The Carpet People

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’llget 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 Deftmenechildren 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