Carpet People

by Pratchett, Terry

  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. ‘Well 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 caref
ully-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.

  An
d 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. Reg’lar meals. Old sergeants gets everywhere.’

  ‘Let’s go and—’ Snibril began.

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