‘Er, yes,’ said Polly, and wondered what she should dread more: Maladict suddenly turning into a ravening monster, or Wazzer reaching the end of whatever mental journey she was taking. She’d been a kitchen maid and now she was subjecting the Book to critical analysis and talking to a religious icon. That sort of thing led to friction. The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to those who think they’ve found it.
Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar— pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it was always done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got you. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him, so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the grannies in the front row, sucking peppermints.
Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if ever she got back, she’d never do it again . . .
‘Er . . . Wazz?’ she said.
‘Yes, Polly?’
‘You’ve got a direct line to the Duchess, have you?’
‘We talk about things,’ said Wazzer dreamily.
‘You, er, couldn’t raise the question of coffee, could you?’ said Polly wretchedly.
‘The Duchess can only move very, very small things,’ said Wazzer.
‘A few beans, perhaps? Wazz, we really need some coffee! I don’t think the acorns are that much of a substitute.’
‘I will pray,’ said Wazzer.
‘Good. You do that,’ said Polly. And, strangely enough, she felt a little more hopeful. Maladict had hallucinations, but Wazzer had a certainty you could bend steel round. It was the opposite of a hallucination, somehow. It was as if she could see what was real and you couldn’t.
‘Polly?’ said Wazzer.
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t believe in the Duchess, do you? I mean the real Duchess, not your inn.’
Polly looked into the small, pinched, intense face. ‘Well, I mean, they say she’s dead, and I prayed to her when I was small, but since you ask I don’t exactly, um, believe as—’ she gabbled.
‘She is standing just behind you. Just behind your right shoulder.’
In the silence of the wood, Polly turned. ‘I can’t see her,’ she said.
‘I am happy for you,’ said Wazzer, handing her the empty mug.
‘But I didn’t see anything,’ said Polly.
‘No,’ said Wazzer. ‘But you turned round . . .’
Polly had never asked too many questions about the Girls’ Working School. She was, by definition, a Good Girl. Her father was an influential man in the community, and she worked hard, she didn’t have much to do with men and, most importantly, she was . . . well, smart. She was bright enough to do what a lot of other people did in the chronic, reason-free insanity that was everyday life in Munz. She knew what to see and what to ignore, when to obey and when to merely present the face of obedience, when to speak and when to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned the ways of the survivor. Most people did. But if you rebelled, or were merely dangerously honest, or had the wrong kind of illness, or were not wanted, or were a girl who liked boys more than the old women thought you should and, worse, were not good at counting . . . then the school was your destination.
She didn’t know much about what went on in there, but imagination rushed to fill the gap. And she wondered what happened to you in that hellish pressure cooker. If you were tough, like Tonker, it boiled you hard and gave you a shell. Lofty . . . it was hard to know. She was quiet and shy until you saw firelight reflected in her eyes, and sometimes the flames were there in the absence of any fire to reflect. But if you were Wazzer, dealt a poor hand to start with, and locked up, and starved, and beaten, and mistreated Nuggan knew how (and yes, Polly thought, Nuggan probably did know how) and pushed deeper and deeper into yourself, what would you find down there? And then you’d look up from those depths into the only smile you ever saw.
The last man on guard duty was Jackrum, because Shufti was cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun round as she approached, and Polly caught the gleam of gold as something was shoved back in his jacket.
The sergeant lowered the bow. ‘You make enough noise for an elephant, Perks,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sarge,’ said Polly, who knew she hadn’t. He took the tea mug, and turned to point downhill.
‘See that bush down there, Perks?’ he said. ‘Just to the right of that fallen log?’
Polly squinted. ‘Yes, sarge,’ she said.
‘Notice anything about it?’
Polly stared again. There must be something wrong about it, she decided, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked her. She concentrated. ‘The shadow’s wrong,’ she decided at last.
‘Good lad. The reason bein’, our chum is behind the bush. He’s been a-watching of me, and I’ve been a-watching of him. Nothing else for it. He’ll have it away on his toes as soon as he sees anyone move, and he’s too far away to drop an arrow on him.’
‘An enemy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘A friend?’
‘Cocky devil, at any rate. He doesn’t care that I know he’s there. You go on back up the hill, lad, and bring down that big bow we got off of the— There he goes!’
The shadow had vanished. Polly stared into the wood, but the long light was getting crimson and dusk was unfolding between the trees.
‘It’s a wolf,’ said Jackrum.
‘A werewolf?’ said Polly.
‘Now, what makes you think that?’
‘Because Sergeant Towering said we’d got a werewolf in the squad. I’m sure we haven’t. I mean, we’d have found out by now, wouldn’t we? But I wondered if they’d seen one.’
‘Can’t do anything about it, anyway,’ said Jackrum. ‘A silver arrow would do the job, but we’ve got none.’
‘What about our shilling, sarge?’
‘Oh, you think you can kill a werewolf with an IOU?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Then Polly added: ‘You’ve got a real shilling, sarge. Around your neck with that gold medallion.’
If you could have twisted steel round Wazzer’s conviction, you could have heated it with Jackrum’s glare.
‘What’s round my neck is no business of yours, Perks, and the only thing worse than a werewolf is me if anyone tries to take my shilling off me, understand?’
He softened as he saw Polly’s terrified expression. ‘We’ll move on after we’ve eaten,’ he said. ‘Find a better place for a rest. Somewhere easier to defend.’
‘We’re all pretty tired, sarge.’
‘So I want us all to be upright and armed if our friend comes back with his chums,’ said Jackrum.
He followed her gaze. The gold locket had slipped out of his jacket, and dangled guiltily on its chain. He deftly tucked it away.
‘She was just a . . . girl I knew,’ he said. ‘That’s all, right? It was a long time ago.’
‘I didn’t ask you, sarge,’ said Polly, backing away.
Jackrum’s shoulders settled. ‘That’s right, lad, you didn’t. And I ain’t asking you about anything, neither. But I reckon we’d better find the corporal some coffee, eh?’
‘Amen to that, sarge!’
‘And our rupert’s dreaming of laurel wreaths all round his head, Perks. We’ve got ourselves a goddamn hero here. Can’t think, can’t fight, no bloody use at all except for a famous last stand and a medal sent to his ol’ mum. And I
’ve been in a few famous last stands, lad, and they’re butcher shops. That’s what Blouse’s leading you into, mark my words. What’ll you lot do then, eh? We’ve had a few scuffles, but that’s not war. Think you’ll be man enough to stand, when the metal meets the meat?’
‘You did, sarge,’ said Polly. ‘You said you were in a few last stands.’
‘Yeah, lad. But I was holding the metal.’
Polly walked back up the slope. All this, she thought, and we haven’t even got there. Sarge is thinking about the girl he left behind . . . well, that’s normal. And Tonker and Lofty only think about one another, but I suppose after you’ve been in that school . . . and as for Wazzer . . .
She wondered how she’d have survived the school. Would she have grown hard, like Tonker? Would she have just folded up inside, like the maids who came and went and worked hard and never had a name? Or perhaps she would have become like Wazzer, and found some door in her own head . . . I may be lowly, but I talk to gods.
. . . Wazzer had said ‘not your inn’. Had she ever told Wazzer about The Duchess? Surely not. Surely she . . . but, no, she had told Tonker, hadn’t she? That was it, then. All explained. Tonker must have mentioned it to Wazzer at some point. Nothing weird about it at all, even if practically no one ever had a conversation with Wazz. It was so hard. She was so intense, so coiled up. But that had to be the only explanation. Yes. She wasn’t going to let there be any other.
Polly shivered, and was aware that someone was walking beside her. She looked up and groaned.
‘You’re a hallucination, right?’
OH, YES. YOU ARE ALL IN A STATE OF HEIGHTENED SENSIBILITY CAUSED BY MENTAL CONTAGION AND LACK OF SLEEP.
‘If you’re a hallucination, how do you know that?’
I KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT. I AM SIMPLY BETTER AT ARTICULATING IT.
‘I’m not going to die, am I? I mean, right now?’
NO. BUT YOU WERE TOLD THAT YOU WOULD WALK WITH DEATH EVERY DAY.
‘Oh . . . yes. Corporal Scallot said that.’
HE IS AN OLD FRIEND. YOU MIGHT SAY HE IS ON THE INSTALMENT PLAN.
‘Do you mind walking a bit more . . . invisibly?’
OF COURSE. HOW’S THIS?
‘And quietly, too?’
There was silence, which was presumably the answer.
‘And polish yourself up a bit,’ said Polly to the empty air. ‘And that robe needs a wash.’
There was no reply, but she felt better for saying it.
Shufti had cooked beef stew with dumplings and herbs. It was magnificent. It was also a mystery.
‘I don’t recall us passing a cow, private,’ said Blouse, as he handed his tin plate along for a second helping.
‘Er . . . no, sir.’
‘And yet you have acquired beef?’
‘Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . when that writer man came up in his cart, well, when you were talking, er, I crept round and took a look inside . . .’
‘There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, private,’ said Blouse severely.
‘Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,’ said Jackrum. ‘If that writer man gets hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, lieutenant?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ said Blouse carefully. ‘Yes. Of course. Good initiative, private.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,’ said Shufti brightly. ‘Sarge told me to.’
Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swivelled her eyes from sergeant to lieutenant.
‘You teach looting, sergeant?’ said Blouse. There was a joint gasp from the squad. If this was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been hurrying out of the doors and Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles off the shelf.
‘Not looting, sir, not looting,’ said Jackrum, calmly licking his spoon. ‘Under Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1 [c], Paragraph i, sir, it would be plundering, said cart being the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir, which is aiding and abetting the enemy. Plundering is allowed, sir.’
The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Blouse reached behind him and into his pack. Polly saw him draw out a small yet thick book.
‘Rule 611,’ he murmured. Blouse glanced up at the sergeant, and thumbed through the thin, shiny pages. ‘611. Pillaging, Plundering and Looting. Ah, yes. And . . . let me see . . . you are with us, Sergeant Jackrum, owing to Rule 796, I think you reminded me at the time . . .’
There was another silence broken only by the riffle of the pages. There’s no Rule 796, Polly remembered. Are they going to fight over this?
‘796, 796,’ said Blouse softly. ‘Ah . . .’ He stared at the page, and Jackrum stared at him.
Blouse closed the book with a leathery flwap. ‘Absolutely correct, sergeant!’ he said brightly. ‘I commend you on your encyclopaedic knowledge of the regulations!’
Jackrum looked thunderous. ‘What?’
‘You were practically word perfect, sergeant!’ said Blouse. And there was a gleam in his eye. Polly remembered Blouse looking at the captured cavalry captain. This was that same look, the look which said: now I have the upper hand.
Jackrum’s chins wobbled.
‘You had something to add, sergeant?’ said Blouse.
‘Er, no . . . sir,’ said Jackrum, his face an open declaration of war.
‘We’ll leave at moonrise,’ said Blouse. ‘I suggest we all get some rest until then. And then . . . may we prevail.’ He nodded to the group, and walked over to where Polly had spread his blanket in the lee of the bushes. After a few moments there were some snores, which Polly refused to believe. Jackrum certainly didn’t. He got up and strode out of the firelight. Polly hurried after him.
‘Did you hear that?’ snarled the sergeant, staring out at the darkening hills. ‘The little yoyo! What right has he got, checking up in the book o’ words?’
‘Well, you did quote chapter and verse, sarge,’ said Polly.
‘So? Officers are s’posed to believe what they’re told. And then he smiled! Did you see? Caught me out and smiled at me! Thinks he’s got one over on me, just because he caught me out!’
‘You did lie, sarge.’
‘I did not, Perks! It’s not lying when you do it to officers! It’s presentin’ them with the world the way they think it ought to be! You can’t let ’em start checkin’ up for themselves. They get the wrong ideas. I told you, he’ll be the death of all of us. Invading the bloody keep? The man’s wrong in the head!’
‘Sarge!’ said Polly urgently.
‘Yes, what?’
‘We’re being signalled, sarge!’
On a distant hilltop, twinkling like an early evening star, a white light was flashing.
* * *
Blouse lowered his telescope. ‘They’re repeating “CQ”,’ he said. ‘And I believe those longer pauses are when they’re aiming their tube in different directions. They’re looking for their spies. “Seek You”, see? Private Igor?’
‘Thur?’
‘You know how that tube works, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yeth, thur. You jutht light a flare in the box, and then it’th just point and click.’
‘You’re not going to answer it, are you, sir?’ said Jackrum, horrified.
‘I am indeed, sergeant,’ said Blouse briskly. ‘Private Carborundum, please assemble the tube. Manickle, please bring the lantern. I shall need to read the code book.’
‘But that’ll give away our position!’ said Jackrum.
‘No, sergeant, because although this term may be unfamiliar to you I intend to what we call “lie”,’ said Blouse. ‘Igor, I’m sure you have some scissors, although I’d rather you didn’t attempt to repeat the word.’
‘I have thome of the appliantheth you mention, thur,’ said Igorina stiffly.
‘Good.’ Blouse looked round. ‘It’s almost pitch dark now. Ideal. Take my blanket and cut, oh, a three-inch circle out of it, then tie the blanket over the front of the tube.’
‘That will cut off motht of the light, thur!’
‘Indeed it will. My plan depends upon it,’ said Blouse proudly.
‘Sir, they will see the light, they’ll know we’re here,’ said Jackrum, as though repeating things to a child.
‘I explained, sergeant. I will lie,’ said Blouse.
‘You can’t lie when—’
‘Thank you for your input, sergeant, that will be all for now,’ said Blouse. ‘Are we ready, Igor?’
‘Jutht about, thur,’ said Igorina, tying the blanket across the end of the tube. ‘Okay, thur. I’ll light the flare when you thay.’
Blouse unfolded the little book. ‘Ready, private?’ he said.
‘Yup,’ said Jade.
‘On the word “long” you will hold the trigger for the count of two, and then let go. On the word “short” you will hold it down for the count of one, and likewise let go. Got that?’
‘Yup, el-tee. Could hold it down for lots, if you like,’ said Jade. ‘One, two, many, lots. I’m good at countin’. High as you like. Jus’ say der word.’
‘Two will suffice,’ said Blouse. ‘And you, Private Goom, I want you to take my telescope and look for long and short flashes from that light over there, understand?’
Polly saw Wazzer’s face and said quickly: ‘I’ll do that, sir!’
A small white hand was laid on her arm. In the miserly glimmer of the dark lantern, Wazzer’s eyes glowed with the light of certainty. ‘The Duchess guides our footsteps now,’ she said, and took the telescope from the lieutenant. ‘What we are doing is her work, sir.’
‘Is it? Oh. Well . . . that’s good,’ said Blouse.
‘She will bless this instrument of far seeing that I may use it,’ said Wazzer.
‘Indeed?’ said Blouse nervously. ‘Well done. Now . . . are we ready? Send as follows . . . long . . . long . . . short . . .’
The shutter in the tube clicked and rattled as the message flashed out across the sky. When the troll lowered the tube, there was half a minute of darkness. And then: ‘Short . . . long . . .’ Wazzer began.
Blouse held the code book up to his face, his lips moving as he read by the pinpoints of light escaping from the loins of the box. ‘W . . . R . . . U,’ he said. ‘And M . . . S . . . G . . . P . . . R . . .