It took three of them to lift it up. Underneath it 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 Deftmenes 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'll get 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 Deftmene children on a bench, and carrying 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 always do with a few tall people around the place. But Bane says he's going on to Ware tomorrow, just in case. And my ears hurt."

It's a big Carpet, he thought. Brocando and Bane are both ... well, likeable, but they look at the world from opposite ends. Look at the Dumii. Half the time you can see why the Deftmenes don't like them. They're so fair about things, in an unimaginative way. And in their unimaginative way, fighting like tictoc men, they built a huge Empire. And Bane hates the idea of kings. But the Deftmenes fight as if they enjoy it, and make up life as they go along, and they'll do anything for their king. You can't expect them to get along with each other-

Roland shifted uneasily. Snibril raised his head, and heard the night breeze die away. The hairs were silent.

He felt a pricking sensation in his feet. The headache was felt like a fire now. The silent Carpet seemed to be waiting ...

Roland neighed, tugged at his tether. Down in the stables the ponies were kicking their stalls. Dogs barked, down in the city.

Snibril remembered this feeling. But he thought: not here, surely, where it was all so safe?

Yes, he told himself, even here. Fray can be anywhere.

He turned and ran up the steps into the palace.

"Fray!" he shouted. In the din, no-one heard. One or two people waved cheerily at him.

He bounded over to the band and snatched a trumpet from one startled Deftmene. He didn't know how to play one, but playing it very badly loudly enough was enough to get something approaching silence.

"Can't you feel it? Fray is coming!" he shouted.

"Coming here?" said Pismire.

"Can't you feel it? Can't you feel it?" Snibril was desperate with impatience and pain. They were looking at him as if he was mad.

"Get to the carts," snapped Pismire.

"I can't feel anything," said Brocando. "Anyway, Jeopard is safe from any enem-"

Pismire pointed upwards. There were big candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. They had begun to swing, very gently.

Kings take some time to grasp an idea, but once they've got a hold they don't let go.

"Run for it! Get everyone outside!" Brocando shouted.

The Munrungs were already streaming through the door. Tables were overturned as people scurried from the hall, grabbing their children as they ran. Pismire caught hold of a pillar to steady himself as they jostled past, and yelled above the noise: "The ponies! Harness them to the carts!"

The lamps were swinging quite noticeably now. A jug bounced off a table and shattered on the floor. A couple of candles teetered out of the crazily-weaving lamps.

There was a far-off thump. The whole rock shook.

The heavy lintel over the door shivered and sagged. Glurk strode forward among the bewildered throng and put his shoulders under it, and stood with one hand braced against each doorpost while people scrambled under his arms and between his legs.

Snibril was already leading the screaming ponies out of their stable. No sooner was each cart moving than it was loaded down with people. And still people were coming, scurrying along under treasured possessions and small children. The hall was already blazing.

He lifted four Deftmenes on to Roland's back and sent the horse after the carts, then struggled through the flow to the hall. Glurk had been forced almost to his knees, his face purple, the veins throbbing in his neck.