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.’
‘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. Tara 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 countr
y 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.
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