. Even Bane had slumped 
down, bracing himself for the shock. 
So only Glurk saw the pones leaping from the platform, one by one. 
The tiny wings opened. They were too small to carry pones-but they worked. They 
whirled madly and the pones stayed up, drifting gently between the hairs. 
With only Acretongue's weight upon it the platform slowed down, and hit the dust 
with a thud. 
Acretongue lumbered off, while all about them pones crashed down through the 
hairs like falling fruit. 
The others looked up at Glurk's face. 
"You knew we wouldn't crash!" said Pismire accusingly. 
"Hoped," said Glurk. "I wasn't too sure, even after all Culaina said." 
"Who's Culaina? Is he the she? said Pismire. He was badly rattled. He was kind 
enough in his way, but knowing more than Glurk about almost everything was one 
of the few things he was sure he was good at. He wasn't used to this. 
Another pone bounced on to the dust beside them. They're lighter than they look, 
he thought. Balloons with wings. No wonder they don't like sharp objects ... 
"Culaina's hard to describe," said Glurk. "I think she's a sort of wight." 
"A sort of wight?" said Pismire. 
"You'll have to ask her yourself," said Glurk. "We're going to see her now." 
Acretongue's head dipped, and he began to plod between the hairs. 
"No, we're not," said Bane. "We must go to Ware!" 
"Back to Jeopard, you mean!" 
"Ware's only a few days away. I have to tell them about this!" 
"They might know already," said Pismire, glumly. 
"They don't," said Glurk. 
"How do you know?" 
"We're the only ones who know about the moul army," said Glurk. "We'll have to 
go to Ware to warn people. But first we've got to go back to talk to Culaina." 
"This wight? Why?" said Pismire. 
"To tell her what we've seen," said Glurk, smiling in a puzzled kind of way. He 
scratched his head. "So she can remember what we tell her now and tell me two 
days ago. When I met her." 
Brocando opened his mouth, but Pismire waved him into silence. 
"Wights remember the future as well as the past," he said. "But ... look, they 
never tell anyone, Glurk." 
"This one does," said Glurk. "Don't look at me like that. You think I could make 
this sort of thing up? 
CHAPTER 13 
"Following you was easy enough," said Glurk. "I mean, twenty people leave a 
trail, no problem there. Half the time I had to be careful I didn't walk into 
you. And then I thought ... they're going south in a straight line, so I might 
as well go on ahead, spy out the land, see what's happening. One person can move 
a lot faster than twenty, so why not? I'd got a snarg to ride, too. They respond 
well to a bit of kindness," he said. "Mind you, you have to use quite a lot of 
cruelty as well. And that's how I met Culaina. She's very strange." 
There was a pause. Then Pismire said, "I think we missed something there." 
"You'll see where she lives," said Glurk. "I ... er ... I don't think people see 
it unless she wants 'em to. I've never seen anything like it. And there she was 
and ... and ... she told me where you were going, and how I could hang on to the 
bottom of that lifting cart, and pinch the armour off a Vortgorn, and release 
the pones, and how they could fly ... everything." 
"How did she know all this?" Brocando demanded. 
"Because we're going to tell her," said Glurk. "Don't ask me how it works." 
"They remember forwards as well as backwards," said Bane. 
"But they must never tell!" said Pismire. "Otherwise dreadful things could 
happen!" 
"I don't know about that," said Glurk, guardedly. "The way I see it, you've been 
freed ... that doesn't sound dreadful." 
"But we must get back to the tribe," said Pismire. 
"And my people!" said Brocando. "They need us!" 
"I've been thinking about that," said Glurk. "There's two hundred Munrungs and 
three thousand Deftmenes, and they're all armed and together and ... they need 
us? We've got some good lads in the tribe. And Snibril's with them ... isn't 
he?" 
"Er," said Brocando. "Yes. We hope so." 
"Right, then. And your people know how to fight. We're four people in a strange 
land with enemies all over the place ... I think we need them. Anyway, we must 
see Culaina." 
"But she's told you, and it worked," said Brocando. "We can say thank you some 
other time-" 
"No," said Pismire. "If Glurk's right, and she's told him something she 
remembers from the future, and we don't go ... then, I don't know, anything 
could happen. The whole fabric of the Carpet could roll up, or something. It 
would be the worst thing that could ever happen anywhere." 
"Worse than-?" Brocando began. 
"Worse than anything you could possibly imagine," said Glurk. 
They all thought about this. 
"She must trust you a lot, then," said Bane. 
For the rest of that day the pones moved on. On Acretongue's back the four 
dozed, or looked out silently at the lengthening shadows. But for most of the 
time they were each busy with their own thoughts. 
Dust grew luxuriantly underfoot, and in it unseen little creatures buzzed and 
clicked. And growing on the apple-green fluff that draped itself in thick 
festoons high above were flowers, fluff flowers, bigger than a man, with petals 
that glittered in a thousand shades of green from deep olive to cool yellow, 
that gave out a scent that filled the glades and tasted like the colour of 
green. 
"Now this is very interesting," began Pismire, sitting up. It was the first time 
any of them had spoken in an hour. 
He stopped, and stared across the clearing. Every pone turned its head in that 
direction. 
"It's something you don't often see," he added. The others looked where he 
pointed. 
Among the greenery at the far side of the glade a wild pig was watching them 
solemnly. As they all turned it backed away hastily, and they could hear it 
crashing off through the hairs. 
"That's common enough," grunted Bane. 
"It's just that it was brown," said Pismire, "it should have been green. Almost 
all wild creatures in the Carpet take on the colour of the hairs where they were 
born. Protective camouflage." 
"Perhaps it just wandered here," said Bane. 
"No," said Glurk, grinning. "Something brought it here. We're nearly there. 
You'll be amazed. You really will." 
The pones turned, and pushed their way along another track. As they shouldered 
their way through the thick fronds scores of small creatures scurried away 
hurriedly. They were all the colours of the Carpet. 
And then the pones stepped through ... 
Hairs clustered in closely on the borders of a wide clearing, reflecting the dim 
glow from the thing in its centre. 
It was one uncut crystal of sugar. High as the Great Palace of Jeopard, whiter 
than a bone, the crystal glittered coldly in the green dimness. It caught all 
the light that filtered through the densely packed dust, and within its 
marvellous cubic bulk a shifting white glow danced. In parts it shone like 
polished varnish, reflecting the faces of the creatures that clustered round it. 

There were dust rabbits and weft borers of all colours, pigs by the herd, 
long-necked soraths, patient fat tromps, gromepipers, scurrying goats with 
spiral horns and creatures even Pismire could not recognize: a scaly thing with 
spikes on its back, and a long creature that seemed to be all legs. The clearing 
was filled with the sound of a thousand tongues ... licking. 
Acretongue and his herd pounded forward, almost throwing Glurk and the rest out 
of the saddle. Smaller creatures leapt aside hastily to give them room. 
"It's ... beautiful," whispered Brocando at last. Bane stood staring up, gaping. 
Even Pismire was impressed. 
They climbed down from the pone's back and walked gingerly up to the smooth 
surface. The animals licking the sugar hardly paid them any attention. 
Glurk cracked a piece off with his knife, and stood crunching it thoughtfully. 
"Have a taste," he said, tossing a piece to Bane. Bane bit it cautiously. 
"Sugar," said Bane. "I've only ever tasted it once before. There was a crystal 
down near the Hearthlands. The Emperor used to get it in very small amounts." 
"Like honey, but different," said Brocando. "How does it get here?" 
"Like Grit, and Salt, and Ash do. From above," said Pismire. "We don't know any 
more than that." 
Instinctively they looked up at the spreading hairs. 
"Well, here's our lunch, anyway," Brocando's voice broke the silence. "Take your 
pick-fried tromp or baked gromer. No wonder they're all colours. This must 
attract them from everywhere. Mind you," he added, "it hardly seems sporting to 
kill them while they're not looking." 
"So put away your knife," said a new voice. 
Pismire choked on his sugar. 
A figure stood a little way away. It was tall, with the thin face of a wight, 
and looked ghostly in the light of the crystal. It had a mass of white hair-it 
was hard to see where the hair ended and the shapeless long robe began. And she 
was young, but as she moved sometimes she was old, and sometimes she was 
middle-aged. Time moved across her face like shadows. 
One of her hands held the collar of a white snarg, which was swishing its tail 
menacingly. 
"Um," said Glurk, "this is Culaina." 
The wight walked past them and patted Acretongue's flank. The pone's long neck 
turned and his little eyes looked at Culaina; then he clumsily lowered himself 
to his knees and laid his head on the ground. 
Culaina turned, and smiled. The whole clearing seemed to smile with her. The 
change was sudden, and dramatic. 
"So here you are," she said, "and now you must tell me of your adventures. I 
know you will, because I remember you did. Follow me. There will be food." 
At the far side of the clearing was Culaina's home, or one of her homes. It was 
no more than a roof of woven dust on poles. There were no walls or doors, no 
ditch or stockade to protect it at night, and no place for a fire. Above it was 
a large hive of hymetors. Animals cropped and dozed peacefully around Culaina's 
camp. 
When Glurk and the others approached the hymetors hummed furiously and rose from 
their hive in an angry swarm. The four ducked and tried to protect their faces 
with their arms, until Culaina whistled once. 
The creatures swooped harmlessly overhead and returned, peacefully, to their 
home in the hairs. Glurk caught a glimpse of long sharp stings. 
"She sent them back," whispered Brocando urgently. "She just whistled and they 
obeyed her!" 
On the floor under the shelter was a pile of fruit and some bowls of green 
liquid. 
"I had this before," said Glurk. "It's sap from the green hairs. Sets you up a 
treat." 
They sat down. Pismire shifted uneasily, and Culaina smiled at him. 
"Say what you think," she said. "I remember that you did. But you must say it." 
"Wight mustn't tell people the future!" said Pismire. "Everyone knows that! They 
never tell! It's too dangerous for people to know what will happen! This is 
all-" 
"I remember I interrupted you here," said the wight. "Yes. I know the rules. And 
that's what they are, and all they are. They are only rules. I am not, Pismire, 
quite like other wights. Have you ever heard the word ... thunorg? I know you 
have." 
"Oh, yes, the wights who can remember things that-oh. My word," said Pismire, 
shocked, "I thought that was just a story. I thought thunorgs were monsters." 
"It is just a story. But that doesn't mean it isn't true. The rules don't apply 
to me. They're only rules. Rules don't have to apply ... not always. I don't 
much care for cities. But this crushing and destruction of the Carpet ... this 
forging of bronze and trampling of dust ... " 
She shook her head. "No. This shall not be. You will go to Ware tomorrow, before 
the mouls leave Jeopard. There will be a battle. You must win. I will not tell 
you how. But you must win. In the meantime, you may spend this night here. Do 
not be afraid. Nothing comes to my house that I do not expect." 
"No," said Bane, "I need to know. Why are you helping us? Wights remember 
everything that's ever happened, and what will happen. And they don't tell. 
What's different about you?" 
Culaina put her head on one side. 
"Did you hear me?" said Bane. 
"Yes. I was remembering what I told you. Yes. Now I remember. There is so much, 
you see ... so much ... " She stood up and walked a little way away from them. 
Then she turned. "Pismire should know this," she said. "Sometimes ... very 
rarely, as rare as my albino snarg here ... sometimes a wight is born who is 
different, as different from wights as they are from you. You see, we remember 
... everything." 
"So do all wights," said Bane. 
"No," said Culaina. "They remember only all those things that happen. We 
remember things that might happen. I remember what will happen if you don't win. 
I know all possibilities. For every thing that happens, a million things don't 
happen. I live all of them. I remember you winning, and I remember you losing. I 
remember the mouls triumphant, I remember you triumphant. Both are real, for me. 
For me, both of these have happened. My brother and sister wights remember the 
thread of history. But I remember all the threads that never get woven. For me, 
all possibilities are real. I live in them all." 
"But why?" said Bane. 
"Someone must. Otherwise, they never could have happened." 
She stepped into the shadows. 
They heard her voice. It seemed to come from somewhere distant. "Nothing has to 
happen. History isn't something you live. It is something you make. One 
decision. One person. At the right time. Nothing is too small to make a 
difference. Anything can be changed." 
The voice faded. After a while Bane got to his feet, feeling very clumsy, and 
peered into the shadows. 
"She's gone." 
"I wonder if she can ever be entirely in one place," said Pismire. "What do we 
do now?" 
"I'm going to sleep," said Glurk, "I don't know about you, but it's been a busy 
day." 
Several times Bane awoke, and thought he heard crashes and cries in the wind, 
but when he listened hard they seemed to disappear. 
Pismire dreamed. He saw hairs bend and bowing as if shaken by a high wind, and 
the gleam of ten thousand eyes, green, red and white, and the figure of Culaina, 
her hair caught and tugged by the air, treading through the noisy darkness, 
living everything that could be and might be and was. 
Glurk dreamed of slim bodies pushing swiftly through the undergrowth. As they 
passed the Carpet seemed to come alive. It was like a splash in a cup; the 
ripples ran out and out, getting bigger as they ran. Deep in underground caves 
sleeping creatures awoke, and howled. He saw the Thimbrule that lay far beyond 
Varnisholme, a great silver dome. He saw the glow as the wights mined their 
varnish at Varnisholme, the flames spouting from their forge. 
In his dream he moved through the night hairs like a spirit, until he came to 
the Endless Flatness. The Carpet ended suddenly, and from its shores the 
Flatness ran on for ever. He looked for hairs and there were none, just flatness 
without end, and balls of dust that were bowled over and over in the forlorn 
wind. And Culaina stood by the last hair, her robe flapping in the gusts. 
Glurk sat up suddenly. 
It was morning. Yellow light dappled the clearing, making the hairs shine like 
bronze. Brocando was still asleep. The others were talking quietly. 
One look was enough. 
"Not exactly dreams," said Pismire. "What we dreamed weren't exactly dreams. She 
lives all her lives at once, we picked up echoes-" 
"I saw Culaina walking through the Carpet," began Glurk. "And I think I saw 
Snibril, too." 
"And I saw the Hearthlands and the fire in the sky," added Pismire. 
"There were all sorts of creatures," said Glurk. 
Brocando turned over and opened his eyes. He listened to the others for a 
moment, then nodded. "I was back in the High Gate Land. There was a domed cave, 
and under the dome a throne of bronze with a Vortgorn on it. He had a yellow 
beard and a crown. Two mouls were standing in front of him. I'll swear one of 
them was Gormaleesh. They were laughing. Then one snatched the crown, but the 
Vortgorn just sat with his chin on his hand and said nothing." 
"That'd be Stagbat, their king," said Glurk. "I heard the Vortgorn guards 
talking. The mouls turned up one day after Fray had struck nearby and they said 
Fray was a Dumii weapon. They said they'd be allies. Now they run the place, of 
course." 
"You can't control Fray," said Pismire. "I keep on telling you, it's a natural 
phenomenon." 
"They always find our weak points," said Glurk. He looked across at Bane, who 
had been silent. 
"And what did you dream?" he asked. 
"I dreamed ... I dreamed ... " Bane began, and then seemed to wake up, "I 
dreamed of nothing. I slept well." 
There was no sign of Culaina. The pones had stayed. 
"They think life is going to be interesting," said Glurk. "They used to like 
working for the Vortgorns. People used to come and read them stories and things. 
Must be hard, having a brain and no hands to do things with it." 
"We'd better go to Ware," said Bane. "I don't think we've got any choice." 
"We've got lots of choice," said Pismire. "It's just that we've got to choose to 
go to Ware." 
Glurk saddled up Acretongue. "Interesting times ahead," he said gloomily. 
Bane took a last look around the sugar clearing. 
"She's here ... somewhere," he said. 
"Everywhere," said Pismire. "Everywhere there's a choice to be made." 
There was a faraway look in Bane's eyes. "What must it be like," he said, "to 
know everything that could happen?" 
"Terrible," said Pismire. "Now, come along. Bane? I said come on ... " 
CHAPTER 14 
Snibril had led the search, after the storm. They'd sifted through the rubble of 
the place. They'd gone down into Underlay, roped together, and shouted out the 
names of those who were lost. They'd found nothing. 
But as Pismire would have pointed out, finding nothing was better than finding 
... something. 
Then they'd discovered the tracks in the distant clearing. Lots of creatures had 
come up. It seemed to Snibril that there had been someone else following them, 
someone who had lain low for a while in the bushes ... but everything was 
covered with dust shaken down by the storm, and it was hard to be sure. The 
tracks, such as they were, led south. 
The Munrungs had helped Brocando's people rebuild walls and things, even though 
the rock itself was now visibly leaning over. And, as someone said, if Fray came 
again at least they now knew how to get into Underlay. Nothing would get them 
there. 
Snibril thought about this as he rode Roland through the hairs, looking for any 
more tracks. 
We can always go into Underlay, he thought. We can stop being people. We can 
just grub around in the dark. 
The Deftmenes think that no enemy is too big to fight, but we never even see 
Fray. 
The Dumii don't think like that. They think that if an enemy is too big, you 
should find a smaller enemy. 
Maybe Pismire is right. We can't stop Fray. But at least we can stop being 
frightened of Fray. 
"I'm going to Ware," he told the tribe that evening. They looked at him in 
horror. Technically, Glurk was still chief ... if he was alive. If he wasn't, 
then Snibril was chief. Glurk's children were all too young. No-one wanted to 
lose another chief. 
"You can't leave us," said Dodor Flint, who was the tribe's shoemaker. "You're 
the leader." 
"Ware's important," said Snibril. "We'd just be simple hunters if it wasn't for 
the Empire." 
The Munrungs looked at one another. 
"We are simple hunters," said Flint. 
"Yes, but at least we know we are," said Snibril. "Anyway, we've got more 
complicated." 
"That's true," said Crooly Wulf, who was nearly as old as Pismire. "People don't 
hit one another over the head with clubs as much as they did when I was a boy. 
There's more arguing." 
"That doesn't mean we're better people!" said Flint. 
Crooly Wulf rubbed his head. "I dunno," he said. "People are taller now. They 
don't groan so much, either." 
"Huh! But the Deftmenes don't have anything to do with the Dumii," said Flint. 
"And they manage." 
"They fight them," said Snibril, simply. "It's amazing how things rub off, even 
when you fight people. Ideas like ... like not just killing people all the time, 
that sort of thing." 
A Deftmene put up his hand. 
"That's true," he said. "The king always used to throw people off the rock in 
the old days." 
"He still does," said another Deftmene. 
"Yes, but he doesn't laugh about it so much. And he says he's doing it for their 
own good." 
"See?" said Snibril desperately. "The Dumii have an effect. Even if you're their 
enemy. I'm going south. Perhaps I can find the others. Perhaps the Empire can 
help us." 
"Yes, but you're our leader-" Flint began again. 
"Then I'm going to lead!" snapped Snibril. "Who else is coming?" 
Some of the younger Munrungs raised their hands. 
A Deftmene stood up. "Will there be fighting against impossible odds?" he said. 
"Probably," said Snibril. 
"Right! Count us in!" A lot of Deftmenes nodded. Another one said: "And will we 
get a chance to fight to the death?" 
"You might get a chance to fight to the enemy's death," said Snibril. 
"Is that as good?" 
"Better." 
"Right, then. We're with you!" 
In the end three hundred and fifty Deftmenes and fifty Munrungs volunteered to 
go. On the Rock their families would be as safe as anywhere in the Carpet, they 
agreed, but someone had to stay. Anything could happen. 
Four hundred, thought Snibril. Who knows how many we're going to face? 
On the other hand, since we don't know how many we're going to face, four 
hundred might be just enough. 
Always choose a bigger enemy. It makes him easier to hit. 
We must go to Ware, It's where we all began, in a way. It's where people first 
realized that there may be a better way of doing things than hitting one another 
on the head. 
CHAPTER 15 
It was two days later. 
In a grove of red hairs on the borders of the blue land seven wights were 
fighting mouls. It was unheard of for wights to be attacked. 
They never carried weapons, apart from the ones they were making for sale. 
This moul pack was large, and led by a chieftain more cunning and wily than 
most. What he wanted was more weapons. Wights looked easy prey. 
He was beginning to regret this decision. 
The wights didn't carry weapons, but they did carry tools. And a hammer is a 
weapon, if you hit a head instead of a nail. They were standing around their big 
varnish-boiler and fighting back-hammering back, and using varnish ladles as 
clubs, and bits of burning hair as crude spears. 
But they were outnumbered. And they were all going to die. They knew it. 
There was someone watching who knew it too. 
Culaina the thunorg watched from deep in the hairs. It would be impossible to 
describe how a thunorg sees things. It would be like trying to explain the stars 
to a fish. How can it be said that she watched the fight a million times, all at 
the same instant, and every time the wights lost? 
It's the wrong description. But it will have to do. 
But among all the outcomes there was just one, as alone as a pearl on a seashore 
of black sand, that was different. 
She turned without moving, and concentrated on it- 
The hairs erupted people. The mouls turned to fight, but suddenly they were 
between two enemies. 
The Deftmenes and the Munrungs had found an unbeatable fighting method. The tall 
Munrungs stood behind the small Deftmenes and fought over the top of them; no 
enemy had much of a chance on two levels at once. 
It was a short fight, and a terribly effective one. 
After a few minutes, the remaining mouls ran for it. Some of the new attackers 
broke away to follow them. 
And then it was over-in this pearl-on-a-seashore time, when someone whose whole 
life was a choice had been close enough to choose. 
Athan the kilnmaster, leader of this band, looked up with horror as a white 
horse trotted through the lines of his rescuers. There was a small figure riding 
it. 
"How can this be! We were supposed to die!" he said. "All of us!" 
"Did you want to?" said Snibril, dismounting. 
"Want? Want? That doesn't come into it," said Athan, throwing down his hammer. 
From out in the hairs came the screech of a moul. 
"You changed things," said Athan. "And now terrible things will happen-" 
"They don't have to," said Snibril, calmly. "Nothing has to happen. You can let 
things happen. But that's not the same. We're going to Ware. There's Munrungs 
and Deftmenes and a few other refugees we picked up along the way. Why not 
come?" 
Athan looked shocked and angry. "Us? Wights!? Fighting?" 
"You were fighting just now." 
"Yes, but we knew we would lose," said Athan. 
"How about fighting and hoping you'll win?" said Snibril. He turned as a Munrung 
approached, carrying a wight. 
"Our Geridan is dead, and one of the Deftmenes," said the Munrung. "And one of 
the wights. But this one's still alive ... just." 
"That is Derna," said Athan. "My ... daughter. She should be dead. In a way ... 
she must be dead ... " 
"We have some medicines," said Snibril quietly. "Or we could bury her now, if 
that's what you want ... " 
He looked expectantly at the kilnmaster, who had gone white. 
"No," he said, almost in a whisper. 
"Good. Because we wouldn't have done it anyway," said Snibril briskly. "And then 
you'll come with us." 
"But I don't ... know ... what will happen next," said the wight. "I can't 
remember!" 
"You joined us and went to Ware," said Snibril. 
"I can't remember what's going to happen?" 
"You joined us," Snibril repeated. 
Relief flooded across Athan's face. Suddenly he looked frantically happy, like a 
child who has been given a new toy. "Did I?" he said. 
"Why not?" said Snibril. "It must be better than being dead." 
"But this ... this is thunorg thinking," said Athan. "The future is The Future, 
not ... not ... " he hesitated, baffled," ... not ... perhaps ... really? The 
future can be all different things-?" 
"Pick your own," said Snibril. 
"But destiny-" 
"That's something you make up as you go along," said Snibril. "I've been finding 
that out." 
He looked up at a faint sound, faint enough not to be heard except by someone 
who was a hunter and whose life depended on noticing tiny noises. For a moment 
he thought he saw a pale figure in the shadows, smiling at him. Then it 
vanished. 
Geridan was buried among the hairs with the Deftmene noble Parleon, son of 
Leondo, killed by a snarg, and the wight who had died. 
The remaining wights huddled amongst themselves, and Snibril could hear them 
arguing. But he knew he'd won. They hadn't got a future any more. They had to 
have the one he'd given Athan. They weren't used to making them for themselves. 
They cast the last of the hot varnish into swords and spearheads, and piled them 
up so that the ragged army could help themselves and when the army left they 
went too, leaving the cart alone and cold. 
A million times the wights lost, and were killed. But that was somewhere else, 
in a world that might have been. And now they were alive. And that's known as 
History, which is only written by the living. 
CHAPTER 16 
They went by narrow tracks that wound in and out of overgrown thickets. In some 
places enormous hairs had fallen over the path. Dust and fluff grew thickly, 
choking the spaces between hairs so that they could only move by hacking their 
way through undergrowth that clawed and pricked them. 
Once, in a patch of thick orange hairs, something hurtled out of the tangled 
bushes and buried itself in a hair bole by Snibril's head. It was a spear. 
Up in the hairs a shadow scampered, swinging to safety on a creeper while 
Deftmene arrows whined around it like hymetors. They never found out what it 
was, although it might have had something to do with the fact that, a little 
later, they found a city. 
It was not on any maps of the Carpet. For some time they had been walking 
through its overgrown streets, not realizing they were streets, until they found 
the statues. Little blue dust flowers grew on them, and fluff had planted itself 
around them, but they still stood in the centre of their lost city. They had 
been four kings; wooden crowns were on their wooden heads and they each pointed 
with one arm to a different point of the compass. Ferns grew around their feet, 
and small creatures had made their homes in crooks of arms and folds of carven 
clothing. 
Around them, when you knew what you were looking for in the way the hairs grew 
and dust mounds were banked, was the city. Age hung upon it like smoke. Thick 
hairs grew in the ruins of buildings, dust had filled the streets. Creepers and 
tendrils had done their work, breaking down walls and venturing into hidden 
walls. Insects chirruped in broken archways. Hair pollen made the air sparkle. 
"Do you know this place?" said Snibril. 
No-one did. Even Athan had never heard of it. 
"Places can get lost," he said. "People leave. Hairs grow up. Roads are 
overgrown." 
"By the look of those statues, they thought the place would last for ever," said 
Snibril. 
"It didn't," said Athan, flatly. 
And now they've gone, thought Snibril. Or there's just a few left, hunting 
around in the remains of their city. No-one knows who they were, or what they 
did. No-one even remembers their name. That mustn't happen to us. 
The wights weren't talkative now. It must be like being blind, Snibril thought. 
We're used to not knowing what's going to happen ... 
A couple of hours later they reached a Dumii road. It was white, made of split 
hairs laid edge to edge. Every few hundred yards there was a hair carved with a 
finger. All the fingers pointed to Ware. 
They rode along it a little way. Here and there the road had been broken when 
the Carpet had moved, and they had to take to the hairs to get around the break. 

That's where they found the legion, or what was left of it. Dumii soldiers were 
sitting or lying amongst the hairs by the side of the road. Some of them were 
asleep. Others were wounded. 
He'd seen plenty of soldiers in Tregon Marus, but they had simply been on guard. 
These looked battered, their uniforms ragged and often bloodstained. 
They hardly bothered to look up as Snibril rode by. But the ones who did caught 
sight of the Deftmenes, and started nudging their colleagues. One or two even 
reached for their swords. 
There was muttering from the Deftmenes, too. They moved closer together, and 
eyed the Dumii suspiciously. 
Snibril turned in his saddle. 
"Don't make any trouble," he snapped. 
"Why not?" said a sullen voice from among the Deftmene ranks. "They're Dumii!" 
"You'd prefer them to be mouls, would you?" 
He walked Roland over to a group of soldiers sitting on a fallen hair. 
"Where is your leader?" he said. 
The Dumii looked him up and down. 
"Haven't got one," he said. "General got killed." 
There was a pause. 
"I expect you're wondering who we are," said Snibril. 
"Too tired to wonder," said the soldier, leaning back against a hair. 
"Stand up straight!" 
For a moment Snibril wondered who had said that. Then he realized that it had 
been him. 
To his amazement, the soldier pulled himself upright. 
"Now take me to the highest-ranking officer!" said Snibril. I mustn't say 
"please", he thought. I mustn't give him a chance to think. He's used to orders. 
It's easier for him to obey orders than think. 
"Er ... that'd be Sergeant Careus. If he's still alive." 
"Take me to him now!" 
The soldier looked past Snibril at the ragged army. His forehead wrinkled. 
"I shall talk to the sergeant!" said Snibril. The soldier snapped back to 
attention. 
"Yessir. This way," he said. 
Snibril was led past groups of sullen soldiers to a heavy-set man who was 
sitting on the ground. One arm was in a sling, and his face was pale. He didn't 
seem to be bothered about who Snibril actually was. He was feeling low enough to 
accept anyone who seemed to know what they were doing. 
"Sergeant Careus, Fifteenth Legion," he said. "Or what's left of it. We were 
called back to Ware urgently from Ultima Marus, but when we were on the road-" 
"-there was a storm-" said Snibril automatically. 
"And then afterwards-" 
"-you were attacked by mouls mounted on snargs," said Snibril. 
"Yes. Time and again. How did you know this?" 
"I'm good at guessing," said Snibril. "How many of you are there?" 
"About three hundred able-bodied, and a lot of wounded." 
"I know a safe city where your wounded can be taken. It's only two days' easy 
march, if we spare some soldiers to escort them." 
"We'll need too many," said the sergeant. "There'll be mouls everywhere." 
"Not where we've been," said Snibril quietly. "Not any more. And the rest of us 
will go with you to Ware." 
The sergeant looked down at the dust, thinking. 
"I won't say we don't need everyone we can get," he said. "Where's this 
paradise, then?" 
"Jeopard," said Snibril. 
"You must be mad!" 
At that moment there was a roar from the road. Both of them hurried back, to 
where there was now a huge pushing crowd of Dumii and Deftmenes, with the 
Munrungs trying to keep them apart. Snibril pushed his way through and found a 
Deftmene and a soldier rolling over and over on the road, punching at one 
another. 
Snibril watched them for a moment, and then flung his spear on the ground. 
"Stop that!" he shouted. "You're soldiers! You're not supposed to fight!" 
Even the two combatants stopped to work that one out. 
"I don't understand you!" Snibril shouted. His voice echoed off the hairs. 
"There's enemies all around us, and you just attack each other! Why?" 
"They're closer," said a voice from the Dumii ranks. 
"He called me dirty!" said the Deftmene who had been fighting. 
"Well, you are," said Snibril. "So's he. We all are. Now get up-" 
He stopped. All the Dumii were looking past him, to Athan and the wights, and 
Snibril heard the whispering start. 
"They've got wights with them ... fighting!" 
He looked at Athan, who looked miserable. Snibril sidled over to him. 
"Don't let them know you can't remember this future," he said. 
"They know the future! And they're on his side!" 
"Why should we fight for them if they treat us like that?" said a Deftmene. 
Snibril spun around and picked up the astonished warrior by his collar. 
"You're not fighting for them! You're fighting for yourselves!" 
The Deftmene was shaken, but not afraid. "We've always fought for ourselves," he 
said. "And we were never Counted!" 
"No, but the Empire was all around you, wasn't it, keeping you safe! The Dumii 
kept the peace over half the Carpet! All around you! Kept you safe!" 
"They never did!" 
"Think about it! There's Dumii towns all around you! When they defended 
themselves, they were defending you! They fought for real so that you could 
fight them for fun!" 
Snibril was shaking with anger. 
There was silence. 
He put the Deftmene down. 
"I'm going to Ware," he said. "Anyone else wants to come, it's up to them ... " 
No-one left, except for a small group who were going to accompany the wounded 
back to Jeopard. Two of the wights went with them. The Dumii felt a lot better 
with wights around. They seemed to think that wights only went where it was 
safe. That's what they'd do ... 
The rest of them marched on down the road. Snibril found that he was in command; 
the Munrungs wanted to follow him, the Deftmenes were beginning to think that 
anyone who could lose their temper that badly was probably a king, and the 
Dumii-well, the Dumii soldiers followed Sergeant Careus, and Sergeant Careus was 
riding alongside Snibril. Most armies are in fact run by their sergeants-the 
officers are there just to give things a bit of tone and prevent warfare 
becoming a mere lower-class brawl. 
The sergeant half turned in his saddle and looked back at the Deftmenes. 
"Nice to have cavalry on our side again," he said. "Even if they're still 
shorter than infantry. I've fought against them a couple of times. Tough little 
ba ... people. That was under Baneus. He respected 'em. He left 'em alone. They 
didn't like that back in Ware, but he always said it's worth keeping a few 
enemies around. You know. To practise on. I think he quite liked 'em. Odd little 
ba ... chaps." 
"Baneus," said Snibril, cautiously. "Yes. Er. Whatever happened to him? Did he 
do something terrible?" 
"You know him?" 
"I've ... heard of him," said Snibril carefully. 
"He killed someone. An assassin. The way I heard it, someone was trying to kill 
the young Emperor during his coronation. Hiding behind a pillar with a bow. 
Baneus spotted him and threw his sword at him. Got him just in time. Killed him 
grit dead. Arrow missed Targon by inches. Funny thing is, Baneus hated Targon. 
He was always in trouble. He said Emperors shouldn't be hereditary, but elected 
just like they used to be. A stickler for honesty, was the General. Oh, there 
were always rows. But after that, he had to be banished, of course." 
"Why of course?" said Snibril. 
"No-one is allowed to draw a sword within fifty paces of the Emperor," said the 
Sergeant. 
"But he saved his life!" 
"Yes, but you've got to have rules, otherwise where would we be?" said Sergeant 
Careus. 
"But-" 
"Afterwards the Emperor had the law changed and they sent someone after the 
General." 
"Did he ever find him?" 
"I think so. He was sent back tied to his horse with an apple in his mouth. I 
think the General was a bit upset." 
The Deftmenes are mad and the Dumii are sane, thought Snibril, and that's just 
the same as being mad except that it's quieter. If only you could mix them 
together, you'd end up with normal people. Just like me. 
"We could do with him now, and that's a fact," said the sergeant. 
"Yes," said Snibril. "Um. What do I do now? We'll have to camp tonight. I mean, 
I don't know what sort of orders you're supposed to give." 
The sergeant looked at him kindly. 
"You say, "Make camp here"," he said. 
CHAPTER 17 
A scattering of campfires speckled the darkness. It was the second night of the 
journey of all four races. No-one had killed anyone yet. 
Snibril and the sergeant had made sure that there was at least one Munrung at 
each campfire, as referees. 
"I wish we could get some more wights fighting," said Careus. "I watched one of 
them using a bow just now, when the lads were practising. I mean, when have they 
ever used a bow before? He just looked at it for a while, then put an arrow in 
the centre of the target. Just like that." 
"Just as well they don't fight, then," said Snibril. "Maybe it's best to leave 
it to people who aren't so good at it. What's the plan?" 
"Plan?" said Careus. "I don't know. I just fight. Fought all my life. Always 
been a soldier. All I know is what the messenger said ... all the legions are 
going back to Ware." 
"All fifteen?" said Snibril. He rubbed his head. It was feeling ... sort of 
squashed ... 
The sergeant looked surprised. "Fifteen? We haven't got fifteen. Oh, yes. We're 
called the Fifteenth. But a lot got disbanded. No need for 'em, see? Hardly 
anyone left to fight. It's like that, empiring. One day you're fighting 
everyone, next day everyone's settled down and being lawful and you don't hardly 
need soldiers." 
"So how many are there?" said Snibril. 
Three." 
"Three legions? How many people is that?" 
"About three thousand men." 
"Is that all?" 
Careus shrugged. "Less than that now, I reckon. All scattered around, too." 
"But that's not enough to-" Snibril stopped, and then raised his hands slowly to 
his head. "Tell everyone to lie down," he muttered. "Put out their fires and lie 
down!" 
One or two horses started to whinny in the picket lines. 
"Why?" said the sergeant. "What's the-" 
"And they must be ready to fight!" said Snibril. His head felt as though someone 
was treading on it. He could hardly think. Somewhere in the hairs, an animal 
screeched. 
Careus was looking at him as if he was ill. "What's the-" he began. 
"Please! Can't explain! Do it now!" 
Careus ran off. He could hear him shouting orders to the corporals. The 
Deftmenes and Munrungs didn't need telling twice. 
A moment later, Fray struck. 
It was away to the south ... not far. The pressure built up so that even the 
Dumii could feel it. The hairs bowed, and then whipped furiously as a wind blew 
clouds of dust through the Carpet. The soldiers who hadn't been quick enough to 
follow orders were picked up and bowled over and over in the dust. 
And then there was the thump. 
Afterwards, there was that long, crowded pause in which everyone decides that 
although they are very shaken, and possibly upside down, they are, to their 
surprise, still alive. 
Careus crawled around until he found his helmet under a bush and then, still not 
standing up, shuffled over to Snibril. 
"You felt it coming," he said. "Even before the animals!" 
"The mouls can, too," said Snibril. "And they're better at it than me! They 
don't summon Fray! They can sense when it's going to happen! And then they 
attack afterwards, when everyone's shaken-" 
He and Careus looked around at the hairs. 
"To arms, everyone!" the sergeant yelled. 
A Deftmene raised his hand. "What does that mean?" he said. "We've all got two 
arms." 
"Means you've got to fight!" 
"Oh, right." 
It was only seconds later that the mouls attacked. But seconds were enough. A 
hundred of them galloped into what should have been a camp of bewildered, 
wounded and unprepared victims. They found instead bewildered, wounded and 
extremely well-prepared and moreover enraged fighters. 
They were surprised. But their surprise didn't last long. It was, very 
accurately, the surprise of their life. 
The moul attack changed things. Deftmenes and Dumii had always fought, but never 
on the same side. It's hard to feel so bad about someone when last night he was 
stopping other people hitting you with axes and things. 
The little army swung down the road to Ware, singing. Admittedly there were 
three different marching songs, all to different tunes, but the general effect 
was quite harmonious if you didn't mind not being able to make out any of the 
words. 
"The lads sing one about me sometimes." said the sergeant. "It's got seven 
verses. Some of them are very rude, and one of them is actually impossible. I 
have to pretend not to hear it. Have you noticed the wights ran away in the 
night?" 
"Not ran away," said Snibril. "I don't think they've run away. That doesn't 
sound like them. I think ... they've decided to do something else." 
"They went into a huddle after the fight," said the sergeant. 
"Perhaps they've got a plan-" Snibril began. 
He stopped. 
They had been passing through the area that had been right under Fray. Hairs 
were bent and twisted. And over the road was an arch. Had been an arch. 
There were some dead soldiers nearby, and one dead moul. 
The legion spread out in silence, watching the hairs. A squad was sent off to 
bury the dead. 
"That could have been us, without you," said Careus. "How much warning do you 
get?" 
"A minute or two, that's all," said Snibril. "Perhaps a bit longer if it's 
quiet." 
"What does it feel like?" 
"Like someone's treading on my head! What is this place?" 
"One of the gates to the Ware lands. The city's further on." 
"I've always wondered what it looked like," said Snibril. 
"Me too," said the sergeant. 
"You mean you've never seen it?" said Snibril. 
"No. Born in a garrison town, see. Done all my soldiering around and about. 
Never been to Ware. Heard it's very impressive, though. A nice place to visit," 
said Careus. "We should be there in a few hours." 
"Ware!" said Snibril. 
CHAPTER 18 
Ware had been built between and round five giant hairs. There were really three 
cities, ringed one inside the other. Inside the thick outer walls was Imperial 
Ware, a city of wide avenues paved with wood and salt, lined with statues, a 
city of impressive vistas and magnificent buildings, and at every turn monuments 
to old battles and glorious victories and even one or two defeats of the more 
glorious sort. 
Few people actually lived in Imperial Ware, except a few caretakers and 
gardeners and dozens of sculptors. It was a city for looking at, not living in. 
Outside it, separated by a wall of sharpened hair stakes, was Merchants' Ware, 
the city most people thought of as the real city. Normally its narrow streets 
were crowded with stalls, and people from all over the Carpet. They'd all be 
trying to cheat one another in that open-and-above-board way known as 'doing 
business'. All sorts of languages could be heard, often very loudly. Ware was 
where people came to trade. 
The Dumii had built their Empire with swords, but they kept it with money. 
They'd invented money. Before money, people had bought things with cows and 
pigs, which were not very efficient for the purpose because you had to feed them 
and keep them safe all the time and sometimes they died. And suddenly the Dumii 
turned up with this money stuff, which was small and easy to keep and you could 
hide it in a sock under the mattress, which hardly ever worked with cows and 
pigs. And it could be cows or pigs. Also, it had little pictures of Emperors and 
things on it, which were interesting to look at. At least, more interesting than 
cows and pigs. 
And, Pismire had once said, that was how the Dumii kept their Empire. Because 
once you started using Dumii money, which was so easy and convenient and didn't 
moo all night, you started saving up for things, and selling things in the 
nearest market town, and settling down, and not hitting neighbouring tribes as 
often as you used to. And you could buy things in the markets that you'd never 
seen before - coloured cloth, and different kinds of fruit, and books. Pretty 
soon, you were doing things the Dumii way, because it made life better. Oh, you 
went on about how much better life was in the old days, before there was all 
this money and peacefulness around, and how much more enjoyable things were when 
people used to get heavily-armed in the evenings and go out and make their own 
entertainment-but no-one was anxious actually to go back there. 
"Economic imperialism!" Pismire had once said, picking up a handful of coins. "A 
marvellous idea. So neat and simple. Once you set it going, it works all by 
itself. You see, it's the Emperor who guarantees that the money will buy you 
things. Every time someone hands over or accepts one of these coins, it's a 
little soldier defending the Empire. Amazing!" 
No-one understood a word of what he meant, but they could see he thought it was 
important. 
And then, off to one side of the bustling city, was a tiny walled enclosure, 
about the size of a village. 
This was Ware. The first Ware. The little village where the Dumii had begun. 
No-one really knew how, or why Destiny had picked this one little tribe and then 
wound them up like a big rubber band and sent them out to conquer the world. 
Hardly anyone went into old Ware these days. Probably it'd soon be pulled down, 
to make room for some more statues. 
Snibril didn't see Old Ware until much later. He saw the walls of the city, 
stretching away on either side. He could see the glint of armour on the walls, 
too, as the sentries marched sedately along. Everything looked peaceful, as if 
something like Fray had never existed. 
Careus took off his helmet and surreptitiously gave it a bit of a polish. "There 
could be trouble if we try to take the Deftmenes in," he whispered to Snibril. 
"Not could," Snibril agreed. "Would." 
"So we'll camp outside for now. You better come on in with me." 
Snibril scanned the walls. "It's all so quiet and peaceful," he said. "I thought 
there'd be a war! Why were you called back?" 
"That's what I'm here to find out," said Careus. He spat on his hand and tried 
to flatten his hair a bit. "Something's not right," he said. "You know how you 
can sense when there's going to be an attack by Fray?" 
"Yes." 
"I'm the same way about trouble. Which is what there's going to be. I can feel 
it. Come on." 
Snibril rode after the sergeant through the streets. It looked normal. At least, 
it looked as he thought it'd probably look if things were normal. It was like 
Tregon Marus, only bigger. Much bigger. He tried to keep up, among the crowds 
that filled the streets, and tried to look as if it was all familiar. 
Whenever he'd thought of Ware, when he was younger, he'd imagined a kind of glow 
around it. It was the way people spoke about it. He imagined Ware as all kinds 
of strange places, but he'd never imagined this-that it was simply a much bigger 
version of an ordinary town, with more people and statues. 
Careus led him to a barracks just outside the Imperial city, and eventually they 
reached a table, out in the open air, at which a skinny little Dumii was sitting 
behind a pile of papers. Messengers kept picking up some from the table, but 
others kept on bringing new ones. He looked harassed. 
"Yes?" he demanded. 
"I am-" the sergeant began. 
"I don't know, people barge in here, I expect you haven't even got any papers, 
have you? No? Of course you haven't." The little man shuffled his own papers 
irritably. "They expect me to keep track, how can I keep track, is this how 
you're supposed to run an army? Well, come on, name and rank, name and rank ... 
" 
The sergeant raised his hand. For a moment Snibril thought he was going to hit 
the skinny man, but instead it turned into a salute. 
"Sergeant Careus, Fifteenth Legion," he said. "We're outside the city, those of 
us who are left. Do you understand? I'm seeking permission to come into the 
barracks. We've fought-" 
"Fifteenth Legion, Fifteenth Legion," said the skinny man, shuffling through the 
papers. 
"We were summoned back," said Careus. "There was a messenger. Return at once to 
Ware. We had to fight most of-" 
"There have been a lot of changes," said the paper shuffler. 
There was a tone in his voice that affected Snibril almost as much as the 
approach of Fray. 
"What sort of changes?" he said quickly. The man looked at him. 
"Who's this?" he said suspiciously. "Looks a bit ... native to me." 
"Look," said Careus patiently. "We've come all the way back because-" 
"Oh, this Fray business," said the skinny man. "All sorted out. There's been a 
treaty." 
"A treaty? With Fray?" said Snibril. 
"A peace treaty with the mouls, of course. Don't you know anything?" 
Snibril opened his mouth. Careus gripped his arm. "Oh," he said, loudly and 
distinctly. "Well. Isn't that nice. We won't disturb you further. Come, 
Snibril." 
"But-!" 
"I'm sure this gentleman has got some very important things to do with his 
paper," said the sergeant. 
"Why did you do that?" said Snibril, as the sergeant hurried him out. 
"Because if we want to find out things, we won't find 'em out by making that 
clerk eat all his little bits of paper," said Careus. "We'll spy around for a 
while, get the lie of the land, find out what's going on-and maybe later on we 
can come back and make him eat all his bits of paper." 
"I haven't even seen many other soldiers!" said Snibril. 
"Just a few guards," agreed Careus, as they hurried out into the street. 
"The other legions can't have got here yet," said Snibril. 
"Do you think they will?" said Careus. 
"What do you mean?" 
"We met you and the little people. If we hadn't, I don't think we would have 
made it," said Careus gloomily. 
"You mean ... we're all there is?" 
"Could be." 
And we're less than a thousand of us, Snibril thought. How can you have a peace 
treaty with mouls? They just destroy things. How could they be here, making 
treaties? 
The army camped out among the hairs. As one of the Deftmenes said, it was hard 
to feel at ease surrounded by enemies, especially when they were on your own 
side. But at least he grinned when he said it. 
It was while groups of them picked up firewood among the hairs that they found 
the pones. 
There were a dozen of them. Pones could hide quite easily in the Carpet. They 
were so big. People think that it's easiest to hide things that are small, but 
it's almost as easy to hide things that are too big to see. The pones just 
looked like mounds, except that they were chewing the cud and burping 
occasionally. They all turned their heads to look at their discoverers, burped, 
and then looked away. 
They looked as if they'd been told to wait for someone. 
The sign outside the shop said Apothecary, which meant that the shop was owned 
by a sort of early chemist, who would give you herbs and things until you got 
better or at least stopped getting any worse. The apothecary's name was 
Owlglass. He hummed to himself as he worked in his back room. He'd found a new 
type of blue fluff, which he was grinding down. It was probably good for curing 
something. He'd have to try it out on people until he found out what. 
A hand touched him on the shoulder. 
"Hmm?" he said. 
He turned around. He peered over the top of his spectacles, which were made out 
of two circles of carefully-shaped varnish. 
"Pismire?" he said. 
"Keep your voice down! We came in the back way," said Pismire. 
"My word, I expect you did," said Owlglass. "Don't worry, there's no-one in the 
shop." He looked past the old man, to Glurk and Bane and Brocando. "My word," he 
said again. "After all this time, eh? Well ... welcome. My house is your house," 
his brow suddenly furrowed and he looked worried, "although only in a 
metaphorical sense, you understand, because I would not, much as I always 
admired your straightforward approach, and indeed your forthright stance, 
actually give you my house, it being the only house I have, and therefore the 
term is being extended in an, as it were, gratuitous fashion-" 
Owlglass was clearly having some trouble getting to the end of the sentence. 
Glurk tapped Pismire on the shoulder. 
"He's a philosopher too, is he?" he said. 
"You can tell, can't you," said Pismire. "Um, Owlglass ... thanks very much." 
The apothecary gave up the struggle, and smiled. 
"We need some food," said Pismire. "And most of all-" 
"-we want information," said Bane. "What's happening here?" 
"Which would you like first?" said Owlglass. 
"Food," said Glurk. The others glared at him. 
"Well, I thought he was looking at me when he asked," he said. 
"Make yourself at home," said Owlglass. "Although of course when I say home I 
don't precisely mean-" 
"Yes, yes, thank you very much," said Pismire. Owlglass bustled over to a 
cupboard. Glurk stared at the jars and pots that littered the back room. In some 
of the jars, things stared back. 
"Owlglass and I went to school together," said Pismire. "And then Owlglass 
decided he was going to study the Carpet. What it's made of. The properties of 
different kinds of hair. Rare and strange animals. That sort of thing." 
"And Pismire decided he was going to study people," said Owlglass, producing a 
loaf and some butter. "And got sentenced to death for calling the last Emperor a 
... a ... what was it now?" 
"Well, he deserved it," said Pismire. "He wouldn't give me any money to preserve 
the Library. All the books were crumbling. I was supposed to look after the 
Library, after all. It's knowledge. He said we didn't need a lot of old books, 
we knew all we needed to know. I was just trying to make the point that a 
civilization needs books if there's going to be a reasoned and well-informed 
exchange of views." 
"I was trying to remember what you called him." 
"An ignorant sybarite who didn't have the sense of a meat pie," said Pismire. 
"Sounds pretty, nasty, sentencing someone to death just for that," said Glurk, 
putting the loaf on his plate. He kept turning around to look at the jar behind 
him. It had something hairy in it. 
"Actually, he got sentenced to death for apologizing," said Owlglass. 
"How can you be sentenced to death for apologizing?" 
"He said he was sorry, but on reflection he realized that the Emperor had got 
the sense of a meat pie," said Owlglass. "He was running at the time, too." 
"I think on my feet," said Pismire, proudly. 
"You insulted the Emperor?" said Brocando. "Why didn't you say? I didn't know 
you were famous." 
"And accurate," said Bane. "Targon's father was a disgrace to the Empire." 
"Where have you been hiding all these years?" said Owlglass, pulling up a chair. 
"Of course, when I say hiding I don't mean-" 
"Oh, a little place no-one's ever heard of," said Pismire. 
"Do you mind if I turn that jar around?" said Glurk. "I don't like things 
watching me when I eat." 
"What's happening here in Ware?" said Bane shortly. "There's hardly a guard on 
the gates. That is disgusting. Don't people know what's happening? The Empire's 
being attacked. My empire!" 
"If no-one wants that piece of cheese, pass it along," said Glurk. 
"We've heard," said Owlglass. "But the Emperor says that Ware is perfectly safe. 
These new advisers say so, apparently." 
"Advisers?" said Pismire. The word was like a lump of grit. 
"There aren't any pickles around, are there?" said Glurk. 
"Advisers," said Bane. "And has anyone ... seen these advisers?" 
"Don't think so," said Owlglass. "I heard that General Vagerus was demoted for 
calling the legions back. The Emperor said he was spreading unnecessary alarm. 
And the guards around the palace aren't letting anyone in." 
"Is there any more of this cucumber?" 
"It's how they work," said Bane. "You know it. From inside. Like Jeopard. And 
the High Gate Land." 
"What? Cucumbers?" said Glurk. 
"Yes, but not in Ware," said Pismire. "Not here. I can't believe that. Not at 
the centre. Surely not?" 
"Who would think of looking at the centre?" said Bane. 
"If it comes to that, I wouldn't have expected them in Jeopard," said Brocando. 
"Is this still about cucumbers?" 
"Yes, but not ... Ware," said Pismire. 
"You don't think so? I would have said the same about Jeopard," said Brocando. 
"Hardly anyone is allowed in the place these days," said Owlglass. 
"It's not cucumbers you're talking about, is it?" said Glurk. 
"What can we do?" said Pismire. 
"Slice 'em!" said Glurk, waving a cucumber. 
Bane put his hand on his sword. "Yes," he said. "I knew this would happen. Ware 
was a great city, once. We fought for things. And when we got them ... we just 
sat back. No more effort. No more pride. No more honesty. Just fat young 
Emperors and stupid courtiers. Well, I'm not having that. Not in Ware. Let's 
go." He stood up. 
"Oh, no," said Pismire. "What are you going to do? Barge into the palace waving 
your sword and kill any mouls you see?" 
Brocando stood up too. "Good thinking," he said. "Good plan. Glad we've got that 
sorted out. Come on-" 
"That's ridiculous!" said Pismire. "That's not a plan! Tell them, Glurk. You're 
a level-headed man." 
"Yes, it is ridiculous," said Glurk. 
"Right," said Pismire. 
"We'll finish our tea," said Glurk, "and then attack the palace. It's no good 
attacking on an empty stomach." 
"Mad!" said Pismire. 
"Listen," said Bane, standing up. "You know what she said. Nothing is too small 
to make a difference. One person at the right time." 
"There's three of us," said Brocando. 
"Even better!" 
"Oh, blast! I suppose I'd better come," sighed Pismire, "if only to see you 
don't do anything too stupid." 
"Can I come too?" said Owlglass. 
"See?" said Bane. "Imagine what a difference five can make. And if we're wrong, 
it won't matter. But if we're right ... what else can we do? Run around? Shout? 
Try to raise an army? Let's sort it out now." 
"Anyway, the palace walls are too high. And very thick," said Pismire. 
"Nothing will stop a pone going where it wants to go," said Bane. "Or me!" 
"I always wondered," said Brocando, in the sudden silence, "and now I know." 
"Know what, for goodness sake?" said Pismire, thoroughly rattled. 
"Why the Dumii conquered the Carpet," said the king. "It was because, every once 
in a while, they thought like this." 
After a while Glurk said, "Anyone any idea about how we get in?" 
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?" 
CHAPTER 20 
They won. 
And that was more or less all that the history books said, later, after New Ware 
was built out of the rubble of the city. They were more concerned with the 
election of Bane as President, since he was considered to be honest and brave 
and without any imagination. The Dumii distrusted imagination-they said it made 
people unreliable. 
The people who wrote the history books weren't there. They didn't know how it 
happened. 
And all the other ways it could have gone. 
First, there was the question of weapons. Mealy took charge of that. Spears, for 
example. You tied a kitchen knife on the end of a stick and you couldn't tell 
the difference. Especially if it got stuck in you. And a handful of nails in a 
piece of hair made the kind of club that wasn't exclusive at all-you could hit 
anyone with it. The sergeants lined up every able-bodied man and boy in the city 
and gave them simple demonstrations. 
Glurk spent a lot of time helping them. Mealy said he was one of nature's 
sergeants, whatever that meant. 
Brocando was put in charge of guarding the women and children. Snibril thought 
he grinned too much when he agreed to this. And Bane was everywhere, giving 
orders. Making plans. Supervising the special work that was hurriedly being 
carried on just outside the walls. 
Pismire and Owlglass played a game. It consisted of moving little models of 
warriors around on a board made of squares. Pismire said he played because it 
concentrated the mind, and also because Owlglass bet heavily and wasn't very 
good. 
Snibril felt at a loose end. 
Eventually he found Bane, who was leaning on the battlements over one of the 
main gates, looking out at the hairs. There were always guards here, with a 
bugle to warn the city in case of attack. 
"Can't see anything," said Snibril. "We've sent patrols out. They didn't find 
anything." 
"I wasn't looking for mouls," said Bane. 
"What were you looking for, then?" 
"Hmm? Oh. No-one," said Bane. 
"A figure in white," said Snibril. "I've seen her, too." 
"She has to watch, to make things happen ... " Bane seemed to pull himself 
together. "I don't like this," he said, briskly. "It's too quiet." 
"Better than too noisy," said Snibril. 
"How's your head?" 
"Can't feel anything," said Snibril. 
"Sure?" 
"Feels fine." 
"Oh." 
Bane looked out at the special defences. Everyone who could be spared had worked 
on them, digging trenches in the dust and piling it up as a low wall. From the 
hairs, no-one could see anything. 
"That's all Ware was, once," he said. "Just a ditch and a wall. And enemies all 
around." 
"Glurk thinks the mouls have all gone. They must have heard us. Why do they 
attack us anyway?" 
"Everyone's got to do something," said Bane, still gloomy. 
"Look," said Snibril. "Everyone's ready. About as ready as they can be, anyway. 
We've blocked all the holes! What's going to happen next? You've got the Emperor 
in prison! What's going to happen afterwards?" 
"Do you think there's going to be an afterwards?" said Bane. 
"There's always an afterwards," said Snibril. "Glurk said that's what Culaina 
told you. The point is to get the afterwards you want." 
He scratched his head. There was an itch behind his ear. 
"There's a limit to how long we can stay ready, anyway," said Bane. 
Snibril rubbed his ear again. 
"Bane-!" 
"If we're ready at all. I thought from what you said that the wights might help, 
but they just ran off-" 
"Bane-! 
Bane turned. 
"Are you all right?" 
Snibril felt that his ears were being pressed into the middle of his head. 
"Fray?" said Bane. 
Snibril nodded, and even that hurt. 
"How long have we got?" 
Snibril held out a hand, all fingers extended. Bane strode along the top of the 
wall to the nearest guard and picked up the bugle. Dust billowed out when he 
blew it. 
It's a funny thing. When there's a warning signal, when people have known for 
ever that there's a warning signal, and that warning signal is sounded for the 
very first time ... people don't react properly. They wander out blearily saying 
things like "Someone's mucking about with the warning signal, aren't they?" and 
"Who's blowing the warning signal? That's for warnings, that is." 
Which is what happened now. Bane looked down at the streets filled with 
bewildered people, and groaned. 
"It's starting!" he shouted. "Now!" 
A Dumii raised a hand uncertainly. 
"Is this another practice?" he said. There had been a lot of practices in the 
last few days. 
"No!" 
"Oh. Right." 
A moment later the air was filled with shouted orders. 
Snibril sank to his knees as Ware emptied itself around him. 
" ... squad three! Main square! Keep away from buildings! ... " 
" ... bandages, bandages, who's got the bandages? ... " 
" ... remember, they can come up from underneath! ... " 
All Snibril wanted to do was crawl into a hole and pull it in after him. His 
head felt flat. 
" ... OK, line up the pones! ... " 
He could get away, anyway. Staggering, ignored by everyone else, he almost fell 
down the ladder from the battlements and groped his way towards the rail where 
he had tethered Roland. He pulled himself on to the horse's back and joined the 
flow of people leaving Ware. 
Then the animals started to feel the effects of Fray. The pones, which were 
already outside the gate, started to trumpet. Horses neighed, and several bolted 
towards the hairs outside the city walls. Dogs and cats ran between the feet of 
the people. 
They want to get away, Snibril thought dully. 
The houses began to tremble, very gently. 
Then, with no sound yet, the hairs that arched over the city began to bend. 
Then came the creaking-long and drawn out, as thousands of hairs were forced 
downwards by the tremendous weight. 
It's right overhead, Snibril thought. 
The people leaving Ware didn't need any more encouragement. The hairs over the 
city were getting closer, groaning and creaking as the weight pushed them down. 
We'll never do it all in time ... 
Roland cantered through the arch of the gateway. 
The walls collapsed. The ground moved like the skin of an animal, smashing the 
houses. Ware began to fall in on itself. 
Snibril's ears popped. The relief almost made him want to cry. 
He looked back at the city. Walls were still toppling as the Carpet itself bent 
under Fray, but nearly everyone had got out. 
A couple of soldiers barrelled through the archway just before it broke. 
Right over us, Snibril thought. As if something wants to kill us. But Pismire 
thinks Fray is just some kind of natural force we can't understand. Would that 
be any better? Thousands of us, killed by something that doesn't even know we 
are here? 
There were a few people still visible outside the city, and nothing could hide 
the pones. 
He looked at the hairs around Ware. 
Which erupted mouls. He had time to turn Roland around and race back towards the 
city. 
Bane's head poked up as Roland leapt over the ditch in the dust. 
"There's thousands of them!" 
"Wait until they get closer," said Bane. 
Mouls and snargs were still pouring into the clearing. 
Snibril looked along the ditch. At this point most of the defenders were Dumii 
bowmen, lying down calmly and watching the black wall moving towards them. 
"Aren't they close enough yet?" 
"Not yet," said Bane. "Sergeant Careus ... give the signal to be ready." 
"Yessir!" 
Snibril could make out individual creatures now. 
Bane scratched his chin. "Not yet," he said, "not yet. The first shot is the 
most ... important." 
There was a nicker on the mound of dust behind them. Snibril and Bane turned to 
see a white figure, staring intently at the onrushing horde. Then it vanished. 
"Sergeant Careus?" said Bane quietly. 
"Sir?" 
"The moment is now." 
Sergeant Careus threw back his shoulders and grinned. 
"Yessir! Squad one ... wait for it, wait for it ... squaaaaad one ... fire! 
Squad one back! Squad two forward! Squaaaaad two ... fire! Squad one reload! 
Squad one forward! Squaaaaad one ... fire ... " 
Not many people had even seen Dumii archers in action-or rather, they had, but 
since arrows had been heading towards them they'd never had much of a chance to 
make detailed notes. Their technique was simply to keep arrows flying towards 
the enemy. The bowmen didn't have to be good. They just had to be fast. It was 
like watching a machine at work. 
There was a howl from the attackers. That was another Dumii lesson-hit the front 
line of a rushing attack, and the enemy had to spend too much time trying to 
avoid tripping over itself. Bowmen started hurrying along the ditch in both 
directions, leaving only a small squad to carry on the fight there. 
Snibril went with them. 
There had been archers all around the circle. Only in one place had the mouls 
been able to get right up to the ditch, and there were two fights going 
on-Deftmenes were fighting mouls, and other Deftmenes were fighting the first 
Deftmenes to get a chance to fight mouls too. 
Deftmenes had a technique for fighting enemies three times as high as they 
were-they'd run up them until they got to shoulder height, and hang on with one 
hand and fight with the other. It meant that half the mouls were stabbing at 
their own heads. 
There were two more charges before it dawned on the mouls that things had gone 
wrong. 
They grouped around the hairs, and there were still too many of them. 
"We could keep this up all day," said Brocando. 
"No we can't," said Bane. 
"We haven't lost anyone yet!" 
"Yes, but do you want to go and ask the mouls if we can have our arrows back?" 
said Bane. 
"Oh." 
"We've got enough for one more charge, and that's it. And if it comes to 
hand-to-hand fighting-they've got more hands than we have." 
"I thought we were four-armed." 
"Figure of speech. We're outnumbered and outweaponed." 
"Good," said Brocando. "We like a challenge." 
"Here they come again," said Snibril. "Hang on-just a few of them. Look." 
Half a dozen snargs were trotting out of the lines. They stopped halfway between 
the moul army and the remains of the city. 
"They want to talk," said Bane. 
"Can we trust them?" said Glurk. 
"No." 
"Good. I'd hate to trust something like them." 
"But you should talk," said Pismire. "It's always worth talking." 
In the end they rode out to the mouls. Snibril recognized the leader, who now 
had a crown of salt crystals and watched them imperiously. But Bane was more 
interested in Gormaleesh, who was among the party. 
"Well?" said Bane. "What do you have to say?" 
"My name is Jornarileesh," said the moul with the crown. "I offer you peace. You 
cannot win. Time is on our side." 
"We have plenty of weapons, and plenty of men to use them," said Bane. 
"And plenty of food?" said Jornarileesh. 
Bane ignored this. "What kind of peace do you offer?" 
"Throw away your weapons," said Jornarileesh. "Then we will talk further." 
"Throw away my sword first?" said Bane, as if he was considering the question. 
"Yes. You have no choice." Jornarileesh's gaze swept from face to face. "Not one 
of you. Accept my conditions, or you will die. You six will die here, and the 
rest of your people will die soon." 
"You can't listen to him!" said Snibril. "What about Jeopard and the High Gate 
Land?" 
"Throw away my sword," said Bane, slowly. "It's an attractive idea, though." 
He drew the sword and held it up. 
"Gormaleesh?" he said. 
Bane's arm moved in the blur of speed. The sword slid through the air like a 
knife, hitting the moul in the throat. Gormaleesh dropped silently, staring in 
horror. 
"There," said Bane. "That's how we throw our swords away in Ware. I did warn 
him. He just wouldn't listen." 
He turned his horse and galloped back to the city, with the others trying to 
keep up. Jornarileesh hadn't moved a muscle. 
"That was very un-Dumii of you," said Pismire. "I'm surprised." 
"No. Gormaleesh was surprised. You were just amazed," said Bane. "He was drawing 
his sword. Didn't you see?" 
"They're getting ready for another charge," said Glurk. 
"I'm surp-amazed they haven't tried digging up from Underlay," said Pismire. 
"Some did," said Glurk, with satisfaction. "They came up under Mealy's squad. 
They won't try that again." 
Bane looked back at the worried faces of the defenders. "Their next charge, 
then," he said. "We'll make them remember it. Get the pones ready. We'll use 
everything we've got." 
"Everything?" said Brocando. "Right." He trotted his pony back along the ditch. 
They waited. 
"How much food have we got?" said Snibril, after a while. 
"Four or five meals' worth, for everyone," said Bane, absently. 
"That's not much." 
"It may be more than enough," said Bane. 
They waited some more. 
"Waiting is the worst part," said Pismire. 
"No it isn't," said Owlglass, who wasn't even being trusted to hold a sword. "I 
expect that having long sharp swords stuck in you is the worst part. Waiting's 
just boring. When I say boring, I mean-" 
"Here they come," said Glurk, picking up his spear. 
"They've moved around," said Bane. Tutting everything they've got on one place. 
Right. Has anyone got a spare sword?" 
In the end, it's people fighting. Charges and counter-charges. Arrows and spears 
everywhere. Swords cutting bits off people. Afterwards, historians draw maps and 
put little coloured oblongs on them and big wide arrows to indicate that this is 
where the Deftmenes caught a whole crowd of mouls unawares, and here is where 
the pones trampled some snargs, and here is where Mealy's Irregulars were 
trapped and were only rescued by a determined rush by a group of Munrungs. And 
sometimes there are crosses-this is where Bane brought down a moul chief, there 
is where Owlglass laid out a snarg by accident. 
The maps can't show the fear, and the noise, and the excitement. Afterwards it's 
better. Because if there's an afterwards, it's because you're still alive. Half 
the time no-one knows what happened until it's over. Sometimes you don't know 
even who's won until you've counted ... 
Snibril ducked and stabbed his way through the melee. There seemed to be mouls 
everywhere. One caught him a cut on his shoulder, and he didn't even notice 
until afterwards. 
And then he was in a clearer area, mouls all around him, swords upraised- 
"Wait." 
There was Jornarileesh, the moul leader, with a paw held up. 
"Not yet. See we are not disturbed." He looked down at Snibril. "You were out 
there, with the others. And tried to save the fat little Emperor. I am curious. 
Why are you still fighting? Your city is destroyed. You cannot win." 
"Ware's not destroyed until we stop fighting," said Snibril. 
"Really? How can this be?" 
"Because ... because if Ware is anywhere, it's inside people," said Snibril. 
"Then we shall have to see if we can find it," said Jornarileesh meaningfully. 
There was trumpeting behind him, and the group scattered as a pone stampeded 
through the fight. Snibril dived for safety. When he looked back, the moul was 
back in the fray. 
And the defenders were losing. You could feel it in the air. For every moul that 
was beaten, there were two more to take their place. 
He rolled down a slope and found Bane there, holding off a couple of the enemy. 
As Snibril landed, one of the mouls sunk to the ground. A backhand swipe took 
care of the other. 
"We're losing," said Snibril. "We need a miracle." 
"Miracles don't win battles," said Bane. Half a dozen more mouls appeared around 
the rubble of a half-destroyed building. "Superior numbers and better tactics-" 
There was a bugle call behind them. The mouls turned. 
There was another army advancing. It wasn't very big, but it was determined. 
Brocando was in the lead. They could hear his shout over the noise. 
"Madam! Hold it by the other end! Now, now, ladies, don't all push! Careful of 
that spear, you could do someone a mischief-" 
"Isn't that the point, young man?" said an old lady who shouldn't have been 
anywhere near a battlefield. 
"No, madam, that is the butt. The point is the sharp bit at the other end." 
"Then out of the way, young man, so's I can use it." 
The mouls were staring in astonishment. Snibril hit two of them over the head 
before the others had time to react, and by then it was too late. 
The women weren't the most efficient fighters Bane had ever seen, but Brocando 
had spent a couple of days giving them some secret training. Mealy had helped, 
too. And they were keen. Besides, not having been trained as proper soldiers was 
even a help. Dumii soldiers learned their tic-toe sword drill, and weren't up to 
novel ways invented as you went along, like hitting an enemy across the back of 
the knees with the end of a spear and stabbing him as he fell over. The women 
fought nastier. 
And it still wasn't enough. 
The ring of defenders was pushed back, and back, until it was fighting in the 
ruins of the city itself. 
And ... was beaten. Valiantly beaten. They lost. Ware was never rebuilt. There 
was never a new Republic. The survivors fled to what remained of their homes, 
and that was the end of the history of civilization. For ever. 
Deep in the hairs, Culaina the thunorg moved without walking. She passed through 
future after future, and there they were, nearly all alike. 
Defeat. The end of the Empire. The end of the unimaginative men who thought 
there was a better way of doing things than fighting. The death of Bane. The 
death of Snibril. Everyone dead. For nothing. 
Now she moved without running, faster and faster through all the future of 
Maybe. They streamed past her. These were all the futures that never got written 
down-the futures where people lost, worlds crumbled, where the last wild chances 
were not quite enough. All of them had to happen, somewhere. 
But not here, she said. 
And then there was one, and only one. She was amazed. Normally futures came in 
bundles of thousands, differing in tiny little ways. But this one was all by 
itself. It barely existed. It had no right to exist. It was the million-to-one 
chance that the defenders would win. 
She was fascinated. They were strange people, the Dumii. They thought they were 
as level-headed as a table, as practical as a shovel-and yet, in a great big 
world full of chaos and darkness and things they couldn't hope to understand, 
they acted as though they really believed in their little inventions, like "law" 
and "justice". And they didn't have enough imagination to give in. 
Amazing that they should have even one chance of a future. 
Culaina smiled. 
And went to see what it was ... 
What you look at, you change. 
The mouls pulled back again, but only to regroup. After all, there was nowhere 
for the Dumii to go. And Snibril thought that Jornarileesh was the sort who'd 
enjoy imagining them waiting for him, wondering about how it was all going to 
end. 
He found Glurk and Bane leaning exhausted against a crumbled wall. Three Dumii 
women were with them; one of them was bandaging a wound on Glurk's arm with 
strips of what had once been a good dress. 
"Well," he said. "At least they'll say we went down fighting-ouch ... " 
"Hold still, will you?" said the woman. 
Bane said: "I don't expect the mouls have much interest in history. After this, 
no more books. No more history. No more history books." 
"Somehow, that's the worst part," said Snibril. 
"Excuse me," said one of the women. "Er. I am Lady Cerilin Vortex. Widow of the 
late Major Vortex?" 
"I remember him. A very honourable soldier," said Bane. 
"I'd just like to say that no more history books is not the worst part, young 
man. Dying's probably the worst part," said Lady Vortex. "History will look 
after itself." 
"I'm sure we're very ... um ... grateful that you have assisted," said Bane, 
awkwardly. 
"We haven't assisted, we've taken part," said Lady Vortex sharply. 
All around the ruins of Ware people were sitting in small groups, or tending the 
wounded. Two pones had been killed. They at least were easy to count. Snibril 
hadn't seen Brocando or Pismire for a long time. 
There was movement among the enemy. 
Snibril sighed. "Here they come again," he said, standing up. 
"History, eh?" said Glurk, picking up his spear. "One final glorious stand." 
Lady Vortex picked up a sword. She was bristling with anger. "We shall see about 
final," she said, in a way that made Snibril think that it would be a very 
unlucky moul that ever attacked her. She turned to Bane. "And when we get out of 
this, young man," she snapped, "there's going to be some serious talking. If 
we're going to fight, we're going to have a bit of the future too-" 
The mouls began to charge-. 
But it seemed half-hearted. The ones in the front kept on coming, but gradually 
the ones behind slowed down. They were shouting at one another, and looking back 
at the hairs. Within a few seconds, they were milling around in bewilderment. 
The defenders stared. 
"Why're they stopping?" said Glurk. 
Snibril squinted at the shadows between the hairs. 
"There's ... something else there ... " he said. 
"More mouls?" 
"Can't quite see ... there's fighting ... hang on ... " He blinked. "It's 
wights. Thousands and thousands of wights! They're attacking the mouls!" 
Bane looked around at the defenders. "Then we've got one choice," he said. 
"Charge!" 
Caught between two armies, the mouls didn't even have a million to one chance. 
And the wights fought like mad things ... worse, they fought like sane things, 
with the very best weapons they'd been able to make, cutting and cutting. Like 
surgeons, Pismire said later. Or people who had found out that the best kind of 
future is one you make yourself. 
Afterwards, they found that Athan the wight had died in the fighting. But at 
least he hadn't known he was going to. And wights talk to each other in strange 
ways, across the whole of the Carpet, and his new ideas had flashed like fire 
from wight to wight: you don't have to accept it, you can change what's going to 
happen. 
It was an idea that had never occurred to them before. 
And then it was over. 
No-one could find the Emperor. No-one looked very hard. No-one said anything, 
but somehow everyone assumed that Bane was in charge now. 
It doesn't all stop with the fighting, Snibril thought. The end of the fighting 
is when the problems start, no matter if you've won or lost. There are thousands 
of people with one day's food and no houses, and there's still mouls out 
there-although I think they'll be keeping away for a while. And the Empire's in 
bits. And there's still the High Gate Land to deal with. 
At least the question of food was easily settled. There were dead snargs 
everywhere. As Glurk said, there was no sense in letting them go to waste. 
Bane spent all day sitting in the ruins of the palace, listening to the crowds 
of people who filed past him, and occasionally giving orders. A squad was sent 
off to Jeopard, to bring back the rest of the Munrung's carts. 
Someone suggested that there ought to be a feast. Bane said, one day. 
And then they brought in Jornarileesh. He'd been badly injured by a spear, but 
Glurk's snarg-gathering party had found him alive. They tried to drag him in 
front of Bane, but since he could hardly stand up there wasn't much point. 
"There should be a trial," said Pismire, "according to ancient custom-" 
"And then kill it," said Glurk. 
"No time," said Bane. "Jornarileesh?" 
Despite his wounds, the moul raised his head proudly. 
"I will show you how a moul can die," he said. 
"We know that already," said Bane, matter-of-factly. "What I want to know is ... 
why? Why attack us?" 
"We serve Fray! Fray hates life in the Carpet!" 
"Merely a natural phenomenon," murmured Pismire. "Bound to yield to scientific 
observation and deduction." 
Jornarileesh growled at him. 
"Throw him in a cell somewhere," said Bane. "I haven't got time to listen to 
him." 
"I don't think there are any cells," said Glurk. 
"Then get him to build a cell and then throw him in it." 
"But we should kill him!" 
"No. You've been listening to Brocando too often," said Bane. 
Brocando bristled. "You know what he is! Why not kill-" he began, but he was 
interrupted. 
"Because it doesn't matter what he is. It matters what we are." 
They all looked around. Even Jornarileesh. 
It was me, thought Snibril. I didn't realize I said it aloud. Oh, well ... 
"That's what matters," said Snibril. "That's why Ware was built. Because people 
wanted to find better ways than fighting. And stop being afraid of the future." 
"We never joined the Empire!" said Brocando. 
"When it was time to choose, whose side were you on?" said Snibril. "Anyway, you 
were part of the Empire. You just didn't know it. You spent so much time being 
proud of not being part of it that you ended up ... well, being part of it. What 
would you do if the Empire didn't exist? Go back to throwing people off rocks!" 
"I don't throw people off rocks!" 
Jornarileesh's head turned from one to the other in fascination. 
"Why did you stop?" said Snibril. 
"Well-it just wasn't the ... never mind!" 
"These?" said Jornarileesh, in astonishment. "These beat me? Weak stupid people 
arguing all the time?" 
"Amazing, isn't it," said Bane. "Take him away and lock him up." 
"I demand an honourable death!" 
"Listen to me," said Bane, and now the tone of his voice was like bronze. "I 
killed Gormaleesh because people like that shouldn't be allowed to exist. You, 
I'm not sure about. But if you annoy me one more time, I'll kill you where you 
stand. Now ... take him away!" 
Jornarileesh opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Snibril stared at the 
pair of them. He'd do it, he thought. Here and now. Not out of cruelty or rage, 
but because it needed to be done. 
It dawned on him that he'd much rather face a fighting-mad Brocando, or 
Jornarileesh in a fury, than Bane. 
"Snibril's right, though," said Pismire, as the silent moul was hurried off. 
"Everyone's done things the old way. Now we'll have to find a new way. Otherwise 
there won't be any way. We don't want to have to go through all this just to 
start squabbling over something else. The Empire-" 
"I'm not sure there's going to be an Empire again," said Bane. 
"What? But there's got to be an Empire!" said Pismire. 
"There might be something better," said Bane. "I'm thinking about it. Lots of 
small countries and cities joined together could be better than one big Empire. 
I don't know." 
"And a voice for women," said Lady Vortex's voice from somewhere in the crowd. 
"Possibly even that," he said. "There should be something for everyone." 
He looked up. At the back of the group were some of the wights. They hadn't said 
anything. No-one knew their names. 
"Something for everyone," said Bane. "We should talk about it-" 
A wight stepped forward, and pulled back his hood, revealing that he was in fact 
a her. 
"I have to speak to you," she said. 
All the wights in the room removed their hoods. 
"My name is Tarillon the minemaster. We are leaving now. We think ... we think 
we can feel a future now. We ... are remembering once more." 
"I'm sorry?" said Bane. 
"We have chosen a new Thread." 
"I don't understand you." 
"We are wights again. Proper wights. We think we are beginning to remember a new 
history so now, if you please, we will go back to our lives." She smiled. "I 
remember I said this!" 
"Oh," said Bane. He looked embarrassed, a practical man faced with something he 
was too busy to understand. "Well. Good. I'm glad for you. If there's anything 
we can do-" 
"We will meet again. We are ... sure." 
"Well. Thank you again-" 
The wights were already filing out. 
Snibril slipped away after them. Behind him, he could hear people starting 
arguing again ... 
It was morning. The wights were hurrying away through the ruins, and he had to 
hurry to catch up with them. 
"Tarillon?" 
She turned. "Yes?" 
"Why go away? What did you mean?" 
She frowned. "We tried this, this ... deciding. We listened to Athan. He told 
about the way of making choices. We have tried it. It is terrible. How can you 
do it? Living and not knowing what will happen. Unsure at every waking morning 
that you will see the night. It would drive us mad! But we're wights. We can't 
change what we are. We've helped create a new history. Now we think we can 
remember it again." 
"Oh." 
"What power you must all have, to be able to face such uncertainty." 
"We think it's normal," said Snibril. 
"How strange. Strange, Such courage. Well. Goodbye. You have made up your mind 
to leave Ware." 
"Yes, I-how did you know that?" 
She looked joyful. "I said-we can remember things again!" 
He found Roland where he had tethered him. Snibril didn't have much in his pack 
now. The piece of lucky dust had got lost. So had the coins. He was wearing the 
spare pair of boots. All he had now was a blanket, some knives, a piece of rope. 
A spear. You didn't really need much else. 
Pismire spoke from right behind him, just as he was adjusting the saddle. 
"Leaving?" 
"Oh. I didn't hear you," said Snibril. 
"I've spent a lot of time with you Munrungs. You know how to creep up. And, I 
might add, how to creep away." 
"I'm sure people are going to sort things out," said Snibril. 
"So long as they never stop arguing," said Pismire. "Very important, arguing." 
Snibril turned. "I just want to find out about the Carpet," he said. "What Fray 
is. What's at the end of it all. You said we should always ask questions ... " 
"Right. Very important, questions." 
"Do you think Bane's idea will work?" 
"Who knows? It's the time to try new things." 
"Yes." Snibril climbed into the saddle. "Did you know the wights think we're 
courageous because we can make decisions? They can't do it! They can't cope with 
it! And we thought they were special. Amazing what you learn." 
"Haven't I always said so?" said Pismire. 
"Well, I want to find out more! And I want to go now, because if I leave it, 
I'll never go. I want to see all the things you told me about!" Snibril said. 
"The Chairleg. The Hearth. The Edge." 
"Let me know what they're like, then," said Pismire. "I only read about 'em." 
Snibril stopped. "But when I was little, you told me all sorts of stories about 
the Carpet! You mean they weren't true?" 
"Oh, they were true. Otherwise they wouldn't have been written down." Pismire 
shrugged. "Always wanted to travel, myself. Never had the time, somehow. If you 
can, you know, ever find the time to jot down a few notes ... " 
"Right. Hah. Yes. I will. If I find time. Well, then ... Goodbye?" 
"Goodbye." 
"And say goodbye to-" 
"I will." 
"You know how it is." 
"Probably. Goodbye. Come back and tell us about it, some time." 
This last word was a shout, for Snibril had urged Roland forward. When he was no 
more than a speck on the road he turned and waved again. 
Pismire walked slowly back to the argument. 
Snibril stopped again, a little way from Ware, and breathed deeply, of the 
Carpet air. 
He felt a little sad. But there would always be somewhere to return to, 
somewhere. He smiled, and patted Roland's neck. Then, with rising hope and 
streaming hair, he urged the white horse into a gallop and they disappeared 
among the crowding hairs. 
THE END 