‘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 – stamp, thrust, parry ... tic toc tic.
‘Shouldn’t we help?’ said Snibril.
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‘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 morning light 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 Deftinenes 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 carying 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 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.
The Carpet People Page 7
