“Asking nicely didn’t work, did it, sir? ‘Pretty please with sprinkles on top’ is not a recognized method of interrogation! You shouldn’t be here, sir! You should say, ‘Sergeant, find out what you can from the prisoner!’ and then go somewhere and wait until I tell you what I got out of him, sir!”

“You did it again!”

“What? What?”

“You kicked him again!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Sergeant, I gave you an order!”

“And?”

“Tea’s up!” said Polly cheerfully.

Both men turned. Their expression changed. If they had been birds, their feathers would have gently settled back.

“Ah, Perks,” said Blouse. “Well done.”

“Yeah…good lad,” said Sergeant Jackrum.

Polly’s presence seemed to lower the temperature. The two men drank their tea and eyed one another warily.

“You’ll have noticed, Sergeant, that the men were wearing the dark-green uniform of the First Battalion of the Zlobenian Fifty-Ninth Bowmen. A skirmishing battalion,” said Blouse with cold politeness. “That is not the uniform of a spy, Sergeant.”

“Yessir? But they’d let their uniforms get very dirty, then. No shine on the buttons, sir.”

“Patrolling behind enemy lines is not spying, Sergeant. You must have done it in your time.”

“More times that you could count, sir,” said Jackrum. “And I knew full well that if I got caught I was due a good kicking in the nadgers. But skirmishers is the worst, sir. You think you’re safe in the lines, next moment it turns out that some bastard sitting in the bushes on a hill had been working out windage and yardage and has dropped an arrow right through your mate’s head.” He picked up a strange-looking longbow.

“See these things they’ve got? Burleigh and Strongin-thearm No. 5 Recurved, made in bloody Ankh-Morpork. A real killing weapon. I say we give him a choice, sir. He can tell us what he knows, and go out easy. Or keep mum, and go out hard.”

“No, Sergeant. He is an enemy officer taken in battle and entitled to fair treatment!”

“No, sir. He’s a sergeant, and they don’t deserve no respect at all, sir. I should know. They’re cunning and artful, if they’re any good. I wouldn’t mind if he was an officer, sir. But sergeants are clever.”

There was a grunt from the bound prisoner.

“Loosen his gag, Perks,” said Blouse. Instinctively, even if the instinct was only a couple of days old, Polly glanced at Jackrum. The sergeant shrugged.

She pulled the rag down.

“I’ll talk,” said the prisoner, spitting out cotton fluff. “But not to that tub of lard! I’ll talk to the officer! You keep that man away from me!”

“You’re in no position to negotiate, soldier boy!” snarled Jackrum.

“Sergeant,” said the lieutenant, “I’m sure you have things to see to. Please do so. Send a couple of men back here. He can’t do anything against four of us.”

“But—”

“That was another order, Sergeant,” said Blouse. He turned to the prisoner as Jackrum stumped off. “What is your name, man?”

“Sergeant Towering, Lieutenant. And if you are a sensible man, you will release me and surrender.”

“Surrender?” said Blouse, as Igorina and Wazzer ran into the clearing, armed and bewildered.

“Yep. I’ll put in a good word for you when the boys catch up with us. You don’t want to know how many men are looking for you. Could I have a drink, please?”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course,” said Blouse as if caught out in a display of bad manners. “Perks, fetch some tea for the sergeant. Why are people looking for us, pray?”

Towering gave him a cockeyed grin. “You don’t know?”

“No,” said Blouse coldly.

“You really don’t know?” Now Towering was laughing. He was far too relaxed for a bound man, and Blouse sounded far too much like a nice but worried man trying to appear firm and determined. To Polly, it was like watching a child bluffing in poker against a man called Doc.

“I don’t wish to play games, man. Out with it!” he said.

“Everyone knows about you, Lieutenant. You’re the Monstrous Regiment, you are!” he said. “No offense meant, of course. They say you’ve got a troll and a vampire and an Igor and a werewolf. They say you…” he began to chuckle “…they say you overpowered Prince Heinrich and his guard and stole his boots and made him hop away in the altogether!”

In a thicket, some way off, a nightingale sang. For quite a while, uninterrupted.

Then Blouse said, “Hah, no, you are in fact wrong. The man was Captain Horentz—”

“Yeah, right, like he’d tell you who he was with you pointing swords at him!” said Towering. “I heard from one of my mates that one of you kicked him in the meat-and-two-veg, but I haven’t seen the picture yet.”

“Someone took a picture of him getting kicked?” squeaked Polly, drenched in a sudden horror.

“Not of that, no. But there’s copies all over the place of him in chains and I hear it’s been sent by the clacks to Ankh-Morpork.”

“Is…is he annoyed?” Polly quavered, cursing Otto Chriek and his picture-making.

“Well, now, let me see,” said Towering sarcastically. “Annoyed? No, I shouldn’t think he’s annoyed. ‘Livid’ is the word, I think. Or ‘raging’? Yeah, I think ‘raging’ is the word. There’s a lot of people looking for you lads now. Well done!”

Even Blouse could see Polly’s distress.

“Er…Perks,” he said. “It was you, wasn’t it, who—”

Over and over, in Polly’s head, the words ogodIkickedtheprinceinthefruitandveg! were going around and around like a hamster in a runaway treadmill until, suddenly, it ran up against something solid.

“Yessir,” she snapped. “He was forcing himself upon a young woman, sir. If you recall?”

Blouse’s frown faded and became a grin of childlike duplicity. “Ah, yes, indeed. He was ‘pressing his suit’ in no small way, was he not?”

“He didn’t have ironing in mind, sir!” said Polly fervently.

Towering looked up at Wazzer, grimly clutching a crossbow that Polly knew for a fact she was scared of, and Igorina, who’d much rather be holding a surgeon’s knife than the saber in her hand. Polly saw his brief smile.

“And there you have it, Sergeant Towering,” said the lieutenant, turning to the prisoner. “Of course, we all know there is some atrocious behavior in times of war, but it is not the sort of thing we would expect of a royal prince.* If we are to be pursued because a gallant young soldier prevented matters from becoming even more disgusting, then so be it.”

“Now I am impressed,” said Towering. “A real knight errant, eh. He’s a credit to you, Lieutenant. Any chance of that tea?”

Blouse’s skinny chest visibly swelled at the compliment.

“Yes, Perks, the tea, if you would be so good.”

Leaving the three of you with this man who’s positively radiating an intention to escape, Polly thought.

“Could perhaps Private Goom go and fetch—” she began.

“A word in private, Perks?” snapped Blouse. He drew her closer, but Polly kept her eye on Sergeant Towering. He might be bound hand and foot, but she wouldn’t have trusted a man who grinned like that if he’d been nailed to the ceiling.

“Perks, you are making a great contribution but I really will not have my orders continually questioned,” said Blouse. “You are my batman, after all. I think I run a ‘happy ship’ here, but I will be obeyed. Please?”

It was like being savaged by a goldfish, but she had to admit he had a point.

“Er…sorry, sir,” said Polly, backing away as long as possible so as not to miss the end of the tragedy. Then she turned and ran.

Jackrum was sitting by the fire, with the prisoner’s bow across his huge knees, and slicing some sort of black sausage with a big clasp-knife. He was chewing.

“Where’s the rest of us, sir?” said Polly, scrabbling for amug.

“I sent ’em to scout a wide perimeter, Perks. Can’t be too careful if matey-boy’s got pals out there.”

…which was perfectly sensible. It just happened to mean that half the squad had been sent away…

“Sarge, you know that captain back at the barracks? That was—”

“I’ve got good hearing, Perks. Kicked him in the Royal Prerogative, eh? Hah! Make it all more interestin’, eh?”

“It’s going to go wrong, Sarge, I just know it,” said Polly, dragging the kettle off the hob and spilling half the water as she topped up the teapot.

“D’you chew at all, Perks?” said Jackrum.

“What, Sarge?” said Polly distractedly.

The sergeant held out a small piece of sticky, black…stuff.

“Tobacco. Chewing tobacco,” said Jackrum. “I favor Blackheart to Jolly Sailor, ’cos it’s rum-dipped, but others say—”

“Sarge, that man’s going to escape, Sarge! I know he is! The lieutenant isn’t in charge, he is. He’s all friendly and everything, but I can tell by his eyes, Sarge!”

“I’m sure Lieutenant Blouse knows what he’s doing, Perks,” he said primly. “You’re not telling me a bound man can overcome four of you, are you?”

“Oh, sugar!” said Polly.

“Just down there, in the old black tin,” said Jackrum. Polly tipped some into the worst cup of tea ever made by a serving soldier and ran back to the clearing.

Amazing, the man was still in a sitting position, and still bound hand and foot. Her fellow Cheesemongers were watching him warily. Polly relaxed, but only a little.

“—nd there you have it, Lieutenant,” he was saying. “No disgrace in calling it quits, eh? He’ll hunt you down soon enough, ’cos it’s personal now. But if you were to come along with me, I’d do my best to see it goes easy with you. You don’t want to get caught by the Heavy Dragoons right now. They ain’t got much of a sense of humor—”

“Tea’s up,” said Polly.

“Oh, thank you, Perks,” said Blouse dejectedly. “I think we can at least cut Sergeant Towering’s hands free, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Polly, meaning “no, sir.” The man offered his bound wrists, and Polly reached out gingerly with her knife while holding the mug like a weapon.

“Artful lad you’ve got here, Lieutenant,” said Towering. “He reckons I’m going to grab his knife off of him. Good lad.”

Polly sliced the rope, brought her knife hand back quickly, and then carefully proffered the mug.

“And he’s made the tea lukewarm so’s it won’t hurt when I splashes it in his face,” Towering went on. He gave Polly the steady, honest gaze of the born bastard.

Polly held it, lie for lie.

“Oh, yeah. The Ankh-Morpork people’ve got a little printing press on a cart, over on the other side of the river,” said Towering, still watching Polly. “For morale, they say. And they sent the picture back to the city, too, on the clacks. Don’t ask me how. Oh yeah, a good picture. ‘Plucky Rookies Trounce Zlobenia’s Finest,’ they wrote. Funny thing, but it looks like the writer man didn’t spot it was the prince. But we all did!”

His voice became even more friendly. “Now look, mates, as a foot soldier like yourselves, I’m all for seeing the bloody donkey-boys made to look fools, so you come along with me and I’ll see to it that at least you don’t sleep in chains tomorrow. That’s my best offer.” He took a sip of tea, and added, “It’s a better one than most of the Tenth got, I’ll tell you. I heard your regiment got wiped out.”

Polly’s expression didn’t change, but she felt herself curl up into a tiny ball behind it. Look at the eyes, look at the eyes. Liar. Liar.

“Wiped out?” said Blouse.

Towering dropped his mug of tea. He smacked the crossbow out of Wazzer’s grip with his left hand, grabbed the saber from Igorina with his right hand, and brought the curved blade down on the rope between his legs. It happened fast, before any of them could quite focus on the change in the situation, and then the sergeant was on his feet, slapping Blouse across the face and grabbing him in an armlock.

“And you were right, kiddo,” he said to Polly, over Blouse’s shoulder. “Cryin’ shame you ain’t an officer, eh?”

The last of the fallen tea dribbled into the soil. Polly reached slowly for her crossbow.

“Don’t. One step, one move from any of you, and I’ll cut him,” said the sergeant. “Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, believe me—”

“The difference between them and me is, I don’t care.”

Five heads turned. There was Jackrum, outlined against the distant firelight. He had the man’s own bow, drawn taut, and aimed directly at the sergeant in complete disregard of the fact that the lieutenant’s head was in the way. Blouse closed his eyes.

“You’d shoot your own officer?” said Towering.

“Yep. Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, neither,” said Jackrum. “You ain’t going nowhere, friend, except down. Easy or hard…I don’t care.” The bow creaked.

“You’re just bluffing, mister.”

“Upon my oath, I am not a bluffing man. I don’t think we was ever introduced, by the way. Jackrum’s the name.”

The change in the man was a whole-body event. He seemed to get smaller, as if every cell had said “oh dear” very quietly to itself. He sagged, and Blouse slumped a little.

“Can I—”

“Too late,” said Jackrum.

Polly never forgot the sound the arrow made.

Jackrum laid the bow aside carefully. “Found out who he was messing with,” he said as if nothing much had happened. “Shame, really. Seemed like a decent sort. Any saloop left, Perks?”

There was silence, and then a thump as Towering’s body finally overbalanced and hit the ground.

Very slowly, Lieutenant Blouse raised his hand to his ear, which the arrow had perforated en route to its target, and then looked with strange detachment at the blood on his fingers.

“Oh, sorry about that, sir,” said Jackrum jovially. “Just saw the one chance and I thought, well, it’s the fleshy part. Get yourself a gold earring, sir, and you’ll be the height of fashion! Quite a large gold earring, maybe.”

“Don’t you all believe that stuff about the Ins-and-Outs,” Jackrum went on. “That was just lies. So what we do now is…can anyone tell me what we do now?”

“Er…bury the body?” hazarded Igorina.

“Yeah, but check his boots. He’s got small feet and the Zlobenians have much better boots than us.”

“Steal the boots off a dead man, Sarge?” said Wazzer, still in shock.

“Easier that getting ’em off a live one!”

Jackrum softened his voice a little when he saw their expressions. “Lads, this is war, understand? He was a soldier, they were soldiers, you are soldiers…more or less. No soldier will see grub or good boots go to waste. Bury ’em decent and say what prayers you can remember, and hope they’ve gone where there’s no fighting.” He raised his voice back to the normal bellow. “Perks, round up the others! Igor, cover the fire, try to make it look like we were never here! We are moving out in number ten minutes! Can make a few miles before full daylight! That’s right, eh, Lieutenant?”

Blouse was still transfixed, but seemed to wake up now.

“What? Oh. Yes. Right. Yes, indeed. Er…yes. Carry on, Sergeant.”

The fire gleamed off Jackrum’s triumphal face. In the red glow, his little dark eyes were like holes in space, his grinning mouth the gateway to a Hell, his bulk some monster from the Abyss.

He let it happen, Polly knew. He obeyed orders. He didn’t do anything wrong. But he could have sent Maladict and Jade to help us, instead of Wazzer and Igorina, who aren’t quick with weapons. He sent the others away. He had the bow ready. He played a game with us as pieces, and won…

Poor old soldier! her father and his friends had sung while frost formed on the window panes. Poor old soldier! If ever I ’list for a soldier again…the Devil shall be my sergeant!

In the firelight, the grin of Sergeant Jackrum was a crescent of blood, his coat the color of a battlefield sky.

“You are my little lads,” he roared. “And I will look after you.”

 

They made more than six miles before Jackrum called a halt, and already the land was changing. There were more rocks, fewer trees. The Kneck Valley was rich and fertile and it was from here that the fertility had been washed; it was a land-cape of ravines and thick scrub woodland, with a few small communities scratching a living from the poverty-stricken soil.

It was a good place to hide. And, in here, someone had already hidden. It was a stream-carved gully, but, at the end of summer, the stream here was just a trickle between the rocks. Jackrum must have found it by smell, because you couldn’t see it from the track.

The ashes of the fire in the small gully were still warm. The sergeant got up, awkwardly, after inspecting them.

“Some lads like our pals from last night,” he said.

“Couldn’t it just be a hunter, Sarge?” said Maladict.

“It could, Corporal, but it ain’t,” said Jackrum. “I brought you in here ’cos it looks like a blind gully and there’s water and there’s good vantages points up there and over there,” he pointed, “and there’s a decent overhang to keep the weather off and it’s hard for anyone to creep up on us. Milit’ry, in other words. And someone else thought the same as me last night. So while they’re out there looking for us, we’ll sit snug here, where they’ve already looked. Get a couple of lads up on guard right now.”

Polly drew first watch, atop the small cliff at the edge of the gully. It was a good site, no doubt about it. A regiment could hide here. No one could get near without being seen, too. And she was pulling her weight like a proper member of the squad, so, with any luck, Blouse would find someone else to shave him before she was off duty.

Through a gap in the treetops below she could see a road of sorts running though the woodland. She kept an eye on it.

Eventually, Tonker relieved her with a cup of soup. On the far side of the gully, Wazzer was being replaced by Lofty.

“Where’re you from, Ozz?” said Tonker, while Polly savored the soup.

There couldn’t be any harm in telling. “Munz,” said Polly.

“Really? Someone said you worked in a bar. What was the inn called?”

Ah…there was the harm, right there. But she could hardly lie, now.

“The Duchess,” she said.

“That big place? Very nobby. Did they treat you okay?”

“What? Oh…yes. Yes. Pretty fair.”

“Hit you at all?”

“Eh? No. Never,” said Polly, nervous of where this was going.

“Work you hard?”

Polly had to consider this. In truth, she worked harder than both maids, and they at least had an afternoon off every week.

“I was usually the first one up and the last one to bed, if that’s what you mean,” she said. And, to change the subject quickly, she went on: “What about you? You know Munz?”

“We both lived there, me and Tilda—I mean Lofty,” said Tonker.

“Oh? Whereabouts?”

“The Girls’ Working School,” said Tonker and looked away.

And that’s the kind of trap small talk can get you in, Polly thought.

“Not a nice place, I think,” she said, feeling stupid.

“It was not a nice place, yes. A very nasty place,” said Tonker. “Wazzer was there, we think. We think it was her. Used to be sent out a lot on work hire.” Polly nodded. Once, a girl from the School came and worked as a maid at The Duchess. She’d arrive every morning, scrubbed raw in a clean pinafore, peeling off from a line of very similar girls led by a teacher and flanked by a couple of large men with long sticks. She was skinny, polite in a dull, trained sort of way, worked very hard and never talked to anybody. She was gone in three months, and Polly never found out why.

Tonker stared into Polly’s eyes, almost mocking her innocence. “We think she was the one they used to lock up sometimes in the special room. That’s the thing about the School. If you don’t toughen up you go funny in the head.”

“I expect you were glad to leave,” was all Polly could say.

“The basement window was unlocked,” said Tonker. “But I promised Tilda we’d go back one day next summer.”

“Oh, so it wasn’t that bad, then?” said Polly, grateful for some relief.

“No, it’ll burn better,” said Tonker. “Ever run across someone called Father Jupe?”

“Oh, yes,” said Polly, and, feeling that something more was expected of her, added, “He used to come to dinner when my mother—he used to come to dinner. A bit pompous, but he seemed okay.”

“Yes,” said Tonker. “He was good at seeming.”

Once again there was a dark chasm in the conversation that not even a troll could bridge, and all you could do was draw back from the edge.

“I’d better go and see to the lieu—to the rupert,” Polly said, standing up. “Thank you very much for the soup.”

She worked her way down through the scree and birch thickets until she emerged by the little stream that ran through the gully.

And there, like some awful river god, was Sergeant Jackrum.

His red coat, a tent for lesser men, was draped carefully over a bush. He himself was sitting on a rock with his shirt off and his huge suspenders dangling, so that only a yellowing woolen undershirt saved the world from a sight of the man’s bare chest. For some reason, though, he’d kept his shako on.

His shaving kit, with a razor like a small machete and a shaving brush you could use to hang wallpaper, was on the rock beside him.

Jackrum was bathing his feet in the stream. He glanced up when Polly approached, and nodded amiably.

“’Morning, Perks,” he said. “Don’t rush. Never rush for ruperts. Sit down for a spell. Get yer boots off. Let yer feet feel the fresh air. Look after your feet, and your feet will look after you.” He pulled out his big clasp-knife and the rope of chewing tobacco. “Sure you won’t join me?”

“No thanks, Sarge.” Polly sat down on a rock on the opposite side of the stream, which was only a few feet wide, and started to tug at her boots. She felt as though she’d been given an order. Besides, right now she felt she needed the shock of clean, cold water.

“Good lad. Filthy habit. Worse’n the smokes,” said Jackrum, carving off a lump. “Got started on it when I was but a lad. Better’n striking a light at night, see? Don’t want to give away your position. ’Course, you gotta gob a bundle every so often, but gobbin’ in the dark don’t show up.”

Polly dabbled her feet. The icy water did indeed feel refreshing. It seemed to jolt her alive. In the trees around the gully, birds sang.

“Say it, Perks,” said Jackrum, after a while.

“Say what, Sarge?”

“Oh, bleedin’ hell, Perks, it’s a nice day, don’t muck me around. I seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

“All right, Sarge. You murdered that man last night.”

“Really? Prove it,” said Jackrum calmly.

“Well, I can’t, can I? But you set it up. You even sent Igor and Wazzer to guard him. They’re not good with weapons.”

“How good would they have to be, d’you think? Four of you against a man tied up?” said Jackrum. “Nah. That sergeant was dead the moment we got ’im, and he knew it. It took a bloody genius like your rupert to make him think he’s got a chance. We’re out in the woods, lad. What was Blouse gonna do with him? Who’d we hand him over to? Would the lieutenant cart him around with us? Or tie him to a tree and leave him to kick wolves away until he gets too tired? Much more gentlemanly than giving him a quiet cigarette and a swift chop where you go quick, which is what he was expecting and what I’d have given him.”

Jackrum popped the tobacco into his mouth. “You know what most of the milit’ry training is, Perks?” he went on. “All that yelling from little spitbubs like Strappi? It’s to turn you into a man who will, on the word of command, stick his blade into some poor sod just like him who happens to be wearing the wrong uniform. He’s like you, you’re like him. He doesn’t really want to kill you, you don’t really want to kill him. But if you don’t kill him first, he’ll kill you. That’s the start and finish of it. It don’t come easy without trainin’. Ruperts don’t get that trainin’, ’cos they are gentlemen. Well, upon my oath, I am no gentleman, and I’ll kill when I have to, and I said I’d keep you safe and no damn rupert’s going to stop me. He gave me my discharge papers!” Jackrum added, radiating indignance. “Me! And expected me to thank him! Every other rupert I’ve served under has had the sense to write ‘Not posted here’ or ‘On extended patrol’ or something and shove it back in the mail, but not him.”

“What was it you said to Corporal Strappi that made him run away?” said Polly before she could stop herself.

Jackrum looked at her for a while, with no expression in his eyes. Then he gave a strange little chuckle.

“Now why would a little lad like you say a little thing like that?” he said.

“Because he just vanished and suddenly some old rule means you’re back on the strength, Sarge,” said Polly. “That’s why I said that little thing.”

“Hah! And there’s no such rule, either, not like that one,” said Jackrum, splashing his feet. “But ruperts never read the book of rules unless they’re trying to find a reason to hang you, so I was safe there. Strappi was scared shitless, you know that.”

“Yes, but he could have slipped away later on,” said Polly. “He wasn’t stupid. Rushing off into the night? He must’ve had something real close to run from, right?”

“Cor, that’s an evil brain you have there, Perks,” said Jackrum happily. Once again Polly had the definite feeling that Jackrum was enjoying this, just as he’d seemed pleased when she’d argued about the uniform. He wasn’t a bully like Strappi—he treated Igorina and Wazzer with something approaching fatherly concern—but with Polly and Maladict and Tonker he pushed all the time, wanting you to push back.

“It does the job, Sarge,” she said.

“I just had a little tate-ah-tate with him, as it were. Quiet, like. Explained all the nasty things that can happen vees-ah-vee the confusion o’ war.”

“Like being found with his throat cut?” said Polly.

“Has been known to happen,” said Jackrum innocently. “You know, lad, you’re going to make a damn good sergeant one day. Any fool can use his eyes and ears, but you uses that brain to connect ’em up.”

“I’m not going to be a sergeant! I’m going to get the job done and go home!” said Polly vehemently.

“Yes, I said that once, too,” grinned Jackrum. “Perks, I don’t need no clacky thing. I don’t need newsy paper. Sergeant Jackrum knows what’s going on. He talks to them men coming back, the ones that won’t talk to anyone else. I know more than the rupert, for all that he gets little letters from HQ that worry him so much. Everyone talks to Sergeant Jackrum. And in his big fat head, Sergeant Jackrum puts it all together. Sergeant Jackrum knows what’s going on.”

“And what’s that, Sarge?” said Polly innocently.

Jackrum didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he reached down with a grunt and rubbed one of his feet. The corroded shilling on a string, which had lain innocently on the woolen undershirt, swung forward. But there was something else. For a moment, something golden slipped out of the undershirt’s open neck. Something oval and golden, on a golden chain, flashed in the sunlight. Then he straightened up and it was dragged back out of sight.

“This is a bloody odd war, lad,” he said. “It’s true there’s not just Zlobenian soldiers out there. Lads say there is uniforms they’d never seen before. We’ve kicked a lot of backsides over the years, so maybe they really have ganged up and it’s gonna be our turn. But what I reckon is, they’re stuck. They took the Keep. Oh, yes, I know. But they’ve got to hold on to it. And winter’s coming home and all those lads from Ankh-Morpork and everywhere are a long way from home. We might have a chance yet. Hah, especially now the prince is dead set on finding the young soldier that kneed him in the wedding tackle. That means he’s angry. He’ll make mistakes.”

“Well, Sarge, I think—”

“I’m glad you do, Private Perks,” said Jackrum, suddenly becoming a sergeant again. “And I think that after you’ve seen to the rupert and had a nap, you and me is going to show the lads some swordsmanship. Whatever bleedin’ war this is, sooner or later young Wazzer is going to have to use that blade he waggles about. Get going!”

Polly found Lieutenant Blouse sitting with his back to the cliff, eating scubbo out of a bowl. Igorina was packing away her medical kit, and Blouse’s ear was bandaged.

“Everything all right, sir?” she said. “Sorry I wasn’t—”

“I quite understand, Perks, you must stand your turn like the other ‘lads,’” said Blouse, and Polly heard the quotes clank into place. “I had a refreshing nap, and the bleeding and, indeed, the shaking has quite stopped. However…I do still need a shave.”

“You want me to shave you,” said Polly, her heart sinking.

“I must set an example, Perks, but I have to say, you ‘lads’ make such an effort it puts me to shame. You all seem to have faces ‘as smooth as a baby’s bottom,’ I must say!”

“Yes, sir.” Polly pulled out the shaving gear and walked over to the fire, where the kettle was permanently boiling. Most of the squad was dozing, but Maladict was sitting cross-legged by the fire, doing something to his hat.

“Heard about the prisoner last night,” he said, without looking up. “I don’t think the El-Tee is going to last very long, what do you think?”

“The who?”

“The lieutenant. From what I hear, Blouse’s probably going to have a nasty accident. Jackrum thinks he’s dangerous.”

“He’s learning, just like us.”

“Yes, but the El-Tee’s supposed to know what to do. Do you think he does?”

“Jackrum’s stuck, too,” said Polly, topping up the kettle with cold water. “I think we just keep going.”

“If there’s anything there to get to,” said Maladict. He held up the shako. “What do you think?”

The words BORN TO DIE had been chalked on the side of the hat, next to the packet of cigarettes.

“Very…individual,” said Polly. “Why do you smoke? It’s not very…vampire, really.”

“Well, I’m not supposed to be very vampire,” said Maladict, lighting up with a shaking hand. “It’s the sucking. I need it. I’m on edge. I’m getting the no-coffee jitters. I’m not good with woods in any case.”

“But you’re a vam—”

“Yeah, yeah, if this was crypts, no problem, But I keep thinking I’m surrounded by lots of pointy stakes. Truth is…I’m beginning to hurt. It’s like going cold bat all over again! I’m getting the voices and the sweats…”

“Shssh,” said Polly, as Shufti grunted in her sleep. “You can’t be,” she hissed. “You said you’d been going straight for two years!”

“Oh, bl…blur…blood?” said Maladict. “Who said anything about blood? I’m talking about coffee, dammit!”

“We’ve got plenty of tea—” Polly began.

“You don’t understand! This is about…craving. You never stop craving, you just switch it to something that doesn’t cause people to turn you into a short kebab! I need coffee!”

Why me? Polly thought. Do I have this little sign on me saying “tell me your troubles”?

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said and hastily filled the shaving mug.

Polly hurried back with the water, ushered Blouse to a rock, and stirred up some foam. She sharpened the razor, taking as long as she dared. When he coughed impatiently, she took up position, raised the razor, and prayed…

…but not to Nuggan. Never to Nuggan, since her mother died…

And then Lofty was running across the ground, trying to shout a whisper.

“Movement!”

Blouse nearly lost another earlobe.

Out from nowhere came Jackrum, boots on but suspenders dangling. He grabbed Lofty by the shoulder and swung her around.

“Where?” he demanded.

“There’s a track down there! Troopers! Carts! What do we do, Sarge!”

“We keep the noise down!” muttered Jackrum. “Are they heading up here?”

“No, they went right past, Sarge!”

Jackrum turned and gave the rest of the squad a satisfied look.

“O-kay. Corporal, take Carborundum and Perks and go and take a look. The rest of you, tool up and try to be brave. Eh, Lieutenant?”

Blouse bemusedly dabbed foam off his face.

“What? Oh. Yes. See to it, Sergeant.”

Twenty seconds later, Polly was running after Maladict, down the slope. Here and there the bottom of a valley could be seen through the trees, and as she glanced down, she saw sunlight flash off something metal. At least the trees had coated the woodland floor with a thick layer of needles, and, contrary to popular opinion, most woods aren’t littered with branches that snap loudly.

They reached the edge of the woods, where bushes fought one another for their place in the sun, and found a spot with a view.

There were only four troopers, in an unfamiliar uniform, riding in pairs ahead and behind a cart. It was small, and had a canvas cover.

“What’s in a little cart that four men have to protect?” said Maladict. “It must be valuable!”

Polly pointed to the huge flag that hung limply from a pole on the wagon.

“I think it’s the newspaper man,” she said. “It’s the same cart. Same flag, too.”

“Then it’s a good thing they’ve gone right past,” hissed Maladict. “Let’s just see them out of sight and creep away like good little mice, okay?”

The party was traveling at the speed of the cart and, at this point, the two riders in the lead stopped and turned in their saddles, waiting for it to catch up. Then one of them pointed back, past the hidden watchers. There was a shout, too far away to be understood. The troopers in the rear trotted up to the cart, met with their comrades, and all four turned to look up. There was some discussion, and two riders trotted back along the road.

“Oh, darn,” said Polly. “What have they spotted?”

The horsemen went past their hiding place. A few moments latter, they heard the horses enter the woods.

“Do we run an’ get ’em?” said Jade.

“Let Jackrum do that,” said Maladict.

“But if he does, and the men don’t come back—” Polly began.

“When they don’t come back,” Maladict corrected her.

“—then those other two will get suspicious, won’t they? One will probably stay here, the other will go to get help.”

“Then we’ll sneak up and wait,” said Maladict. “Look, they’ve dismounted. The cart’s pulled in, too. If they look as though they’re worried, we’ll move in.”

“And do what, exactly?” said Polly.

“Threaten to shoot them,” said Maladict firmly.

“And if they don’t believe us?”

“Then we’ll threaten to shoot them in a much louder voice,” said Maladict. “Happy? And I hope to hell they’ve got some coffee!”

 

There are three things a soldier wants to do when there’s a respite on the road. One involves lighting a cigarette, one involves lighting a fire, and the other one involves no flames at all but does, generally, require a tree.*

The two troopers had a fire going and a billycan steaming, when a young man jumped down from the cart, stretched his arms, looked around, yawned, and sauntered a little way into the forest.

He found a convenient tree and, a moment later, was apparently examining the bark at eye height with studied enthusiasm.

The tip of a steel crossbow bolt pressed against the back of his neck, and a voice said: “Raise you hands and turn around slowly!”

“What, right now?”

“Um…all right, no. You can finish what you’re doing.”

“Actually I think that’s going to be quite impossible. Let me just, er…right. Okay.” The man raised his hands again. “You realize I just have to shout?”

“So?” said Polly. “I just have to pull this trigger. Shall we have a race?”

The man turned around.

“See?” said Polly, stepping back. “It’s him again. De Worde. The writer man.”

“You’re them!” he said.

“Dem who?” said Jade.

“Oh dear,” said Maladict.

“Look, I’d give anything to talk to you!” said de Worde. “Please?”

“You’re with the enemy!” hissed Polly.

“What? Them? No! They’re from Lord Rust’s regiment. From Ankh-Morpork! They’ve been sent to protect us!”

“Troops to protect you in Borogravia?” said Maladict. “Who from?”

“You mean from whom? Er…well…you, in theory.”

Jade leaned down. “Efficient, aren’t dey…”

“Look, I must talk to you,” said the man urgently. “This is astounding! Everyone’s looking for you! Did you kill that old couple in the woods?”

Birds sang. Far off, there was the call of the female blue-capped woodpecker.

“A patrol found the fresh graves,” said de Worde.

High above, an ice heron, a winter migrant from the Hub, gave an ugly honk as it searched for lakes.

“I take it you didn’t, then,” said de Worde.

“We buried them,” said Maladict coldly. “We don’t know who killed them.”

“We did take some vegetables,” said Polly. She remembered laughing about it. Admittedly, it was only because it was that or start crying, but even so…

“You’ve been living off the land?” He’d tugged a notebook out of his pocket and was scribbling in it with a pencil.

“We don’t have to talk to you,” said Maladict.

“No, no, you must! There’s so much you need to know! You’re in the…Ups-and-Downs, right?”

“Ins-and-Outs,” said Polly.

“And you—” the man began.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said Maladict and marched away from the tree and into the clearing. The two cavalrymen looked up from their fire, and there was a moment of immobility before one reached for his sword.

Maladict swung the bow quickly from one to the other, its point hypnotizing them like a swinging watch. “I’ve got only one shot but there’s two of you,” he said. “Who shall I shoot? You chose. Now, listen very carefully: where’s your coffee? You’ve got coffee, haven’t you? C’mon, everyone’s got coffee! Spill the beans!”

They stared at the crossbow and slowly shook their heads.

“What about you, writer man?” snarled Maladict. “Where’re you hiding the coffee?”

“We only have cocoa,” said the writer, raising his hands quickly as Maladict turned on him. “You’re welcome to—”

Maladict dropped his crossbow, which fired straight up into the air,* and sat down with his head in his hands.

“We’re all gonna die,” he said. The troopers shifted as though to stand up, and Jade raised her sapling.

“Don’t even fink about it,” she said.

Polly turned to the writer man. “You want us to talk to you, sir? Then you talk to us. Is this about…Prince Heinrich’s…socks?”

Maladict stood up in one mad movement. “I say we grease the lot of them and go home!” he said to no one in particular. “One, Two, Three! What We Are Fighting For!”

“Socks?” said the writer, looking nervously at the vampire. “What’ve socks got to do with it?”

“I just gave you an order, Polly,” said Maladict.

“What is it you think we don’t know?” Polly insisted, glaring at de Worde.

“Well, to start with, you’re just about all that’s left of the Ins-and-Outs—”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, there’s prisoners and wounded, I think. But why should I lie to you? Why did he call you Polly?”

“Because I know a lot about birds,” said Polly, mentally cursing. “How do you know what’s been happening to the regiment?”

“Because it’s my job to know things,” said the man. “What’s that bird up there?”

Polly glanced up. “I don’t have time for stupid games,” she said. “And that’s a—”

She stopped. Something was wheeling high above, in the forbidden blue.

“You don’t know?” said de Worde.

“Yes, of course I know,” said Polly irritably. “It’s a white-necked buzzard. But I thought they never came this far into the mountains. I only ever saw one in a book—” She raised her bow again, and tried to take control. “Am I right, Mr. It’s-my-job-to-know-things?”

De Worde raised his hands again and gave her a sickly smile. “Probably,” he said. “I live in a city. I know sparrows from starlings. After that, everything’s a duck, as far as I’m concerned.”

Polly glared at him.

“Look, please,” said the man. “You need to listen to me. You need to know things. Before it’s too late.”

Polly lowered the bow.

“If you want to talk to us, wait here,” she said. “Corporal, we are leaving. Carborundum, pick up those troopers!”

“Hold it,” said Maladict. “Who’s the corporal in this squad?”

“You are,” said Polly. “And you’re drooling, and swaying, and your eyes look weird. So what was your point, please?”

Maladict considered this. Polly was tired and frightened, and, somewhere inside, this was all being transmuted into anger. Hers was not an expression you wanted to see at the far end of a crossbow. An arrow couldn’t kill a vampire, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“Right, yeah,” he said. “Carborundum, pick up those troopers! We are leaving!”

 

There was a bird whistle as Polly neared the hiding place. She identified this one as the sound of the Very Bad Bird Impersonator, and made a note to teach the girls some bird calls that at least sounded real. They were harder to do than most people thought.

The squad were in the gully, armed and at at least looking dangerous. There was a certain amount of relaxation when they saw Jade carrying the two bound troopers.

Two more were sitting disconsolately against the cliff, hands tied behind them.

Maladict walked smartly up to Blouse and saluted.

“Two prisoners, El-Tee, and Perks thinks there’s someone down there you ought to talk to.” He leaned forward. “The newspaper man, sir.”

“Then we’ll jolly well keep well away from him, then,” said Blouse. “Eh, Sergeant?”

“Right, sir!” said Jackrum. “Nothing but trouble, sir!”

Polly saluted madly. “Please, sir! Permission to speak, sir!”

“Yes, Perks?” said Blouse.

Polly saw there was one chance, and one only. She had to find out about Paul. Now her mind worked as fast as it had on the hill last night, when she’d gone for the man with the code book.

“Sir, I don’t know if he’s worth talking to, sir, but he may be worth listening to. Even if you think he’ll only tell us lies. Because sometimes, sir, the way people tell you lies, if they tell you enough lies, well, they sort of…show you what shape the truth is, sir. And we don’t have to tell him the truth, sir. We could lie to him, too.”

“I am not by nature an untruthful man, Perks,” said Blouse coldly.

“Glad to hear it, sir. Are we winning the war, sir?”

“You stop that right now, Perks!” Jackrum roared.

“It was only a question, Sarge,” said Polly reproachfully.

Around the clearing the squad waited, ears sucking up every sound. Everyone knew the answer. They waited for it to be said aloud.

“Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency,” Blouse began, but he said it as if he didn’t believe it and didn’t care who knew.

“No, sir. It doesn’t really. It’s better than being lied to,” said Polly. She changed her voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was being scolded. “It’s evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please.”

Some harmonic of that must had found a home in an old part of Blouse’s brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a hand.

“We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet.”

“I think we all know that, sir, but it’s good to hear you say it,” said Polly, giving him an encouraging smile.

That seemed to work, too. “I suppose there is no harm in at least being civil to the wretched fellow,” said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. “He may give away valuable information under cunning questioning.”

Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man in prayer.

“Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Permission denied, Sergeant,” said Blouse. “I’d like him to live and don’t want to lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and drive it up here.”

Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to recognize it; it meant that Jackrum had already made plans.

“Very good, sir,” he said. “Come on, Perks.”

Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted slope. Then, after a while, he said: “D’you know why them troopers found our little nook, Perks?”

“No, Sarge.”

“The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. There wasn’t as if there was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it.”

Polly gave this a few seconds’ thought.

“Steam, Sarge?”

“Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti’s fault. The gallopers weren’t any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen crossbows, at least. That’s clever, for a cavalryman.”

“Well done, Sarge.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I was rupert, lad,” said Jackrum easily.

“Sorry, Sarge.”

“I see you’re learnin’ how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make sure they gives you the right orders, see? You’ll make a good sergeant, Perks.”

“Don’t want to, Sarge.”

“Yeah, right,” said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.

After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and headed toward the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a notebook, but he stood up hurriedly when he saw them.

“It’d be a good idea to get off the track,” he said as soon as they approached. “There are a lot of patrols, I understand.”

“Zlobenian patrols, sir?” said Jackrum.

“Yes. In theory, this—” he pointed to the flag that hung limply from the cart—“should keep us safe, but everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren’t you Sergeant Jack Ram?”

“Jackrum, sir. And I’ll thank you for not writing my name down in your little book, sir.”

“Sorry, Sergeant, but that’s my job,” said de Worde breezily. “I have to write things down.”

“Well, sir, soldierin’ is my job,” said Jackrum, climbing onto the cart and gathering up the reins. “But you’ll note how at this moment in time I am not killin’ you. Let’s go, eh?”

Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was full of boxes and equipment, and while it may once have been neatly organized, that organization was now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the property of a man. Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen dozed on a perch in their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of them opened one eye and lazily went “Lollollop?” which is pigeon for “Duh?”

Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like—she leaned closer—“Capt. Horace Calumney’s Patent Field Biscuits,” and “Dried Stew.” As she was musing that Shufti would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of these boxes, a bundle of clothes hanging from the ceiling of the rocking cart moved slightly and a face appeared.

“Good mornink,” it said, upside down.

William de Worde turned around on the seat in front.

“It’s only Otto, Private,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Yes, I vill not bite,” said the face cheerfully. It smiled. A vampire’s face does not look any better upside down, and a smile in these circumstances does nothing to improve matters. “That is guaranteed.”

Polly lowered the crossbow. Jackrum would have been impressed at how quickly she had raised it. So was she, and embarrassed too. The socks were doing the thinking again.

Otto very elegantly lowered himself to the bed of the cart.

“Vere are ve goink?” he said, steadying himself as they bounced over a rut.

“A little place I know, sir,” said Jackrum. “Nice and quiet.”

“Goot, I need to exercise the imps,” said the vampire. “Zey get fretful if they are cooped up for too long.” Otto pushed aside a stack of paper and revealed his large picture-making box. He lifted a small hatch.

“Rise und shine, lads,” he said. There was a chorus of high-pitched voices from inside.

“I’d better just give you the heads up re Tiger, Mr. de Worde,” said Jackrum as the cart rolled up an old logging track.

“Tiger? Who’s Tiger?”

“Oops,” said Jackrum. “Sorry, that’s what we call the lieutenant, sir, on account of him being so brave. Forget I said that, will you?”

“Brave, is he?” said de Worde.

“And clever, sir. Don’t let him fool you, sir. He is one of the great milit’ry minds of his generation, sir.”

Polly’s mouth dropped open. She’d suggested they lie to the man, but…this?

“Really? Then why is he just a lieutenant?” said the writer.

“Ah, I can see there’s no fooling you, sir,” said Jackrum, oozing knowingness. “Yes, it’s a puzzler, sir, why he calls himself a lieutenant. Still, I daresay he has his reasons, eh? Just like Heinrich calling himself a captain, right?” He tapped the side of his nose. “I see everything, sir, and I don’t say a word!”

“All I could find out was that he did some kind of desk job at your HQ, Sergeant,” said de Worde. Polly saw him taking his notebook out, slowly and carefully.

“Yes, I expect that’s what you would find out, sir,” said Jackrum with a huge conspiratorial wink. “And then, when things are at their worst, they let him out, sir. They unleash him, sir. Me, I don’t know a thing, sir.”

“What does he do, explode?” said de Worde.

“Haha, nice one, sir!” said Jackrum. “No, sir. What he does, sir, is assess situations, sir. I don’t understand it myself, sir, not being a big thinker, but the proof of the pudding, sir, is in the eating of same, and last night we were jumped by eight…twenty Zlobenian troopers, sir, and the lieutenant just assessed the situation in a flash and skewered five of the buggers, sir. Like a kebab, sir. Mild as milk to look at, but rouse him and he’s a whirlwind of death. Of course, you did not hear it from me, sir.”

“And he’s in charge of a bunch of recruits, Sergeant?” said de Worde. “That doesn’t sound very likely to me.”

“Recruits who captured some crack cavalrymen, sir,” said Jackrum, looking pained. “That’s leadership for you. Comes the hour, comes the man, sir. I’m just a simple old soldier, sir, seen ’em come and seen ’em go. Upon my oath, I am not a lying man, sir, but I look at Lieutenant Blouse in wonderment.”

“He just seemed confused, to me,” said de Worde, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“That was a bit of concussion, sir. He took a wallop that would have felled a lesser man, and still got back onto his feet. Amazing, sir!”

“Hmm,” said de Worde, making a note.

The cart splashed across the shallow little stream and rocked into the gully.

Lieutenant Blouse was sitting on a rock. He’d made an effort, but his tunic was grubby, his boots were muddy, his hand was swollen, and one ear, despite Igorina’s attentions, was still inflamed. He had his sword on his knees.

Jackrum carefully brought the cart to a halt by a thicket of birch trees. All four of the enemy troopers were tied up against the cliff. Apart from them, the camp appeared to be deserted.

“Where are the rest of the men, Sergeant?” whispered de Worde, as he slid down off the cart.

“Oh, they’re around, sir,” said Jackrum. “Watching you. Probably not a good idea to make any sudden moves, sir.”

No one else was visible…and then Maladict faded into view.

People never really looked at things, Polly knew. They glanced. And what had been a patch of scrub was now Corporal Maladict. Polly stared. He’d cut a hole in the center of his old blanket, and the mud and grass stains on the mildewed grayness had turned him into part of the landscape until he’d saluted. He’d also stuck leafy twigs all over his hat.

Sergeant Jackrum goggled. Polly had never really seen proper goggling before, but the sergeant had the face to do it at a championship level. She could feel him drawing breath while at the same time assembling cusswords for a right royal thundering—and then he remembered he was playing Sergeant Big Jolly Fat Man, and this was not the time to segue into Sergeant Incandescent.

“Lads, eh?” he chuckled to de Worde. “What will they think of next?”

De Worde nodded nervously, pulled a wad of newspapers from under his seat, and advanced on the lieutenant.

“Mr. de Worde, isn’t it?” said Blouse, standing up. “Perks, can we manage a cup of, er, ‘saloop’ for Mr. de Worde? There’s a good chap. Do take a rock, sir.”

“Good of you to see me, Lieutenant,” said de Worde. “It looks as though you’ve been in the wars!” he added with an attempt at joviality.

“No, only this one,” said Blouse, looking puzzled.

“I meant that you have been wounded, sir,” said de Worde.

“These? Oh, they’re nothing, sir. I’m afraid the one on my hand was self-inflicted. Sword drill, you know.”

“You’re left-handed then, sir?”

“Oh, no.”

Polly, washing out a mug, heard Jackrum say out of the corner of his mouth: “Should’ve seen the other two fellows, sir!”

“Are you aware of the progress of the war, Lieutenant?” said de Worde.

“You tell me, sir,” said Blouse.

“All your army is bottled up in the Kneck Valley. Dug in, mostly, just beyond the reach of the Keep’s weaponry. Your forts elsewhere along the border have been captured. The garrisons at Drerp and Glitz and Arblatt have been overwhelmed. As far as I can tell, Lieutenant, your squad are the only soldiers still at large. At least,” he added, “the only ones still fighting.”

“And my regiment?” said Blouse quietly.

“The remnant of the Tenth took part in a brave but, frankly, suicidal attempt to retake Kneck Keep a few days ago, sir. Most of the survivors are prisoners of war, and I have to tell you that almost all your high command have been captured. They were in the Keep when it was taken. There are big dungeons in that fort, sir, and they’re pretty full.”

“Why should I believe you?”

I do, thought Polly. So Paul is either dead, wounded, or captured. And it doesn’t help much to think of it as two chances in three that he is alive.

De Worde threw his newspapers at the lieutenant’s feet.

“It’s all there, sir. I didn’t make it up. It’s the truth. It will remain true whether you believe it or not. There are more than six countries ranged against you, including Genua and Mouldavia and Ankh-Morpork. There is no one on your side. You are alone. The only reason you’re not beaten yet is because you won’t admit it. I’ve seen your generals, sir! Great leaders, and your men fight like demons, but they won’t surrender!”

“Borogravia doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘surrender,’ Mr. de Worde,” said the lieutenant.

“May I loan you a dictionary, sir?” snapped de Worde, going red in the face. “It’s very similar to the meaning of the word ‘making some kind of peace while you’ve got a chance,’ sir! It’s rather like the word ‘quitting while you’ve still got a head,’ sir! Good heavens, sir, don’t you understand? The reason that there still is an army in Kneck Valley is that the allies haven’t yet decided what to do with it! They’re fed up with the slaughter!”

“Ah, so we still fight back!” said Blouse.

De Worde sighed.

“You don’t understand, sir. They are fed up with slaughtering you. They’ve got the Keep now. There’s some big war engines up there. They…frankly, sir, some of the alliance would just as soon wipe out the remains of your army. It’d be like shooting rats in a barrel. They have you at their mercy. And yet you keep on attacking! You attack the Keep! It’s on sheer rock and it’s got walls a hundred feet high! You make salients across the river! You’re bottled up and you’ve got nowhere to go and the allies could simply massacre you any time they want, and you act as if you’re just facing some kind of temporary setback! That’s what’s really happening, Lieutenant! You are just a last little detail!”

“Have a care, please,” Blouse warned.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know anything about recent history? In the past thirty years you have declared war on every single one of your neighbors at least once! All countries fight, but you brawl. And then last year you invaded Zlobenia again!”

“They invaded us, Mr. de Worde.”

“You have been misinformed, Lieutenant. You invaded the Kneck Province.”

“That was confirmed as Borogravian by the Treaty of Lint, more than a hundred years ago.”

“Signed at swordpoint, sir. And no one cares now, in any case. It’s all got beyond your stupid little royal scuffles. Because your men tore down the Grand Trunk, you see. The clacks towers. And tore up the coach road. Ankh-Morpork regards that as bandit activity.”

“Have a care, I said!” said Blouse. “I note you are displaying the Ankh-Morpork flag with evident pride on your wagon!”

“Civis Morporkias Sum, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork citizen. You could say that Ankh-Morpork shelters me under her wide and rather greasy wing, although, I agree, the metaphor could use some work.”

“Your Ankh-Morpork soldiers aren’t in a position to protect you, however.”

“Sir, you are right. You could have me killed right now,” said de Worde simply. “You know that. I know that. But you won’t, for three reasons. The officers of Borogravia tend towards honor. Everyone says that. That’s why they don’t surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don’t need to, because everyone’s interested in you! Suddenly, it’s all changed!”

“Interested in us?”

“Sir, in a sense you could help a lot right now. Apparently, people back in Ankh-Morpork were amazed when…look, have you heard about what we call ‘human interest,’ sir?”

“No.”

De Worde tried to explain. Blouse listened with his mouth open and, at the end, said:

“Have I got this right? Although many people have been killed and wounded in this wretched war, it’s not been of much ‘interest’ to your readers? But it is now, just because of us? Because of a little skirmish in a town they’ve never heard of? And because of it, we’re suddenly a ‘plucky little country’ and people are telling your newspaper that your great city should be on our side?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. We put out a second edition last night, you see. After I’d found out that ‘Captain Horentz’ was really Prince Heinrich. Did you know this at the time, sir?”

“Of course not!” snapped Blouse.

“And you, Private, er, Perks, would you have kicked him in the…would you have kicked him had you known?”

Polly dropped a mug in her nervousness, and looked at Blouse.

“You may answer, of course, Perks,” said the lieutenant.

“Well, yes, sir. I would have kicked him. Harder, probably. I was defending myself, sir,” Polly said, carefully avoiding further details. You couldn’t be sure what someone like de Worde would do with them.

“Right, good, yes!” said de Worde. “Then you might be pleased with this. Our cartoonist Fizz drew this for the special edition. It was on the front page. We’ve sold a record number of copies!”

He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, which, by the look of the creases, had been folded many times.

It was a line drawing, with lots of shading. It showed a huge figure with a large sword, a monstrous monocle, and a moustache as wide as a coat hanger, menacing a much smaller figure armed with nothing more than an instrument for lifting beets—in fact, there was a beet stuck on the end of it. At least, that was clearly what had been happening right up to the point when the smaller figure, wearing not a bad attempt at an Ins-and-Outs shako and a face that slightly looked like Polly’s, had kicked the other one squarely in the groinal regions.

A sort of balloon was coming out of Polly’s mouth, containing the words: “That for your Royal Prerogative, you Blaggard!” The balloon issuing from the mouth of the ogre, who could only be Prince Heinrich, said: “Oh my Succession! That such A Small Thing could Hurt So Much!”

And in the background, a fat woman in a rumpled ball-gown and a huge old-fashioned helmet was clasping her hands to an unbelievably large bosom, staring at the fight with a mixture of concern and admiration, and ballooning: “Oh, my Swain! I fear our Liaison is Cut Short!”

Since no one else was saying much, but was simply staring, de Worde said, rather nervously: “Fizz is rather, er, direct in these matters, but amazingly popular. Ahem. You see, the curious thing is that although Ankh-Morpork is probably the biggest bully around, in a subtle kind of way, we nevertheless have a soft spot for people who stand up to bullies. Especially royal ones. We tend to be on their side, provided it doesn’t cost us too much.”

Blouse cleared his throat.

“It’s quite a good likeness of you, Perks,” he said hoarsely.

“I only used my knee, sir!” Polly protested. “And that fat lady certainly wasn’t there!”

“That’s Morporkia,” said de Worde. “She’s a sort of representation of the city, except that, in her case, she’s not covered in mud and soot.”

“And I have to add, for my part,” said Blouse in his talking-to-a-meeting voice, “that Borogravia is in fact larger than Zlobenia, although most of the country is little more than barren mountainside—”

“That doesn’t actually matter,” said de Worde.

“It doesn’t?” said Blouse.

“No, sir. It’s just a fact. It’s not politics. In politics, sir, pictures like this are powerful. Sir, even the Alliance commanders are talking about you, and the Zlobenians are angry and bewildered. If you, the heroes of the hour, could make a plea for a little common sense—”

The lieutenant took a long, deep breath.

“This is a foolish war, Mr. de Worde. But I am a soldier. I have ‘kissed the Duchess,’ as we say. It’s an oath of loyalty. Don’t tempt me to break it. I must fight for my country. We will repel all invaders. If there are deserters, we will find them and rally them again. We know the country. While we are free, Borogravia will be free. You have ‘had your say.’ Thank you. Where is that tea, Perks?”

“What? Oh, nearly done, sir!” said Polly, turning back to the fire.

It had been a sudden strange fancy, but a stupid plan. Now, out here, all the drawbacks were visible. How would she have got Paul home? Would he have wanted to come? Could she have managed it? Even if he was still alive, how could she hope to get him out of a prison?

“So you’ll be guerrilla fighters, eh?” said Mr. de Worde, behind her. “Madmen, all of you.”

“No, we are not irregulars,” said Blouse. “We kissed the Duchess. We are soldiers.”

“Oh, well,” said de Worde. “Then I admire your spirit, at least. Ah, Otto…”

The vampire iconographer ambled up, and gave them a shy smile.

“Do not be afraid, I am a Black Ribboner, just like your corporal,” he said. “Light is mine passion now.”

“Oh? Er…well done,” said Blouse.

“Take the pictures, Otto,” said de Worde. “These gentlemen have a war to fight.”

“Out of interest, Mr. de Worde,’’ Blouse interrupted, “how did you get the pictures back to your city so quickly? Magic, I assume?”

“What?” De Worde looked momentarily off balance. “Oh no, sir. Wizards are expensive and Commander Vimes has said that there is going to be no first use of magic in this war. We send things by pigeon to our office in the Keep and then by clacks from the nearest trunk tower.”

“Oh, really?” said Blouse, showing rather more animation than Polly had seen up until now. “Using numbers to indicate a scale of gray shades, perhaps?”

“Mein Gots!” said Otto.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact we do,” said de Worde. “I’m very impressed that you—”

“I have seen the clacks towers on the far bank of the Kneck,” said Blouse, his eyes lighting up. “Very clever idea, using big shuttered boxes rather than the old-fashioned semaphore arms. And would I be right in my surmise that the box on the top, which opens its shutters once a second, is a kind of system, er, clock that makes certain the whole clacks line keeps in step? Oh, good. I thought so. One beat a second is probably the limit of the mechanisms, so no doubt all your efforts now are concentrated on maximizing the information content per shutter operation? Yes, I imagined that would be the case. As for sending pictures, well, sooner or later all things are numbers, yes? Of course, you would use each of the two columns of four boxes to send a gray code, but it must be very slow. Have you considered a squeezing algorithm?”

De Worde and Chriek exchanged a glance.

“Are you sure you haven’t been talking to anyone about this, sir?” said the writer.

“Oh, it’s all very elementary,” said Blouse, smiling happily. “I had thought about it in the context of military maps, which are, of course, mostly white space. So I wondered if it would be possible to indicate a required shade on one column and, on the other side, indicate how far along that rank that shade would persist. And a delightful bonus here is that if your map was simply in black and white, then you have even more—”

“You haven’t seen inside a clacks tower, have you?” said de Worde.

“Alas, no,” said Blouse. “This is simply ‘thinking aloud’ based on the de facto existence of your picture. I believe I can see a number of other little mathematical, ahem, tricks to make the passage of information even swifter, but I’m sure these have already occurred to you. And, of course, a fairly minor modification could potentially double the information burden of the whole system at a stroke. And, of course, that is without using colored filters at night, which I’m certain even with the overhead of extra mechanical effort would surely increase throughput by—I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

The two men both wore a glazed expression. De Worde shook himself.

“Oh…er, no. Nothing,” he said. “Er…you seem to have got the grasp of things very…quickly.”

“Oh, it was quite straightforward once I started thinking about it,” said Blouse. “It was exactly the same when I had to redesign the department’s filing system, you see. People build something that works. Then circumstances change, and they have to tinker with it to make it continue to work, and they are so busy tinkering that they cannot see that a much better idea would be to build a whole new system to deal with the new circumstances. But to an outsider, the idea is obvious.”

“In politics as well as, er, filing systems and clackses, do you think?” said de Worde.

Blouse’s brow wrinkled.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow…” he said.

“Would you agree that sometimes a country’s system is so out of date that it’s only the outsiders that can see the need for wholesale change?” said de Worde.

He smiled. Lieutenant Blouse did not.

“Just a point to ponder, maybe,” said de Worde. “Er…since you wish to tell the world of your defiance, would you object if my colleague takes your picture?”

Blouse shrugged. “If it gives you any satisfaction,” he said. “It’s an Abomination, of course, but these days it’s hard to find something that isn’t. You must tell the world, Mr. de Worde, that Borogravia won’t lie down. We will not give in. We will fight on. Write that down in your little notebook, please. While we can stand, we will kick!”

“Yes, but, once again, may I implore you to—”

“Mr. de Worde, you have I am sure heard the saying that the pen is mightier than the sword?”

De Worde preened a little. “Of course, and I—”

“Do you want to test it? Take your picture, sir, and then my men will escort you back to your road.”

Otto Chriek stood up and bowed to Blouse. He unslung his picture box.

“Zis vill only take vun minute,” he said.

It never does. But Polly watched in horrified fascination as Otto took picture after picture of Lieutenant Blouse in a variety of what the lieutenant thought were heroic poses. It is a terrible thing to see a man trying to jut out a chin he does not, in fact, have.

“Very impressive,” said de Worde. “I just hope you live to see it in my paper, sir.”

“I shall look forward to it with the keenest anticipation,” said Blouse. “And now, Perks, please go along with the sergeant and put these two gentlemen back on their way.”

Otto sidled up to Polly as they walked back to the cart.

“I need to tell you somezing about your vampire,” he said.

“Oh yes?”

“You are a friend of his?” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Polly. “Is something wrong?”

“Zere is a problem…”

“He’s got twitchy because he has run out of coffee?”

“Alas, if only it was zat simple.” Otto looked awkward. “You have to understand zat ven a vampire forgoes…the bvord, zere is a process zat ve call transference? Zey force Zemselves to desire somesing else? For me zis was not painful. I crave the perfection of light and shade! Pictures are my life! But your friend chose…coffee. And now he has none.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I vunder if you do. It probably seemed so sensible to him. It is a human craving, and no one minds if you say, as it might be, ‘I am dying for a cup of coffee,’ or ‘I’d kill for a cup of coffee.’ But vizout coffee, he vill, I am afraid…revert. You understand, zis is very difficult for me to talk about…” Otto trailed off.

“By ‘revert’ you mean…?”

“First vill come mild delusions, I zink. A psychic susceptibility to all kinds of influences from who knows vhere, and vampires can hallucinate so stronkly zat zey can be contagious. I zink zat is happening already. He vill become…erratic. Zis may last for several days. And zen his conditioning vill break and he vill be, vunce again, a true vampire. No more Mr. Nice Coffee Drinker Guy.”

“Can’t I do anything to help him?”

Otto reverentially laid his picture-box in the back of the cart, and turned to her.

“You can find him some coffee, or…you can keep a vooden stake and a big knife ready. You vould be doink him a favor, believe me.”

“I can’t do that!”

Otto shrugged. “Find someone who vill.”

 

“He is amazing!” said de Worde as the cart rocked back down through the trees. “I know the clacks is against your religion, but he seems to understand all about it!”

“Like I said, sir, he assesses stuff,” said Jackrum, beaming. “Mind like a razor.”

“He was talking about clacks algorithms that the companies are only just now investigating!” said de Worde. “That department he was talking about—”

“Ah, I can see nothing gets past you, sir,” said Jackrum. “Very hush-hush. Can’t talk about it!”

“To be frank, Sergeant, I’d always assumed that Borogravia was, well…backward.”

Jackrum’s smile was waxy and bright. “If we seem to be a long way back, sir, it’s only so’s we can get a good runup.”

“You know, Sergeant, it’s a great shame to see a mind like that wasted,” said de Worde as the cart lurched in a rut. “This is not an age of heroes and famous last stands and death-or-glory charges. Do your men a favor and try to tell him that, will you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” said Jackrum. “Here is your road, sir. Where will you be heading now?”

“To Kneck Valley, Sergeant. This is a good story, Sergeant. Thank you. Allow me to shake you by the hand.”

“Glad to hear you think that, sir,” said Jackrum, extending his hand. Polly heard the faint clink of coins in their passage from palm to palm. De Worde took the reins.

“But I must tell you, Sergeant, that we’ll probably send off our stuff by pigeon within the hour,” he said. “We will have to say you have prisoners.”

“Don’t worry about that, sir,” said Jackrum. “By the time their mates come out here to rescue those gallopers, we’ll be halfway back to the mountains. Our mountains.”

They parted. Jackrum watched them out of sight and turned to Polly.

“Him with his airs and graces,” he said. “Did you see that? He insulted me by giving me a tip!” He glanced at his palm. “Hmm, five Morpork dollars? Well, at least he’s a man who knows how to insult you handsomely,” he added, and the coins disappeared into his jacket with remarkable speed.

“I think he wants to help us, Sarge,” said Polly.

Jackrum ignored that. “I hate bloody Ankh-Morpork,” he said. “Who’re they to tell us what to do? Who cares what they think?”

“Do you think we can really join up with deserters, Sarge?”

“Nope. They deserted once, what’s to stop ’em a second time? They spat on the Duchess when they deserted, they can’t kiss and make up now. You get one kiss, that’s all.”

“But Lieutenant Blouse—”

“The rupert should stick to sums. He thinks he’s a soldier. Never walked on a battlefield in his life. All that rubbish he gave your man was death-or-glory stuff. And I’ll tell you, Perks, I’ve seen Death more often than I care to remember, but I’ve never clapped eyes on Glory. I’m all for sending the fools to look for us where we ain’t, though.”

“He’s not my man, Sarge,” said Polly.

“Yeah, well, you’re at home with the writin’ and readin’,” grumbled Jackrum. “You can’t trust the people who do that stuff. They mess around with the world, and it turns out everything you know is wrong.”

They reached the gully again. The squad had come back from their various hiding places, and most were clustered around one of the newspapers.

For the first time, Polly saw The Picture.

It was actually quite good, especially of Shufti and Wazzer. She was mostly hidden by the bulk of Jackrum. But you could see the sullen cavalrymen behind them, and their expressions were a picture in themselves.

“It’s a good one of Tonker,” said Igorina, who didn’t lisp so much when there were no officers to hear.

“Do you think having a picture like this is an Abomination Unto Nuggan?” said Shufti nervously.

“Probably,” said Polly absentmindedly. “Most things are.”

She ran her eye down the text next to the picture. It was full of phrases like “plucky farm boys” and “humiliation of some of Zlobenia’s best troops” and “sting in the tail.” She could see why it had caused trouble.

She rustled through the other pages. They were crammed with strange stories about places she’d never heard of, and pictures of people she didn’t recognize. But one page was a mass of gray text, under a line of much bigger printing, which read:

WHY THIS MAD STATE MUST BE STOPPED

Bewildered, her eye picked up phrases from the sea of letters: “disgraceful invasions of neighboring states,” “deluded worshippers of a mad god,” “a strutting bully,” “outrage after outrage,” “flying in the face of international opinion”…

“Don’t you lads read that rubbish, you don’t know where it’s been,” said Sergeant Jackrum jovially, arriving behind them. “It’ll all be lies. We are leaving right—Corporal Maladict!”

Maladict, emerging from the trees, gave a lazy salute. He was still wearing his blanket.

“What are you doing out of uniform?”

“I’m in uniform underneath, Sarge. We don’t want to be seen, right? Like this, we become part of the jungle!”

“It’s a forest, Corporal! And without bloody uniforms, how the hell will we know our friends from our enemies?”

Maladict lit a cigarette before he replied. “The way I see it, Sarge,” he said, “the enemy is everyone but us.”

“Just one moment, Sergeant,” said Blouse, who had looked up from a newspaper and had been watching the apparition with considerable interest. “There are precedents in antiquity, you know. General Song Sung Lo moved his army disguised as a field of sunflowers, and General Tacticus once commanded a battalion to dress as spruces.”

“Sunflowers?” said Jackrum, his voice oozing with disdain.

“Both actions were successful, Sergeant.”

“No uniforms? No badges? No stripes, sir?”

“Possibly you could be an extra-large bloom?” said Blouse, and his face betrayed no hint of amusement. “And you have surely carried out actions at night, when all markings are invisible?”

“Yessir, but night is night, sir, while sunflowers is…is sunflowers, sir! I’ve worn this uniform for more’n fift—all my life, sir, and sneaking around without a uniform is downright dishonorable! It’s for spies, sir!” Jackrum’s face had gone beyond red into crimson, and Polly was amazed to see tears in the corners of his eyes.

“How can we be spies, Sergeant, in our own country?” said Blouse calmly.

“The El-Tee’s got a point, Sarge,” said Maladict.

Jackrum turned like a bull at bay, and then, to Polly’s amazement, he sagged. But she wasn’t amazed for long. She knew the man. She didn’t know why, but there was something about Jackrum that she could read. It was in the eyes. He could lie with eyes as honest and tranquil as those of an angel. And if he appeared to be backing away, it was indeed only to get a runup later on.

“All right, all right,” the sergeant said. “Upon my oath, I am not a man to disobey orders.” And his eyes twinkled.

“Well done, Sergeant,” said Blouse.

Jackrum pulled himself together.

“I don’t want to be a sunflower, though,” he said.

“Happily, there are only fir trees in this area, Sergeant.”

“Point well made, sir.” Jackrum turned to the awed squad.

“All right, Last Detail,” he bellowed. “You heard the man! Spruce up!”

 

It was an hour later. As far as Polly could tell, they’d started out for the mountains but had traveled in a wide semicircle so that they ended up facing back the way they had come, but a few miles away. Was Blouse leading, or had he left it to Jackrum? Neither man was complaining.

The lieutenant called a halt in a thicket of birch, thus doubling the size of the thicket. You could say that the camouflage effects were effective, because bright-red and white show up against greens and grays. Beyond that, though, language tended to run out.

Jade had scraped off her paint, and was green and gray anyway. Igor looked like a walking brush. Wazzer quivered like an aspen all the time, so her needles rustled permanently. The others had made more or less reasonable attempts, and Polly was pretty proud of her own efforts. Jackrum was about as treelike as a big red rubber ball; Polly suspected that he’d surreptitiously shined up his brasswork, too.

Every tree held a mug of tea in limb or hand. After all, they’d stopped for five minutes.

“Men,” said Blouse, as if he’d only just reached that conclusion. “You may have gathered that we are heading back toward the mountains to raise a deserters’ army there. This story is, in fact, a ruse for the benefit of Mr. de Worde!” He paused, as if expecting some reaction. They stared at him. He went on:

“We are, in fact, continuing our journey to the Kneck Valley. This is the last thing the enemy will be expecting!”

Polly glanced at the sergeant. He was grinning.

“It is an established fact that a small, light force can get into places that a battalion cannot penetrate,” Blouse went on. “Men, we will be that force! Is that not right, Sergeant Jackrum?”

“Yessir!”

“We will come down like a hammer on those forces smaller than us,” said Blouse happily.

“Yessir!”

“And from those that outnumber us, we will merge silently into the forest—”

“Yessir!”

“We will slip past their sentries—”

“That’s right, sir,” said Jackrum.

“—and take Kneck Keep from under their noses!”

Jackrum’s tea sprayed across the clearing.

“I daresay our enemy feels impregnable just become he commands a heavily armed fort on a rocky crag with walls a hundred feet high and twenty feet thick,” Blouse continued, as if half the trees weren’t now dripping tea. “But he is in for a surprise!”

“You all right, Sarge?” whispered Polly. Jackrum was making strange little noises in his throat.

“Does anyone have any questions?” said Blouse.

Igorina raised a branch.

“How will we get in, thur?” she said.

“Ah. Good question,” said Blouse. “And all will become apparent in due time.”

“Aerial cavalry,” said Maladict.

“Pardon, Corporal?”

“Flying machines, sir!” said Maladict. “They won’t know where to expect us! We touch down in a handy LZ, take them out, and then dust off!”

Blouse’s clear brow wrinkled a little.

“Flying machine?” he said.

“I saw a picture of one by someone called Leonard of Quirm. A sort of…flying windmill! It’s just like a big screw up in the sky—”

“I don’t think we need one of those, although the advice is welcome,” said Blouse.

“Not when we’ve got a big screw-up down here, sir!” Jackrum managed. “Sir, this is just a bunch of recruits, sir! All that stuff about honor and freedom and that, that was just for the writer man, right? Good idea, sir! Yeah, let’s get to Kneck Valley, and let’s sneak in and join the rest of the lads. That’s where we ought to be, sir! You can’t be serious about taking the Keep, sir! I wouldn’t try that with a thousand men!”

“I might try it with half a dozen, Sergeant.”

Jackrum’s eyes bulged.

“Really, sir? What’ll Private Goom do? Tremble at them? Young Igor will stitch ’em up, will he? Private Halter will give ’em a nasty look? They’re promising lads, sir, but they’re not men.”

“General Tacticus said the fate of a battle may depend upon the actions of one man in the right place, Sergeant,” said Blouse calmly.

“And having a lot more soldiers than the other bugger, sir,” Jackrum insisted. “Sir, we should get to the rest of the army. Maybe it’s trapped, maybe it isn’t. All that stuff about them not wanting to slaughter us, sir, that makes no sense. The idea is to win, sir. If the rest of ’em have stopped attacking, it’s because they’re frightened of us. We should be down there. That’s the place for young recruits, sir, where they can learn. The enemy is looking for ’em, sir!”

“If General Froc is among those captured, the Keep will be where he is held,” said Blouse. “I believe he was the first officer you served under as sergeant, am I right?”

Jackrum hesitated. “That’s right, sir,” he said eventually. “And he was the dumbest lieutenant I’ve ever met, bar one.”

“I am positive there is a secret entrance into the Keep, Sergeant.”

Polly’s memory nudged her. If Paul was alive, he was in the Keep.

She caught Shufti’s eye. The girl nodded. She’d been thinking along the same lines. She didn’t talk much about her…fiancé, and Polly wondered how official the arrangement was.

“Permission to speak, Sarge?” she said.

“Okay, Perks.”

“I’d like to try to find a way into the Keep, Sarge.”

“Perks, are you volunteering to attack the biggest, strongest castle within five hundred miles? Single-handed?”

“I’ll go, too,” said Shufti.

“Oh, two of you?” said Jackrum. “Oh, well, that’s all right then!”

“I’ll go,” said Wazzer. “The Duchess has told me that I should.”

Jackrum looked down at Wazzer’s thin little face and watery eyes, and sighed. He turned back to Blouse.

“Let’s get a move on, sir, shall we? We can talk about this later. At least we’re headed to Kneck, first stop on the road to hell. Perks and Igor, you take point. Maladict?”

“Yo!”

“Er…you scout on ahead.”

“I hear ya!”

“Good.”

As the vampire walked past Polly, the world, just for a moment, changed; the forest became greener, the sky grayer, and she heard a noise overhead, like “whopwhopwhop.” And then it was gone.

Vampire hallucinations are contagious, she thought. What’s going on in his head?

She hurried forward with Igorina, and they set off again through the forest.

Birds sang. The effect was peaceful, if you didn’t know about birdsong, but Polly could recognize the alarm calls close by and the territorial threats far off and, everywhere, the preoccupation with sex. That took the edge off the pleasure.*

“Polly?” said Igorina.

“Hmm?”

“Could you kill someone if you had to?”

Polly came right back to the here and now. “What sort of question is that to ask anyone?”

“I think it’s the sort you’d ask a tholdier,” said Igorina.

“I don’t know. If they were attacking me, I suppose. Hurt them hard enough to keep them lying down, anyway. And you?”

“We have a great respect for life, Polly,” said Igorina solemnly. “It’s easy to kill thomeone, and almost impossible to bring them back again.”

“Almost?”

“Well, if you don’t have a really good lightning rod. And even if you have, they’re never quite the same. Cutlery tends to stick to them.”

“Igorina, why are you here?”

“The clan isn’t very…keen on girls getting too involved in the Great Work,” said Igorina, looking downcast. “‘Thtick to your needlework,’ my mother keeps saying. Well, that’s all very fine, but I know I’m good at the actual incisions as well. Especially the fiddly bits. And I think a woman on the slab would feel a lot better about things if she knew there was a female hand on the we-belong-dead switch. Tho, I thought some battlefield experience would convince my father. Soldiers aren’t choosy about who saves their lives.”

“I suppose men are the same the world over,” said Polly.

“On the inside, certainly.”

“And…er…you really can put your hair back?” Polly had seen it in its jar when they’d been breaking camp; it had spun gently in its bottle of green liquid, like some fine, rare seaweed.

“Oh, yes. Scalp transplants are easy. It stings a bit for a couple of minutes, that’s all—”

There was movement between the trees, and then the blur resolved itself into Maladict. He held a finger to his lips as he drew closer, and then whispered urgently: “Charlie’s tracking us!”

Polly and Igorina looked at one another.

“Who’s Charlie?”

Maladict stared at them, and then rubbed his face distractedly.

“I’m…sorry, er…sorry, it’s…look, we’re being followed! I know it!”

 

The sun was setting. Polly peered over the rocky ledge, back the way they had come. She could make out the track, golden and red in the late afternoon light. Nothing was moving.

The outcrop was near the top of another rounded hill; the rear of it became the floor of a little enclosed space, surrounded by bushes. It made a good lookout for people who wanted to see without being seen, and it had done so in the recent past, by the look of the old fires.

Maladict was sitting with his head in his hands, with Jackrum and Blouse on either side of him. They were trying to understand, and not making much progress.

“So you can’t hear anything?” said Blouse.

“No!”

“And you didn’t see anything and can’t smell anything?” said Jackrum.

“No! I told you! But there is something after us! Watching us!”

“But if you can’t—” Blouse began.

“Look, I’m a vampire,” panted Maladict. “Just trust me, okay?”

“I thould, Tharge,” said Igorina from behind Jackrum. “We Igorth often therve vampireth. In timeth of strethth their perthonal thpace can extend ath much ath ten mileth from their body.”

There was the usual pause that followed an extended lisp. People need time to think.

“Streth-th?” said Blouse.

“You know how you can feel that someone’s looking at you?” mumbled Maladict. “Well, it’s like that, times a thousand. And it’s not a…a feeling, it’s something I know.”

“Lots of people are looking for us, Corporal,” said Blouse, patting him kindly on the shoulder. “It doesn’t mean that they’ll find us.”

Polly, looking down on the gold-lit woodland, opened her mouth to speak. It was dry. Nothing came out

Maladict shook the lieutenant’s hand away. “This…person isn’t looking for us! They know where we are!”

Polly forced saliva into her mouth, and tried again.

“Movement!”

And then it wasn’t there anymore. She’d have sworn there had been something on the path, something that merged with the light, revealing itself only by the changing, wavering pattern of shadows as it moved.

“Er…perhaps not,” she muttered.

“Look, we’ve all lost sleep and we’re all a little ‘strung out,’” said Blouse. “Let’s just keep things down, shall we?”

“I need coffee!” moaned Maladict, rocking back and forth.

Polly squinted at the distant pathway. The breeze was shaking the trees, and red-gold leaves were drifting down. For a moment there was just a suggestion…

She got to her feet. Stare at shadows and waving branches for long enough and you could see anything. It was like looking at pictures in the fire.

“O-kay,” said Shufti, who’d been working over the fire. “This might do it. It smells like coffee, anyway. Well…quite like coffee. Well…quite like coffee if coffee was made from acorns, anyway.”

She’d roasted some acorns. As least the woods had plenty of them at this time of year, and everyone knew that roasted, ground acorns could be substituted for coffee, didn’t they? Polly had agreed that it was a worth a try, but, as far as she could recall, no one had ever, given the choice, said, “No, I will not touch horrible coffee anymore! It’s a Long Black ground-acorn substitute for me, with extra floating gritty bits!”

She took the mug from Shufti and carried it over to the vampire. As she bent down…the world changed.

…whopwhopwhop…

The sky was a haze of dust, turning the sun into a blood-red disc. For a moment, Polly saw them in the sky, giant fat screws spinning in the air, hovering in the air but drifting slowly toward her—

“He’s having flashsides,” whispered Igorina at her elbow.

“Flashsides?”

“Like…someone else’s flashbackth. We don’t know anything about them. They could come from anywhere. A vampire at this stage is open to all sorts of influences! Give him the coffee, please!”

Maladict grabbed the mug and tried to down the contents so quickly that they spilled down his chin. They watched him swallow.

“Tastes like mud!” he said, putting down the mug.

“Yes, but is it working?”

Maladict looked up and blinked.

“Ye gods, but this stuff is gruesome.”

“Are we in a forest or a jungle? Any flying screws?” Igorina demanded. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“You know, that’s something an Igor should never say,” said Maladict, grimacing. “But…the…feelings aren’t so strong. I can suck it down! I can gut it out.”

Polly looked at Igorina, who shrugged and said, “That’s nice,” and motioned to Polly to joined her a little way off.

“He, or possibly she, is right on the edge,” she said.

“Well, we all are!” said Polly. “We’re hardly getting any sleep!”

“You know what I mean. I’ve, er…taken the liberty of, er…being prepared.” Wordlessly, Igorina let her jacket fall open, just for a moment. Polly saw a knife, a wooden stake, and a hammer, in neatly stitched little pockets.

“It’s not going to come to that, is it?”

“I hope not,” said Igorina. “But if it doeth, I’m the only one who can reliably find the heart. People always think it’s more to the left than—”

“It’s not going to come to that,” said Polly firmly.

 

The sky was red. The war was a day away.

Polly crept along just below the ridge with the tea can. It was tea that kept the army on its feet.

Remember what’s real…well, that took some doing. Tonker and Lofty, for example. It didn’t matter which of them was on guard, the other one would be there as well. And they were, sitting side by side on a fallen tree, staring down the slope.

They were holding hands. They always held hands, when they thought they were alone. But it seemed to Polly that they didn’t hold hands like people who were, well, friends. They held hands tightly, like someone who has slipped over a cliff would hold hands with a rescuer, fearing that to let go would be to fall away.

“Tea up!” she quavered.

The girls turned, and she dipped a couple of mugs into the scalding tea.

“You know,” she said quietly, “No one would hate you if you ran away tonight…”

“What do you mean, Ozz?” said Lofty.

“Well, what’s there in Kneck for you? You got away from the School. You could go anywhere. I bet the two of you could sneak—”

“We’re staying,” said Tonker severely. “We talked about it. Where else would we go? Anyway, supposing something is following us?”

“Probably just an animal,” said Polly, who didn’t believe it herself.

“Animals don’t do that,” said Tonker. “And I don’t think Maladict would get so excited. It’s probably more spies. Well, we’ll get them.”

“Nobody is going to take us back,” said Lofty.

“Oh. Er…good,” said Polly, backing away. “Well, must get on, no one likes cold tea, eh?”

She hurried around the hill. Whenever Lofty and Tonker were together, she felt like a trespasser.

Wazzer was on guard in a small dell, watching the land below with her usual expression of slightly worrying intensity. She turned as Polly approached.

“Oh, Polly,” said Wazzer. “Good news!”

“Oh, good,” said Polly weakly. “I like good news.”

“She says it will be all right for us not to wear our dimity scarves,” said Wazzer.

“What? Oh. Good,” said Polly.

“But only because we are serving a Higher Purpose,” said Wazzer. And, just as Blouse could invert commas, Wazzer could drop capital letters into a spoken sentence.

“That’s good, then,” said Polly.

“You know, Polly,” said Wazzer, “I think the world would be a lot better if it was run by women. There wouldn’t be any wars. Of course, the Book would consider such an idea a Dire Abomination Unto Nuggan. It may be in error. I shall consult the Duchess. Bless this cup that I may drink of it,” she added.

“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 the presence of 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 had always been 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 on 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 subject 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 around. 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 woods, 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 around…”

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 important, 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 the 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 busy cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun around 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 woods, 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 bent steel around Wazzer’s certainty, 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,” said Jackrum. “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 around his head, Perks. We’ve got ourselves a goddam 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…

Polly wondered how she would 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. It was a tall robed figure, with a scythe.

“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, said Death.

“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 INSTALLMENT 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 around 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 swiveled 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.

“796, 796,” said Blouse softly. “Ah…” He stared at the page, and Jackrum stared at him. And Polly watched Jackrum and knew, knew that there was no Rule 796.

Blouse closed the book with a leathery flwap.

“Absolutely correct, Sergeant!” he said brightly. “I commend you on your encyclopedic knowledge of the regulations!”

Jackrum looked astounded. “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 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 signaled, 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 some of the applianthetheth you mention, thir,” said Igorina stiffly.

“Good.” Blouse looked around. “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 joints of the box.

“W…R…U,” he said. “And M…S…G…P…R…”

“That’s not a message!” said Jackrum.

“On the contrary, they want to know where we are, because they’re having trouble seeing our light,” said Blouse. “Send as follows…short…”

“I protest, sir!”

Blouse lowered the book. “Sergeant, I am about to tell our spy that we are seven miles further away than we really are, do you understand? And I am certain they will believe us, because I have artificially reduced the light output from our device, do you understand? And I will tell them that their spies have encountered a very large party of recruits and deserters heading for the mountains and are in pursuit, do you understand? I am making us invisible, do you understand? Do you understand, Sergeant Jackrum?”

The squad held their breath.

Jack drew himself stiffly to attention.

“Fully understood, sir!” he said.

“Very well!”

Jackrum stood to attention as the messages were exchanged, like a naughty pupil forced to stand by the teacher’s desk.

Messages flashed across the sky, from hilltop to hilltop. Lights flickered. The clacks tube rattled. Wazzer called out the longs and shorts. Blouse scribbled in the book.

“S…P…P…2,” he said aloud. “Hah. That’s an order to remain where we are.”

“More flashes, sir,” said Wazzer.

“T…Y…E…3…” said Blouse, still making notes. “That’s ‘be ready to give aid.’ N…V…A…S…N…That’s…”

“That’s not a code, sir!” said Polly.

“Private, send as follows right now!” Blouse croaked. “Long…long…”

The message went. They watched while the dew fell and, overhead, the stars came out and twinkled messages no one ever tried to read.

The clacks went silent.

“Now we leave as soon as possible,” said Blouse. He gave a little cough. “I believe the phrase is ‘let us get the heck out of here.’”

“Close, sir,” said Polly. “Quite…close.”

 

There was an old, very old Borogravian song with more Zs and Vs in it than any lowlander could pronounce. It was called “Plogviehze!” It meant “The Sun Has Risen! Let’s Make War!” You needed a special kind of history to get all that in one word.

Sam Vimes sighed. The little countries here fought because of the river, because of idiot treaties, because of royal rows, but mostly they fought because they had always fought. They made war, in fact, because the sun came up.

This war had tied itself in a knot.

Downriver, the valley narrowed to a canyon before the Kneck plunged over a waterfall a quarter of a mile high. Anyone trying to get up through the jagged mountains there would find themselves in a world of gorges, knife-edged ridges, permanent ice, and even more permanent death. Anyone trying to cross the Kneck into Zlobenia now would be butchered on the shore. The only way out of the valley was back along the Kneck, which would put an army under the shadow of the Keep. That had been fine when the Keep was in Borogravian hands. Now that it had been captured, they’d be passing in range of their own weapons.

…and such weapons! Vimes had seen catapults that would throw a stone ball three miles. When it landed, it would crack into needle-sharp shards. Or there was the other machine, which sent six-foot steel discs skimming through the air. Once they’d hit the ground and leaped up again, they were unreliable as hell, but that only made them more terrifying. Vimes had been told that the edged disc would probably keep going for several hundred yards, no matter how many men or horses it encountered on the way.

And they were only the latest ideas. There were plenty of conventional weapons, if by that you meant giant bows, catapults, and mangonels that hurled balls of Ephebian fire, which clung while it burned.

From up here, in his drafty tower, he could see the fires of the dug-in army all across the plain.

They couldn’t retreat, and the alliance, if that’s what you could call the petulant hubbub, didn’t dare head up the valley into the heart of the country with that army at their back, yet didn’t have enough men to hold the Keep and corral the enemy.

And in a few weeks it would start to snow. The passes would fill up. Nothing would be able to get though. And every day, thousands of men and horses would need feeding. Of course, the men could, eventually, eat the horses, thus settling two feeding problems at a stroke. After that, there would have to be the good ol’ leg rota, which, Vimes understood from one of the friendlier Zlobenians, was a common feature of winter warfare up here. Since he was Captain “Hopalong” Splatzer, Vimes believed him.

And then it would rain, and then the rain and the snowmelt together would turn the damn river into a flood. But, before that, the alliance would have bickered itself apart and gone home. All the Borogravians had to do, in fact, was hold their ground to score a draw.

He swore under his breath. Prince Heinrich had inherited the throne in a country where the chief export was a kind of hand-painted wooden clog, but in ten years, he vowed, his capital city of Rigour would be “the Ankh-Morpork of the mountains!”

For some reason, he thought Ankh-Morpork would be pleased about this.

He was anxious, he said, to learn the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things, the kind of innocent ambition that could well lead to an aspiring ruler…well, finding out the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things. Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind, and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.

Vimes leafed through the papers on his desk, and looked up, where he heard a shrill, harsh cry outside.

A buzzard came in a long, shallow swoop through the open window and alighted on a makeshift perch at the far end of the room.

Vimes strolled over as the little figure on the bird’s back raised his flying goggles.

“How’s it going, Buggy?” he said.

“They’re getting suspicious, Mister Vimes. And Sergeant Angua says it’s getting a bit risky now they’re so close.”

“Tell her to come on in, then.”

“Right, sir. And they still need coffee.”

“Oh, damn! Haven’t they found any?”

“No, sir, and it’s getting tricky with the vampire.”

“Well, if they’re suspicious now then they’ll be certain if we drop a flask of coffee on them!”

“Sergeant Angua says we’ll probably get away with it, sir. She didn’t say why.” The gnome looked expectantly at Vimes. So did his buzzard. “They’ve come a long way, sir. For a bunch of girls. Well…mostly girls.”

Vimes reached out absentmindedly to pet the bird.

“Don’t, sir! She’ll have your thumb off!” Buggy yelled.

There was a knock on the door, and Reg came in with a tray of raw meat.

“Saw Buggy overhead, so I thought I’d nip down to the kitchens, sir.”

“Well done, Reg. Don’t they ask why you want raw meat?”

“Yes, sir. I tell them you eat it, sir.”

Vimes paused before answering. Reg meant well, after all.

“Well, it probably can’t do my reputation any harm,” he said. “By the way, what was going down in the crypt?”

“Oh, they’re not what I’d call proper zombies, sir,” said Reg, selecting a piece of meat and dangling it in front of Morag. “More like dead men walking.”

“Er…yes?” said Vimes.

“I mean there’s no real thinking going on,” the zombie went on, picking up another lump of raw rabbit. “No embracing the opportunities of a life beyond the grave, sir. They’re just a lot of old memories on legs. That sort of thing gives zombies a bad name, Mister Vimes. It makes me so angry!” Morag tried to snap at another lump of bloody rabbit fur that Reg, oblivious for the moment, was waving aimlessly.

“Er…Reg?” said Buggy.

“How hard can it be, sir, to move with the times? Now take me, for example. One day I woke up dead. Did I—”

“Reg!” Vimes warned as Morag’s head bobbed back and forth.

“—take it lying down? No! And I didn’t—”

“Reg, be careful! She’s just had two of your fingers off!”

“What? Oh.” Reg held up a denuded hand and stared at it. “Oh, now, will you look at that?” He peered down at the floor, with a hope that was quickly dashed. “Blast. Any chance we can make her throw up?”

“Only by sticking your remaining fingers down her throat, Reg. Sorry. Buggy, do the best you can, please. And you, Reg, go back downstairs and see if they’ve got any coffee, will you?”

 

“Oh dear,” murmured Shufti.

“It’s big,” said Tonker.

Blouse said nothing.

“Not seen it before, sir?” said Jackrum cheerfully as they stared at the distant keep. If there is a fairy-tale scale for castles, where the top end is occupied by those white, spire-encrusted castles with the blue pointy roofs, then Kneck Keep was low, black, and clung to its outcrop like a storm cloud. A bed of the Kneck ran around it; along the peninsula on which it was built, the approach road was wide, and bereft of cover, and an ideal stroll for those who were tired of life. Blouse took all this in.

“Er, no, Sergeant,” said Blouse. “I’ve seen pictures, of course, but…they don’t do it justice.”

“Any of them books you read tell you what to do, sir?” said Jackrum. They were lying in some bushes half a mile away from the keep.

“Possibly, Sergeant. In The Craft of War, Song Sung Lo said: to win without fighting is the greatest victory. The enemy wishes us to attack where he is strongest. Therefore, we will disappoint him. A way will present itself, Sergeant.”

“Well, it’s never presented itself to me, and I’ve been here dozens of times,” said Jackrum, still grinning. “Hah, even the rats’d have to disguise themselves as washerwomen to get in that place! Even if you get up that road, you’ve got narrow entrances, holes in the ceiling to pour hot oil through, gates everywhere that a troll couldn’t smash through, coupla mazes, a hundred little ways you can be shot at, oh, it’s a wonderful place to attack.”

“I wonder how the alliance got in?” said Blouse.

“Treachery, probably, sir. The world’s full of traitors. Or perhaps they discovered the secret entrance, sir. You know, sir? The one you’re sure is there. Or p’raps you’ve forgotten? It’s the sort of thing that can slip your mind when you’re busy, I expect.”

“We shall reconnoiter, Sergeant,” said Blouse coldly as they crawled out of the bushes. He brushed leaves off his uniform. Thalacephalos or, as Blouse referred to her, “the faithful steed,” had been turned loose miles back. You couldn’t sneak around on horseback and, as Jackrum had pointed out, the creature was too skinny for anyone to want to eat and too vicious for anyone to want to ride.

“Right, sir, yes, we might as well do that, sir,” said Jackrum now, all gloating helpfulness. “Where would you like us to reconnoiter, sir?”

“There must be a secret entrance, Sergeant. No one would build a place like that with only one entrance. Agreed?”

“Yessir. Only perhaps they kept it a secret, sir. Only trying to help, sir.”

They turned at the sound of urgent praying. Wazzer had fallen to her knees, hands clasped together. The rest of the squad edged away slowly. Piety is a wonderful thing.

“What is he doing, Sergeant?” said Blouse.

“Praying, sir,” said Jackrum.

“I’ve noticed he does it a lot. Is that, er, within regulations, Sergeant?” the lieutenant whispered.

“Always a difficult one, sir, that one,” said Jackrum. “I have, myself, prayed many times on the field of battle. Many times have I said The Soldier’s Prayer, sir, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

“Er…I don’t think I know that one,” said Blouse.

“Oh, I reckon the words’ll come to you soon enough, sir, once you’re up against the foe. Gen’rally, though, they’re on the lines of ‘oh god, let me kill this bastard before he kills me.’” Jackrum grinned at Blouse’s expression. “That’s what I call the Authorized Version, sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant, but where would we be if we all prayed all the time?” said the lieutenant.

“In heaven, sir, sitting at Nuggan’s right hand,” said Jackrum promptly. “That’s what I was taught as a little nipper, sir. Of course, it’d be a bit crowded, so it’s just as well we don’t.”

At which point, Wazzer stopped praying and stood up, brushing dust off her knees. She gave the squad her bright, worrying smile.

“The Duchess will guide our steps,” she said.

“Oh. Good,” said Blouse weakly.

“She will show us the way.”

“Wonderful. Er…did She mention a map reference at all?” said the lieutenant.

“She will give us eyes that we might see.”

“Ah? Good. Well, jolly good,” said Blouse. “I definitely feel a lot better for knowing that. Don’t you, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” said Jackrum. “’Cos before this, sir, we didn’t have a prayer.”