The Carpet People

something stupid when it was in mid-air, but by then it was too late, because it was hurling itself not at some weak creature but at a spearhead . . .
    That was the first battle.

Chapter 3
    When Snibril awoke the night was nearly past. He was lying by a dying fire, a pelt covering him. He felt warm and aching. He shut his eyes again, hurriedly.
    ‘You’re awake,’ said Bane, who was sitting with his back against a barrel and his hat, as usual, over his eyes. Roland was tethered to a nearby hair.
    Snibril sat up and yawned. ‘What happened? Is everyone all right?’
    ‘Oh yes. At least, what you would call all right. You Munrungs are difficult to kill. But plenty were injured, your brother the worst, I fear. Mouls rely on poison on their swords, and they cause a . . . a sleep that you don’t wake up from. Pismire is with him now. No, stay there. If anyone can cure him, then Pismire can. It won’t help to have you underhis feet. Besides,’ he added quickly, when he saw the look in Snibril’s eyes, ‘how about you? We had to pull you out from under that creature.’
    Snibril murmured something, and looked around him. The camp was as peaceful as a camp could be, which was to say the early dawn was filled with noises and shouts, and the sounds of people. And they were cheerful sounds, with a note of defiance.
    The attack had been beaten off. For a moment with first light glimmering in the hairs, the Munrungs felt in the mood to take on Fray and all his snargs. Some, like Bane, who never seemed to sleep, had stayed up by their fires, and early breakfasts were being cooked.
    Without saying a word Bane raked a bundle out of the ashes. Warm smells rose from it. ‘Haunch of snarg, baked in its own juices,’ he said, slitting the burnt outer crust. ‘I killed the owner myself, I’m pleased to say.’
    ‘Protein is where you find it. I will have a piece with no fat on it,’ said Pismire, stepping down from the Orkson cart.
    Snibril saw the weariness in the old man’s face. His herb bag lay beside him, almost empty. Pismire ate in silence for a while, and then wiped his mouth.
    ‘He’s as strong as a horse,’ he said in answer to their unspoken question. ‘The gods of all largeamiable creatures must have been present at his birth, whether he believes in them or not. He’ll still be weak, though, until the poison has completely gone. He should stay in bed for at least two days, so I told Bertha six. Then he’ll fret and bully her into letting him up the day after tomorrow, and feel a lot better for having outwitted me. Positive thinking, that’s the style.’
    He looked at Snibril.
    ‘What about you? You might not have escaped half so easily. Oh, I know it’s useless to say all this,’ he added, catching Bane’s grin, ‘but I wish that the people who sing about the deeds of heroes would think about the people who have to clear up after them.’
    He held up his herb bag. ‘And with this,’ he said. ‘Just different types of dust, a few useful plants. That’s not medicine. That’s just a way of keeping people amused while they’re ill. We’ve lost such a lot.’
    ‘You said that before,’ said Snibril. ‘What have we lost?’
    ‘Knowledge. Proper medicine. Books. Carpography. People get lazy. Empires, too. If you don’t look after knowledge, it goes away. Look at this.’
    He threw down what looked like a belt, made up of seven different coloured squares, linked together with thongs.
    ‘That was made by wights. Go on . . . ask me.’
    ‘I think I’ve heard them mentioned . . . wights?’ said Snibril obediently.
    ‘You see? A tribe. In the old days. The tribe. The first Carpet people. The ones who crossed the Tiles and brought back fire. They quarried wood at the Woodwall. They found out how to melt varnish off achairleg. Don’t see them so much nowadays, but they used to be around a lot, pushing these big varnish-boilers from tribe to tribe, it’s amazing the stuff they could make out of it . . . Anyway, they used to make these belts. Seven different substances, you see. Carpet hair, bronze from the High Gate Land, varnish, wood, dust, sugar and grit. Every wight had to make one.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To prove they could. Mysticism. Of course, that was long ago. I haven’t seen wights for years. And now their belts turn up as collars on these . . . things. We’ve lost so much. We wrote too much down, and forgot it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m going to have a nap. Wake me up when we