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 quite see ... there's fighting ... hang on ... " He blinked. "It's wights. Thousands and thousands of wights! They're attacking the mouls!"
Bane looked around at the defenders. "Then we've got one choice," he said. "Charge!"
Caught between two armies, the mouls didn't even have a million to one chance. And the wights fought like mad things ... worse, they fought like sane things, with the very best weapons they'd been able to make, cutting and cutting. Like surgeons, Pismire said later. Or people who had found out that the best kind of future is one you make yourself.
Afterwards, they found that Athan the wight had died in the fighting. But at least he hadn't known he was going to. And wights talk to each other in strange ways, across the whole of the Carpet, and his new ideas had flashed like fire from wight to wight: you don't have to accept it, you can change what's going to happen.
It was an idea that had never occurred to them before.
And then it was over.
No-one could find the Emperor. No-one looked very hard. No-one said anything, but somehow everyone assumed that Bane was in charge now.
It doesn't all stop with the fighting, Snibril thought. The end of the fighting is when the problems start, no matter if you've won or lost. There are thousands of people with one day's food and no houses, and there's still mouls out there-although I think they'll be keeping away for a while. And the Empire's in bits. And there's still the High Gate Land to deal with.
At least the question of food was easily settled. There were dead snargs everywhere. As Glurk said, there was no sense in letting them go to waste.
Bane spent all day sitting in the ruins of the palace, listening to the crowds of people who filed past him, and occasionally giving orders. A squad was sent off to Jeopard, to bring back the rest of the Munrung's carts.
Someone suggested that there ought to be a feast. Bane said, one day.
And then they brought in Jornarileesh. He'd been badly injured by a spear, but Glurk's snarg-gathering party had found him alive. They tried to drag him in front of Bane, but since he could hardly stand up there wasn't much point.
"There should be a trial," said Pismire, "according to ancient custom-"
"And then kill it," said Glurk.
"No time," said Bane. "Jornarileesh?"
Despite his wounds, the moul raised his head proudly.
"I will show you how a moul can die," he said.
"We know that already," said Bane, matter-of-factly. "What I want to know is ... why? Why attack us?"
"We serve Fray! Fray hates life in the Carpet!"
"Merely a natural phenomenon," murmured Pismire. "Bound to yield to scientific observation and deduction."
Jornarileesh growled at him.
"Throw him in a cell somewhere," said Bane. "I haven't got time to listen to him."
"I don't think there are any cells," said Glurk.
"Then get him to build a cell and then throw him in it."
"But we should kill him!"
"No. You've been listening to Brocando too often," said Bane.
Brocando bristled. "You know what he is! Why not kill-" he began, but he was interrupted.
"Because it doesn't matter what he is. It matters what we are."
They all looked around. Even Jornarileesh.
It was me, thought Snibril. I didn't realize I said it aloud. Oh, well ...
"That's what matters," said Snibril. "That's why Ware was built. Because people wanted to find better ways than fighting. And stop being afraid of the future."
"We never joined the Empire!" said Brocando.
"When it was time to choose, whose side were you on?" said Snibril. "Anyway, you were part of the Empire. You just didn't know it. You spent so much time being proud of not being part of it that you ended up ... well, being part of it. What would you do if the Empire didn't exist? Go back to throwing people off rocks!"