— The Carpet People —
Terry Pratchett

Chapter 12

All that night they journeyed south. Most of the pack were mounted on their snargs, though the prisoners and their guards had to run along in the middle of the jostling bodies. Dawn came. The hairs around had changed from deep purple to red again.

The next days merged for the prisoners into one continuous blur of running feet and moul voices. The hairs changed from crimson to orange, from orange to black. Feet blistered and bled, and minds were muddled by the constant pounding. Twice they crossed white Dumii roads, late at night, when no one was abroad, and passed by sleeping villages like shadows.

And then there was a place . . . above the Carpet.

The hairs were bent almost double under the weight of the High Gate Land of the Vortgorns. First it was a glimmer between the hairs. An hour later it loomed above them, the largest thing Pismire had ever seen. He had read about it, back in the old days, but the descriptions in the books had not gotten it right at all. You needed bigger words than “big.”

It looked like the largest thing there could ever be. The Carpet was big, but the Carpet was . . . everything. It didn’t count. It was too big to have a size.

But the High Gate Land was small enough to be really huge.

It looked quite near, even from a long way off. And it shone.

It was bronze. All the metal in the Carpet came from there. Pismire knew that much. The Vortgorns had to trade it with the wights for food. Nothing grew on the High Gate Land.

“On Epen Ny,” said Pismire, under his breath, while the party stopped for a brief rest under the very walls of the Land. Brocando had immediately fallen asleep. He had shorter legs than everyone else.

“What?” said Brocando, waking up.

“That’s the battle cry of the Vortgorns,” Pismire said. “Lots of people remembered it, but not for very long. It was often the last thing they heard. On Epen Ny. It’s written on the Land. Huge metal letters. I’ve seen pictures. It’d take you all day just to walk around one letter.”

“Who wrote them?” said Brocando, eyeing the guards.

“The Vortgorns think it was done by Fray,” said Pismire. “Superstition, of course. There’s probably some natural explanation. The Vortgorns used to say there’s letters under the Land, too. They dug tunnels and found them. Some of them say”—he concentrated—“‘I ZABETH II.’ The Vortgorns seem to think that’s very important.”

“Giant letters can’t just grow by themselves,” said Brocando.

“They might. Who knows?”

They looked up at the Land. Around the base of it ran a road. It was wider than a Dumii road, yet in the shadow of that looming wall it looked thinner than a thread.

“Anyone know much about the Vortgorns?” asked Pismire. “I’ve read about them, but I don’t remember ever seeing one.”

“Like the Dumii, but without their well-known flair and excitement,” said Brocando.

“Thank you,” said Bane gravely.

“Well, living on metal all the time must give you a very somber and mystical view of life,” said Pismire.

“Whose side are they on?” said Brocando.

“Side? Their own, I suppose, just like everyone else.”

The mouls milled around aimlessly, waiting for something.

“I suppose we’re waiting to get up there,” said Brocando. “But how?”

“Dumii patrols have been all round the Land and found no way in,” said Bane.

Pismire, who was squinting upward, said, “Ah. But I think this remarkable mechanism is the secret.”

High above them was a speck on the wall. Slowly it grew bigger, became a wide platform sliding down the bronze. They could see heads peering over the side of it.

When it landed beside the pack, Pismire saw that it was a simple square made of hair planks with a railing around them. Four bronze chains, one from each corner, rose up into the mists. A man stood at each corner. Each one was as tall as Bane. The men wore helmets and body armor of beaten bronze, and carried by their sides long bronze swords. Their shields were bronze, round like the High Gate Land itself, and their hair was the color of the metal. They had short, square beards, and gray eyes that stared calmly ahead of them. Too much metal, Pismire thought. It enters the soul.

“Er,” Brocando whispered, as they were pushed forward onto the platform, “you haven’t, er, seen or heard anyone, as it were, following us? Someone, such as it might be, your chief? The big fellow?”

“Not a sign since we left Underlay,” said Pismire. “I’ve been watching and listening very carefully.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, no. That’s good news. It means he’s out there somewhere. If I had seen or heard anything, I’d have known it wasn’t Glurk. He’s a hunter, you see.”

“Good point. Ow!” A whip stung Brocando’s legs as the mouls led their nervous mounts onto the planks.

When the last one was aboard, one of the bronze guards took a trumpet from his belt and blew a single note. The chains around them shook and rattled as the slack was taken up, and then, with a creaking, the platform swung off the ground and up toward the Land.

Pismire had been forced up against one of the railings by the press of animals, and so it was that he saw a shadow detach itself from the dust bush by the base of the wall and dash for the rising platform, trying to find a handhold on the underside.

He saw it leap, but at that moment the platform swung, and he could not see the shadow again.

Up rose the entrance to the Land, through swirling fogs, and then he realized he was looking out over the Carpet. Beneath him the tips of the hairs gleamed in the mist. It made him dizzy, so he tried to take his mind off things by giving the others a short lecture.

“The Deftmenes say that this Land fell out of the above many years ago. The Vortgorns were just another small tribe that lived nearby. They climbed it, and hardly ever come down.”

“Then why are mouls in the Land?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” said Pismire. “The Vortgorns may be a bit dull, but I’ve never understood them to be evil.”

The platform ground on up the wall until, suddenly, it stopped. Before them was a bronze gate, built on top of the wall. Just above it, heavy gantries carried the pulleys that raised and lowered the platform. They were plated with bronze, and studded with spikes. The gateway was spiked, and the portcullis in it was tipped with more spikes. Beneath them, far beneath, lay the Carpet.

“They like their privacy, these people,” remarked Bane.

Behind him Gormaleesh hissed. “Look your last at your precious Carpet. You will not see it again.”

“Ah. Melodrama,” said Pismire.

“So you think—” Gormaleesh began.

The last word ended on a yelp. Brocando had sunk his teeth into the moul’s leg.

Whimpering with pain and rage, Gormaleesh picked up the Deftmene king and rushed with him to the edge of the platform, raising him over his head.

Then he lowered his arms and smiled. “No,” he said slowly. “No. Why? Soon you will wish that I had thrown you over. Throwing you over now would be mercy. And I don’t feel merciful.”

He dropped the trembling Brocando by the others just as the portcullis rose.

“I wasn’t shaking,” said Brocando. “It’s just a bit chilly up here.”

The mouls marched onto the High Gate Land. Pismire saw a broad metal plateau, with what looked like hills in the distance. On either side as they marched were cages, with thick bars. They contained snargs. There were small brown snargs from the Woodwall lands, red snargs from the west, and black snargs with overlong teeth. Whatever their color, they all had one thought in mind. They hurled themselves at their bars as the prisoners passed.

On they went, and there were compounds where snargs were being broken in and trained. Farther, and there were more cages, bigger than those of the snargs. They contained . . . strange creatures.

They were huge. They had fat barrel bodies with ridiculous small wings, and long, thin necks tipped with heads that wobbled slowly round as the prisoners passed. At the other end they had stubby little tails. Their legs didn’t look thick enough to support them. Oh, they were thick, but something that big ought to have legs as thick as giant hairs.

One of the creatures poked its head through the bars and looked down at Pismire. Its eyes were large but bright and oddly intelligent, and topped by enormous bushy brows.

 

 

“A pone,” Pismire said. “A pone! From the utter east, where the very fringes of the Carpet touch the Floor. The biggest things in the Carpet. Oh, if we had a few of those at our command—”

“I think perhaps they are under the command of the mouls,” said Bane.

The pone watched him pass.

They reached the angular metal hills and went through a dark archway. Inside, they were handed over to other, dirtier mouls.

There was a maze of tunnels that echoed with the chip-chip of hammers, but these they passed, going deeper, until they came to a dimly lit hall lined with doors. One door was opened, and they were thrown inside.

As they struggled on the dank floor, Gormaleesh’s grinning face, lit red in the torchlight of the dungeons, appeared at the bars. “Enjoy the hospitality of our dungeons while you may. Soon you’ll go to the mines. There you will not sleep. But you’ll be safe from Fray!”

“Why do they talk like that?” said Pismire. “Melodrama. I’m amazed he doesn’t go ‘Harharhar.’”

“Gormaleesh!” said Bane.

The moul reappeared. “Yes, lowly scum?”

“Lowly scum,” said Pismire. “Imagination of a loaf of bread, that one.”

“When we get out of here, I’m going to find you and kill you,” said Bane, in quite normal conversational tones. “I thought I ought to tell you now. I wouldn’t want you to say afterward that you hadn’t been warned.”

Gormaleesh stepped back, and then said, “Your threats I treat with scorn. Harharhar!”

Pismire nodded happily. Knew he would, sooner or later, he said to himself.

They lay in the darkness, listening to the distant knocking of the hammers.

“So these are the mines,” said Brocando, “where my people have been taken. Mining metal.”

“Everyone’s people, by the sound of it,” said Pismire.

He lay staring at the dark, wondering about Glurk. He could have imagined the shadow. And Snibril . . . well, perhaps he did get out before the roof fell in . . .

 

They were roughly woken by the prodding of a spear.

Two mouls were standing in the doorway, grinning down at them. “These three for the mines, eh?”

“Aye,” came a growl from outside. Pismire’s ears pricked.

“That one’s a bit small, and that one’s an old codger. Still, use up the old ones first, eh?”

“Let’s see ’em,” came the voice from outside.

The prisoners were dragged upright, and had their thongs inspected before they were thrust out into the dim hall. A bronze-clad Vortgorn stood there, terrible in the half-light.

“You stupid oafs,” he snarled at the mouls. “Look at their bonds! Practically falling off!” And he strode forward and caught up Pismire’s hands. The old man looked for a moment into familiar brown eyes, one of which winked at him.

“We tightened them special!” said one moul indignantly.

“Oh, yes? Look at this one, then.”

The two mouls slunk over and stood one on either side of the Vortgorn.

One said: “They’re as tight as a . . .”

The Vortgorn reached out and placed one gnarled hand about each hairy neck. The voice faded into a strangled squeak. The Vortgorn brought his hands together with a satisfying crack, and let the stunned creatures drop.

 

 

Glurk removed his helmet.

“Well, here we are, then,” he said.

He couldn’t resist dancing a little jig in front of their staring faces. Then he put his helmet back on again.

“We left you in Underlay!”

“How’d you come here?”

“Was it you I saw?” asked Pismire. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Safety first, stories later,” said Glurk.

He took a knife from his belt and cut their thongs. They rubbed some life into their numb wrists while he dragged the guards into the cell and locked them in, despite Brocando pointing out that the best time to kill an enemy was when they were unconscious.

Glurk came back with swords for them. “They’re nasty things, but better than nothing if it comes to a fight,” he said. “Try to look like prisoners if anyone sees you. There’s all sorts up here. You might not be noticed.”

Glurk led, in his Vortgorn armor. Twice they met moul guards who paid no attention to him until it was too late.

“Where are we going?” said Pismire.

“I’ve found some friends.”

“We ought to rescue the prisoners,” said Brocando.

“There’s thousands of them. Thousands of mouls, too,” said Glurk. “Too many.”

“That’s right,” said Bane. “We’ve got to get out. Then we can get help. And don’t say that if they’ve got a lot of Deftmenes prisoner it means we’ve got an army right inside their lines.”

“I’ve seen some of the prisoners, too,” said Glurk. “They ain’t in any condition to fight, if you want my opinion.”

“You’re talking about Deftmenes, you know,” said Brocando stoutly.

Glurk peered around a corner, and then beckoned them to follow him. “I know,” he said. “And it’s still true. What I’m saying is, it’s not a case of stealing a bunch of keys and unlocking a few doors and shouting, ‘Harharhar, my people, throw off your shackles.’ This is real. And I’ve been listening. You know why the mouls attacked Jeopard?”

“To subjugate and enslave a proud people,” said Brocando.

“For grit.”

“Grit?”

“That’s what Jeopard’s built on, isn’t it? Stone chisels, see. They use dozens of ’em just to hack out a bit of metal.”

“My lovely city—”

“Grit,” said Glurk.

“My palace—”

“Grit, too.”

“Metal,” said Bane. “They’re trying to get as much metal as they can. Metal weapons’ll beat varnish and wood any day.”

“Why all this effort, I wonder,” said Pismire.

“Ware’s only a few days away,” said Bane. “That’s why. We’ve got to warn people.”

“Come on. In here,” said Glurk.

“Here” was a long cave mined out of the bronze. Light filtered in from holes in the ceiling, showing dim shadows lining the walls. The air was warm and smelled of animal. They heard the shifting of great feet in the stalls, and deep breathing. There was a movement, and a pair of green eyes came toward them in the semidarkness.

“What’s your business here?” said the moul guard.

“Ah,” said Glurk, “I have brought the prisoners! Harharhar!”

The guard looked suspiciously at the four of them. “What for?” it said.

Glurk blinked at him.

“Enough of this talking, harharhar,” he said eventually, and hit the guard on the head.

The green eyes went out.

“I runs out of ideas after a while,” said Glurk.

Pismire’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. It was a big cave, but it didn’t look as big as it really ought to have because of the enormous size of the things in it.

“These are pones, aren’t they?” said Brocando.

“Not easy to mistake for anything else. Why are they here?” asked Pismire.

“They turns the wheels for the lifting platform,” said Glurk. “They’re used for all the heavy work. Know something? They’re intelligent.”

“No, that’s just a story,” said Pismire airily. “They look bright, I’ll grant you, but the head’s tiny compared to the body. They’ve got a brain the size of a dried pea.”

“But a very clever dried pea,” said Glurk. “I lay low in here last night. They’ve got a language. All made up of thumps and nose honks. Watch.”

A tiny head was lowered toward him out of the shadows, and two bright eyes blinked.

“Er . . . if you can understand me, stamp twice,” he said hoarsely.

Thud. Thud.

Even Glurk himself looked surprised.

“These are friends. You’ll help, okay?”

Thud. Thud.

“That means yes,” said Glurk.

“Really?” said Pismire.

“There’s his saddle, by the stall.”

It was more like a small castle. It had wide girths made of red cloth studded with bronze, and a roof over it, hung with curtains and bells. Inside were cushioned seats, and on the decorated harness was the word ACRETONGUE in tarnished bronze letters.

Pismire sidled closer to the pone while the others were manhandling the saddle, and held up his hand with the fingers spread out.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he said suspiciously.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Aha! So much for—”

Thud.

“Lucky guess.”

The pone lumbered down onto his knees to let them heave the saddle onto his back.

Then he opened his mouth and trumpeted.

It sounded like the creaking of a door, magnified a thousand times, but it wavered and changed as well, and seemed to contain a lot of busy little other sounds. Language, thought Pismire. Language without words, but still language.

I wonder if the wights invented that, too. People used to have language without words. We still have. We say “Hmm?” and “Uh” and “Arrgh!” don’t we?

What am I thinking? These are animals.

Just very bright ones, perhaps. Very bright indeed.

The other pones raised their heads and answered, with a variety of blasts and trills. Glurk motioned the others up onto Acretongue’s back.

“The mouls will have heard that,” said Pismire.

“Won’t matter,” said Glurk. “The pones have decided to go home.”

“You mean they could have gone anytime?” said Brocando, watching the huge animals leaving their stalls in an orderly line.

“They liked it here when the Vortgorns ran the place,” said Glurk “They likes stuff they find interesting. The mouls don’t interest them anymore. They don’t like them. I think they think we’re interesting.”

“Now listen, Glurk,” said Pismire. “I mean, I’m not saying you’re not, you know, quite bright, but I don’t think you could have learned a language and all these other things in just a few—”

“Didn’t,” said Glurk, smirking. “Knew what to expect before I come here.”

“How—?”

“Enough of this talking, harharhar,” said Glurk. “Tell you later. Be polite, by the way. She said they understand people very well.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Pismire.

One of the pones blew a raspberry in his ear.

“That means they think you’re interesting,” said Glurk.

“And who’s she?” Pismire demanded.

“Tell you soon,” said Glurk. He was enjoying himself in a quiet way. For the whole of his life, Pismire had known more than he did. It was nice, just for once, to be Mr. Answers.

At the far end of the cave was a thick bronze door. The first two pones walked straight into it, tearing it off its hinges. Once outside, the herd broke into a trot, with Acretongue moving up into the lead.

On his trumpeted signal, it became a gallop. It looked ponderous and funny, until you realized that those great big bouncing balls would walk through a house without noticing it.

Up on Acretongue’s back, the four of them were shaken like small peas in a big pot. Pismire saw a pack of mounted mouls galloping after them, spears ready to throw. Acretongue must have seen them, too, because he bellowed like a distressed trumpet.

Three pones detached themselves from the herd and turned. The mouls suddenly realized that they weren’t chasing a herd of fleeing animals . . .

Pismire stood up in the saddle. “They’ve gone over them!” he said.

“What, do you mean they jumped?” Brocando asked.

“No! I mean just . . . over.”

“They hate mouls,” said Glurk. “Hate ’em more than any other creatures do. They think they’re very uninteresting.”

Ahead of them was the archway, surrounded by a milling throng of mouls and Vortgorns. “But all they’ve got to do is lower that platform and we’re done for,” shouted Pismire.

“They won’t,” yelled Glurk, and pointed. “He powers the platform!”

Beside the gateway they noticed for the first time a large treadmill. There was a pone in it. A pack of mouls were attacking the pone with whips and goads. But it stood stolidly, trumpeting. Acretongue bellowed back.

“They’ll rescue it,” said Glurk. “By the way—er, what was it?—oh, yeah, they hate sharp things even more than mouls, so we got to be careful with spears and things . . .”

Some pones hurled themselves toward the treadmill, tossing mouls aside like dust. Their heavy jaws snapped through the bars. The caged pone shrugged itself free, paused for a moment to stamp on a couple of mouls that had been poking it the hardest, and then leaped through the gateway.

“They must be mad!” said Pismire. “That platform won’t hold them!”

“We shall see,” said Glurk as they clattered onto it. The other pones piled on behind them, and Pismire noticed that, though they went out of their way to trample on mouls, they avoided the running Vortgorns. Vortgorns were still a bit interesting.

He expected the platform to split under the weight of the pones. It didn’t—quite—but something went clang above them and the remains of the treadmill spun until it was nothing but a blur. The chains shrieked over their pulleys. The wall rushed past. Only Glurk sat calmly. Even Pismire had crouched down in the saddle. They were going to be crushed when they hit the bottom, he knew. Brocando hung on and moaned, with his eyes shut. Even Bane had slumped down, bracing himself for the shock.

So only Glurk saw the pones leaping from the platform, one by one.

The tiny wings opened. They were too small to carry the pones—but they worked. They whirled madly, and the pones stayed up, drifting gently between the hairs.

 

 

With only Acretongue’s weight upon it, the platform slowed down, and hit the dust with a thud. Acretongue lumbered off, while all about them pones crashed down through the hairs like falling fruit.

The others looked up at Glurk’s face.

“You knew we wouldn’t crash!” said Pismire accusingly.

“Hoped,” said Glurk. “I wasn’t too sure, even after all Culaina said.”

“Who’s Culaina? Is he the she?” said Pismire. He was badly rattled. He was kind enough in his way, but knowing more than Glurk about almost everything was one of the few things he was sure he was good at. He wasn’t used to this.

Another pone bounced onto the dust beside them. They’re lighter than they look, he thought. Balloons with wings. No wonder they don’t like sharp objects . . .

“Culaina’s hard to describe,” said Glurk. “I think she’s a sort of wight.”

“A sort of wight?” said Pismire.

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” said Glurk. “We’re going to see her now.” Acretongue’s head dipped, and he began to plod between the hairs.

“No, we’re not,” said Bane. “We must go to Ware!”

“Back to Jeopard, you mean!”

“Ware’s only a few days away. I have to tell them about this!”

“They might know already,” said Pismire glumly.

“They don’t,” said Glurk.

“How do you know?”

“We’re the only ones who know about the moul army,” said Glurk. “We’ll have to go to Ware to warn people. But first we’ve got to go back to talk to Culaina.”

“This wight? Why?” said Pismire.

“To tell her what we’ve seen,” said Glurk, smiling in a puzzled kind of way. He scratched his head. “So she can remember what we tell her now and tell me two days ago. When I met her.”

Brocando opened his mouth, but Pismire waved him into silence.

“Wights remember the future as well as the past,” he said. “But . . . look, they never tell anyone, Glurk.”

“This one does,” said Glurk. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I could make this sort of thing up?”