“Have you been to the privy this morning?” her mouth went on, while her brain cowered in fear of a court-martial. I’m in shock, she thought, and so’s he. So you cling to what you know. And you can’t stop…

“No, Perks,” said the lieutenant.

“Then you must go properly before we get on the boat, all right?”

“Yes, Perks.”

“In you go, then, there’s a good lieutenant.”

She leaned against the wall and got her breath back in a few hurried gulps as Blouse stepped into the building, then slipped in after him.

“Officer present!” Jackrum barked. The squad, already lined up, stood to varying degrees of attention.

The sergeant crashed to attention in front of Blouse, causing the young man to sway backward.

“Apprehended enemy scouting party, sir! Dangerous business all round, sir! In view of the emergency nature of the emergency, sir, and seeing as how you have no NCO what with Corporal Strappi having scarpered, and seeing as how I’m an old soldier in good standing, you are allowed to conscript me as an auxiliary under Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 796, Section 3[a], Paragraph ii, sir, thank you, sir!”

“What?” said Blouse, staring around blearily and becoming aware that in a world of sudden turmoil there was a big red coat that seemed to know what it was doing. “Oh, yes. Fine. Rule 796, you say? Absolutely. Well done. Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Are you in command here?” barked Horentz, standing.

“Indeed I am, Captain,” said Blouse.

Horentz looked him up and down.

“You?” he said, disdain oozing from the word.

“Indeed, sir,” said Blouse, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh well, we shall have to do what we can. I am Captain Horentz and that fat bastard,” said Horentz, pointing a threatening finger at Jackrum, “that bastard offered me violence! As a prisoner! In chains! And that …boy,” the captain added, spitting the word toward Polly, “kicked me in the privates and almost clubbed me to death! I demand that you let us go!”

Blouse turned to Polly.

“Did you kick Captain Horentz in the ‘privates,’ Parts?”

“Er…yessir. Kneed, actually. And it’s Perks, actually, sir, although I can see why you made the mistake.”

“What was he doing at the time?”

“Er…embracing me, sir.” Polly saw Blouse’s eyebrows rise, and plunged on. “I was temporarily disguised as a girl, sir, in order to allay suspicion.”

“And then you…clubbed him?”

“Yessir. Once, sir.”

“What in the world possessed you to stop at once?” said Blouse.

“Sir?” said Polly as Horentz gasped. Blouse turned with an almost seraphic look of pleasure on his face.

“And you, Sergeant,” he went on, “did you, in fact, lay a hand on the captain?”

Jackrum took a step forward and saluted smartly. “Not as in fact per se and such, sir, no,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on a point some twelve feet high on the far wall. “I just considered, since he had invaded our country to capture our lads, sir, that it wouldn’t hurt if he experienced temporary feelings of shock and awe, sir. On my oath, sir, I am not a violent man.”

“Of course not, Sergeant,” said Blouse. And now, while he still smiled, the smile was edged with a kind of malevolent glee.

“For heavens’ sake, you fool, you can’t believe these ignorant yokels, they’re the dregs of—” Horentz began.

“I do believe them, indeed I do,” said Blouse, shaking with nervous defiance. “I would believe their testimony against yours, sir, if they told me the sky was green. And it would appear that, untrained as they are, they have bested some of Zlobenia’s finest soldiers by wit and daring. I have every confidence that they have further surprises in store for us—”

“Dropping your drawers would do it,” whispered Maladict.

“Shutup!” hissed Polly, and then had to cram a fist into her mouth again.

“I know you, Captain Horentz,” said Blouse, and, just for a moment, the captain looked worried. “I mean I know your sort. I’ve had to put up with you all my life. Big jovial bullies, with your brains in your breeches. You dare to come riding into our country and think we’re going to be frightened of you? You think you can appeal to me over the heads of my men? You demand? On the soil of my country?”

“Captain?” murmured the cavalry sergeant, as Horentz stared open-mouthed at the lieutenant. “They’ll be here soon…”

“Ah,” said Horentz uncertainly. Then he seemed, with some effort, to regain his composure. “Reinforcements are coming,” he snapped. “Free us now, you idiot, and I might just put this down to native stupidity. Otherwise I shall see to it that things go very, very badly for you and your…ha…men.”

“Seven cavalrymen were considered not enough to deal with farm boys?” said Blouse. “You’re sweating, Captain. You are worried. And yet you have reinforcements coming?”

“Permission to speak, sir!” barked Jackrum and went straight on to: “Cheesemongers! Get bleedin’ armed again right now! Maladict, you give Private Goom his sword back an’ wish him luck! Carborundum, you grab a handful of them twelve-foot pikes! The rest of—”

“There’s these as well, Sarge,” said Maladict. “Lots of them. I got them off our friends’ saddles.” He held up what looked to Polly like a couple of large pistol crossbows, steely and sleek.

“Horsebows?” said Jackrum, like a child opening a wonderful Hogswatch present. “That’s what you gets for leading a honest and sober life, my lads. Dreadful little engines they are. Let’s have two each!”

“I don’t want unnecessary violence, Sergeant,” said Blouse.

“Right you are, sir!” said the sergeant. “Carborundum! First man comes through that door runnin’, I want him nailed to the pub wall!” He caught the lieutenant’s eye, and added: “But not too hard!”

…and someone did knock at the door.

Maladict leveled two bows at it. Carborundum lifted a couple of pikes in either hand. Polly raised her cudgel, a weapon she at least knew how to use. The other boys, and girls, raised whatever weapon Threeparts Scallot had been able to procure.

There was silence. Polly looked around.

“Come in?” she suggested.

“Yeah, right, that should do it,” said Jackrum, rolling his eyes.

The door was pushed open and a small, dapper man stepped through carefully. In build, coloring, and hairstyle he looked rather like Mala—

“A vampire?” said Polly softly.

“Oh, damn,” said Maladict.

The newcomer’s clothing, however, was unusual. It was an old-fashioned evening dress coat with the sleeves removed and many, many pockets sewn all over it. In front of him, slung around his neck, was a large black box.

Against all common sense, he beamed at the sight of a dozen weapons poised to deliver perforated death.

“Vonderful!” he said, lifting up the box and unfolding three legs to form a tripod for it. “But…could zer troll move a little to his left please?”

“Huh?” said Carborundum. The squad looked at one another.

“Yes, and if the sergeant would be so kind as to move into ze center more, und raise zose swords a little bit higher?” the vampire went on. “Great! And you, sir, if you could give me a grrrrh…?”

“Grrrrh?” said Blouse.

“Very good! Really fierce now…”

There was a blinding flash and a brief cry of “Oh, sh—,” followed by the tinkle of breaking glass.

Where the vampire had been standing was a little cone of dust. Blinking, Polly watched it fountain up into a human shape that coalesced, once more, into the vampire.

“Oh dear, I really thought ze new filter vould do it,” he said. “Oh vell, ve live und learn.” He gave them a bright smile, and added. “Now—vhich vun of you is Captain Horentz, please?”

 

Half an hour had passed. Polly was still bewildered.

The trouble was not that she didn’t understand what was going on. The trouble was that before she could understand that, she had to understand a lot of other things. One of them was the concept of a newspaper.

Blouse was looking proud and worried by turns, but nervous all the time. Polly watched him carefully, not least because he was talking to the man who had come in with the iconographer. He wore a big leather coat and jodhpurs, and spent most of the time writing things down in a notebook, with occasional puzzled glances at the squad.

Finally, Maladict, who had good hearing, sauntered over to the recruits from his lounging spot by the wall.

“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s all a bit complicated, but…d’you any of you know about newspapers?”

“Yeth, my thecond couthin Igor in Ankh-Morpork told me about them,” said Igor. “They’re like a kind of government announcement.”

“Um…sort of. Except they’re not written by the government. They’re written by ordinary people who write things down,” said Maladict.

“Like a diary?” said Tonker.

“Um…no…”

Maladict tried to explain. The squad tried to understand. It still made no sense.

It sounded to Polly like some kind of Punch and Judy show. Anyway, why would you trust anything written down? She certainly didn’t trust “Mothers of Borogravia!!” and that was from the government. And if you couldn’t trust the government, who could you trust?

Very nearly everyone, come to think of it…

“Mr. de Worde works for a newspaper in Ankh-Morpork,” said Maladict. “He says we’re losing. He says casualties are mounting and troops are deserting and all the civilians are heading for the mountains.”

“W-why should we believe him?” Wazzer demanded.

“Well, we’ve seen a lot of casualties and refugees, and Corporal Strappi hasn’t been around since he heard he was going to the front,” said Maladict. “Sorry, but it’s true. We’ve all seen it.”

“Yeah, but he’s just some man from a foreign country. Why w-would the Duchess lie to us? I mean, why would she send us out just to die?” said Wazzer. “She w-watches over us!”

“Everyone says we’re winning,” said Tonker doubtfully, after that moment of embarrassment. Tears were running down Wazzer’s face.

“No, they don’t,” said Polly. “I don’t think we are, either.”

“Does anyone think we are?” said Maladict. Polly looked from face to face.

“But saying so…it’s like treachery against the Duchess, isn’t it?” said Wazzer. “It’s Spreading Alarm and Despondency, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we ought to be alarmed,” said Maladict. “Do you know how he came to be here? He travels around writing down things about the war for his paper of news. He met those cavalry just up the road. In our country! And they told him they’d just heard that the very last recruits from Borogravia were here and they were nothing but, er, ‘a wet little bunch of squeaking boys.’ They said they’d capture us for our own good and he could get a picture of us for his paper. He could show everybody how dreadful things were, they said, because we were scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Yeah, but we beat ’em so that’s foxed him!” said Tonker, grinning nastily. “Nothing for him to write down now, eh?”

“Um…not really. He says that this is even better!”

“Better? Whose side is he on?”

“Bit of a puzzler, really. He comes from Ankh-Morpork, but he’s not exactly on their side. Er…Otto Chriek, who makes the pictures for him—”

“The vampire? He crumbled to dust when the light flashed!” said Polly. “Then he…came back!”

“Well, I was standing behind Carborundum at the time,” said Maladict, “but I know the technique. He probably carries a thin glass vial of b…bl…blur…no, wait, I cansay this…blood.” He sighed. “There! No problem. A thin vial of…what I said…which smashed on the ground and brought the dust back to life again. It’s a great idea.” Maladict gave them a wan smile. “I think he really cares a lot about what he does, you know. Anyway, he told me de Worde just tries to find out the truth. And then he writes it down and sells it to anyone who wants it.”

“And people let him do that?” said Polly.

“Apparently. Otto says he makes Commander Vimes livid with rage about once a week, but nothing ever happens.”

“Vimes? The Butcher?” said Polly.

“He’s a duke, Otto says. But not like ours. Otto says he’s never seen him butcher anybody. Otto’s a Black Ribboner, like me. He wouldn’t lie to a fellow Ribboner. And he says that picture he took is going on the clacks from the nearest tower tonight! It will be in the paper of news tomorrow! And they print a copy here!”

“How can you send a picture on the clacks?” said Polly. “I know people who’ve seen them. It’s just a lot of boxes on a tower that go clack-clack!”

“Ah, Otto explained that to me, too,” said Maladict. “It’s very ingenious.”

“How does it work, then?”

“Oh, I didn’t understand what he said. It was all about…numbers. But it certainly sounded very clever. Anyway, de Worde just told the lieu—the rupert that news about a bunch of boys beating up experienced soldiers would certainly make people sit up and take notice!”

The squad looked at one another sheepishly.

“It was a bit of a fluke, and anyway we had Carborundum,” said Tonker.

“And I used trickery,” said Polly. “I mean, I couldn’t do it twice.”

“So what?” said Maladict. “We did it. The squad did it! Next time we’ll do it differently!”

“Yeah!” said Tonker. And there was a shared moment of exhilaration in which they were capable of anything. It lasted all of…a moment.

“But it won’t work,” said Shufti. “We’ve just been lucky. You know it won’t work, Maladict. You all know it won’t work, right?”

“Well, I’m not saying we could, you know, take on a regiment all at once,” said Maladict. “And the lieu—rupert might be a bit wet. But we could help make a difference. Old Jackrum knows what he’s doing—”

“Upon my oath, I am not a violent man…whack!” sniggered Tonker, and there were a few…yes, giggles, they were giggles, Polly knew, from the squad.

“No, you’re not,” said Shufti flatly. “None of us are, right? Because we’re girls.”

There was a dead silence.

“Well, not Carborundum and Ozzer, okay,” Shufti went on, as if the silence was sucking unwilling words out of her. “And I’m not sure about Maladict and Igor. But I know the rest of us are, right? I’ve got eyes, I’ve got ears, I’ve got a brain. Right?”

In the silence, there was the slow rumble that preceded a pronouncement from Carborundum.

“If it any help,” she said, in a voice suddenly more sandy that gravelly, “my real name’s Jade.”

Polly felt questing eyes boring into her. She was embarrassed, of course. But not for the obvious reason. It was for the other one, the little lesson that life sometimes rams home with a stick: you are not the only one watching the world, other people are also people, while you watch them they watch you, and they think about you while you think about them. The world isn’t just about you.

There was going to be no possibility of getting out of this. And, in a way, it was a relief.

“Polly,” she said, almost in a whisper.

She looked questioningly at Maladict, who smiled in a distinctly noncommittal way.

“Is this the time?” he said.

“All right, you lot, what’re you standing about for?” bawled Jackrum six inches from the back of Maladict’s head. No one saw him arrive there; he moved with an NCO’s stealth, which sometimes mystifies even Igors.

Maladict’s smile didn’t change.

“Why, we’re awaiting your orders, Sergeant,” he said, turning around.

“D’you think you’re clever, Maladict?”

“Um…yes, Sarge. Quite clever,” the vampire conceded.

There wasn’t a lot of humor in Jackrum’s smile.

“Good. Glad to hear it. Don’t want another stupid corporal. Yeah, I know you ain’t even a proper private yet, but glory be, you’re a corporal now, ’cos I need one and you’re the snappiest dresser. Get some stripes from Threeparts. The rest of you…this isn’t a bleedin’ Mothers’ Meeting, we’re leaving in five minutes. Move!”

“But the prisoners, Sarge—” Polly began, still trying to digest the revelation.

“We’re goin’ to drag ’em over to the inn an’ leave ’em in tied up in the nood and shackled together,” said Jackrum. “Vicious little devil when he’s roused, our rupert, eh? And Threeparts is having their boots and horses. They won’t be going too far for a while, not in the nood.”

“Won’t the writing man let them out?” said Tonker.

“Don’t care,” said Jackrum. “He could probably cut the ropes, but I’m dropping the shackle key in the privy, and that’ll take a bit of fishing out.”

“Whose side is he on, Sarge?” said Polly.

“Dunno. I don’t trust ’em. Ignore ’em. Don’t talk to ’em. Never talk to people who writes things down. Milit’ry rule. Now, I know I just gave you lot an order ’cos I heard the bleedin’ echo! Get on with it! We are leaving!”

“Road to perdition, lad, promotion,” said Scallot to Maladict, swinging up with two stripes hanging from his hook. He grinned. “That’s threepence extra a day you’re due now, only you won’t get it ’cos they ain’t payin’ us, but to look on the bright side, you won’t get stoppages, and they’re a devil for stoppages. The way I see it, march backwards and yer pockets’ll overflow!”

 

The rain had stopped.

Most of the squad were parading outside the barracks where there was, now, a small covered wagon belonging to the writer of the paper of news. A large flag hung from a pole attached to it, but Polly couldn’t make out the design by moonlight. Beside the wagon, Maladict was deep in conversation with Otto.

The center of attention, though, was the line of cavalry horses. One had been offered to Blouse, but he’d waved it away with a look of alarm and muttering something about “being loyal to his steed,” which, to Polly’s eye, looked like a self-propelled toast-rack with a bad attitude. But he’d probably made the right decision, at that, because they were big beasts, broad, battle-hardened and bright-eyed; sitting astride one of them would have strained the crotch in Blouse’s trousers and an attempt at reining one of them in would have pulled his arms off at the shoulder. Now each horse had a pair of boots hanging from its saddle, except for the leading horse, a truly magnificent beast upon which Corporal Scallot sat like an afterthought.

“I’m no donkey-walloper, as you know, Threeparts,” said Jackrum as he finished lashing the crutches behind the saddle, “but this is a hell of a good horse you’ve got here.”

“Damn right, Sarge. You could feed a platoon for a week off’f it!” said the corporal.

“Sure you won’t come with us?” Jackrum added, standing back. “I reckon you still must’ve one or two things left for the bastards to cut off, eh?”

“Thank you, Sarge, it is a kind offer,” said Threeparts. “But fast horses are going to be at a real premium soon, and I’ll be in on the ground floor, as you might say. This lot’ll be worth three years’ pay.” He turned in the saddle and nodded at the squad.

“Best of luck, lads,” he added cheerfully. “You’ll walk with Death every day, but I’ve seen ’im and he’s been known to wink. And remember: fill your boots with soup!”

He urged the horses into a walk, and disappeared with his trophies into the gloom.

Jackrum watched him go, shook his head, and turned to the recruits.

“All right, ladies—what’s funny, Private Halter?”

“Er, nothing, Sarge, I just…thought of something…” said Tonker, almost choking.

“You ain’t paid to think of things, you’re paid to march. Do it!”

The squad marched away. The rain slackened to nothing, but the wind rose a little, rattling windows, blowing through the deserted houses, opening and shutting doors like someone looking for something they could have sworn they put down here only a moment ago. That was all that moved in Plotz, except for one candle flame, down near the floor in the back room of the deserted barracks.

The candle had been tilted so that it leaned against a cotton thread fastened between the legs of a stool. This meant that when the candle burned low enough, it would burn through the thread and fall all the way to the floor and into a ragged trail of straw that led to a pile of palliasses on which had been stood two ancient cans of lamp oil.

It took about an hour, in the wet, dejected night for this to happen, and then all the windows blew out.

 

Tomorrow dawned on Borogravia like a great big fish.

A pigeon rose over the forests, banked slightly, and headed straight for the valley of the Kneck.

Even from here, the black stone bulk of the Keep was visible, rising above the sea of trees. The pigeon sped on, one spark of purpose in the fresh new morning—

—and squawked as darkness dropped from the sky, gripping it in talons of steel. Buzzard and pigeon tumbled for a moment, and then the buzzard gained a little height and flapped onwards.

The pigeon thought: 000000000. But had it been more capable of coherent thought, and knew something about how birds of prey catch pigeons,* it might have wondered why it was being gripped so…kindly. It was being held, not squeezed. As it was, all it could think was: 0000000!

The buzzard reached the valley and began to circle low over the Keep. As it gyred, a tiny figure detached itself from the leather harness on its back and, with great care, inched itself around the body and down to the talons. It reached the imprisoned pigeon, knelt on it and put its arms round the bird’s neck.

The buzzard skimmed low over a stone balcony, reared in the air, and let the pigeon go.

Bird and tiny man rolled and bounced across the flagstone in a trail of feathers, and lay still.

Eventually a voice from somewhere under the pigeon said: “Bugger…”

Urgent footsteps ran across the stones and the pigeon was lifted off Corporal Buggy Swires. He was a gnome, and barely six inches tall. On the other hand, as the head and only member of Ankh-Morpork City Watch’s Airborne Section, he spent most of his time so high that everyone looked small.

“Are you all right, Buggy?” said Commander Vimes.

“Not too bad, sir,” said Buggy, spitting out a feather. “But it wasn’t elegant, was it? I’ll do better next time. Trouble is, pigeons are too stupid to be steered—”

“What’ve you got me?”

“The Times sent this up from their cart, sir! I tracked it all the way!”

“Well done, Buggy!”

There was a flurry of wings and the buzzard landed on the battlements.

“And, er—what is his name?” Vimes added. The buzzard gave him the mad, distant look of all birds.

“She’s Morag, sir. Trained by the pictsies. Wonderful bird.”

“Was she the one we paid a crate of whiskey for?”

“Yes, sir, and worth every dram.”

The pigeon struggled in Vimes’s hand.

“You wait there, then, Buggy, and I’ll get Reg to come out with some raw rabbit,” he said, and walked into his tower.

Sergeant Angua was waiting by his desk, reading the Living Testament of Nuggan.

“Is that a carrier pigeon, sir?” she said as Vimes sat down.

“No,” said Vimes. “Hold it a minute, will you? I want to have a look inside the message capsule.”

“It does look like a carrier pigeon,” said Angua, putting down the book.

“Ah, but messages flying through the air are an Abomination unto Nuggan,” said Vimes. “The prayers of the faithful bounce off them, apparently. No, I think I’ve found someone’s lost pet and I’m looking in this little tube here to see if I can find the owner’s name and address, because I am a kind man.”

“So you are not actually waylaying field reports from the Times, then, sir?” said Angua, grinning.

“Not as such, no. I’m just such a keen reader that I want to see tomorrow’s news today. And Mr. de Worde seems to have a knack for finding things out. Angua, I want to stop these stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and if that means allowing the occasional pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it.”

“Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice. I expect it’ll wipe off.”

“Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?”

When she’d gone, Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the tiny writing, smiling as he did so. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the picture.

He was still staring at it when Angua returned with Reg and half a bucket of crunchy rabbit bits.

“Anything interesting, sir?” said Angua ingenuously.

“Well, yes. You could say that. All plans are changed, all bets are off. Ha! Oh, Mr. de Worde, you poor fool…”

He handed her the paper. She read the story carefully.

“Good for them, sir,” she said. “Most of them look fifteen years old, and when you see the size of those dragoons, well, you’ve got to be impressed.”

“Yes, yes, you could say that, you could say that,” said Vimes, his face gleaming like a man with a joke to share. “Tell me, did de Worde interview any Borogravian high-ups when he arrived?”

“No, sir. I understand he was turned away. They don’t really know what a reporter is, so I gather the adjutant threw him out and said he was a nuisance.”

“Dear me, the poor man,” said Vimes, still grinning. “You met Prince Heinrich the other day. Describe him to me…”

Angua cleared her throat. “Well, sir, he was…largely green, shading to blue, with overtones of grllss and trail of—”

“I meant describe him to me on the assumption that I’m not a werewolf who sees with his nose,” said Vimes.

“Oh, yes,” said Angua. “Sorry, sir. Six foot two, 180 pounds, fair hair, green-blue eyes, saber scar on his left cheek, wears a monocle in his right eye, waxed moustache—”

“Good, well observed. And now look at ‘Captain Horentz’ in the picture, will you?”

She looked again, and said, very quietly: “Oh dear. They didn’t know?”

“He wasn’t going to tell them, was he? Would they have seen a picture?”

Angua shrugged. “I doubt it, sir. I mean, where would they see it? There’s never been a newspaper here until the Times carts turned up last week.”

“Some woodcut, maybe?”

“No, they’re an Abomination, unless they’re of the Duchess.”

“So they really didn’t know. And de Worde has never seen him,” said Vimes. “But you saw him when we arrived the other day. What did you think of him? Just between ourselves.”

“An arrogant son of a bitch, sir, and I know what I’m talking about. The kind of man who thinks he knows what a woman likes and it’s himself. All very friendly right up until they say no.”

“Stupid?”

“I don’t think so. But not as clever as he thinks he is.”

“Right, ’cos he didn’t tell our writer friend his real name. Did you read the bit at the end?”

Angua read, at the end of the text: “Perry, the captain threatened and harangued me after the recruits had gone. Alas, I had no time to fish for the manacle key in the privy. Please let the prince know where they are soonest. WDW.”

“Looks like William didn’t take to him, either,” she said. “I wonder why the prince was out with a scouting party?”

“You said he was an arrogant son of a bitch,” said Vimes. “Maybe he just wanted to pop across and see if his auntie was still breathing…”

His voice trailed off. Angua looked at Vimes’s face, which was staring through her. She knew her boss. He thought war was simply another crime, like murder. He didn’t much like people with titles, and regarded being a duke as a job description rather than a lever to greatness. He had an odd sense of humor. And he had a sense for what she thought of as harbingers, those little straws in the wind that said there was a storm coming.

“In the nuddy,” he chuckled. “Could have slit their throats. Didn’t. They took their boots away and left them to hop home in the nood.” The squad, it seemed, had found a friend.

She waited.

“I feel sorry for the Borogravians,” he said.

“Me too, sir,” said Angua.

“Oh? Why?”

“Their religion’s gone bad on them. Have you seen the latest Abominations? They Abominate the smell of beets and people with red hair. In rather shaky writing, sir. And root vegetables are a staple here! Three years ago it was Abominable to grow root crops on ground which had grown grain or peas!”

Vimes looked blank, and she remembered that he was a city boy. “It means no real crop rotation, sir,” she explained. “The ground sours. Diseases build up. You were right when you said they were going mad. These…commandments are dumb, and any farmer can see that. I imagine people go along with them as best they can, but sooner or later you either have to break them and feel guilty, or keep them and suffer. For no reason, sir. I’ve had a look around. They’re very religious here, but their god’s let them down. No wonder they mostly pray to their royal family.”

She watched him stare at the piece of pigeon post for a while. Then he said:

“How far is it to Plotz?”

“About fifty miles,” said Angua, adding, “As the wolf runs, maybe six hours. I can leave right away.”

“Good. Buggy’ll keep an eye on you. Little Henry is going to hop home, or meet one of his patrols, or an enemy patrol…whatever. But the midden is going to hit the windmill when everyone sees that picture. I bet de Worde would have let him out if he’d been nice and polite. That’ll teach him to meddle with the awesome power of a fair and free press, haha.” He sat upright and rubbed his hands together like a man who meant business. “Now, let’s get that pigeon on its way again before it gets missed, eh? Get Reg to lurch along to where the Times people are staying and tell them their pigeon flew in the wrong window. Again.”

 

That was a good time, Polly remembered.

They didn’t go down to the river docks. They could see there was no boat there. They hadn’t turned up and the boatman had left without them.

Instead, they crossed the bridge and headed up into the forests, with Blouse leading the way on his ancient horse. Maladict went on ahead and…Jade brought up the rear. You didn’t need a light at night when a vampire led the way, and a troll at the rear would certainly discourage hangers-on.

No one mentioned the boat. No one spoke at all. The thing was…the thing was, Polly realized, that they were no longer marching alone. They shared the Secret.

That was a huge relief, and right now they didn’t need to talk about it. Nevertheless, it was probably a good idea to keep up a regular output of farts, belches, nosepickings, and groin scratchings, just in case.

Polly didn’t know whether to be proud that they’d taken her for a boy. I mean, she thought, I’d worked hard to get it right, I mastered the walk, except I suppose what I really did was mistress the walk, haha, I invented the fake shaving routine and the others didn’t even think of that, I haven’t cleaned my fingernails for days and I pride myself on being able to belch with the best of them. So, I mean, I was trying.

It was just slightly annoying to find that she’d succeeded so well.

After a few hours of this, when true dawn was breaking, they smelled smoke. There was a faint pall of it among the trees. Lieutenant Blouse raised a hand for them to halt, and Jackrum joined him in whispered conversation.

Polly stepped forward.

“Permission to whisper too, Sarge? I think I know what this is.”

Jackrum and Blouse stared at her. Then the sergeant said: “All right, Perks. Go and find out if you’re right, then.”

That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to Polly, but she’d left herself open. Jackrum relented when he saw her expression, nodded to Maladict, and said, “Go with him, Corporal.”

They left the squad behind and walked forward carefully, over the beds of new-fallen leaves.

The smoke was heavy and fragrant and, above all, reminiscent. Polly headed to where thicker undergrowth was taking advantage of the extra light of a clearing, and pushed through into an airy thicket of hazel trees. The smoke was denser here, and barely moving.

The thicket ended. A few yards away, in a wide patch of cleared ground, a mound like a small volcano was spewing flame and smoke into the air.

“Charcoal oven,” whispered Polly. “Just clay plastered on a stack of hazel. Should sit there smoldering for days. The wind probably caught it last night and the fire’s broken out. Won’t make good charcoal now, it’s burning too fast.”

They edged around it, keeping to the bushes. Other clay domes were dotted around the clearing, with faint wisps of steam and smoke coming from their tops. There were a couple of ovens in the process of being built, the fresh clay stacked alongside some bundles of hazel sticks.

There was a hut, and the domes, and nothing else but silence, apart from the crackle of the runaway fire.

“The charcoal-burner is dead, or nearly dead,” said Polly.

“He’s dead,” said Maladict. “There’s a smell of death here.”

“You can smell it above the smoke?”

“Sure,” said Maladict. “Some things we’re good at smelling. But how did you know?”

“They watch the burns like hawks,” said Polly, staring at the hut. “He wouldn’t let it go out of control like that if he was alive. Is he in the hut?”

“They are in the hut,” said Maladict flatly. He set off across the smoky ground.

Polly ran after him.

“Man and woman?” she said. “Their wives often live out with—”

“Can’t tell, not if they’re old,” said Maladict shortly.

The hut was only a temporary thing, made of woven hazel and roofed with tarpaulin; the charcoal-burners moved around a lot, from coppice to coppice. It didn’t have windows, but it did have a doorway, with a rag for a door. The rag had been pulled away; the doorway was dark.

I’ve got to be a man about this, she thought.

There was a woman on the bed, and a man lying on the floor. There were other details, which the eye saw but the brain did not focus on. There was a great deal of blood. The couple had been old. They would not grow older.

Back outside, Polly took frantic mouthfuls of air.

“Do you think those cavalrymen did it?” she said at last, and then realized that Maladict was shaking. “Oh…the blood…” she said.

“I can deal with it! It’s okay! I just have to get my mind right, it’s okay!”

He leaned against the hut, breathing heavily.

“Okay, I’m fine,” he said. “And I can’t smell horses. Why don’t you use your eyes? Nice soft mud everywhere after the rain, but no hoofprints. Plenty of footprints, though. We did it.”

“Don’t be silly, we were—”

The vampire had reached down and pulled something out of the fallen leaves. He rubbed the mud off it with a thumb.

In thin pressed brass, it was the Flaming Cheese badge of the Ins-and-Outs.

“But…I thought we were the good guys,” said Polly weakly. “If we were guys, I mean.”

“I think I need a coffee,” said the vampire.

 

“Deserters,” said Sergeant Jackrum ten minutes later. “It happens.” He tossed the badge into the fire.

“But they were on our side!” said Shufti.

“So? Not everyone’s a nice gennelman like you, Private Manickle,” said Jackrum. “Not after a few years of gettin’ shot at and eatin’ rat scubbo. On the Retreat from Khrusk I had no water for three days and then fell on my face in a puddle of horse piss, a circumstance which did nothing for my feelin’s of goodwill toward my fellow man or horse. Something the matter, Corporal?”

Maladict was on his knees, going through his pack with a distracted air.

“My coffee’s gone, Sarge.”

“Should’ve packed it properly, then,” said Jackrum unsympathetically.

“I did, Sarge! I washed out the engine and packed it up with the bean bag after supper last night. I know I did. I don’t take coffee lightly!”

“If someone else did, they’re going to wish I’d never been born,” growled Jackrum, looking around at the rest of the squad. “Anyone else lost anything?”

“Er…I wasn’t going to say anything, ’cos I wasn’t sure,” Shufti volunteered, “but my stuff looked as if it had been pulled about when I opened my pack just now…”

“Oh-ho!” said Jackrum. “Well, well, well! I’ll say this once, lads. Pinching from yer mates is a hanging offence, understood? Nothing breaks down morale faster’n some sneaky little sod dipping into people’s packs. And if I find out someone’s been at it, I’ll swing on their heels!” He glared at the squad. “I ain’t gonna demand that you all empty out your packs as if you’s criminals,” he said, “but you’d better check that nothing’s missing. O’course, one of you might have packed something that wasn’t theirs by accident, okay. Packing in a rush, poor light, easy to do. In which case, you sort it out amongst yourselves, understand? Now, I’m off to have a shave. Lieutenant Blouse is having a throw-up behind the shelter after a-viewin’ of the corpses, poor chap.”

Polly rummaged desperately in her pack. She’d thrown things in any old how last night, but what she was frantically searching for was—

—not there.

Despite the heat from the charcoal mounds, she shivered.

The ringlets had gone. Feverishly, she tried to remember the events of yesterday evening. They’d just dumped their packs as soon as they were in the barracks, right?

And Maladict had made himself some coffee at suppertime. He’d washed and dried the little machine—

There was a thin little wail. Wazzer, the meager contents of her pack spread around her, held up the coffee engine. It had been stamped almost flat.

“B-b-b—” she began.

Polly’s mind worked faster, like a millwheel in a flood. Then everyone took their packs into the back room with all the mattresses, didn’t they? And so they’d still be there when the squad fought the troopers—

“Oh, Wazz,” said Shufti. “Oh, dear…”

So who might have sneaked in through the back door? There was no one around except the squad and the cavalrymen. Perhaps someone wanted to watch, and cause a little trouble on the way—

“Strappi!” she said aloud. “It must have been him! The little weasel ran into the cavalry and then snuck back to watch! He was dar—damn well going through our packs out the back! Oh, come on,” she added as they stared at her. “Can you see Wazzer stealing from anyone? Anyway, when did she have the chance?”

“Wouldn’t they have taken him prisoner?” said Tonker, staring at the crushed machine in Wazzer’s shaking hands.

“If he’d whipped off his shako and jacket he’d just be another stupid civilian, wouldn’t he? Or he could just say he was a deserter. He could make up some story,” said Polly. “You know how he was with Wazzer. He went through my pack, too. Stole…something of mine.”

“What was it?” said Shufti.

“Just something, okay? He just wanted to…make trouble.”

She watched them thinking.

“Sounds convincing,” said Maladict, nodding abruptly. “Little weasel. Okay, Wazz, just fish out the beans and I’ll do the best I can—”

“T-theres no b-b-b—”

Maladict put a hand over his eyes.

“No beans?” he said. “Please, has anyone got the beans?”

There was a general rummaging, and a general lack of a result.

“No beans,” moaned Maladict. “He threw away the beans…”

“Come on, lads, we’ve got to get sentries posted,” said Jackrum, approaching. “Sorted it all out, have you?”

“Yes, Sarge, Ozz thinks—” Shufti began.

“It was all a bit of mispacking, Sarge!” said Polly quickly, anxious to keep away from anything connected with missing ringlets. “Nothing to worry about! All sorted, Sarge. No problem. Nothing to worry anyone. Not…a…thing, Sarge.”

Jackrum looked from the startled squad to Polly, and back, and back again. She felt his gaze bore into her, daring her to change her expression of mad, tense honesty.

“Ye-es,” he said slowly. “Right. Sorted out, eh? Well done, Perks. Attention! Officer present!”

“Yes, yes, Sergeant, thank you, but I don’t think we need to be too formal,” said Blouse, who looked rather pale. “A word with you when you have finished, if you please? And I think we should bury the, er, bodies.”

Jackrum saluted. “Right you are, sir. Two volunteers t’ dig a grave for those poor souls! Goom and Tewt—what’s he doing?”

Lofty was over by the blazing charcoal oven. She was holding a burning branch a foot or two from her face, and turning it this way and that, watching the flames.

“I’ll do it, Sarge,” said Tonker, stepping beside Wazzer.

“What are you, married?” said Jackrum. “You are on guard, Halter. I doubt whoever did it’ll come back, but if they do, you sing out, right? You and Igor come with me, and I’ll show you your stations.”

“No coffee,” moaned Maladict.

“Foul muck, anyway,” said Jackrum, walking away. “A cup of hot sweet tea is the soldier’s friend.”

Polly grabbed the kettle for Blouse’s shaving water and hurried away. That was another thing you learned in the milit’ry: look busy. Look busy and no one worried too much about what you were busy at.

Bloody, bloody Strappi! He’d got her hair! He’d try and use it against her if he could, that was certain. That’d be his style. What would he do now? Well, he’d want to keep away from Jackrum, that’d be another certainty. He’d wait, somewhere. She’d have to, too.

The squad had made camp upwind of the smoke. It was supposed to be a rest stop, since no one had got much sleep last night, but as Jackrum handed out tasks, he reminded them: “There is an old milit’ry saying, which is: ‘Hard Luck For You.’”

There was no question of using the woven hut, but there were a few tarpaulin-covered frames built to keep the coppiced wood dry. Those not given jobs to do lay down on the stacked piles of twigs, which were yielding and didn’t smell and were in any case better than the inhabited palliasses back at the barracks.

Blouse, as an officer, had a shelter to himself. Polly had stacked bundles of twigs to make a chair that was at least springy. Now she laid out his shaving things and turned to go—

“Could you shave me, Perks?” said the lieutenant.

Fortunately, Polly’s back was turned and he didn’t see her expression.

“This damn hand is quite swollen, I’m afraid,” Blouse went on. “I would not normally ask, but—”

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Polly, because there was no alternative. Well now, let’s see…she’d got quite good at scraping a blunt razor across a face bare of hair, yes. Oh, and she’d shaved a few dead pigs in the kitchens at The Duchess, but that was only because nobody likes hairy bacon. They didn’t real count, did they? Panic rose, and rose faster at the sight of Jackrum approaching. She was going to cut an officer’s throat in the presence of a sergeant.

Well, when in doubt, bustle. Milit’ry rule. Bustle, and hope there’s a surprise attack.

“Are you not being a little strict with the men, Sergeant?” said Blouse, as Polly flapped a towel around his neck.

“Not, sir. Keep ’em occupied, that’s the bunny. Otherwise they’ll mope,” said Jackrum confidently.

“Yes, but they have just seen a couple of badly mutilated bodies,” said Blouse and shuddered.

“Good practice for ’em, sir. They’ll see plenty more.”

Polly turned to the shaving gear she’d laid out on a towel. Let’s see…cutthroat razor, oh dear, the gray stone for coarse sharpening, the red stone for fine sharpening, the soap, the brush, the bowl…well, at least she knew how to make foam…

“Deserters, Sergeant. Bad business,” Blouse went on.

“You always get ’em, sir. That’s why the pay is always late. Walking away from three months back pay makes a man think twice.”

“Mr. de Worde, the newspaper man, said there had been a great many desertions, Sergeant. It is very strange that so many men would desert from a winning side.”

Polly whirled the brush vigorously. Jackrum, for the first time since Maladict had joined, looked uncomfortable.

“But whose side’s he on, sir?” he said.

“Sergeant, I am sure you are not a stupid man,” said Blouse as, behind him, foam poured over the edge of the bowl and flopped onto the floor. “There are desperate deserters abroad. Our borders appear to be sufficiently unguarded that enemy cavalry operate forty miles inside ‘our fair country.’ And High Command appears to be so desperate, yes, desperate, Sergeant, that even half a dozen untrained and, frankly, very young men must go to the front.”

The foam had a life of its own now. Polly hesitated.

“Hot towel first, please, Perks,” said Blouse.

“Yessir. Sorry, sir. Forgot, sir,” said Polly, panic rising. She had a vague recollection of walking past the barber shop in Munz. Hot towel on face. Right.

She grabbed a small towel, tipped boiling water onto it, wrung it out, and dropped it on the lieutenant’s face. He did not actually scream, as such.

“Aaaaagh something else worries me, Sergeant.”

“Yessir?”

“The cavalry must have apprehended Corporal Strappi. I cannot see how else they found out about our men.”

“Good thinking, sir,” said the sergeant, watching Polly apply the lather across Blouse’s mouth and nose.

“I do hope they didn’t pff torture the poor man,” said the lieutenant. Jackrum was silent on that issue, but meaningfully so. Polly wished he wouldn’t keep glancing at her.

“But why would a deserter pff head straight for the pff front?” said Blouse.

“Makes sense, sir, for an old soldier. Especially a political.”

“Really?”

“Trust me on that, sir,” said Jackrum. Behind Blouse, Polly brushed the razor up and down the red stone. It was already as slick as ice.

“But our boys, Sergeant, are not old ‘soldiers.’ It takes pff two weeks to turn a recruit into a ‘fighting man,’” said the lieutenant.

“They’re promising material, sir. I could do it in a couple of days, sir,” said Jackrum. “Perks?”

Polly nearly sliced her thumb off. “Yes, Sarge,” she quavered.

“Do you think you could kill a man today?”

Polly glanced at the razor. The edge glowed.

“I’m sorry to say I think I could, sir!”

“There you have it, sir,” said Jackrum with a lopsided grin. “There’s something about these lads, sir. They’re quick.” He walked behind Blouse, took the razor from Polly’s grateful hand without a word, and said: “There’s a few matters we ought to discuss, sir, private like. I think Perks here ought to get some rest.”

“Of course, Sergeant. ‘Pas devant les soldat jeune,’ eh?”

“And them too, sir,” said Jackrum. “You’re dismissed, Perks.”

Polly walked away, her right hand still trembling. Behind her, she heard Blouse sigh and say: “These are tricky times, Sergeant. Command has never been so burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times the commander must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the hawk and see every detail.”

“Yessir,” said Jackrum, gliding the razor down a cheek. “And if he acts like a common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon.”

“Er…well said, Sergeant.”

 

The charcoal-burner and his wife were buried to the accompaniment of, to Polly’s lack of surprise, a small prayer from Wazzer. It asked the Duchess to intercede with the god Nuggan to give eternal rest and similar items to the departed. Polly had heard it many times before; she’d wondered how the process worked.

She’d never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her mother was dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god like that was not worth a prayer.

But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes screwed up and hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled with such belief that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed, and, finally, after the ringing “amen,” amazed that the world appeared no different than before. For a minute or two, it had been a better place…

There was a cat in the hut. It cowered under the crude bed and spat at anyone who came close.

“All the food’s been taken but there’s carrots and parsnips in a little garden down the hill a bit,” Shufti said as they walked away.

“It’d be s-stealing from the dead,” said Wazzer.

“Well, if they object they can hold on, can’t they?” said Shufti. “They’re underground already!”

For some reason that was, at this time, funny. They’d have laughed at anything.

Now there was Jade, Lofty, Shufti, and Polly. Everyone else was on guard duty. They sat by a fire, on which a small pot seethed. Lofty tended the fire. She always seemed more animated near a fire, Polly noticed.

“I’m doing horse scubbo for the rupert,” said Shufti, easily dropping into a slang learned all of twenty hours ago. “He specifically asked for it. Got lots of dry horse jerky from Threeparts, but Tonker says she can knock over some pheasants while she’s on duty.”

“I hope she spends some time watching for enemies too,” said Polly.

“She’ll be careful,” said Lofty, prodding the fire with a stick.

“You know, if we’re found out, we’ll be beaten and sent back,” said Shufti.

“Who by?” said Polly so suddenly she surprised herself. “By whom? Who’s going to try, out here? Who cares out here?”

“Well, er, wearing men’s clothes is an Abomination Unto Nuggan—”

“Why?”

“It just is,” said Shufti firmly. But—”

“—you’re wearing them,” said Polly.

“Well, it was the only way,” said Shufti. “And I tried them on and they didn’t seem all that abominable to me.”

“Have you noticed men talk to you differently?” said Lofty shyly.

“Talk?” said Polly. “They listen to you differently, too.”

“They don’t keep looking at you all the time,” said Shufti. “You know what I mean. You’re just a…another person. If a girl walked down the street wearing a sword, a man would try to take it off her.”

“Wi’ trolls, we ain’t allowed to carry clubs,” said Jade. “Only large rocks. An’ it ain’t right for a girl to wear lichen, ’cos der boys say bald is modest. Had to rub bird doin’s inna my head to grow this lot.”

That was quite a long speech for a troll.

“We didn’t know that,” said Polly. “Er…trolls all look the same to us, more or less.”

“I’m nat’rally craggy,” said Jade. “I don’t see why I should polish.”

“There is a difference,” said Shufti. “I think it’s the socks. It’s like they pull you forward all the time. It’s like the whole world spins around your socks.”

She sighed and looked at the horsemeat, which had been boiled almost white.

“It’s done,” she said. “You’d better go and give it to the rupert, Polly…I mean, Ozzer. I told the sarge I could do something better but he said the lieutenant said how good it was last night—”

A small wild turkey, a brace of pheasants, and a couple of rabbits, all tied together, landed in front of Shufti.

“Good job we were guarding you, eh?” said Tonker, grinning and whirring an empty sling around in one hand. “One rock, one lunch. Maladict’s staying on guard, he said he’ll smell anyone before they see him and he’s too edgy to eat. What can you do with that lot?”

“Casserole of game,” said Shufti firmly. “We’ve got the veg and I’ve still got half an onion.* I’m sure I can make an oven out of one of those—”

“On your feet! Attention!” snapped the silently moving Jackrum behind them.

He stood back with a faint smile on his face as they scrambled to their feet.

“Private Halter, I must have bleedin’ amazin’ eyesight,” he said when they were approximately upright.

“Yes, Sarge,” said Tonker, staring straight ahead.

“Can you guess why, Private Halter?”

“No, Sarge.”

“It’s because I knows you are on perimeter guard, Halter, but I can see you as clear as if you was standing right here in front of me, Halter! Can’t I, Halter?”

“Yes, Sarge!”

“It’s just as well you are still on perimeter duty, Halter, because the penalty for absenting yourself from your post in time of war is death, Halter!”

“I only—”

“No ‘onlys’! I don’t want to hear no ‘onlys’! I don’t want you to think that I am a shouty man, Halter! Corporal Strappi was a shouty man, but he was a damn political! Upon my oath I am not a shouty man but if you ain’t back at your post inside of thirty seconds I’ll rip yer tongue out!”

Tonker fled. Sergeant Jackrum cleared his throat and continued in a level voice:

“This, my lads, is what we call a real orientation lectchoor, not one of the fancy political ones like Strappi gave yer.” He cleared his throat again. “The purpose of this lectchoor is to let you know where we are. We are in the deep cack. It couldn’t be worse if it was raining arseholes. Any questions?”

Since there were none from the bemused recruits, he continued, while beginning a slow stroll around the squad.

“We know enemy forces are in the area. Currently they have no boots. But there will be others, with boots aplenty. Also, there may be deserters in the area. They will not be nice people! They will be impolite! Therefore Lieutenant Blouse has decreed that we will travel off the roads and by night! Yes, we have met the enemy, and we have prevailed. That was a fluke. They weren’t expecting you to be rough, tough soldiers. Nor were you, so I don’t want you to feel cocky about it.” He leaned forward until his face was inches from Polly’s. “Are you feeling cocky, Private Perks?”

“No, Sarge!”

“Good. Good.” Jackrum stepped back. “We are heading for the front, lads. The war. And in a nasty war, where’s the best place to be? Apart from on the moon, o’course? No one?”

Slowly, Jade raised a hand.

“Go on, then,” said the sergeant.

“In the army, Sarge,” said the troll. “’Cos…” She began to count on her fingers. “One, you got weapons an’ armor an’ dat. Two, you are surrounded by other armed men. Er…Many, youse gettin’ paid and gettin’ better grub than the people in Civilian Street. Er…Lots, if’n you gives up, you getting taken pri’sner and dere’s rules about that like Not Kicking Pris’ners Inna Head and stuff, ’cos if you kick their pris’ners inna head they’ll kick your pris’ners inna head so dat’s, like, you’re kickin’ your own head, but there’s no rule say you can’t kick enemy civilians inna head. There’s other stuff too, but I ran outa numbers.”

She gave them a diamond grin.

“We may be slow but we ain’t stoopid,” she added.

“I am impressed, Private,” said Jackrum. “And you are right. The only wasp in the jam is that you ain’t soldiers! But I can help you there! Bein’ a soldier is not hard! If it was, soldiers would not be able to do it! There is only three things you need to remember, which are, viz: one obey orders two give it to the enemy good and hard three don’t die. Got that? Right! You’re nearly there! Well done! I propose to assist you in the execution of all three! You are my little lads and I will look after you! In the meantime, you got duties! Shufti, get cooking! Private Perks, see to the rupert! And after that, practice your shaving! I will now visit those on guard and deliver unto them the holy word! Dismissed!”

They remained at something like attention until he was probably out of earshot, and then sagged.

“Why does he always shout?” said Shufti. “I mean, he only has to ask…”

Polly upended the horrible scubbo into a tin bowl, and almost ran to the lieutenant’s shelter. He looked up from a map and smiled at her as if she was delivering a feast.

“Ah, scubbo,” he said.

“We are actually having other stuff, sir,” Polly volunteered. “I’m sure there’s enough to go around—”

“Good heavens, no, it’s been years since I’ve had food like this,” said Blouse, picking up the spoon. “Of course, at school we didn’t appreciate it so much.”

“You had food like this at school, sir?” said Polly.

“Yes. Most days,” said Blouse happily.

Polly couldn’t quite fit this in her head. Blouse was a nob. Nobs ate nobby food, didn’t they? “Had you done something bad, sir?”

“I can’t imagine what you mean, Perks,” said Blouse, slurping at the horrible thin gruel. “Are the men rested?”

“Yes, sir. The dead people were a bit of a shock—”

“Yes. Bad business,” sighed the lieutenant. “Such is war, alas. I am only sorry you had to learn so fast. Such a terrible waste all the time. I am sure things can be sorted out when we reach Kneck, though. No general can expect young men like yourselves to be instant soldiers. I shall have something to say about that.”

His rabbitty features looked unusually determined, as if a hamster had spotted a gap in its treadmill.

“Do you require me for anything else, sir?” said Polly.

“Er…do the men talk about me, Perks?”

“Not really, sir, no.”

The lieutenant looked disappointed. “Oh. Oh, well. Thank you, Perks.”

 

Polly wondered if Jackrum ever slept. She did a spell of guard duty, and he stepped out from behind her with “Guess who, Perks! You’re on lookout. You should see the dreadful enemy before they see you. What’re the four S’s?”

“Shape, shadow, silhouette, and shine, Sarge!” said Polly, snapping to attention. She’d been expecting this.

That caused a moment’s pause from the sergeant before he said: “Just knew that, did yer?”

“Nosir! A little bird told me when we changed guard, sir! Said you’d asked him, sir!”

“Oh, so Jackrum’s little lads are gangin’up on their kindly ol’ sergeant, are they?” said Jackrum.

“Nosir. Sharing information important to the squad in a vital survival situation, Sarge!”

“You’ve got a quick mouth on you, Perks, I’ll grant you that.”

“Thank you, Sarge!”

“But I see you’re not standing in a bleedin’ shadow, Perks, nor have you done anything to change your bleedin’ shape, you’re silhouetted against the bleedin’ light, and your saber’s shining like a diamond in a chimney-sweep’s bleedin’ ear’ole! Explain!”

“It’s because of the one C, Sarge!” said Polly, still staring straight ahead.

“And that is?”

“Color, Sarge! I’m wearing bleedin’ red-and-white in a bleedin’ gray forest, Sarge!”

She risked a sideways glance. In Jackrum’s little piggy eyes there gleamed a gleam. It was the one they had when he was secretly pleased.

“Ashamed of your lovely, lovely uniform, Perks?” he said.

“Don’t want to be seen dead in it, Sarge,” said Polly.

“Hah. As you were, Perks.”

Polly smiled, straight ahead.

When she came off guard for a bowl of game casserole, Jackrum was teaching basic sword craft to Lofty and Tonker, using hazel sticks as swords. By the time Polly had finished, he was teaching Wazzer some of the finer points of using a high-performance pistol crossbow, especially the one about not turning around with it cocked and saying “w-what is this bit for, Sarge?” Wazzer handled weapons like a houseproud woman disposing of a dead mouse—at arm’s length and trying not to look. But even she was better with them than Igor, who just didn’t seem at home with the idea of what was, to him, randomized surgery.

Jade was dozing. Maladict was hanging by his knees under the roof of one of the sheds, with his arms folded across his chest; he must have been telling the truth when he said there were some aspects of being a vampire that were hard to give up.

Igor and Maladict…

She still wasn’t sure about Maladict, but Igor had to be a boy, with those stitches around the head, and that face that could only be called homely.* He was quiet, and neat, but maybe that’s how Igors behaved…

She woke up with Shufti shaking her.

“We’re moving! Better go and see to the rupert!”

“What? Huh? Oh…right!”

There was a bustle all around her. Polly staggered to her feet and hurried over to Lieutenant Blouse’s shed, where he was standing in front on his wretched horse and holding the bridle with a lost expression.

“Ah, Perks,” he said. “I’m not at all sure I’m doing this right…”

“No, sir. You’ve got the waffles twisted and the snoffles are upside down,” said Polly, who’d often helped in the inn’s yard.

“Ah, that would be why he was so difficult last night,” said Blouse. “I suppose I ought to know this sort of thing, but at home we had a man to do it…”

“Let me, sir,” said Polly. She untwisted the bridle with a few careful movements. “What’s his name, sir?”

“Thalacephalos,” said Blouse sheepishly. “That was the legendary stallion of General Tacticus, you know.”

“I didn’t know that, sir,” said Polly. She leaned back and glanced between the horse’s rear legs. Wow, Blouse really was short-sighted, wasn’t he…

The mare looked at her partly with its eyes, which were small and evil, but mostly with its yellowing teeth, of which it had an enormous amount. She had the impression that it was thinking about sniggering.

“I’ll hold him for you while you mount, sir,” she said.

“Thank you. He certainly moves about a bit when I try!”

“I expect he does, sir,” said Polly. She knew about difficult horses; this one had all the hallmarks of a right bastard, one of those not cowed at all by the obvious superiority of the human race.

The mare eyeballed and yellowtoothed her as Blouse mounted, but Polly had positioned herself carefully away from the uprights of the shelter. Thalacephalos wasn’t the sort to buck and kick. She was the sneaky kind, Polly could see, the sort that stepped on your foot—

She moved her foot just as the hoof came down. But Thalacephalos, angry at being thwarted, turned, twisted, lowered her head, and bit Polly sharply on the rolled-up socks.

“Bad horse!” said Blouse severely. “Sorry about that, Perks. I think he’s anxious to get to the fray! Oh, my word!” he added, looking down. “Are you all right, Perks?”

“Well, he’s pulling a bit, sir—” said Polly, being dragged sideways. Blouse had gone white again.

“But he’s bitten…he’s caught you by the…right on the…”

The penny dropped. Polly looked down, and hastily remembered what she’d heard during numerous rule-free bar fights.

“Oh…ooo…Argh…blimey! Right inna fruit! Aargh!” she lamented, and then, since it seemed a good idea at the time, brought both fists down heavily on the mare’s nose.

The lieutenant fainted.

 

It took some time to bring Blouse around, but at least it gave Polly time to think.

He opened his eyes and focused on her.

“Er, you fell off your horse, sir,” Polly volunteered.

“Perks? Are you all right? Dear boy, he had you by the—”

“Only needs a few stitches, sir!” said Polly cheerfully.

“What? From Igor?”

“Nosir. Just the cloth, sir,” said Polly. “The trousers are a bit big for me, sir.”

“Ah, right. Too big, eh? Phew, eh? Near miss there, eh? Well, I mustn’t lie around here all day—”

The squad helped him onto Thalacephalos, who was still sniggering unrepentantly. On the subject of “too big,” Polly made a mental note to see about his jacket next time they stopped. She wasn’t much good with a needle, but if Igor couldn’t do something to make it look better then he wasn’t the man she thought he was. And that was a sentence that begged a question.

Jackrum bellowed them into order. They were better at that now. Neater, too.

“All right, Ins-and-Outs! Tonight we—”

A set of huge yellow teeth removed his cap.

“Oh, I do apologize, Sergeant!” said Blouse behind him, trying to rein back the mare.

“No bother, sir, these things happen!” said Jackrum, furiously tugging his hat back.

“I should like to address my men, Sergeant.”

“Oh? Er…yes, sir,” said Jackrum, looking worried. “Of course, sir. Ins-and-Outs! Attenwaitforitshun!”

Blouse coughed.

“Er…men,” he said. “As you know, we must make all speed to the Kneck Valley where, apparently, we are needed. Traveling by night will prevent…entanglements. Er…I…”

He stared at them, his face contorted by some inner struggle.

“Er…I have to say I don’t think we are…that is, all the evidence is…er…it doesn’t seem to me that…er…I think I should tell you…er…”

“Permission to speak, sir?” said Polly. “Are you feeling all right?”

“We just have to hope that those put in power over us are making right decisions,” mumbled Blouse. “But I have every confidence in you and I am sure you will do your best. Long Live the Duchess! Carry on, Sergeant Jackrum.”

“Ins-and-Outs! Form up! March!”

And they headed into the dusk and off to war.

 

About half an hour after the squad had left, the charcoal-burners’ cat ventured very cautiously back into the hut. It liked the hut. It got fed there.

It watched, with suspicion, a stub of candle that had been lit and put very carefully on a pile of straw and dried bracken between the makeshift beds. Its ears flattened as the shrinking candle flared and the waxy straw around it began to crackle. By the time the hut was a mass of flame, the cat was on the other side of the clearing, moving fast.

 

The order of march was as last night, with Maladict going on ahead. The clouds were holding in some heat, and were thin enough to hint at moonlight here and there. Forests by night held no problems for Polly, anyway, and this wasn’t true wild forest in any case. Nor was it, in truth, a march that they were doing. It was more like a high-speed creep, in ones and twos.

She’d acquired two of the horsebows, now stuck awkwardly between the straps of her pack. They were horrible things, rather like a cross between a small crossbow and a clock. There were mechanisms in the thick shaft, and the bow itself was barely six inches across; somehow, if you leaned your weight on it, you could cock it with enough stored energy to fire a nasty little metal arrow through an inch-thick plank. They were blued metal, sleek and evil. But there is an old milit’ry say: better me firing it at you than you firing it at me, you bastard.

Polly eased her way along the line until she was walking alongside Igor. He nodded to her in the gloom, and then turned his attention to walking. He needed to, because his pack was twice the size of the rest of them. No one felt inclined to ask him what was in it; sometimes, you thought you could hear liquid sloshing.

Igors sometimes passed through Munz, although technically they were an Abomination In The Eyes Of Nuggan. It had seemed to Polly that using bits of someone who was dead to help three or four other people stay alive was a sensible idea, but, in the pulpit, Father Jupe had argued that Nuggan didn’t want people to live, he wanted them to live properly. There had been general murmurs of agreement from the congregation, but Polly knew for a fact that there were a couple of people sitting there with a hand or arm or leg that was a little less tanned or a little more hairy than the other one. There were lumberjacks everywhere in the mountains. Accidents happened; fast, sudden accidents. And, since there were not many jobs for a one-armed lumberjack, men went off and found an Igor to do what no amount of prayer could manage.

The Igors had a motto: What goes around, comes around. You didn’t have to pay them back. You had to pay them forward, and that, frankly, was the bit where people got worried. When you were dying, an Igor would mysteriously arrive on the doorstep and request that he be allowed to take away any bits urgently needed by others on his “little litht.” He’d be quite happy to wait until the priest had gone, and, it was said, when the time came, he’d do very neat work. However, it happened quite often that when an Igor turned up, the prospective donor took fright and turned to Nuggan, who liked whole people.

In which case the Igor would quietly and politely leave and never come back. He’d never come back to the whole village, or the whole lumber camp. Nor would other Igors. What goes around comes around—or stops.

As far as Polly could tell, Igors believed that the body was nothing more than a more complicated kind of clothing. Oddly enough, that’s what Nugganites thought, too.

“Glad you joined, Igor?” said Polly as they jogged along.

“Yeth, Ozz.”

“Could you take a look at the rupert’s hand next time we stop, please? He cut it badly.”

“Yeth, Ozz.”

“Can I ask you something, Igor?”

“Yeth, Ozz.”

“What’re female Igors called, Igor?”

Igor stumbled and kept moving. He was silent for a while, and then said:

“All right, what did I do wrong?”

“Sometimes you forget to lisp,” said Polly. “But mostly…it’s just a feeling. Little things about the way you move, maybe.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘Igorina,’” said Igorina. “We don’t lisp as much as the boys. It’s a style thing.”

They continued in more silence until Polly said, “I thought it was bad enough cutting my hair—”

“The stitches?” said Igorina. “I can have them out in five minuteth. They’re just for show.”

Polly hesitated. But, after all, Igors had to be trustworthy, didn’t they?

“You didn’t cut your hair?”

“Actually, I just removed it,” said Igorina.

“I put mine in my pack,” Polly went on, trying not to look at the stitches around Igorina’s head.

“So did I,” said Igorina. “In a jar. It’s thtill growing.”

Polly swallowed. You needed a lack of graphic imagination to talk about personal issues with an Igor.

“Mine was stolen back at the barracks. I’m sure it was Strappi,” she said.

“Oh dear.”

“I hate to think of him with it!”

“Why did you bring it?”

And that was the question. She’d planned, and she’d been good at planning. She’d fooled the rest of them, even. She’d been cool and sensible and she hadn’t felt more than a faint pang at cutting off her hair—

—and she’d brought it with her. Why? She could have thrown it away. It wasn’t magic. It was just hair. She could have thrown it away, just like that. Easily. But…but…ah, right, the maids could have found it. That was it. She had to get it out of the house quickly. Right. And then she could bury it somewhere when she was a long way away. Right.

But she hadn’t, had she…

She’d been very busy. Right, said the little voice in inner treachery. She had been very busy fooling everyone but herself, right?

“What could Strappi do?” said Igorina. “Jackrum’d knock him over the moment he thaw him. He’s a deserter, and a thief!”

“Yeas, but he could tell someone,” said Polly.

“Okay, then say it’s a lock of hair from the sweetheart you left behind you. Lots of soldiers carry a locket or something like that. You know: ‘Her golden hair in ringleth fair,’ like the song says.”

“It was all my hair! A locket? You couldn’t hold it all in your hat!”

“Ah,” said Igorina. “Then you could thay you loved her very much?”

Despite everything, Polly started to laugh, and couldn’t stop herself. She bit her sleeve and tried to keep going, with her shoulders shaking.

Something that felt like a small tree prodded her in the back.

“Youse two oughta keep der noise down,” rumbled Jade.

“Sorry. Sorry,” hissed Polly.

Igorina started to hum. Polly knew the song.

 

I’m lonesome since I crossed the hill

And o’er the moor and valley…

 

And she vowed: not that one, too. One song is enough. And I want to leave the girl behind me, but it seems I brought her with me instead…

At which point they emerged from the trees and saw the red glow.

The rest of the squad were already gathered around, watching it. It covered quite a lot of the horizon, and brightened and faded in places as they watched.

“Is that hell?” said Wazzer.

“No, but men have made it so, I fear,” said the lieutenant. “That is the Kneck Valley.”

“It’s on fire, sir?” said Polly.

“Bless you, that’s just the light of cooking fires reflected off the clouds,” said Sergeant Jackrum. “Always looks bad by night, a battlefield. Not to worry, lads!”

“What’re they cooking, elephants?” said Maladict.

“And what’s that?” said Polly, pointing to a nearby hill, darker still against the night. On it, a little light was flickering on and off, very fast. There was a whoosh and a metallic “pop” as Blouse pulled out a small telescope and opened it up.

“It’s a light clacks, the devils!” he said.

“Dere’s another one over dere,” rumbled Jade, pointing to a hill a lot further away. “Twinkle, twinkle.”

Polly stared at the redness in the sky, and then at the cold little light, winking on and off. Quiet, soft light. Harmless light. And behind it, a burning sky…

“It’ll be in code,” said Blouse. “Spies, I’ll be bound.”

“A light clacks?” said Tonker. “What’s that?”

“An Abomination In The Eyes Of Nuggan,” said Blouse. “Unfortunately, because they’d be damn useful if we could have ’em too, eh, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” said Jackrum automatically.

“The only messages passing through the air should be the prayers of the faithful. Praise Nuggan, praise the Duchess, and so on and so forth,” said Blouse, squinting. He sighed. “Such a shame. How far to that hill, would you say, Sergeant?”

“Two miles, sir,” said Jackrum. “Worth trying to sneak up?”

“They must know people will see them and come looking, so I expect they won’t ‘hang around’ for long,” mused Blouse. “In any case, ah, those things would be highly directional. You’d lose it once you got down in the valley.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” said Polly.

“Of course,” said Blouse.

“How do they get the light so bright, sir? It’s pure white!”

“Some kind of firework thingy, I believe. Why?”

“And they send messages with light?”

“Yes, Perks. And your point is…?”

“And the people who get those messages send messages back the same way?” Polly persevered.

“Yes, Perks, that is the whole idea!”

“Then…maybe we don’t have to go all the way to that hill, sir? The light is being aimed towards us, sir.”

They all turned. The hill they were skirting loomed above them.

“Well done, Perks!” Blouse whispered. “Let’s go, sergeant!” He swung himself off the horse, which automatically stepped sideways to make sure that he fell over when he landed.

“Right you are, sir!” said Jackrum, helping him up. “Maladict, you take Goom and Halter and circle round to the left, the rest go round to the right—not you, Carborundum, no offense, but this has got to be quiet, okay? You stay here. Perks, you come with me—”

“I shall come too, Sergeant,” said Blouse, and only Polly saw Jackrum grimace.

“Good idea, sir!” said the sergeant. “I suggest you—I suggest Perks and I come with you. Everyone got that? Get to the top neat and quiet and no one, no one moves until you hear my signal—”

“My signal,” said Blouse firmly.

“That’s what I meant, sir. Quick and quiet! Hit ’em hard but I want at least one left alive! Go!”

The two teams fanned out to right and left and disappeared. The sergeant gave them a minute or two’s start, and then set off with unusual speed for a man of his girth, so that for a moment Polly and the lieutenant were left standing.

Behind them, a dejected Jade watched them go.

The trees thinned out on the steep slope, but not enough for much underbrush to get a hold. Polly found it easier to go on all fours, grabbing at tufts and saplings to steady herself.

After a while she caught a whiff of smoke, chemical and acrid. She was sure, too, that she could hear a faint clicking noise.

A tree extended a hand and pulled her into its shadow.

“Don’t you say a bleedin’ word,” hissed Jackrum. “Where’s the rupert?”

“Don’t know, Sarge!”

“Damn! You can’t let a rupert run around loose, there’s no tellin’ what he might take it into his little head to do, now he’s got the idea he’s in charge! You’re ’is minder! Find ’im!”

Polly slithered back down the slope and found Blouse steadying himself against a tree, wheezing gently.

“Ah…Perks,” he panted. “My asthma seems to…be…coming back…”

“I’ll help you up, sir,” said Polly, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward. “Could you wheeze a little quieter, sir?”

By degrees, dragging and pushing, she bundled the man up to Jackrum’s tree.

“Glad you could join us, sir!” hissed the sergeant, face contorted into an expression of maddened affability. “If you’d care to wait here, Perks and me will crawl up the—”

“I’m coming too, Sergeant,” Blouse insisted.

Jackrum hesitated. “Yessir,” he said. “But with respect, sir, I know about skirmishing—”

“Let’s go, Sergeant,” said Blouse, dropping flat and beginning to drag himself forward.

“Yessir,” muttered Jackrum darkly.

Polly eased her way forward, too. The grass here was shorter, rabbit-nibbled, with small bushes here and there. She concentrated on keeping the noise down, and aimed for the clicking.

The smell of chemical smoke grew stronger. It hung in the air around her. And, as she moved forward, she saw light, little specks of it. She raised her head.

There were three men a few feet away, silhouetted against the night. One of them was holding a large pipe, about five feet long, balanced on his shoulder at one end and on a tripod at the other. That end was aimed at the distant hill. On the other end, a foot or so behind the man’s head, was a big square box. Light was leaking from joints in this; from a little stovepipe chimney on the top of it, heavy smoke poured out.

“Perks, on the count of three,” said Jackrum, on Polly’s right. “One—”

“As you were, Sergeant,” said Blouse quietly, on her left.

Polly saw Jackrum’s big florid face turn with an expression of astonishment.

“Sir?”

“Hold position,” said Blouse. Above them, the clicking continued.

Milit’ry secrets, thought Polly. Spies! Enemies! And we’re just watching! It was like seeing blood drain from an artery.

“Sir!” hissed Jackrum, rage smoking off him.

“Hold position, Sergeant. That is an order,” said Blouse calmly.

Jackrum subsided, but only into the deceptive calm of a volcano waiting to explode.

The relentless chatter of the clacks went on. It seemed to go on forever. Beside Polly, Sergeant Jackrum seethed and fretted like a dog on a leash.

The clicking stopped. Polly heard a distant murmur of conversation.

“Sergeant Jackrum,” whispered Blouse, “you may ‘get them’ with all speed!”

Jackrum exploded out of the grass like a partridge.

“All right, my lads! Up, boys, and at ’em!”

Polly’s first thought, as she leaped up and ran, was that the distance was suddenly a lot wider than it had appeared.

All three men had turned at the sound of Jackrum’s cry. The one with the clacks tube was already dropping it and reaching for a sword, but Jackrum was bearing down on him like a landslide. The man made the mistake of standing his ground. There was a brief clash of swords and then a melee, and Sergeant Jackrum was a sufficiently deadly melee all by himself.

The second man flew past Polly but she was running for the third one. He backed away from her, reaching up to his mouth, then turned to run and found himself face to face with Maladict.

“Don’t let him swallow!” Polly yelled.

Maladict’s arm shot up and lifted the struggling man aloft by his throat.

It would have been a perfect operation had not the rest of the squad arrived, having put all their effort into running and leaving none to spare for slowing down. There were collisions.

Maladict went down as his captive kicked him in the chest, and the man tried to scramble away, cannoning into Tonker. Polly leaped over Igorina, was almost tripped by a fallen Wazzer, and threw herself desperately toward the quarry, now on his knees.

He had a dagger out and waved it wildly in front of her while he grasped his throat with his other hand and made choking noises.

She knocked the knife away, ran behind him, and slapped him on the back as hard as she could. He fell forward.

Before she could grab him, a hand lifted him bodily and Jackrum’s voice roared: “Can’t have the poor man chokin’ to death, Perks!”

His other hand punched the man in the stomach with a noise like meat hitting a slab.

The man’s eyes crossed and something large and white flew out of his mouth and shot over Jackrum’s shoulder.

Jackrum dropped him and turned on Blouse.

“Sir, I protest, sir!” he said, quivering with anger. “We lay there and watched these devils sending who knows what messages, sir! Spies, sir! We could’ve got ’em right there and then, sir!”

“And then, Sergeant?” said Blouse.

“What?”

“Don’t you think the people they were talking to would wonder what had happened if the messages had stopped in midflow?” said the lieutenant.

“Even so, sir—”

“Whereas now we have their device, Sergeant, and their masters don’t know we have it,” said Blouse.

“Yeah, well, but you said they was sending messages in code, sir, and—”

“Er, I think we have their cypher book as well, Sarge,” said Maladict, stepping forward with the white object in his hand. “That man tried to eat it, Sarge. Rice paper. But he rushed his food, you might say.”

“And you dislodged it, Sergeant, and probably saved his life. Well done!” said Blouse.

“But one of ’em got away, sir,” said Jackrum. “He’ll soon get to—”

“Sergeant?”

Jade was rising over the grass. As she plodded nearer, they saw she was dragging a man by one foot. When she got closer, it became obvious that the man was dead. Living people have more head.

“I heard the shoutin’ and he come runnin’ and I jumped up and he come straight into me, headfirst!” Jade complained. “I didn’t even get a chance to hit him!”

“Well, Private, at least we can definitely say he was stopped,” said Blouse.

“Thir, thith man is dying,” said Igorina, who was kneeling by the man Sergeant Jackrum had so positively saved from choking. “He hath been poithoned!”

“Hath he? By whom?” said Blouse. “Are you sure?”

“The green foam coming out of hith mouth ith a definite clue, thir.”

“What’s funny, Private Maladict?” said Blouse.

The vampire chuckled. “Oh, sorry, sir. They say to spies, ‘if you’re caught, eat the documents,’ don’t they? A good way of making sure they don’t give away any secrets.”

“But you’ve got the…soggy book in your hands, Private!”

“Vampires can’t be poisoned that easily, sir,” said Maladict calmly.

“It wath probably only fatal by mouth in any case, thir,” said Igorina. “Terrible stuff. Thtuff. He’th dead, thir. Nothing I can do.”

“Poor fellow. Well, we have the codes, anyway,” said Blouse. “This is a great discovery, men.”

“And a prisoner, sir, and a prisoner,” said Jackrum.

The one surviving man, who had been operating the clacks, groaned and tried to move.

“A bit bruised, I expect,” Jackrum added with some satisfaction. “When I land on someone, sir, they stay landed on.”

“Two of you, bring him with us,” said Blouse. “Sergeant, there’s a few hours to dawn, and I want to be well away from here. I want the other two buried somewhere down in the woods, and—”

“You just have to say ‘carry on, Sergeant,’ sir,” said Jackrum, and it was almost a wail. “That’s how it works, sir! You tell me what you want, I give ’em the orders!”

“Times are changing, Sergeant,” said Blouse.

 

Messages, flying across the sky. They were an Abomination Unto Nuggan.

The logic sounded impeccable to Polly as she helped Wazzer to dig two graves. Prayers from the faithful ascended unto Nuggan, going upwards. A variety of unseen things, such as sanctity and grace and a list of this week’s Abominations, descended from Nuggan to the faithful, going downwards. What was forbidden was messages from one human to another going, as it were, sideways. There could be collisions. If you believe in Nuggan, that is. If you believed in prayer.

Wazzer’s real name was Alice, she confided as she dug, but it was hard to apply the name to a small, stick-thin lad with a bad haircut and not much skill with a shovel, who had a habit of standing just slightly too close to you and stared just slightly to the left of your face when she talked to you. Wazzer believed in prayer. She believed in everything. That made her kind of…awkward to talk to, if you didn’t. But Polly felt she should make the effort.

“How old are you, Wazz?” she said, shoveling dirt.

“N-n-nineteen, Polly,” said Wazzer.

“Why’d you join?”

“The Duchess told me to,” said Wazzer.

That was why people didn’t talk to Wazzer much.

“Wazz, you do know that wearing men’s clothes is an Abomination, don’t you?”

“Thank you for reminding me, Polly,” said Wazzer without a trace of irony. “But the Duchess told me that nothing I do will be held Abominable in pursuit of my quest.”

“A quest, eh,” said Polly, trying to sound jovial. “And what kind of quest is that?”

“I am to take command of the army,” said Wazzer.

Hairs rose on the back of Polly’s neck.

“Yes?” she said.

“Yes, the Duchess stepped out of her picture when I was asleep and She told me to go at once to Kneck,” said Wazzer. “The Little Mother spoke to me, Ozz. She commanded me. She guides my steps! She led me out of vile slavery! How can that be an Abomination?”

She’s got a sword, thought Polly. And a shovel. This needs careful handling.

“That’s nice,” she said.

“And…and I must tell you that…I…never in my life have I felt such love and camaraderie,” Wazzer went on earnestly. “These few days have been the happiest of my life. You have all shown me such kindness, such gentleness. The Little Mother guides me. She guides us all, Ozz. You believe that, too. Don’t you?”

The moonlight revealed the tracks of tears in the grime on Wazzer’s cheeks.

“Um,” said Polly and sought wildly for a way to avoid lying. She found it. “Er…you know I want to find Paul?” she said.

“Yes, and that does you credit, the Duchess knows,” said Wazzer quickly.

“Yes, well…yes, I’m also doing it for The Duchess,” said Polly, feeling wretched. “I think about The Duchess all the time, I must admit.” Well, that was true. It just wasn’t honest.

“I’m so very glad to hear that, Ozz, because I had thought you were a backslider,” said Wazzer. “But you said that with such conviction. Perhaps this would be the time for us to get down on our knees and—”

“Wazz, you’re standing in another man’s grave,” said Polly. “There’s a time and place, you know? Let’s get back to the others, eh?”

The happiest days of her life had been spent tramping through forests, digging graves, and trying to dodge soldiers on both sides? And the trouble with Polly was that she had a mind that asked questions even when she really, really didn’t want to know the answers.

“So…the Duchess is still talking to you, is she?” she said as they made their way among the dark trees.

“Oh, yes. When we were in Plotz, sleeping in the barracks,” said Wazzer. “She said it was all working.”

Don’t, don’t ask another question, said part of Polly’s mind, but she ignored it out of sheer horrible curiosity. Wazzer was nice…well, sort of nice, in as lightly scary way—but talking to her was like picking at a scab; you knew what was likely to be under the crust, but you picked anyway.

“So…what did you used to do back in the world?” she said.

Wazzer gave her a haunting smile. “I used to be beaten.”

 

Tea was brewing in a small hollow near the track. Several of the squad were standing guard. No one liked the idea of men in dark clothes sneaking round.

“Mug of saloop?” said Shufti, holding one up. A few days ago, they’d have called it “sweet milky tea,” but even if they couldn’t walk the walk yet they were determined to talk the talk as soon as possible.

“What’s happening?” said Polly.

“Dunno,” said Shufti. “Sarge and the rupert went off over that way with the prisoner, but no one tells us groans anything.”

“It’s ‘grunts,’ I think,” said Wazzer, taking the tea.

“I’ve done them a couple of mugs, anyway. See what you can find out, eh?”

Polly gulped her tea down, grabbed the mugs, and hurried away.

On the edge of the hollow, Maladict was lounging against a tree. There was this about vampires; they could never look scruffy. Instead, they were…what was the word…dishabille. It meant untidy, but with bags and bags of style. In this case, Maladict’s jacket was open and he’d stuck his packet of cigarettes in the band of his shako. He saluted her with his crossbow as she went past.

“Ozz?” he said.

“Yes, Corp?”

“Any coffee in their packs?”

“Sorry, Corp. Only tea.”

“Damn!” Maladict thumped the tree behind him. “Hey, you went straight for the man who was swallowing the cypher. Straight for him. How come?”

“Just luck,” said Polly.

“Yeah, right. Try again. I have very good night vision.”

“Oh, all right. Well, the one on the left started to run, and the one in the middle was dropping the clacks tube and reaching for his sword, but the one on the right thought that putting something into this mouth was more important even than fighting or running away. Satisfied?”

“You worked out all that in a couple of seconds? That was smart.”

“Yeah, right. Now please forget it, okay? I don’t want to be noticed. I don’t particularly want to be here. I just want to find my brother. Okay?”

“Fine. I just thought that you’d like to know someone saw you. And you’d better get that tea to ’em before they try to kill one another.”

At least I was someone watching the enemy, Polly thought furiously as she walked away. I wasn’t someone watching another soldier. Who does he think he is? Or she is?

She heard the raised voices as she pushed through a thicket.

“You can’t torture an unarmed man!” That was Blouse’s voice.

“Well, I’m not waiting for him to arm himself, sir! He knows stuff! And he’s a spy!”

“Don’t you dare kick him in the ribs again! That is an order, Sergeant!”

“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!”