Free The Carpet People by Terry Pratchett Page A

here.
    ‘Planted,’ said Brocando.
    Eventually, when it was almost dark, they reached a small glade with another ruined temple in it.
    ‘Temples don’t last long around here, do they,’ said Snibril, looking around at the crowding hairs. Here and there were more statues, half covered in dust.
    ‘This one was built to look ruined,’ said Brocando. ‘By the wights. For one of my ancestors. The one over there, with the bird’s nest on his head and his arm raised—’ He hesitated. ‘And you’re a Dumii, and I’ve brought you to the secret place,’ he said. ‘I should have you blindfolded.’
    ‘No,’ said Bane. ‘You want me to fight for you, then I’m wearing no blindfold.’
    ‘But one day you might come back with an army.’
    ‘I’m sorry you think so,’ said Bane stonily.
    ‘As me, I don’t,’ said Brocando. ‘As a king, I have to think so.’
    ‘Ha!’
    ‘This is stupid,’ said Snibril. ‘Why bother with a blindfold?’
    ‘It’s important,’ said Brocando, sulkily.
    ‘You’ve got to trust one another sooner or later. Who are you going to trust instead? You’re men of honour, aren’t you?’ said Snibril.
    ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Brocando.
    ‘Then make it simple!’
    He realized he had shouted. Even Glurk was surprised.
    ‘Well, it’s no time to argue,’ said Snibril, calming down a bit.
    Brocando nodded. ‘Yes. Very well. Maybe. I’m sure he’s an honourable man. Pull Broc’s arm.’
    ‘What?’ said Bane.
    ‘Behind you. On the statue. Pull the arm,’ said Brocando.
    Bane shrugged, and reached for the arm.
    ‘First time a Dumii’s ever shaken a Deftmene’s hand,’ he said. ‘I wonder what it’ll lead to—’
    There was a grinding noise, somewhere under their feet. A slab in the temple floor slid aside, showing a flight of steps.
    ‘It’ll lead to the palace,’ said Brocando, grinning.
    They stared into the square of darkness.
    Finally Glurk said: ‘You don’t mean . . . into the Underlay?’
    ‘Yes!’
    ‘But ... but . . . there’s terrible things down there!’
    ‘Just stories for children,’ said Brocando. ‘Nothing to be frightened of down there.’
    He trotted down the steps. Bane went to follow him, and then looked back at the Munrungs.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
    ‘Well . . .’ said Snibril. What shall I say? Creatures from ancient tales live down there: thunorgs, the horrible delvers, and shadows without number or names. Strange things gnawing at the roots of the Carpet. The souls of the dead. Everything bad. Everything you get . . . frightened by, when you’re small.
    He looked around at the other tribesmen. They had moved closer together.
    He thought: at times like this, we all have to forget old things.
    ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he said, in what he hopedwas a voice full of leadership. ‘Come on, lads. Last one in’s a—’
    ‘Never mind about the last one,’ muttered a voice somewhere towards the back of the group. ‘We want to see what happens to the first one.’
    Snibril tripped at the bottom of the stairs and landed on a pile of soft dust. Brocando was lighting a torch, taken from a rack of them on one wall of the little cave. One by one the band shuffled down. Brocando moved another lever and the statue trundled back over the hole, leaving them crowded shoulder to shoulder in the red-lit cave.
    ‘All here?’ said Brocando, and without waiting for a reply he ducked into a tiny crevice and was gone.
    Nearly as bad as discovering all your worst fears are coming true, Snibril thought, is finding out that they’re not.
    The walls showed up brown in the torchlight, and were covered with tiny hairs that glittered as the light passed them. Sometimes they crossed the entrances to other tunnels. But there were no monsters, no sudden teeth . . .
    The path began to slope down and suddenly the light from Brocando’s torch dimmed. Snibril started before he realized that they were entering a cavern under the