Monstrous Regiment (Discworld #31)

Monstrous Regiment (Discworld #31) Page 18

"Yes!" said Polly, letting the "just" go for now.

The captain leaned closer and spoke while trying not to move his lips.

"Dan gug show. Ell done. Agout time soes arragunk arsetards ere aken own a eg!"

He leaned back. "Commander Vimes it is, then. Follow me, miss."

Polly felt hundreds of eyes on her as the squad was let into the Inner Keep. There were one or two wolf whistles, because there were more soldiers in there, including quite a few trolls. Jade bent down, snatched up a rock, and hurled it at one of them, hitting him between the eyes.

"No one move!" shouted Maladict, waving his hands urgently as a hundred men raised their weapons. "That was the troll version of blowing a kiss!"

And, indeed, the troll who had been hit was waving at Jade, a little unsteadily.

"Can we knock it off with the lovey-dovey, please?" said Polly to Jade. "The soft people are likely to get the wrong idea."

"It's stopped the whistling, though," Maladict observed.

More people watched them as they climbed flight after flight of stone steps. No one could take this place, Polly could see that. Every flight was seen by another one higher up, every visitor would be sighted on before she'd even glimpsed a face.

A figure stepped out of the shadows as they reached the next floor. It was a young woman, in old-fashioned leather and mail armour, with a breastplate. She had long, very fair hair; for the first time in weeks, Polly felt a twinge of envy.

"Thank you, captain, I'll take over from here," she said, and nodded to Polly. "Good evening, Corporal Perks... if you would follow me, please?"

"She's a woman! And a sergeant!" Maladict whispered.

"Yes, I know," said Polly.

"But she gave an order to that captain!"

"Maybe she's a political..."

"And she's obviously female!"

"I'm not blind, Mal," said Polly.

"I'm not deaf, either," said the woman, turning and smiling. "My name is Angua. If you will wait here, I'll have some coffee sent in. There's a bit of an argument going on in there at the moment."

They were in a sort of anteroom, not much more than a widened area of corridor with a few benches. There were big double doors at the far end, behind which voices were being raised. Angua left.

"Just like that?" said Maladict. "What's to stop us taking over the place?"

"All those men with crossbows we passed on the way up?" said Polly. Why us? she thought, looking blankly at the wall.

"Oh, yes. Those. Yes," said Maladict. "Er... Poll?"

"Yes?"

"I'm actually Maladicta." She sat back. "There! I've told someone!"

"Dat's nice," said Jade.

"Oh, good," said Polly. I'd be going out to give the latrines their afternoon swill about now, she thought. This has got to be better than that, right?

"I thought I did pretty well," Maladicta went on. "Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: vampires have a pretty good time of it whatever sex they are, right? But it's the same everywhere. Velvet dresses, underwired nightgowns, acting crazy all the time, and don't let's even go near the whole 'bathing in virgin's blood' thing. You get taken a lot more seriously if they think you're male."

"Right," said Polly. All in all, it's been a long day. A bath would be nice.

"I thought I did pretty well right up until the whole coffee thing. A necklace of the roast beans, that'd be the thing. I'll be better prepared another time."

"Yeah," said Polly. "Good idea. With real soap."

"Soap? How would soap work?"

"What? Oh... sorry," said Polly.

"Did you hear anything I said?"

"Oh, that. Yes. Thank you for telling me."

"Is that it?"

"Yes," said Polly. "You're you. That's good. I'm me, whoever I am. Tonker's Tonker. It's all just... people. Look, a week ago the high spot of my day was reading the new graffiti in the men's latrines. I think you'd agree that a lot has happened since then. I don't think I'm going to be surprised at anything anymore. The coffee-bean necklace sounds good, by the way." She drummed her feet on the floor impatiently. "Right now, I just wish they'd hurry up in there."

They sat and listened, and then Polly became aware of a little column of smoke coming from behind a bench on the other side of the space. She walked over and peered over the back. A man was lying there, head on one arm, smoking a cigar. He nodded when he saw Polly's face.

"They're going to be ages yet," he said.

"Aren't you that sergeant I saw in the old kitchen? Making faces behind Lord Rust from Ankh-Morpork?"

"I was not making faces, miss. That's how I always look when Lord Rust is talking. And I was a sergeant once, it's true, but, look, no stripes."

"Make der faces once too often?" said Jade.

The man laughed. He hadn't shaved today, by the look of it. "Something like that, yes. Come along to my office, it's warmer. I only came out here because people complain about the smoke. Don't worry about that lot in there, they can wait. I'm only down the passage."

They followed him. The door was, indeed, only a few steps away. The man pushed it open, walked across the little room beyond, and sat down in a chair. The table in front of it overflowed with papers.

"I think we can get enough food up here to see you through the winter," he said, picking up a sheet of paper apparently at random. "Grain's a bit short but we've got a handy surplus of white drumhead cabbage, keeps wonderfully, full of vitamins and minerals... but you might want to keep your windows open, if you follow me. Don't stare. I know the country's a month away from starvation."

"But I haven't even shown this letter to anyone!" Polly protested. "You don't know what we - "

"I don't have to," said the man. "This is about food and mouths. Good grief, we don't have to fight you. Your country is going to fall over anyway. Your fields are overgrown, most of your farmers are old men, the bulk of the grub goes to the army. And armies don't do much for agriculture except marginally raise the fertility of the battlefield. The honour, the pride, the glory... none of that matters. This war stops, or Borogravia dies. Do you understand?"

Polly remembered the gale-swept fields, the old people salvaging what they could...

"We're just messengers," she said. "I can't negotiate - "

"You know your god's dead?" said the man. "Nothing left but a voice, according to some of our priests. The last three Abominations were against rocks, ears and accordion players. Okay, I might be with him on the last one, but... rocks? Hah! We can advise you if you're going to look for a new one, by the way. Om's very popular at the moment. Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns you can sing in the bath. You won't get Offler the Crocodile God up here with your winters, and the Unorthodox Potato Church is probably a bit too uncomplicated for - "

Polly started to laugh. "Look, sir, I'm just a... what is your name, please?"

"Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates."

"Vimes the Butcher?" said Maladicta.

"Oh, yes. I've heard that one," said Vimes, grinning. "Your people haven't really mastered the fine art of propaganda. And I'm telling you because - well, have you heard of Om?"

They shook their heads.

"No? Well, in the Old Book of Om there's a story about some city full of wickedness, and Om decided to destroy it with holy fire, this being back in the old smiting days before he'd got religion. But Bishop Horn protested about this plan, and Om said he'd spare the city if the bishop could find one good man. Well, the bishop knocked on every door, and turned up empty-handed. It turned out, after the place had been reduced to a glass plain, that there were probably plenty of good people there and, being good, they weren't the sort to admit it. Death by modesty, a terrible thing. And you, ladies, are the only Borogravians I know much about, apart from the military who, frankly, aren't chatty. You don't appear to be as insane as your country's foreign policy. You're the one piece of international goodwill it has. A bunch of young boys outwitting crack cavalrymen? Kicking the Prince in the fork? People at home liked that. And now it turns out that you're girls? They'll love that. Mr de Worde is going to have fun with that when he finds out."

"But we don't have any power! We can't negotiate a - "

"What does Borogravia want? Not the country. I mean the people."

Polly opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again and thought about the answer. "To be left alone," she said. "By everybody. For a while, anyway. We can change things."

"You'll accept the food?"

"We are a proud country."

"What are you proud of?"

It came swiftly, like a blow, and Polly realized how wars happened. You took that shock that had run through her, and let it boil.

...it may be corrupt, benighted and stupid, but it's ours...

Vimes was watching her face. "From this desk here," he said, "the only thing your country has to be proud of right now is you women."

Polly stayed silent. She was still trying to cope with the anger. It made it worse to know that he was right. We have our pride. And that's what we're proud of. We're proud of being proud...

"Very well, then, will you buy some food?" said Vimes, watching her carefully. "On credit? I suppose you still have someone in your country who knows about the kind of international affairs that don't involve edged weapons?"

"People would accept that, yes," said Polly hoarsely.

"Good. I'll send a clacks back tonight."

"And why would you be so generous, Mr Ankh-Morpork?"

"Because I'm from a wonderfully warm-hearted city, corporal... hah, no, I can't say that and keep a straight face," said Vimes. "Do you want to know the truth? Most people in Ankh-Morpork hadn't even heard of your country until the clacks went down. There's dozens of little countries round here selling one another hand-painted clogs or beer made from turnips. Then they knew you as the bloody mad idiots who fight everyone. Now they know you as... well, people who'd do just what they'd do. And tomorrow they'll laugh. And there're other people, people who sit and think about the future every day, who believe it's worth a little to be friends with a country like that."

"Why?" said Maladicta suspiciously.

"Because Ankh-Morpork is a friend to all freedom-loving people everywhere!" said Vimes. "Gods, it must be the way I tell 'em. Ze chzy Brogocia proztfik!" He saw their blank expressions. "Sorry, I've been away from home too long. And frankly, I'd rather be back there."

"But why did you say you were a cherry pancake?" said Polly.

"Didn't I say I am a citizen of Borogravia?"

"No. Brogocia is the cherry pancake, Borogvia is the country."

"Well, I made the effort, at least. Look, we'd rather Prince Heinrich wasn't ruler of two countries. That'd make one quite big country, much bigger than the other ones round here. So it'd probably get bigger still. He wants to be like Ankh-Morpork, you see. But what he means is he wants power, and influence. He doesn't want to earn them, he doesn't want to grow into them or learn the hard way how to use them. He just wants them."

"That's playing politics!" said Maladicta.

"No. It's just telling the truth. Make peace with him, by all means. Just leave the road and the towers alone. You'll get the food anyway, at whatever price. Mr de Worde's article will see to that."

"You sent the coffee," said Polly.

"Oh, yes. That was Corporal Buggy Swires, my eye in the sky. He's a gnome."

"And you set a werewolf on us?"

"Well, set is a bit strong. Angua followed you, just to be on the safe side. She's a werewolf, yes."

"The girl we met? She didn't look like one!"

"Well, they don't, usually," said Vimes. "Right up until the moment when they do, if you see what I mean. And she was following you because I was looking for anything that'd stop thousands of people dying. And that's not politics either," said Vimes. He stood up. "And now, ladies, I have to go and present your document to the Alliance leaders."

"You came out for a smoke at the right time, didn't you?" said Polly, slowly and carefully. "You knew we were on our way, and you made sure you'd get to us first."

"Of course. Can't leave this to a bunch of... oh, yes... ruperts."

"Where is my brother, Mister Vimes?" said Polly stiffly.

"You seem very sure I know..." said Vimes, not looking her in the face.

"I'm certain you do," said Polly.

"Why?"

"Because no one else does!"

Vimes stubbed out his cigar. "Angua was right about you," he said. "Yes, I, er, arranged for him to be put in what I like to call 'protective custody'. He's fine. Angua will take you to him now, if you like. Your brother, possibility of revenge, blackmail, who knows what... I thought he might be safer if I knew exactly who held the keys."

The end of the journey, Polly thought. But it wasn't, not any more. She got the distinct impression that the man opposite was reading her thoughts.

"That's what all this was about, isn't it?" he said.

"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.

"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.

"No one would believe yer," said Jackrum, at last.

"Who would I want to tell?" said Polly. "And you're right. No one would believe me. I'd believe you, though."

Jackrum stared into his fresh mug of beer, as if trying to see the future in the foam. He seemed to reach a decision, pulled the gold chain out of his noisome vest, unfastened the locket, and gently snapped it open.

"There you go," he said, passing it across. "Much good may it do you."

There was a miniature painting in each side of the locket: a dark-haired girl, and a blond young man in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.

"Good one of you," said Polly.

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on," said Jackrum.

"No, honestly," said Polly. "I look at the picture, and look at you... I can see that face in her face. Paler, of course. Not so... full. And who was the boy?"

"William, his name was," said Jackrum.

"Your sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"And you followed him into the army..."

"Oh, yeah. Same old story. I was a big strong girl, and... well, you can see the picture. The artist did his best, but I was never an oil painting. Barely a watercolour, really. Where I came from, what a man looked for in a future wife was someone who could lift a pig under each arm. And a couple of days later I was lifting a pig under each arm, helping my dad, and one of my clogs came off in the muck and the ol' man was yelling at me and I thought: the hell with this, Willie never yelled. Got hold of some men's clothes, never you mind how, cut my hair right off, kissed the Duchess, and was a Chosen Man within three months."

"What's that?"

"It's what we used to call a corporal," said Jackrum. "Chosen Man. Yeah, I smiled about that, too. And I was on my way. The army's a piece of piss compared to running a pig farm and looking after three lazy brothers."

"How long ago was that, sarge?"

"Couldn't say, really. I swear I don't know how old I am, and that's the truth," said Jackrum. "Lied about my age so often I ended up believing me." She began, very carefully, to transfer the chewing tobacco into the new bag.

"And your young man?" said Polly quietly.

"Oh, we had great times, great times," said Jackrum, stopping for a moment to stare at nothing. "He never got promoted on account of his stutter, but I had a good shouty voice and officers like that. But Willie never minded, not even when I made it to sergeant. And then he got killed at Sepple, right next to me."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be, you didn't kill him," said Jackrum evenly. "But I stepped over his body and skewered the bugger that did. Wasn't his fault. Wasn't my fault. We were soldiers. And then a few months later I had a bit of a surprise, and he was called William, too, just like his father. Good job I had a bit of leave, eh? Me gran raised him for me, put him to a trade as an armourer over in Scritz. Good trade, that. No one kills a good armourer. They tell me he looks just like his dad. A captain I met once had bought a bloody good sword off him. Showed it to me, not knowin' the hist'ry, o' course. Damn good sword. It had scrollwork on the hilt and everything, very classy. He's married with four kids now, I heard. Got a carriage and pair, servants, big house... yeah, I see you're paying attention..."

"Wazzer - well, Wazzer and the Duchess said - "

"Yeah, yeah, they talked about Scritz, and a sword," said Jackrum. "That's when I knew it wasn't just me watchin' over you lads. I knew you'd survive. The old girl needed you."

"So you've got to go there, sarge."

"Got to? Who says? I've served the old girl the whole of my life, and she's got no call on me now. I'm my own man, always have been."

"Are you, sarge?" said Polly.

"Are you crying, Perks?"

"Well... it's a bit sad, sarge."

"Oh, I dare say I sobbed a bit too, once in a while," said Jackrum, still tucking the tobacco into the new pouch. "But when all's said and done, I've had a good life. Saw the cavalry break at the Battle of Slomp. I was part of the Thin Red Line that turned aside the Heavy Brigade at Sheep's Drift, I saved the Imperial flag from four real bastards at Raladan, and I've been to a lot of foreign countries and met some very interesting people, who I mostly subsequently killed before they could do me over good and proper. Lost a lover, still got a son... there's many a woman who's faced worse, believe me."

"And... you spotted other girls..."

"Hah! Became a kind of hobby, really. Most of 'em were frightened little things, running away from god knows what. They got found out soon enough. And there were plenty like Shufti, chasin' their lad. But there were a few who had what I call the twinkle. A bit of fire, maybe. They just needed pointing in the right direction. I gave them a leg up, you might say. A sergeant's a powerful man, sometimes. A word here, a nod there, sometimes even doctorin' some paperwork, a whisper in the dark - "

" - a pair of socks," said Polly.

"Yeah, that sort of thing," said Jackrum, grinning. "Always a big concern to them, the whole latrine business. Least of your worries, I used to say. In peace no one cares, in battle everyone takes a piss the same way, and damn quickly, too. Oh, I helped 'em. I was their whatsit, their eminence grease, and grease it was, too, slidin' them to the top. Jackrum's Little Lads, I called 'em."

"And they never suspected?"

"What, suspect Jolly Jack Jackrum, so full of rum and vinegar?" said Jackrum, the old evil grin coming back. "Jack Jackrum, who could stop a bar fight by belchin'? No, sir! I dare say some of 'em suspected something, maybe, I dare say they worked out that there was something going on somewhere, but I was just the big fat sergeant who knew everyone and everything and drank everything, too."

Polly dabbed at her eyes. "What are you going to do now, then, if you don't go to Scritz?"

"Oh, I've got a bit put by," said Jackrum. "More than a bit, in point of actual fact. Pillage, plunder, loot... it all adds up, what ever you call it. I didn't piss it all up against a wall like the other lads, right? I expect I can remember most of the bleedin' places I buried it. Always thought I might open an inn, or maybe a knocking shop... oh, a proper high class place, you don't have to look at me like that, nothin' like that stinking tent. No, I'm talkin' about one with a chef and chandeliers and a lot of red velvet, very exclusive. I'd get some nobby lady to front it and I'd be the bouncer and run the bar. Here's a tip, lad, for your future career, and it's one some of the other Little Lads learned for 'emselves: sometimes it'll help if you visits one of them naughty places, otherwise the men'll wonder about you. I always used to take a book to read and advise the young lady to get some sleep, 'cos they does a tough job."