Monstrous Regiment

  ‘Can we stick with Perks, sir? I’m still a soldier. No, I don’t know much history, sir. At least, much that I trust.’

  ‘Then you’ve never heard of the Amazon warriors of Samothrip? The most fearsome fighting force for hundreds of years. All women! Absolutely merciless in battle! They were deadly with the longbow, although in order to get maximum draw they had to cut off one of their, um . . . er . . . I say, you ladies haven’t been cutting off your, um, er . . .’

  ‘No, we haven’t cut off any um ers, sir. Only hair.’

  Blouse looked incredibly relieved. ‘Well, and then there’s the female bodyguards of King Samuel in Howandaland. All seven feet tall, I understand, and deadly with the spear. Throughout Klatch, of course, there are many stories of female warriors, often fighting alongside their men. Fearsome and fearless, I believe. Men would desert rather than face females, Perks. Couldn’t deal with ’em.’

  Once again, Polly felt the slightly unbalanced feeling of having tried to jump a hurdle that turned out not to be there. She took refuge in: ‘What do you think’s going to happen now, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, Perks. Um . . . what’s wrong with young Goom? Some kind of religious mania?’

  ‘Could be, sir,’ said Polly guardedly. ‘The Duchess talks to her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Blouse. ‘She—’

  The door opened. A dozen soldiers filed in and spread out on either side. They had a variety of uniforms – mostly Zlobenian, but several Polly recognized now as Ankh-Morporkic or whatever they called it. They were all armed, and held their weapons like men who expected to use them.

  When they had lined up and were glaring at the squad, a smaller group of men stepped in. Again, there was a variety of uniforms, but they were a lot more expensive. These were worn by officers – high-ranking ones, to judge by the expressions of disdain. The tallest of them, made taller by his high, plumed cavalry helmet, stared along his nose at the women. He had pale blue eyes, and his face suggested that he did not really want to see anything at all in this room unless it had been thoroughly cleaned first.

  ‘Who is the officer here?’ he said. He sounded like a lawyer.

  Blouse stood up and saluted. ‘Lieutenant Blouse, sir, Tenth Infantry.’

  ‘I see.’ The man looked at his fellow officers. ‘I believe we can dispense with the guard now, don’t you? This matter should be handled quietly. And for heaven’s sake can’t we find this man a pair of trousers?’

  There were a few murmurs. The man nodded to the sergeant of the guard. The armed men filed out, and the door shut behind them.

  ‘My name is Lord Rust,’ said the man. ‘I head the Ankh-Morpork detachment here. At least,’ and he sniffed, ‘the military detachment. You have been treated well? You have not been manhandled? I see there is a . . . young lady on the floor.’

  ‘She’s in a swoon, sir,’ said Polly. The blue eyes lighted upon her.

  ‘You would be—?’ he said.

  ‘Corporal Perks, sir,’ said Polly. There were some barely suppressed smiles from the officers.

  ‘Ah. I believe you are the one seeking her brother?’ said Lord Rust.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ said Polly.

  ‘We are an, mm, efficient army,’ said Rust, and treated himself to a little smile of his own. ‘Your brother’s name is Paul?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘We shall locate him, eventually. And I understand another lady was seeking her young man?’

  Shufti curtsied nervously. ‘Me, sir.’

  ‘Again, we shall locate him, if you give us his name. Now, please listen to me carefully. You, Miss Perks, and the rest of you, will be taken from here, tonight, entirely unharmed, and escorted back into your country as far as our patrols can take you, which, I suspect, will be quite a long way. Is that understood? You will have what you came for. Won’t that be nice? And you will not return here. The troll and the vampire have been captured. The same offer applies to them.’

  Polly was watching the officers. They looked nervous . . .

  . . . except for one at the back. She’d thought all the guards had gone and, while this man was dressed like a guard – dressed, that is, like a badly dressed guard – he wasn’t acting like one. He was leaning against the wall by the door, smoking half a cigar, and grinning. He looked like a man enjoying a show.

  ‘Very generously,’ Rust went on, ‘this offer applies to you too, Lieutenant . . . Blouse, wasn’t it? But in your case you would be on parole in a house in Zlobenia, very pleasant I understand, healthy walks in the countryside and all that sort of thing. This offer has not been extended to your superior officers here, I may add.’

  So why make it to us? Polly thought. Are you frightened? Of a bunch of girls? That makes no sense . . .

  Behind the officers, the man with the cigar winked at Polly. His uniform was very old-fashioned – an ancient helmet, a breastplate, some slightly rusted chain mail, and big boots. He wore it like a workman wears his overalls. Unlike the braid and brilliance in front of her, the only statement his clothes made was that he didn’t intend to get hurt. They had no insignia that Polly could see, apart from a small shield hooked on to the breastplate.

  ‘If you will excuse me a moment,’ said Blouse, ‘I will consult with my men.’

  ‘Men?’ said Rust. ‘They’re a bunch of women, man!’

  ‘But at this moment, sir,’ said Blouse coolly, ‘I would not exchange them for any six men you offered me. If you gentlemen would care to wait outside?’

  Behind the group, the badly dressed man burst into silent laughter. His sense of humour was not shared by the rest of the group, however.

  ‘You cannot possibly consider refusing this offer!’ said Lord Rust.

  ‘Nevertheless, sir,’ said Blouse. ‘We will take a few minutes. I think the ladies would prefer some privacy. One of them is expecting a child.’

  ‘What, here?’ As one man, the group drew back.

  ‘Not yet, I believe. But if you would just step outside—’

  When the officers had retreated to the masculine safety of the corridor the lieutenant turned to his squad. ‘Well, men? For you, it is a very attractive offer, I have to say.’

  ‘Not for us,’ said Tonker. Lofty nodded.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Shufti.

  ‘Why not?’ said Blouse. ‘You would get your husband.’

  ‘That might be a bit difficult,’ mumbled Shufti. ‘Anyway, what about the invasion?’

  ‘I’m not going to be sent home like a package,’ said Igorina. ‘Anyway, that man has an objectionable bone structure.’

  ‘Well, Private Goom can’t join us right now,’ sighed Blouse. ‘So that leaves you, Polly.’

  ‘Why are they doing this?’ said Polly. ‘Why do they want us out of the way? Why aren’t they just leaving us locked up? This place must be full of cells.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps they are sensible of the frailties of your sex,’ said Blouse, and then fried in their stares. ‘I didn’t say I was,’ he added quickly.

  ‘They could just kill us,’ said Tonker. ‘Well, they could,’ she added. ‘Why not? Who’d care? I don’t think we count as prisoners of war.’

  ‘But they haven’t,’ said Polly. ‘And they’re not even threatening us. They’re being very careful. I think they’re frightened of us.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ said Tonker. ‘Maybe they think we’re going to chase them and give them a big wet sloppy kiss?’

  ‘Good, then we’re agreed that we’re not going to accept,’ said Blouse. ‘Damn right . . . oh, I do apologize . . .’

  ‘We all know the words, sir,’ said Polly. ‘I suggest we see how much we frighten them, sir.’

  The officers were waiting with unconcealed impatience, but Rust managed a brief smile when he stepped back into the kitchen. ‘Well, lieutenant?’ he said.

  ‘We have given your offer due consideration, sir,’ said Blouse, ‘and our reply is: stick it up your . . .’ He leaned down to Polly, who whisp
ered urgently. ‘Who? Oh, yes, right. Your jumper, sir. Stick it, in fact, up your jumper. Named after Colonel Henri Jumper, I believe. A useful woollen garment akin to a lightweight sweater, sir, which if I recall correctly was named after Regimental Sergeant-Major Sweat. That, sir, is where you may stick it.’

  Rust received this calmly, and Polly wondered whether it was because he hadn’t understood it. The scruffy man once more leaning against the wall had understood it, though, since he was grinning.

  ‘I see,’ said Rust. ‘And that is the answer from all of you? Then you leave us no choice. Good evening to you.’

  His attempt to stride out was hindered by the other officers, who had less sense of the dramatic moment. The door slammed behind them, but not before the last man out turned very briefly and made a hand gesture. You would have missed it if you weren’t watching him – but Polly was watching.

  ‘That seemed to go well,’ said Blouse, turning away.

  ‘I hope we’re not going to get into trouble for that,’ said Shufti.

  ‘Compared to what?’ said Tonker.

  ‘The last man out stuck his thumb up and winked,’ said Polly. ‘Did you notice him? He wasn’t even wearing an officer’s uniform.’

  ‘Probably wanted a date,’ said Tonker.

  ‘In Ankh-Morpork that means “jolly good”,’ said Blouse. ‘In Klatch, I think, it means “I hope your donkey explodes”. I spotted the man. Looked like a guard sergeant to me.’

  ‘Didn’t have stripes,’ said Polly. ‘Why’d he want to say jolly good to us?’

  ‘Or hate our donkey so much?’ said Shufti. ‘How’s Wazzer?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ said Igorina. ‘I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think she’s dead.’

  ‘You don’t think she is?’ said Polly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Igorina. ‘It’s like that. I wish I could keep her warmer.’

  ‘I thought you said she was burning up?’

  ‘She was. Now she’s freezing cold.’

  Lieutenant Blouse strode over to the door, grabbed its handle and, to the surprise of all, pulled it open. Four swords were levelled at him.

  ‘We have a sick man here!’ he snapped to the astonished guards. ‘We need blankets and firewood! Get them now!’ He slammed the door. ‘It might work,’ he said.

  ‘That door doesn’t have a lock,’ said Tonker. ‘Useful fact, Polly.’

  Polly sighed. ‘Right now, I just want something to eat. This is a kitchen, after all. There could be food here.’

  ‘This is a kitchen,’ said Tonker. ‘There could be cleavers!’

  But it is always upsetting to find that the enemy is as bright as you. There was a well, but a web of bars across the top allowed for the passage of nothing bigger than a bucket. And someone with no sense of the narrative of adventure had removed from the room anything with an edge and, for some reason, anything that could be eaten.

  ‘Unless we want to dine on candles,’ said Shufti, pulling a bundle of them out of a creaking cupboard. ‘’s tallow, after all. I bet old Scallot’d make candle scubbo.’

  Polly checked the chimney, which smelled as though there had not been a fire in it for a long time. It was big and wide, but six feet up a heavy grille was hung with sooty cobwebs. It looked rusted and ancient, and could probably be shifted by twenty minutes’ work with a crowbar, but there’s never a crowbar when you want one.

  There were some couple of sacks of ancient, dry and dusty flour in the storeroom. It smelled bad. There was a thing with a funnel and a handle and some mysterious screws.10 There were a couple of rolling pins, a lettuce strainer, some ladles . . . and there were forks. Lots of toasting forks. Polly felt let down. It was ridiculous to expect that someone imprisoning people in some ad hoc cell would leave in all the ingredients to effect an escape but, nevertheless, she felt that some universal rule had been broken. They had nothing better than a club, really. The toasting forks might prick, the lettuce strainer might pack a punch, and the rolling pins were at least a traditional female weapon, but all you could do with the thing with a funnel and a handle and mysterious screws was baffle people.

  The door opened. Armed men came in to act as protection for a couple of women, carrying blankets and firewood. They scurried in with their eyes cast down, deposited their burdens, and almost ran out. Polly strode over to the guard who seemed to be in charge, and he backed away. A huge key ring jingled on his belt.

  ‘You knock next time, all right?’ she said.

  He grinned nervously. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘They said we weren’t to talk to you . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  The jailer glanced around. ‘But we reckon you’re doing bloody well, for girls,’ he said conspiratorially.

  ‘So that means you won’t shoot at us when we break out?’ said Polly sweetly.

  The grin faded. ‘Don’t try it,’ said the jailer.

  ‘What a big bunch of keys you have there, sir,’ said Tonker, and the man’s hand flew to his belt.

  ‘You just stay in here,’ he said. ‘Things are bad enough already. You stay here!’

  He slammed the door. A moment later they heard something heavy being pushed up against it.

  ‘Well, now we have a fire, at least,’ said Blouse.

  ‘Er . . .’ This was from Lofty. She volunteered a word so seldom that the rest turned to look at her, and she stopped in embarrassment.

  ‘Yes, Lofty?’ said Polly.

  ‘Er . . . I know how to get the door open,’ muttered Lofty. ‘So it stays open, I mean.’

  Had it been anyone else, someone would have laughed. But words from Lofty had obviously been turned over for some time before utterance.

  ‘Er . . . good,’ said Blouse. ‘Well done.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Lofty.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It will work.’

  ‘Just what we need, then!’ said Blouse, like a man trying against all the odds to keep cheerful.

  Lofty looked up at the big sooty beams that ran across the room. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘But there’ll still be guards outside,’ said Polly.

  ‘No,’ said Lofty. ‘There won’t.’

  ‘There won’t?’

  ‘They’ll have gone away.’ Lofty stopped, with the air of one who’d said everything that needed to be said.

  Tonker walked over and took her arm. ‘We’ll just have a little chat, shall we?’ she said, and led the girl to the other side of the room. There was some whispered conversation. Lofty spent most of it staring at the floor, and then Tonker came back.

  ‘We will need the bags of flour from the storeroom, and the rope from the well,’ she said. ‘And one of those . . . what are those big round things that cover dishes? With a knob on?’

  ‘Dish covers?’ said Shufti.

  ‘And a candle,’ Tonker went on. ‘And a lot of barrels. And a lot of water.’

  ‘And what will all this do?’ said Blouse.

  ‘Make a big bang,’ said Tonker. ‘Tilda knows a lot about fire, believe me.’

  ‘When you say she knows a lot . . .’ Polly began uncertainly.

  ‘I mean every place she worked at burned down,’ said Tonker.

  They rolled the empty barrels to the middle of the room and filled them with water from the pump. Under Lofty’s monosyllabic direction and the rope from the well, they hauled three leaking, dusty flour sacks up as high as possible, so that they twisted gently over the space between the barrels and the door.

  ‘Ah,’ said Polly, standing back. ‘I think I understand. A flour mill on the other side of town blew up two years ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tonker. ‘That was Tilda.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’d been beating her. And worse. And the thing about Tilda is, she just watches and thinks and somewhere in there it all comes together. Then it explodes.’

  ‘But two people died!’

  ‘The man a
nd his wife. Yes. But I heard that other girls sent there never came back at all. Shall I tell you that Tilda was pregnant when they brought her back to the Grey House after the fire? She had it, and they took it away, and we don’t know what happened to it. And then she got beaten again because she was an Abomination unto Nuggan. Does that make you feel better?’ said Tonker, tying the rope to a table leg. ‘There’s just us, Polly. Just her and me. No inheritance, no nice home to go back to, no relatives that we know of. The Grey House breaks us all, somehow. Wazzer talks to the Duchess, I don’t have . . . middle gears, and Tilda frightens me when she gets her hands on a box of matches. You should see her face then, though. It lights up. Of course,’ Tonker smiled in her dangerous way, ‘so do other things. Better get everyone into the storeroom while we light the candle.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Tilda do that?’

  ‘She will. But we’ll have to drag her away, otherwise she’ll stay and watch.’

  This had started like a game. She hadn’t thought of it like a game, but it was a game called Let Polly keep The Duchess. And now . . . it didn’t matter. She’d made all kinds of plans, but she was beyond plans now. They’d done bloody well, for girls . . .

  A final barrel of water had been placed, after some discussion, in front of the storeroom’s door. Polly looked over the top of it at Blouse and the rest of the squad.

  ‘Okay, everybody, we’re . . . er . . . about to do it,’ she said. ‘Are we sure about this, Tonker?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And we won’t get hurt?’

  Tonker sighed. ‘The dusty flour will explode. That’s simple. The blast coming this way will hit the barrels full of water which’ll probably last just long enough to see it rebound. The worst that should happen to us is that we get wet. That’s what Tilda thinks. Would you argue? And in the other direction, there’s only the door.’

  ‘How does she work this out?’

  ‘She doesn’t. She just sees how it should go.’ Tonker handed Polly the end of a rope. ‘This goes over the beam and down to the dish lid. Can you hold it, lieutenant? But don’t pull it until we say. I really mean that. C’mon, Polly.’

  In the space between the barrels and the door, Lofty was lighting a candle. She did it slowly, as if it was a sacrament or some ancient ceremony every part of which held enormous and complex meaning. She lit a match, and held it carefully until the flame caught. She waved it back and forth on the base of the candle, which she thrust firmly on to the flagstones so that the hot wax stuck it into position. Then she applied the match to the candle wick and knelt there, watching the flame.