"Good man. Come on."

Owlglass tapped the guard on the shoulder as he passed through.

"Of course, when we say 'not here' we mean only in a figurative or-"

Pismire grabbed him by his collar. "Come on!"

There were four mouls in the room, staring at Snibril in astonishment. There was also a young man of about his age, who oddly enough was reacting faster than the mouls. By the time he spoke he'd passed right through astonishment and into anger. The Emperor raised a pudgy hand, covered in rings.

"He's not a cook!" he wailed. "He's all there! So why's he here?"

Snibril dropped his spear and grabbed the arm. "You come with me," he said, and added, "sire." He waved his sword at the mouls. "It's one against four," he said. "That means I'm four times more likely to hit one of you, and who knows which one it'll be?"

The mouls hadn't moved. Then one of them smiled. The Emperor struggled in Snibril's grip.

"Very wise, sire," said the moul who had smiled.

"I'm here to rescue you!" said Snibril. "These are mouls! They're destroying the Empire!"

"The Empire is safe and well," said the Emperor smugly.

Snibril was astonished. "What about Fray?" he said.

"Jornarileesh and his people can control Fray," said the Emperor. "Fray only strikes my enemies. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, sir," said the one called Jornarileesh. He was a tall moul. This one's not like Gormaleesh, Snibril thought. This one looks clever.

"It's striking everywhere!" shouted Snibril.

"That proves I have a lot of enemies," said the Emperor.

The mouls were advancing and, suddenly, the Deftmene way of calculating odds was beginning to seem a lot less attractive.

"Drop the sword and let go of him," said Jornarileesh. "If you don't we will call down Fray."

"Right now?" said Snibril.

"Yes!"

"Right this minute?"

"Yes!"

"Do it, then."

"No!" wailed the Emperor.

Snibril's head felt quite clear. "You can't," he said. "They can't, sire. It's just a threat. They can't do it. They're no different than me!"

Now he had time to look around he could see, in one corner of the big room, a hole. It had bits of hair around the edges.

"You came up from Underlay," he said. "That was clever. Dumii obey orders, so all you had to do was be in the-the centre, where they start. All you had to do was frighten this ... this idiot!"

The Emperor went red with anger. "I will have you exec-" he began.

"Oh, shut up," said Snibril.

The mouls drew their swords and dashed towards him. But four on to one was a disadvantage; it meant that each one was really waiting for one of the other three to make the first move.

There wasn't any cutting, thrusting and parrying; that only happens when people are fencing with swords for fun. When it's for real, it's like two windmills with sharp edges. The idea is to cut the other person very badly, not to look impressive.

Snibril backed towards the door, fending off blows as best he could. One of the mouls shouted something in its own language, and another couple of heads appeared over the edge of the hole.

Snibril kicked the door. "Mealy! Open up!"

The door swung open. The room beyond was empty. Snibril dragged the Emperor into it.

And the mouls made the mistake of chasing them. The cooks had been standing behind the doors. They stepped, or at least hopped, out.

Mealy hit a moul over the head with a ladle.

"There's seven of us and four of them," he said. "It's not fair. Three of us won't have anyone to hit. Get 'em, lads!"

"There's more coming out of a hole in the floor!" said Snibril, still hanging on to the Emperor.

"Good!"

"What's happening? Why is all this happening?" said the Emperor. He didn't look angry any more. He looked frightened, and a lot younger. Snibril almost felt sorry for him.

The cooks were disappointed. Most of the mouls scurried back into the Emperor's chambers, diving into the hole and colliding with one another in their desperation to escape.

Mealy's kitchen army dragged a heavy table across the room and upended it over the hole.

Mealy wiped his hand on his apron. "There," he said. "All done."

"I'm afraid we're only just beginning," said Snibril. "There could be thousands of them underneath us right now-"

"Everyone must do what I say!" screamed the Emperor. "I am in charge!"

The sergeants turned to look at him.

"We ought to protect the Emperor," said one of them.

"We could shove him down the hole with those friends of his," said Mealy. "They'd protect him all right."

The Emperor's little piggy eyes glanced from Mealy to the table to Snibril and back again.

Then he shouted, "Guards!"

The door to the passageway banged open, and a couple of armed men stepped into the room.

"I want these men locked up!" shouted the Emperor.

"Really?" said Bane. "What for?"

An hour makes a lot of difference. They brought the army in. In order to save a lot of explaining, they did it by getting a signed order from the Emperor.

It was signed of his own free will, after Glurk explained patiently that if it wasn't signed of his own free will, there would be trouble.

Then there was a council of war.

"I always knew this would happen," said Bane. "Once upon a time the Emperor was elected. Then Targon made it hereditary, so that stupid brat of his could take over. Hardly anyone objected! It's as bad as having kings."

"That's going too far!" said Brocando.

"I'm sorry. You're right. At least the Deftmenes have had kings for a long time. At least you're good at being kings."

"Don't start arguing," said Snibril. "We ought to be wondering what the mouls are doing."

"They're doing what they always do," said Bane. "They're waiting for Fray, so they can attack when everyone is disorganized. They just got a bit impatient here."

"We might be lucky," said Owlglass. "Of course, when I say lucky-"

"It'll happen," said Pismire, despondently. He waved a map in front of him. "The village and Jeopard and Ware are more or less in a straight line."

"Does that mean anything?" said Snibril.

"Nothing good," said Pismire. "Where's the Emperor?"

"Glurk and the cooks have got him locked up in the kitchens," said Bane. "Best way. He can't eat and shout at the same time." He looked down at a scrap of paper in front of him. "With every fighting man we've got, we're still less than fifteen hundred people," he said.

"Less than that, in fact," said Pismire. "You can't leave women and children and old people in the city. Remember Tregon Marus. Buildings fall down. We'll have to get them to safety and guard them."

"No. Arm the women," said Brocando.

"Don't be stupid," said Bane. "Women don't know how to fight."

"Deftmene women do," said Brocando.

"Oh, yes? Who with?"

"Deftmene men," said Brocando.

"He's got a point," said Pismire. "My granny had a wallop like a wrestler. I think she could go through a moul like a hot knife through runny butter."

"I absolutely forbid it," said Bane. "Women fighting? That's not warfare. That's just a vulgar mess. No. I mean it. I want that absolutely understood, Your Majesty. Get them to safety, yes-but no fancy ideas. Besides, they wouldn't have the first idea about tactics."

"Fine," said Brocando. "All right. No fighting women." Snibril noticed that he was grinning in a funny way.

"Besides," said Bane, "there's not enough weapons to go round as it is."

"There's a whole armoury in the palace!" said Owlglass.

"When we unlocked it there was nothing in there but a hole in the floor," said Bane. "The mouls have got them."

"Well, then-" Brocando began.

"You're going to suggest we attack the mouls to get weapons off them, aren't you," said Bane coldly.