The Carpet People

of a spear and stabbing him as he fell over. The women fought nastier.
    And it still wasn’t enough.
    The ring of defenders was pushed back, and back, until it was fighting in the ruins of the city itself.
    And . . . was beaten. Valiantly beaten. They lost. Ware was never rebuilt. There was never a new Republic. The survivors fled to what remained of their homes, and that was the end of the history of civilization. For ever.
    Deep in the hairs, Culaina the thunorg moved without walking. She passed through future after future, and there they were, nearly all alike.
    Defeat. The end of the Empire. The end of the unimaginative men who thought there was a better way of doing things than fighting. The death of Bane. The death of Snibril. Everyone dead. For nothing.
    Now she moved without running, faster and faster through all the future of Maybe. They streamed past her. These were all the futures that never got written down – the futures where people lost, worlds crumbled, where the last wild chances were not quite enough. All of them had to happen, somewhere.
    But not here, she said.
    And then there was one, and only one. She was amazed. Normally futures came in bundles of thousands, differing in tiny little ways. But this one was all by itself. It barely existed. It had no right to exist. It was the million-to-one chance that the defenders would win.
    She was fascinated. They were strange people, the Dumii. They thought they were as level-headed as a table, as practical as a shovel – and yet, in a great big world full of chaos and darkness and things they couldn’t hope to understand, they acted as though they really believed in their little inventions, like ‘law’ and ‘justice’. And they didn’t have enough imagination to give in.
    Amazing that they should have even one chance of a future.
    Culaina smiled.
    And went to see what it was . . .
    What you look at, you change.
    *
    The mouls pulled back again, but only to regroup. After all, there was nowhere for the Dumii to go. And Snibril thought that Jornarileesh was the sort who’d enjoy imagining them waiting for him, wondering about how it was all going to end.
    He found Glurk and Bane leaning exhausted against a crumbled wall. Three Dumii women were with them; one of them was bandaging a wound on Glurk’s arm with strips of what had once been a good dress.
    ‘Well,’ he said. ‘At least they’ll say we went down fighting – ouch ...’
    ‘Hold still, will you?’ said the woman.
    Bane said: ‘I don’t expect the mouls have much interest in history. After this, no more books. No more history. No more history books.’
    ‘Somehow, that’s the worst part,’ said Snibril.
    ‘Excuse me,’ said one of the women. ‘Er. I am Lady Cerilin Vortex. Widow of the late Major Vortex?’
    ‘I remember him. A very honourable soldier,’ said Bane.
    ‘I’d just like to say that no more history books is not the worst part, young man. Dying’s probably the worst part,’ said Lady Vortex. ‘History will look after itself.’
    ‘I’m sure we’re very . . . um . . . grateful that you have assisted,’ said Bane, awkwardly.
    ‘We haven’t assisted, we’ve taken part,’ said Lady Vortex sharply.
    All around the ruins of Ware people were sitting in small groups, or tending the wounded. Two pones had been killed. They at least were easy to count. Snibril hadn’t seen Brocando or Pismire for a long time.
    There was movement among the enemy.
    Snibril sighed. ‘Here they come again,’ he said, standing up.
    ‘History, eh?’ said Glurk, picking up his spear. ‘One final glorious stand.’
    Lady Vortex picked up a sword. She was bristling with anger. ‘We shall see about final ,’ she said, in a way that made Snibril think that it would be a very unlucky moul that ever attacked her. She turned to Bane. ‘And when we get out of this, young man,’ she snapped, ‘there’s going to be some serious talking. If we’re going to fight, we’re going to have a bit of the future too—’
    The mouls began to charge.
    But it seemed half-hearted. The ones in the front kept on coming, but gradually the ones behind slowed down. They were shouting at one another, and looking back at the hairs. Within a few seconds, they were milling around in bewilderment.
    The defenders stared.
    ‘Why’re they stopping?’ said Glurk.
    Snibril squinted at the shadows between the hairs.
    ‘There’s . . . something else there . . .’ he said
    ‘More mouls?’
    ‘Can’t