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 hurtled 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 “blaaarrrt”,’ 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 casts, almost asleep, when he heard a shuffling noise beind 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.
Chapter 6
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 Snibril’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.
Atter 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.’
‘Actully . . .’ 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.
‘Greetings, 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.’
The Carpet People Page 5
