Carpet People

by Pratchett, Terry

  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-toc 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 Munrungs’ 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 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.

  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→.

  Terry Pratchett

  15 September 1991

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TERRY PRATCHETT is one of the most popular authors writing today. He is particularly well known for the phenomenally successful Discworld series, which includes three titles for younger readers – The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, The Wee Free Men and A Hat Full of Sky.

  Terry’s books have appeared on a number of children’s award shortlists, and The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents won the 2001 Carnegie Medal.

  Terry Pratchett lives in Wiltshire, and finds his days are rather full.