Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (39 page)

 
 
  
‘No, sir. It’s just how it started,’ said Polly.
‘Well, it continues like this,’ said Vimes. ‘This is going to be a busy day. Right now I shall
take this offer of a truce into the room down the passage and present it to the very important
men’ - his voice went flat to say those words - ‘who are discussing what to do about
Borogravia. You’ll get a truce, the food, and probably some other help.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Polly. ‘They haven’t discussed it!’
‘Not yet. But, as I said . . . I used to be a sergeant. Angua!’
The door opened. Angua came in. As Vimes had said, you couldn’t tell who was a
werewolf until you found out . . .
‘And now I’d better have a shave before I go to see the very important men,’ said Vimes.
‘People set a lot of store by shaving.’
Polly felt embarrassed walking down the steps with Sergeant Angua. How did you start a
conversation? ‘So you’re a werewolf, then?’ would be sort of idiotic. She was glad that Jade
and Maladicta had been left in the waiting room.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Angua.
‘But I didn’t say it!’ Polly burst out.
‘No, but I’m used to situations like this. I’ve learned to recognize the way people don’t say
things. Don’t worry.’
‘You followed us,’ said Polly.
‘Yes.’
‘So you must’ve known we weren’t men.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angua. ‘My sense of smell is much better than my eyesight, and I’ve got
sharp eyes. Humans are smelly creatures. For what it’s worth, though, I wouldn’t have told
Mister Vimes if I hadn’t heard you talking to one another. Anyone could have heard you, you
don’t need to be a werewolf for that. Everyone’s got secrets they don’t want known.
Werewolves are a bit like vampires in that way. We’re tolerated . . . if we’re careful.’
‘That I can understand,’ said Polly. So are we, she thought.
Angua stopped by a heavy, studded door. ‘He’s in here,’ she said, producing a key and
turning it in the lock. ‘I’ll go back and chat to the others. Come and find me when you’re
ready . . .’
Polly stepped inside, heart pounding, and there was Paul. And there was a buzzard, on a
perch by the open window. And on the wall, where Paul was working so intensely that his
tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he hadn’t even noticed the door
opening, was another buzzard, flying in the heart of the sunrise.
Right now, Polly could forgive Ankh-Morpork anything. Someone had found Paul a box of
coloured chalks.
The long day got longer. She had a kind of power. They all did. People gave them space,
watched them. The fighting had stopped and they were the cause and no one knew exactly
why.

 
 
  
There were lighter moments. They might have power, but General Froc gave the orders.
And General Froc might give the orders, but it was permissible to suppose that it was
Sergeant-major Jackrum who anticipated them.
And perhaps that was why Shufti asked Polly and Tonker to go with her, and they were
ushered into a room where a couple of guards stood on either side of a sheepish young man
called Johnny who had fair hair and blue eyes and a gold earring and his trousers round his
knees in case Shufti wanted to check his other distinguishing feature.
He also had a black eye.
‘This the one?’ said Major Clogston, who was leaning against the wall eating an apple.
‘The general has asked me to tell you that there will be a dowry of five hundred crowns, with
the army’s compliments.’
Johnny brightened up slightly when he heard that. Shufti gave him a long and careful look.
‘No,’ she said at last, turning away. That’s not him.’
Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: ‘No one asked you to speak, private!’ And,
such was the nature of the day, he shut up.
‘I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,’ said Clogston. ‘We’ve got any amount of earrings,
heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies - and, surprisingly, a fair number of carbuncles. But
he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?’
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, still staring at the boy. ‘My Johnny must have been killed.’
Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. ‘In that case, uh, the general did say,
informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension could be arranged,’ she
said.
‘Can she do that?’ whispered Polly.
‘For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,’ said Clogston. ‘Don’t think
too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical man.’
‘No,’ said Shufti. ‘I . . . it’s . . . well, no. Thank you, but no.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Polly.
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally a defying kind of
person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it ought to have been, having
overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.
Clogston stepped back. ‘Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough, then. Take that man
away, sergeant.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered Johnny, stood in front of
him, held out her hand and said: ‘Before they take you away again I want my sixpence back,
you son of a bitch!’
Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There had been another little
victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even square pebbles will roll.
*

 
 
  
Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made available as the women’s
barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women. Men, grown men, had fallen over
themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood for the fire. It was all very strange.
Polly felt they were being treated as something dangerous and fragile, like, say, a huge and
wonderful jar full of poison. She turned the corner into the big courtyard and there was de
Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no escaping them. They were definitely people looking for
someone.
The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope. ‘Er . . . so you’re
women, then?’ he said.
‘Er, yes,’ said Polly.
De Worde took out his notebook.
‘This is an amazing story,’ he said. ‘You really fought your way here and got in disguised
as washerwomen?’
‘Well, we were women, and we did some washing,’ said Polly. ‘I suppose it was quite a
cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised, you could say.’
‘General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,’ de Worde went on.
‘Oh, he has got promoted, then?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.’
‘Yes, I suppose we did,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. Very well, for women.’
‘The general went on to say . . .’ de Worde consulted his notebook, ‘that you are a credit to
the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to comment?’
He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging argument that had just
broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your country. We’re proud of you.
Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and
dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to start somewhere . . .
‘That’s very nice of him,’ said Polly. ‘But we just want to get the job done and go home.
That’s what soldiers want.’ She thought for a moment, and then added: ‘And hot sweet tea.’
To her amazement, he wrote this down.
‘Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a different place if more
women were soldiers?’ de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she noted, so this was
probably a joky kind of question.
‘Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,’ said Polly. And I’d like to watch her
expression if you do . . .
‘Yes, but what do you think, miss?’
‘That’s corporal, please.’
‘Sorry, corporal . . . and?’
The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things down, and then they
got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press
was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words can change everything . . .
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘I—’

 
 
  
There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other end of the courtyard, and some
cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because Zlobenian officers were
converging in a great hurry.
‘Ah, I see the Prince is back,’ said de Worde. ‘He’s probably not going to be happy about
the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.’
‘Can he do anything about it?’
De Worde shrugged. ‘He left some very senior officers here. It would be rather shocking if
he did.’
The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or rather, she realized, the
big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers trailed after him, and were brushed off.
But when a white oblong was waved in front of his face by one man he grabbed it and
stopped so quickly that several other officers bumped into him.
‘Um,’ said de Worde. ‘The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.’
The paper was thrown down.
‘Yes, probably that was it,’ said de Worde.
Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression.
It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in his notebook and
cleared his throat.
‘You’re going to talk to him?’ said Polly. ‘In that mood? He’ll cut you down!’
‘I have to,’ said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached the doorway he took
a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly, ‘Your highness? I wonder if I could
have a word?’
Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their gazes locked.
The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to his sword they closed
on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was some frantic whispering, in
which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on the broad theme of ‘What?’ could be
heard, followed by a toccata on ‘The hell you say!’
The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some dust off his
spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to Polly’s horror, strolled
towards her . . .
. . . with one white-gloved hand extended.
Oh no, she thought. But he’s cleverer than Vimes thinks he is, and he can control his
temper. And, suddenly, I’m everyone’s mascot.
‘For the good of our great countries,’ said Heinrich, ‘it is suggested that we publicly shake
the hand of friendship.’ He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn
up.
Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently
shook it.
‘Oh, ver’ good,’ said Otto, grasping his picture box. ‘I can only take zer vun, of course,
because unfortunately I shall have to use flash. Just vun moment . . .’

 
 
  
Polly was learning that an art form which happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless
needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst
cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment. Heinrich and
Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.
‘So,’ muttered the Prince, ‘the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!’
Polly kept her fixed grin. ‘Do you often menace frightened women?’ she said.
‘Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life?
And you showed spirit!’
‘Everyone say chiz!’ Otto commanded. ‘Vun, two, three . . . oh, bug—’
By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. ‘Vun day I
hope to find a filter zat vorks,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you, everyvun.’
‘That was for peace and goodwill between nations,’ said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting
go of the Prince’s hand. She took a step back. ‘And this, your highness, is for me . . .’
Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go, and you
could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was
enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch.
She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such
thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in
the ham-and-eggs.
And now, there was one other little thing.
The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through
the high windows of the keep’s biggest kitchen. He was sitting alone at a long table by the
fire, in full uniform, and he was eating a slab of thick bread plastered with pork dripping. A
mug of beer was not far from his other hand. He looked up as she approached, and nodded
companionably towards another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro. ‘Pork drippin’
with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,’ he said. ‘That’s the ticket. You can keep your
cuisine. Want a slice?’ He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing
attendance on him.
‘Not right now, sarge.’
‘Sure?’ said Jackrum. ‘There’s an old sayin’: kissing don’t last, cooking do. I hope that it’s
one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.’
Polly sat down. ‘Kissing is lasting so far,’ she said.
‘Shufti get sorted out?’ said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the
serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.
‘To her own satisfaction, sarge.’
‘Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?’
‘Dunno, sarge. I’ll go with Wa— with Alice and the army and see what happens.’
‘Best of luck. Look after ‘em, Perks, ‘cos I ain’t coming,’ said Jackrum.
‘Sarge?’ said Polly, shocked.

Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment

Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment

 
 
  
‘Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The
end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I
dare say he will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five
poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not
good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.’
‘You’re sure, sarge?’
‘Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ “my country right or wrong” thing has had its day. Time to put
my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping?
It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style, in dripping.’
Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while
Jackrum engulfed it.
‘Funny thing, really,’ she said, at last.
‘What’s that, Perks?’
‘Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns out you’re
really part of someone else’s story. Wazz— Alice will be the one they remember. We just
had to get her here.’
Jackrum said nothing but, as Polly would have predicted, pulled his crumpled bag of
chewing tobacco out of his pocket. She slipped a hand in her own pocket and pulled out a
small packet. Pockets, she thought. We’ve got to hang on to pockets. A soldier needs pockets.
‘Try this, sarge,’ she said. ‘Go on, open it.’
It was a small, soft leather pouch, with a drawstring. Jackrum held it up so that it twisted
this way and that.
‘Well, Perks, upon my oath I am not a swearing man—’ he began.
‘No, you’re not. I’ve noticed,’ said Polly. ‘But that grubby old paper was getting on my
nerves. Why didn’t you ever get a proper pouch made for yourself? One of the saddlers here
sewed that up for me in half an hour.’
‘Well, that’s life, isn’t it?’ said Jackrum. ‘Every day you think “ye gods, it’s about time I
had a new bag”, but then it all gets so busy you end up using the old one. Thank you, Perks.’
‘Oh, I thought, “What can I give the man who has everything?” and that was all I could
afford,’ said Polly. ‘But you don’t have everything, sarge. Sarge? You don’t, do you?’
She sensed him freeze over.
‘You stop right there, Perks,’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘I just thought you might like to show someone that locket of yours, sarge,’ said Polly
cheerfully. ‘The one round your neck. And don’t glare at me, sarge. Oh, yeah, I could walk
away and I’d never be sure, really sure, and maybe you’d never show it to anyone else, ever,
or tell them the story, and one day we’ll both be dead and . . . well, what a waste, eh?’
Jackrum glared.
‘Upon your oath, you are not a dishonest man,’ said Polly. ‘Good one, sarge. You told
people every day.’
Around them, beyond the dome, the kitchen buzzed with the busyness of women. Women
always seemed to be doing things with their hands - holding babies, or pans, or plates, or
wool, or a brush, or a needle. Even when they were talking, busyness was happening.