“I’ll help you up, sir,” said Polly, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward. “Could you wheeze a little more quietly, 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 for ever. 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 leapt 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 towards 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, quiyering 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 mid-flow?” 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 cipher 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 was closer it was 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, head first!” 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.
   “Thur, thith man is dying,” said Igorina, who was kneeling by the man Sergeant Jackrum had so positively saved from choking. “He hath been poithened!”
   “Hath he? By whom?” said Blouse. “Are you sure?”
   “The green foam coming out of hith mouth ith a definite clue, thur.”
   “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, corporal!”
   “Vampires can’t be poisoned that easily, sir,” said Maladict calmly.
   “It wath probably only fatal by mouth in any case, thur,” said Igorina. “Terrible stuff. Thtuff. He’th dead, thur. 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, from side to side. There could be collisions. If you believed 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, shovelling 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 in pursuit of my quest will be held Abominable.”
   “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 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. “The last 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 my brother?” she said.
   “Well, that does you credit, the Duchess knows,” said Wazzer quickly.
   “And, well… 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 the girl’s life had been spent tramping through forests, digging graves and trying to dodge soldiers on both sides? 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 a slightly 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 use 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 around.
   “Mug of saloop?” said Shufti, holding them 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 cipher. 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 his 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 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 than 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 has 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 Stronginthearm Number Five 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!” said Blouse.
   “Everyone knows about you, lieutenant. You’re the Monstrous Regiment, you are!” he said. “No offence 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 ogodIkickedthePrinceinthefruit andveg were going round and round 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 glanced 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 sabre in her hand and looked worried sick. 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 behaviour in times of war, but it is not the sort of thing we would expect of a royal prince.5 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,” she said, 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, 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 a mug.
   “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! Makes 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 favour Blackheart over 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,” said Jackrum 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.
   Amazingly, the man was still in a sitting position, and still bound hand and foot. Her fellow Cheesemongers were watching him dejectedly. 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 humour—”
   “Tea up,” said Polly.
   “Oh, thank you, Perks,” said Blouse. “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 hand with his left hand, grabbed the sabre 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 arm lock.
   “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 anywhere, 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. I like it when something’s up. 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 than 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 colour 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 landscape 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 here at the end of summer the stream 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 vantage 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 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 to shave him before she was off duty. Through a gap in the treetops below she could see a road of sorts running through 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 savoured 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 the 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? Where?”
   “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 think of to 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 braces dangling, so that only a yellowing woolly vest 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’d 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 the sergeant was enjoying this, just as he’d seemed pleased when she’d protested 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.” Jackrum grinned. “Perks, I don’t need no clacky thing. I don’t need no newsy paper. Sergeant Jackrum knows what’s going on. He talks to the 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 woollen vest, swung forward. But there was something else. For a moment something golden slipped out of the vest’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’s 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 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 inverted commas 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, do you?”
   “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…”
   “Sssh,” 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 braces dangling. He grabbed Lofty by the shoulder and swung her round. “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 have 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 the 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 received opinion, most woods aren’t littered with branches that snap loudly. They reached the edge of the wood, 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 of 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 travelling 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 later, 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.6
   The two troopers had a fire going and a billy-can 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 your 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 round.
   “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 cavalry men 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 choose. 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 air7. 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 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,” 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 tone must have 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. It 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 a 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 towards 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 might 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 those 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 round 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 by 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. Zey get fretful if zey 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 had suggested they lied 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 dare say 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 ministrations, 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 move, 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 centre of his old blanket, and the mud and grass stains on the mildewed greyness 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 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 by thinking 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 ‘making some kind of peace while you’ve got a chance’, sir! It’s rather like ‘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 the Kneck valley is that the allies haven’t 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 though 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 neighbours 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 honour. Everyone says that. That’s why they don’t surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don’t need to, because everyone is 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 coathanger, 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 a not bad attempt at an Ins-and-Outs shako and a face that looked slightly 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 ballgown 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 guerilla 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 grey shades, perhaps?”
   “Mein Gotts!” 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 grey 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 is 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 am sure these have already occurred to you. Of course, a fairly minor modification could potentially double the information burden of the whole system at a stroke. And that is without using coloured filters at night, which I’m sure 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 quite… quickly.”
   “Oh, it was perfectly 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.
   “This vill only take vun minute,” he said.
   It never does. 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 vas that simple.” Otto looked awkward. “You have to understand that ven a vampire forgoes… the b-vord, there is a process that ve call transference? Ve force ourselves to desire something else? For me this vas 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 without coffee, he vill, I am afraid… revert. You understand, this is very difficult for me to talk about…” Otto trailed off.
   “By revert you mean…?”
   “First vill come mild delusions, I think. 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. This may last for several days. And then 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 favour, 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 run-up.”
   “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 favour 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 the 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 in the Eyes of Nuggan?” said Shufti nervously.
   “Probably,” said Polly absent-mindedly. “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 grey 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 neighbouring 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 dishonourable! 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 run-up later on.
   “All right, all right,” the sergeant said. “Upon my oath, I am not a man to disobey orders.” And the 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 travelled in a wide semi-circle 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 shows up against greens and greys. Beyond that, though, language tended to run out.
   Jade had scraped off her paint, and was green and grey anyway. Igorina looked like a walking brush. Wazzer quivered like an aspen all the time, so her leaves rustled permanently. The others had made more or less reasonable attempts, and Polly was pretty proud of her own efforts. Jackrum was about as tree-like 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 towards the mountains to raise a deserters’ army there. This story is, in fact, a ruse for the benefit of Mr de Worde!” He paused, as if expecting some reaction. They stared at him. He went on: “We are, in fact, continuing our journey to the Kneck valley. This is the last thing the enemy will be expecting.”
   Polly glanced at the sergeant. He was grinning.
   “It is an established fact that a small, light force can get into places that a battalion cannot penetrate,” Blouse went on. “Men, we will be that force! Is that not right, Sergeant Jackrum?”
   “Yessir!”
   “We will come down like a hammer on those forces smaller than us,” said Blouse happily.
   “Yessir!”
   “And from those that outnumber us, we will merge silently into the forest—”
   “Yessir!”
   “We will slip past their sentries—”
   “That’s right, sir,” said Jackrum.
   “—and take Kneck Keep from under their noses!”
   Jackrum’s tea sprayed across the clearing.
   “I dare say our enemy feels impregnable just because he commands a heavily armed fort on a rocky crag with walls a hundred feet high and twenty feet thick,” Blouse continued, as if half the trees weren’t now dripping tea. “But he is in for a surprise!”
   “You all right, sarge?” whispered Polly. Jackrum was making strange little noises in his throat.
   “Does anyone have any questions?” said Blouse.
   Igorina raised a branch. “How will we get in, sir?” she said.
   “Ah. Good question,” said Blouse. “And all will become apparent in due time.”
   “Aerial cavalry,” said Maladict.
   “Pardon, corporal?”
   “Flying machines, sir!” said Maladict. “They won’t know where to expect us. We touch down in a handy LZ, take them out, and then dust off.”
   Blouse’s clear brow wrinkled a little. “Flying machines?” he said.
   “I saw a picture of one by someone called Leonard of Quirm. A sort of… flying windmill. It’s just like a big screw up in the sky—”
   “I don’t think we need one of those, although the advice is welcomed,” said Blouse.
   “Not when we’ve got a big screw-up down here, sir!” Jackrum managed. “Sir, this is just a bunch of recruits, sir! All that stuff about honour and freedom and that, that was just for the writer man, right? Good idea, sir! Yeah, let’s get to the Kneck valley, and let’s sneak in and join the rest of the lads. That’s where we ought to be, sir. You can’t be serious about taking the Keep, sir! I wouldn’t try that with a thousand men.”
   “I might try it with half a dozen, sergeant.”
   Jackrum’s eyes bulged. “Really, sir? What’ll Private Goom do? Tremble at them? Young Igor will stitch ’em up, will he? Private Halter will give ’em a nasty look? They’re promising lads, sir, but they’re not men.”
   “General Tacticus said the fate of a battle may depend upon the actions of one man in the right place, sergeant,” said Blouse calmly.
   “And having a lot more soldiers than the other bugger, sir,” Jackrum insisted. “Sir, we should get to the rest of the army. Maybe it’s trapped, maybe it isn’t. All that stuff about them not wanting to slaughter us, sir, that makes no sense. The idea is to win, sir. If the rest of ’em have stopped attacking, it’s because they’re frightened of us. We should be down there. That’s the place for young recruits, sir, where they can learn. The enemy is looking for ’em, sir!”
   “If General Froc is among those captured, the Keep will be where he is held,” said Blouse. “I believe he was the first officer you served under as sergeant, am I right?”
   Jackrum hesitated. “That’s right, sir,” he said eventually. “And he was the dumbest lieutenant I’ve ever met, bar one.”
   “I am positive there is a secret entrance into the Keep, sergeant.”
   Polly’s memory nudged her. If Paul was alive, he was in the Keep. She caught Shufti’s eye. The girl nodded. She’d been thinking along the same lines. She didn’t talk much about her… fiancé, and Polly wondered how official the arrangement was.
   “Permission to speak, sarge?” she said.
   “Okay, Perks.”
   “I’d like to try to find a way into the Keep, sarge.”
   “Perks, are you volunteering to attack the biggest, strongest castle within five hundred miles? Single-handed?”
   “I’ll go, too,” said Shufti.
   “Oh, two of you?” said Jackrum. “Oh, well, that’s all right then.”
   “I’ll go,” said Wazzer. “The Duchess has told me that I should.”
   Jackrum looked down at Wazzer’s thin little face and watery eyes, and sighed. He turned back to Blouse. “Let’s get a move on, sir, shall we? We can talk about this later. At least we’re headed to Kneck, first stop on the road to hell. Perks and Igor, you take point. Maladict?”
   “Yo!”
   “Er… you scout on ahead.”
   “I hear you!”
   “Good.”
   As the vampire walked past Polly the world, just for a moment, changed; the forest became greener, the sky greyer, and she heard a noise overhead, like “whopwhopwhop”. And then it was gone.
   Vampire hallucinations are contagious, she thought. What’s going on in his head? She hurried forward with Igorina, and they set off again through the forest.
   Birds sang. The effect was peaceful, if you didn’t know about birdsong, but Polly could recognize the alarm calls close by and the territorial threats far off and, everywhere, the preoccupation with sex. That took the edge off the pleasure.8
   “Polly?” said Igorina.
   “Hmm?”
   “Could you kill someone if you had to?”
   Polly came right back to the here and now. “What sort of question is that to ask anyone?”
   “I think it’s the sort you’d ask a tholdier,” said Igorina.
   “I don’t know. If they were attacking me, I suppose. Hurt them hard enough to keep them lying down, anyway. And you?”
   “We have a great respect for life, Polly,” said Igorina solemnly. “It’s easy to kill thomeone, and almost impossible to bring them back again.”
   “Almost?”
   “Well, if you don’t have a really good lightning rod. And even if you have, they’re never quite the same. Cutlery tends to stick to them.”
   “Igorina, why are you here?”
   “The clan isn’t very… keen on girls getting too involved in the Great Work,” said Igorina, looking downcast. “‘Thtick to your needlework’, my mother keeps saying. Well, that’s all very fine, but I know I’m good at the actual incisions as well. Especially the fiddly bits. And I think a woman on the slab would feel a lot better about things if she knew there was a female hand on the we-belong-dead switch. Tho, I thought some battlefield experience would convince my father. Soldiers aren’t choosy about who saves their lives.”
   “I suppose men are the same the world over,” said Polly.
   “On the inside, certainly.”
   “And… er… you really can put your hair back?” Polly had seen it in its jar when they’d been breaking camp; it had spun gently in its bottle of green liquid, like some fine, rare seaweed.
   “Oh, yes. Scalp transplants are easy. It stings a bit for a couple of minutes, that’s all—”
   There was movement between the trees, and then the blur resolved itself into Maladict. He held a finger to his lips as he drew closer, and whispered urgently: “Charlie’s tracking us!”
   Polly and Igorina looked at one another.
   “Who’s Charlie?”
   Maladict stared at them, and then rubbed his face distractedly. “I’m… sorry, er… sorry, it’s… look, we’re being followed! I know it!”

   The sun was setting. Polly peered over the rocky ledge, back the way they had come. She could make out the track, golden and red in the late afternoon light. Nothing was moving.
   The outcrop was near the top of another rounded hill; the rear of it became the floor of a little enclosed space, surrounded by bushes. It made a good lookout for people who wanted to see without being seen, and it had done so in the recent past, by the look of the old fires.
   Maladict was sitting with his head in his hands, with Jackrum and Blouse on either side of him. They were trying to understand, and not making much progress.
   “So you can’t hear anything?” said Blouse.
   “No!”
   “And you didn’t see anything and can’t smell anything?” said Jackrum.
   “No! I told you! But there is something after us. Watching us!”
   “But if you can’t—” Blouse began.
   “Look, I’m a vampire,” panted Maladict. “Just trust me, okay?”
   “I thould, tharge,” said Igorina, from behind Jackrum. “We Igorth often therve vampireth. In timeth of strethth their perthonal thpace can extend ath much ath ten mileth from their body.”
   There was the usual pause that follows an extended lisp. People need time to think.
   “Streth-th?” said Blouse.
   “You know how you can feel that someone’s looking at you?” mumbled Maladict. “Well, it’s like that, times a thousand. And it’s not a… a feeling, it’s something I know.”
   “Lots of people are looking for us, corporal,” said Blouse, patting him kindly on the shoulder. “It doesn’t mean that they’ll find us.”
   Polly, looking down on the gold-lit woodland, opened her mouth to speak. It was dry. Nothing came out.
   Maladict shook the lieutenant’s hand away. “This… person isn’t looking for us! They know where we are!”
   Polly forced saliva into her mouth, and tried again. “Movement!”
   And then it wasn’t there any more. She’d have sworn there had been something on the path, something that merged with the light, revealing itself only by the changing, wavering pattern of shadows as it moved.
   “Er… perhaps not,” she muttered.
   “Look, we’ve all lost sleep and we’re all a little ‘strung out’,” said Blouse. “Let’s just keep things down, shall we?”
   “I need coffee!” moaned Maladict, rocking back and forth.
   Polly squinted at the distant pathway. The breeze was shaking the trees, and red-gold leaves were drifting down. For a moment there was just a suggestion… She got to her feet. Stare at shadows and waving branches for long enough and you could see anything. It was like looking at pictures in the flames.
   “O-kay,” said Shufti, who’d been working over the fire. “This might do it. It smells like coffee, anyway. Well… quite like coffee. Well… quite like coffee if coffee was made from acorns, anyway.”
   She’d roasted some acorns. At least the woods had plenty of them at this time of year, and everybody knew that roasted, ground acorns could be substituted for coffee, didn’t they? Polly had agreed that it was a worth a try, but as far as she could recall no one had ever, given the choice, said “No, I will not touch horrible coffee any more! It’s a Long Black ground-acorn substitute for me, with extra floating gritty bits!”
   She took the mug from Shufti and carried it over to the vampire. As she bent down… the world changed.

…whopwhopwhop…
   The sky was a haze of dust, turning the sun into a blood-red disc. For a moment Polly saw them in the sky, giant fat screws spinning in the air, hovering in the air but drifting slowly towards her—
   “He’s having flashsides,” whispered Igorina, at her elbow.
   “Flashsides?”
   “Like… someone else’s flashbackth. We don’t know anything about them. They could come from anywhere. A vampire at this stage is open to all sorts of influences! Give him the coffee, please!”
   Maladict grabbed the mug and tried to down the contents so quickly that they spilled over his chin. They watched him swallow.
   “Tastes like mud,” he said, putting down the mug.
   “Yes, but is it working?”
   Maladict looked up and blinked his eyes. “Ye gods, that stuff is gruesome.”
   “Are we in a forest or a jungle? Any flying screws?” Igorina demanded. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
   “You know, that’s something an Igor should never say,” said Maladict, grimacing. “But… the… feelings aren’t so strong. I can suck it down! I can gut it out.”
   Polly looked at Igorina, who shrugged and said, “That’s nice,” and motioned to Polly to join her a little way off.
   “He, or possibly she, is right on the edge,” she said.
   “Well, we all are,” said Polly. “We’re hardly getting any sleep.”
   “You know what I mean. I’ve, er… taken the liberty of, er… being prepared.” Wordlessly, Igorina let her jacket fall open, just for a moment. Polly saw a knife, a wooden stake and a hammer, in neatly stitched little pockets.
   “It’s not going to come to that, is it?”
   “I hope not,” said Igorina. “But if it does, I’m the only one who can reliably find the heart. People always think it’s more to the left than—”
   “It’s not going to come to that,” said Polly firmly.
   The sky was red. The war was a day away.
   Polly crept along just below the ridge with the tea can. It was tea that kept the army on its feet. Remember what’s real… well, that took some doing. Tonker and Lofty, for example. It didn’t matter which of them was on guard, the other one would be there as well. And there they were, sitting side by side on a fallen tree, staring down the slope. They were holding hands. They always held hands, when they thought they were alone. But it seemed to Polly that they didn’t hold hands like people who were, well, friends. They held hands tightly, as someone who has slipped over a cliff would hold hands with a rescuer, fearing that to let go would be to fall away.
   “Tea up!” she quavered.
   The girls turned, and she dipped a couple of mugs into the scalding tea.
   “You know,” she said quietly, “no one would hate you if you ran away tonight.”
   “What do you mean, Ozz?” said Lofty.
   “Well, what’s there in Kneck for you? You got away from the School. You could go anywhere. I bet the two of you could sneak—”
   “We’re staying,” said Tonker severely. “We talked about it. Where else would we go? Anyway, supposing something is following us?”
   “Probably just an animal,” said Polly, who didn’t believe it herself.
   “Animals don’t do that,” said Tonker. “And I don’t think Maladict would get so excited. It’s probably more spies. Well, we’ll get them.”
   “Nobody is going to take us back,” said Lofty.
   “Oh. Er… good,” said Polly, backing away. “Well, must get on, no one likes cold tea, eh?”
   She hurried round the hill. Whenever Lofty and Tonker were together, she felt like a trespasser.
   Wazzer was on guard in a small dell, watching the land below with her usual expression of slightly worrying intensity. She turned as Polly approached.
   “Oh, Polly,” said Wazzer. “Good news!”
   “Oh, good,” said Polly weakly. “I like good news.”
   “She says it will be all right for us not to wear our dimity scarves,” said Wazzer.
   “What? Oh. Good,” said Polly.
   “But only because we are serving a Higher Purpose,” said Wazzer. And, just as Blouse could invert commas, Wazzer could drop capital letters into a spoken sentence.
   “That’s good, then,” said Polly.
   “You know, Polly,” said Wazzer, “I think the world would be a lot better if it was run by women. There wouldn’t be any wars. Of course, the Book would consider such an idea a Dire Abomination Unto Nuggan. It may be in error. I shall consult the Duchess. Bless this cup that I may drink of it,” she added.
   “Er, yes,” said Polly, and wondered what she should dread more: Maladict suddenly turning into a ravening monster, or Wazzer reaching the end of whatever mental journey she was taking. She’d been a kitchen maid and now she was subjecting the Book to critical analysis and talking to a religious icon. That sort of thing led to friction. The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to those who think they’ve found it.
   Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar—pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it was always done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got you. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him, so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the grannies in the front row, sucking peppermints.
   Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if ever she got back, she’d never do it again…
   “Er… Wazz?” she said.
   “Yes, Polly?”
   “You’ve got a direct line to the Duchess, have you?”
   “We talk about things,” said Wazzer dreamily.
   “You, er, couldn’t raise the question of coffee, could you?” said Polly wretchedly.
   “The Duchess can only move very, very small things,” said Wazzer.
   “A few beans, perhaps? Wazz, we really need some coffee! I don’t think the acorns are that much of a substitute.”
   “I will pray,” said Wazzer.
   “Good. You do that,” said Polly. And, strangely enough, she felt a little more hopeful. Maladict had hallucinations, but Wazzer had a certainty you could bend steel round. It was the opposite of a hallucination, somehow. It was as if she could see what was real and you couldn’t.
   “Polly?” said Wazzer.
   “Yes?”
   “You don’t believe in the Duchess, do you? I mean the real Duchess, not your inn.”
   Polly looked into the small, pinched, intense face. “Well, I mean, they say she’s dead, and I prayed to her when I was small, but since you ask I don’t exactly, um, believe as—” she gabbled.
   “She is standing just behind you. Just behind your right shoulder.”
   In the silence of the wood, Polly turned. “I can’t see her,” she said.
   “I am happy for you,” said Wazzer, handing her the empty mug.
   “But I didn’t see anything,” said Polly.
   “No,” said Wazzer. “But you turned round…”
   Polly had never asked too many questions about the Girls’ Working School. She was, by definition, a Good Girl. Her father was an influential man in the community, and she worked hard, she didn’t have much to do with men and, most importantly, she was… well, smart. She was bright enough to do what a lot of other people did in the chronic, reason-free insanity that was everyday life in Munz. She knew what to see and what to ignore, when to obey and when to merely present the face of obedience, when to speak and when to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned the ways of the survivor. Most people did. But if you rebelled, or were merely dangerously honest, or had the wrong kind of illness, or were not wanted, or were a girl who liked boys more than the old women thought you should and, worse, were not good at counting… then the School was your destination.
   She didn’t know much about what went on in there, but imagination rushed to fill the gap. And she wondered what happened to you in that hellish pressure cooker. If you were tough, like Tonker, it boiled you hard and gave you a shell. Lofty… it was hard to know. She was quiet and shy until you saw firelight reflected in her eyes, and sometimes the flames were there in the absence of any fire to reflect. But if you were Wazzer, dealt a poor hand to start with, and locked up, and starved, and beaten, and mistreated Nuggan knew how (and yes, Polly thought, Nuggan probably did know how) and pushed deeper and deeper into yourself, what would you find down there? And then you’d look up from those depths into the only smile you ever saw.
   The last man on guard duty was Jackrum, because Shufti was cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun round as she approached, and Polly caught the gleam of gold as something was shoved back in his jacket.
   The sergeant lowered the bow.
   “You make enough noise for an elephant, Perks,” he said.
   “Sorry, sarge,” said Polly, who knew she hadn’t. He took the tea mug, and turned to point downhill.
   “See that bush down there, Perks?” he said. “Just to the right of that fallen log?”
   Polly squinted.
   “Yes, sarge,” she said.
   “Notice anything about it?”
   Polly stared again. There must be something wrong about it, she decided, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked her. She concentrated.
   “The shadow’s wrong,” she decided at last.
   “Good lad. The reason bein’, our chum is behind the bush. He’s been a-watching of me, and I’ve been a-watching of him. Nothing else for it. He’ll have it away on his toes as soon as he sees anyone move, and he’s too far away to drop an arrow on him.”
   “An enemy?”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “A friend?”
   “Cocky devil, at any rate. He doesn’t care that I know he’s there. You go on back up the hill, lad, and bring down that big bow we got off of the– There he goes!”
   The shadow had vanished. Polly stared into the wood, but the long light was getting crimson, and dusk was unfolding between the trees.
   “It’s a wolf,” said Jackrum.
   “A werewolf?” said Polly.
   “Now, what makes you think that?”
   “Because Sergeant Towering said we’d got a werewolf in the squad. I’m sure we haven’t. I mean, we’d have found out by now, wouldn’t we? But I wondered if they’d seen one.”
   “Can’t do anything about it, anyway,” said Jackrum. “A silver arrow would do the job, but we’ve got none.”
   “What about our shilling, sarge?”
   “Oh, you think you can kill a werewolf with an IOU?”
   “Oh, yeah.” Then Polly added: “You’ve got a real shilling, sarge. Around your neck with that gold medallion.”
   If you could have twisted steel round Wazzer’s conviction, you could have heated it with Jackrum’s glare.
   “What’s round my neck is no business of yours, Perks, and the only thing worse than a werewolf is me if anyone tries to take my shilling off me, understand?”
   He softened as he saw Polly’s terrified expression. “We’ll move on after we’ve eaten,” he said. “Find a better place for a rest. Somewhere easier to defend.”
   “We’re all pretty tired, sarge.”
   “So I want us all to be upright and armed if our friend comes back with his chums,” said Jackrum.
   He followed her gaze. The gold locket had slipped out of his jacket, and dangled guiltily on its chain. He deftly tucked it away.
   “She was just a… girl I knew,” he said. “That’s all, right? It was a long time ago.”
   “I didn’t ask you, sarge,” said Polly, backing away.
   Jackrum’s shoulders settled. “That’s right, lad, you didn’t. And I ain’t asking you about anything, neither. But I reckon we’d better find the corporal some coffee, eh?”
   “Amen to that, sarge!”
   “And our rupert’s dreaming of laurel wreaths all round his head, Perks. We’ve got ourselves a goddamn hero here. Can’t think, can’t fight, no bloody use at all except for a famous last stand and a medal sent to his ol’ mum. And I’ve been in a few famous last stands, lad, and they’re butcher shops. That’s what Blouse’s leading you into, mark my words. What’ll you lot do then, eh? We’ve had a few scuffles, but that’s not war. Think you’ll be man enough to stand, when the metal meets the meat?”
   “You did, sarge,” said Polly. “You said you were in a few last stands.”
   “Yeah, lad. But I was holding the metal.”
 
   Polly walked back up the slope. All this, she thought, and we haven’t even got there. Sarge is thinking about the girl he left behind… well, that’s normal. And Tonker and Lofty only think about one another, but I suppose after you’ve been in that school… and as for Wazzer…
   Polly wondered how she would have survived the School. Would she have grown hard, like Tonker? Would she have just folded up inside, like the maids who came and went and worked hard and never had a name? Or perhaps she would have become like Wazzer, and found some door in her own head… I may be lowly, but I talk to gods.
   …Wazzer had said “not your inn”. Had she ever told Wazzer about The Duchess? Surely not. Surely she… but, no, she had told Tonker, hadn’t she?
   That was it, then. All explained. Tonker must have mentioned it to Wazzer at some point. Nothing weird about it at all, even if practically no one ever had a conversation with Wazz. It was so hard. She was so intense, so coiled up. But that had to be the only explanation. Yes.
   She wasn’t going to let there be any other.
   Polly shivered, and was aware that someone was walking beside her. She looked up and groaned.
   “You’re a hallucination, right?”
   OH, YES. YOU ARE ALL IN A STATE OF HEIGHTENED SENSIBILITY CAUSED BY MENTAL CONTAGION AND LACK OF SLEEP.
   “If you’re a hallucination, how do you know that?”
   I KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT. I AM SIMPLY BETTER AT ARTICULATING IT.
   “I’m not going to die, am I? I mean, right now?”
   NO. BUT YOU WERE TOLD THAT YOU WOULD WALK WITH DEATH EVERY DAY.
   “Oh… yes. Corporal Scallot said that.”
   HE IS AN OLD FRIEND. YOU MIGHT SAY HE IS ON THE INSTALMENT PLAN.
   “Do you mind walking a bit more… invisibly?”
   OF COURSE. HOW’S THIS?
   “And quietly, too?”
   There was silence, which was presumably the answer. “And polish yourself up a bit,” said Polly to the empty air. “And that robe needs a wash.”
   There was no reply, but she felt better for saying it.
 
   Shufti had cooked beef stew with dumplings and herbs. It was magnificent. It was also a mystery.
   “I don’t recall us passing a cow, private,” said Blouse, as he handed his tin plate along for a second helping.
   “Er… no, sir.”
   “And yet you have acquired beef?”
   “Er… yes, sir. Er… when that writer man came up in his cart, well, when you were talking, er, I crept round and took a look inside…”
   “There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, private,” said Blouse severely.
   “Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,” said Jackrum. “If that writer man gets hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, lieutenant?”
   “Er… yes,” said Blouse carefully. “Yes. Of course. Good initiative, private.”
   “Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,” said Shufti brightly. “Sarge told me to.”
   Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swivelled her eyes from sergeant to lieutenant.
   “You teach looting, sergeant?” said Blouse. There was a joint gasp from the squad. If this was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been hurrying out of the doors and Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles off the shelf.
   “Not looting, sir, not looting,” said Jackrum, calmly licking his spoon. “Under Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1 [c], Paragraph i, sir, it would be plundering, said cart being the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir, which is aiding and abetting the enemy. Plundering is allowed, sir.”
   The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Blouse reached behind him and into his pack. Polly saw him draw out a small yet thick book.
   “Rule 611,” he murmured. Blouse glanced up at the sergeant, and thumbed through the thin, shiny pages. “611. Pillaging, Plundering and Looting. Ah, yes. And… let me see… you are with us, Sergeant Jackrum, owing to Rule 796, I think you reminded me at the time…”
   There was another silence broken only by the riffle of the pages. There’s no Rule 796, Polly remembered. Are they going to fight over this?
   “796, 796,” said Blouse softly. “Ah…” He stared at the page, and Jackrum stared at him.
   Blouse closed the book with a leathery flwap. “Absolutely correct, sergeant!” he said brightly. “I commend you on your encyclopaedic knowledge of the regulations!”
   Jackrum looked thunderous. “What?”
   “You were practically word perfect, sergeant!” said Blouse. And there was a gleam in his eye. Polly remembered Blouse looking at the captured cavalry captain. This was that same look, the look which said: now I have the upper hand.
   Jackrum’s chins wobbled.
   “You had something to add, sergeant?” said Blouse.
   “Er, no… sir,” said Jackrum, his face an open declaration of war.
   “We’ll leave at moonrise,” said Blouse. “I suggest we all get some rest until then. And then… may we prevail.” He nodded to the group, and walked over to where Polly had spread his blanket in the lee of the bushes. After a few moments there were some snores, which Polly refused to believe. Jackrum certainly didn’t. He got up and strode out of the firelight. Polly hurried after him.
   “Did you hear that?” snarled the sergeant, staring out at the darkening hills. “The little yoyo! What right has he got, checking up in the book o’ words?”
   “Well, you did quote chapter and verse, sarge,” said Polly.
   “So? Officers are s’posed believe what they’re told. And then he smiled! Did you see? Caught me out and smiled at me! Thinks he’s got one over on me, just because he caught me out!”
   “You did lie, sarge.”
   “I did not Perks! It’s not lying when you do it to officers! It’s presentin’ them with the world the way they think it ought to be! You can’t let ’em start checkin’ up for themselves. They get the wrong ideas. I told you, he’ll be the death of all of us! Invading the bloody Keep? The man’s wrong in the head!”
   “Sarge!” said Polly urgently.
   “Yes, what?”
   “We’re being signalled, sarge!”
   On a distant hilltop, twinkling like an early evening star, a white light was flashing.
 
   Blouse lowered his telescope. “They’re repeating ‘CQ’,” he said. “And I believe those longer pauses are when they’re aiming their tube in different directions. They’re looking for their spies. ‘Seek You’, see? Private Igor?”
   “Thur?”
   “You know how that tube works, don’t you?”
   “Oh, yeth, thur. You jutht light a flare in the box, and then it’th just point and click.”
   “You’re not going to answer it, are you, sir?” said Jackrum, horrified.
   “I am indeed, sergeant,” said Blouse briskly. “Private Carborundum, please assemble the tube. Manickle, please bring the lantern. I shall need to read the code book.”
   “But that’ll give away our position!” said Jackrum.
   “No, sergeant, because although this term may be unfamiliar to you I intend to what we call ‘lie’,” said Blouse. “Igor, I’m sure you have some scissors, although I’d rather you didn’t attempt to repeat the word.”
   “I have thome of the applianthetheth you mention, thur,” said Igorina stiffly.
   “Good.” Blouse looked round. “It’s almost pitch dark now. Ideal. Take my blanket and cut, oh, a three-inch circle out of it, then tie the blanket over the front of the tube.”
   “That will cut off motht of the light, thur!”
   “Indeed it will. My plan depends upon it,” said Blouse proudly.
   “Sir, they will see the light, they’ll know we’re here,” said Jackrum, as though repeating things to a child.
   “I explained, sergeant. I will lie,” said Blouse.
   “You can’t lie when—”
   “Thank you for your input, sergeant, that will be all for now,” said Blouse. “Are we ready, Igor?”
   “Jutht about, thur,” said Igorina, tying the blanket across the end of the tube. “Okay, thur. I’ll light the flare when you thay.”
   Blouse unfolded the little book. “Ready, private?” he said.
   “Yup,” said Jade.
   “On the word ‘long’ you will hold the trigger for the count of two, and then let go. On the word ‘short’ you will hold it down for the count of one, and likewise let go. Got that?”
   “Yup, el-tee. Could hold it down for lots, if you like,” said Jade. “One, two, many, lots. I’m good at countin’. High as you like. Jus’ say der word.”
   “Two will suffice,” said Blouse. “And you, Private Goom, I want you to take my telescope and look for long and short flashes from that light over there, understand?”
   Polly saw Wazzer’s face and said quickly: “I’ll do that, sir!”
   A small white hand was laid on her arm. In the miserly glimmer of the dark lantern, Wazzer’s eyes glowed with the light of certainty. “The Duchess guides our footsteps now,” she said, and took the telescope from the lieutenant. “What we are doing is her work, sir.”
   “Is it? Oh. Well… that’s good,” said Blouse.
   “She will bless this instrument of far seeing that I may use it,” said Wazzer.
   “Indeed?” said Blouse nervously. “Well done. Now… are we ready? Send as follows… long… long… short…”
   The shutter in the tube clicked and rattled as the message flashed out across the sky. When the troll lowered the tube, there was half a minute of darkness. And then: “Short… long…” Wazzer began.
   Blouse held the code book up to his face, his lips moving as he read by the pinpoints of light escaping from the loins of the box. “W… R… U,” he said. “And M…S…G…P…R…”
   “That’s not a message!” said Jackrum.
   “On the contrary, they want to know where we are, because they’re having trouble seeing our light,” said Blouse. “Send as follows… short…”
   “I protest, sir!”
   Blouse lowered the book. “Sergeant, I am about to tell our spy that we are seven miles further away than we really are, do you understand? And I am certain they will believe us because I have artificially reduced the light output from our device, do you understand? And I will tell them that their spies have encountered a very large party of recruits and deserters heading for the mountains and are in pursuit, do you understand? I am making us invisible, do you understand? Do you understand, Sergeant Jackrum?”
   The squad held their breath.
   Jackrum drew himself stiffly to attention. “Fully understood, sir!” he said.
   “Very well!”
   Jackrum continued at attention as the messages were exchanged, like a naughty pupil forced to stand by the teacher’s desk.
   Messages flashed across the sky, from hilltop to hilltop. Lights flickered. The clacks tube rattled. Wazzer called out the longs and shorts. Blouse scribbled in the book. “S… P… P… 2,” he said aloud. “Hah. That’s an order to remain where we are.”
   “More flashes, sir,” said Wazzer.
   “T… Y… E… 3…” said Blouse, still making notes. “That’s ‘be ready to give aid’. N…V…A…S…N… That’s…”
   “That’s not a code, sir!” said Polly.
   “Private, send as follows right now!” Blouse croaked. “Long… long…”
   The message went. They watched, while the dew fell and, overhead, the stars came out and twinkled messages no one ever tried to read.
   The clacks went silent.
   “Now we leave as soon as possible,” said Blouse. He gave a little cough. “I believe the phrase is ‘Let us get the heck out of here’.”
   “Close, sir,” said Polly. “Quite… close.”
 
   There was an old, very old Borogravian song with more Zs and Vs in it than any lowlander could pronounce. It was called “Plogviehze!” It meant “The Sun Has Risen! Let’s Make War!” You needed a special kind of history to get all that in one word.
   Sam Vimes sighed. The little countries here fought because of the river, because of idiot treaties, because of royal rows, but mostly they fought because they had always fought. They made war, in fact, because the sun came up.
   This war had tied itself in a knot.
   Downriver, the valley narrowed to a canyon before the Kneck plunged over a waterfall a quarter of a mile high. Anyone trying to get up through the jagged mountains there would find themselves in a world of gorges, knife-edged ridges, permanent ice and even more permanent death. Anyone trying to cross the Kneck into Zlobenia now would be butchered on the shore. The only way out of the valley was back along the Kneck, which would put an army under the shadow of the Keep. That had been fine when the Keep was in Borogravian hands. Now that it had been captured, they’d be passing in range of their own weapons.
   …And such weapons! Vimes had seen catapults that would throw a stone ball three miles. When it landed it would crack into needle-sharp shards. Or there was the other machine that sent six-foot steel discs skimming through the air. Once they’d hit the ground and leapt up again they were unreliable as hell, but that only made them more terrifying. Vimes had been told that the edged disc would probably keep going for several hundred yards, no matter how many men or horses it encountered on the way. And they were only the latest ideas. There were plenty of conventional weapons, if by that you meant giant bows, catapults and mangonels that hurled balls of Ephebian fire, which clung while it burned.
   From up here, in his draughty tower, he could see the fires of the dug-in army all across the plain. They couldn’t retreat, and the Alliance, if that’s what you could call the petulant hubbub, didn’t dare head up the valley into the heart of the country with that army at their back, yet didn’t have enough men to hold the Keep and corral the enemy.
   And in a few weeks it would start to snow. The passes would fill up. Nothing would be able to get through. And every day, thousands of men and horses would need feeding. Of course, the men could, eventually, eat the horses, thus settling two feeding problems at a stroke. After that there would have to be the good ol’ leg rota, which Vimes understood from one of the friendlier Zlobenians was a common feature of winter warfare up here. Since he was Captain “Hopalong” Splatzer, Vimes believed him.
   And then it would rain, and then the rain and the snowmelt together would turn the damn river into a flood. But before that the Alliance would have bickered itself apart and gone home. All the Borogravians had to do, in fact, was hold their ground to score a draw.
   He swore under his breath. Prince Heinrich had inherited the throne in a country where the chief export was a kind of hand-painted wooden clog, but in ten years, he vowed, his capital city of Rigour would be “the Ankh-Morpork of the mountains”! For some reason, he thought Ankh-Morpork would be pleased about this.
   He was anxious, he said, to learn the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things, the kind of innocent ambition that could well lead an aspiring ruler to… well, find out the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things. Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.
   Vimes leafed through the papers on his desk, and looked up when he heard a shrill, harsh cry outside. A buzzard came in a long, shallow swoop through the open window and alighted on a makeshift perch at the far end of the room. Vimes strolled over as the little figure on the bird’s back raised his flying goggles.
   “How’s it going, Buggy?” he said.
   “They’re getting suspicious, Mister Vimes. And Sergeant Angua says it’s getting a bit risky now they’re so close.”
   “Tell her to come on in, then.”
   “Right, sir. And they still need coffee.”
   “Oh, damn! Haven’t they found any?”
   “No, sir, and it’s getting tricky with the vampire.”
   “Well, if they’re suspicious now then they’ll be certain if we drop a flask of coffee on them!”
   “Sergeant Angua says we’ll probably get away with it, sir. She didn’t say why.” The gnome looked expectantly at Vimes. So did his buzzard. “They’ve come a long way, sir. For a bunch of girls. Well… mostly girls.”
   Vimes reached out absent-mindedly to pet the bird.
   “Don’t, sir! She’ll have your thumb off!” Buggy yelled.
   There was a knock on the door, and Reg came in with a tray of raw meat. “Saw Buggy overhead, so I thought I’d nip down to the kitchens, sir.”
   “Well done, Reg. Don’t they ask why you want raw meat?”
   “Yes, sir. I tell them you eat it, sir.”
   Vimes paused before answering. Reg meant well, after all.
   “Well, it probably can’t do my reputation any harm,” he said. “By the way, what was going down in the crypt?”
   “Oh, they’re not what I’d call proper zombies, sir,” said Reg, selecting a piece of meat and dangling it in front of Morag. “More like dead men walking.”
   “Er… yes?” said Vimes.
   “I mean there’s no real thinking going on,” the zombie went on, picking up another lump of raw rabbit. “No embracing the opportunities of a life beyond the grave, sir. They’re just a lot of old memories on legs. That sort of thing gives zombies a bad name, Mister Vimes. It makes me so angry!” Morag tried to snap at another lump of bloody rabbit fur that Reg, oblivious for the moment, was waving aimlessly.
   “Er… Reg?” said Buggy.
   “How hard can it be, sir, to move with the times? Now take me, for example. One day I woke up dead. Did I—”
   “Reg!” Vimes warned as Morag’s head bobbed back and forth.
   “—take it lying down? No! And I didn’t—”
   “Reg, be careful! She’s just had two of your fingers off!”
   “What? Oh.” Reg held up a denuded hand and stared at it. “Oh, now, will you look at that?” He peered down at the floor, with a hope that was quickly dashed. “Blast. Any chance we can make her throw up?”
   “Only by sticking your remaining fingers down her throat, Reg. Sorry. Buggy, do the best you can, please. And you, Reg, go back downstairs and see if they’ve got any coffee, will you?”
 
   “Oh dear,” murmured Shufti.
   “It’s big,” said Tonker.
   Blouse said nothing.
   “Not seen it before, sir?” said Jackrum cheerfully, as they stared at the distant keep.
   If there is a fairy-tale scale for castles, where the top end is occupied by those white, spire-encrusted castles with the blue pointy roofs, then Kneck Keep was low, black and clung to its outcrop like a storm cloud. A bed of the Kneck ran round it; along the peninsula on which it was built, the approach road was wide, and bereft of cover, and an ideal stroll for those who were tired of life. Blouse took all this in.
   “Er, no, sergeant,” he said. “I’ve seen pictures, of course, but… they don’t do it justice.”
   “Any of them books you read tell you what to do, sir?” said Jackrum. They were lying in some bushes half a mile away from the keep.
   “Possibly, sergeant. In The Craft of War, Song Sung Lo said: to win without fighting is the greatest victory. The enemy wishes us to attack where he is strongest. Therefore, we will disappoint him. A way will present itself, sergeant.”
   “Well, it’s never presented itself to me, and I’ve been here dozens of times,” said Jackrum, still grinning. “Hah, even the rats’d have to disguise themselves as washerwomen to get in that place! Even if you get up that road, you’ve got narrow entrances, holes in the ceiling to pour hot oil through, gates everywhere that a troll couldn’t smash through, coupla mazes, a hundred little ways you can be shot at. Oh, it’s a wonderful place to attack.”
   “I wonder how the Alliance got in?” said Blouse.
   “Treachery, probably, sir. The world’s full of traitors. Or perhaps they discovered the secret entrance, sir. You know, sir? The one you’re sure is there. Or p’raps you’ve forgotten? It’s the sort of thing that can slip your mind when you’re busy, I expect.”
   “We shall reconnoitre, sergeant,” said Blouse coldly, as they crawled out of the bushes. He brushed leaves off his uniform. Thalacephalos or, as Blouse referred to her, “the faithful steed” had been turned loose miles back. You couldn’t sneak on horseback and, as Jackrum had pointed out, the creature was too skinny for anyone to want to eat and too vicious for anyone to want to ride.
   “Right, sir, yes, we might as well do that, sir,” said Jackrum now, all gloating helpfulness. “Where would you like us to reconnoitre, sir?”
   “There must be a secret entrance, sergeant. No one would build a place like that with only one entrance. Agreed?”
   “Yessir. Only, perhaps they kept it a secret, sir. Only trying to help, sir.”
   They turned at the sound of urgent praying. Wazzer had fallen to her knees, hands clasped together. The rest of the squad edged away slowly. Piety is a wonderful thing.
   “What is he doing, sergeant?” said Blouse.
   “Praying, sir,” said Jackrum.
   “I’ve noticed he does it a lot. Is that, er, within regulations, sergeant?” the lieutenant whispered.
   “Always a difficult one, sir, that one,” said Jackrum. “I have, myself, prayed many times on the field of battle. Many times have I said the Soldier’s Prayer, sir, and I don’t mind admitting it.”
   “Er… I don’t think I know that one,” said Blouse.
   “Oh, I reckon the words’ll come to you soon enough, sir, once you’re up against the foe. Gen’rally, though, they’re on the lines of ‘O god, let me kill this bastard before he kills me’.” Jackrum grinned at Blouse’s expression. “That’s what I call the Authorized Version, sir.”
   “Yes, sergeant, but where would we be if we all prayed all the time?” said the lieutenant.
   “In heaven, sir, sitting at Nuggan’s right hand,” said Jackrum promptly. “That’s what I was taught as a little nipper, sir. Of course, it’d be a bit crowded, so it’s just as well we don’t.”
   At which point, Wazzer stopped praying and stood up, brushing dust off her knees. She gave the squad her bright, worrying smile. “The Duchess will guide our steps,” she said.
   “Oh. Good,” said Blouse weakly.
   “She will show us the way.”
   “Wonderful. Er… did she mention a map reference at all?” said the lieutenant.
   “She will give us eyes that we might see.”
   “Ah? Good. Well, jolly good,” said Blouse. “I definitely feel a lot better for knowing that. Don’t you, sergeant?”
   “Yessir,” said Jackrum. “’cos before this, sir, we didn’t have a prayer.”
 
   They scouted in threes, while the rest of the squad lay up in a deep hollow among the bushes. There were enemy patrols, but it’s not hard to avoid half a dozen men who stick to the tracks and aren’t being careful not to make a noise. The troops were Zlobenian, and acted as though they owned the place.
   For some reason Polly ended up patrolling with Maladict and Wazzer or, to put it another way, a vampire on the edge and a girl who was possibly so far over it that she’d found a new edge out beyond the horizon. She was changing every day, that was a fact. On the day they’d all joined up, a lifetime ago, she’d been this shivering little waif who flinched at shadows. Now, sometimes, she seemed taller, full of some ethereal certainty, and shadows fled before her. Well, not in actual fact, Polly would admit. But she walked as if they should.
   And then there had been the Miracle of the Turkey. That was hard to explain.
   The three of them had been moving along the cliffs. They’d circled a couple of Zlobenian lookout posts, forewarned by the smell of cooking-fires but, alas, not by the smell of any coffee. Maladict seemed to be mostly in control, except for a tendency to mutter to himself in letters and numbers, but Polly had stopped that by threatening to hit him with a stick the very next time he did it.
   They’d reached a cliff edge that gave yet another view of the Keep, and once again Polly raised the telescope and scanned the sheer walls and jumbled rocks for any sign of another entrance.
   “Look down at the river,” said Wazzer.
   The circle of view blurred upwards as Polly shifted the scope; when it stopped moving she saw whiteness. She had to lower the instrument to see what she’d been looking at.
   “Oh my,” she said.
   “Makes sense, though,” said Maladict. “And there’s a path all along the river, see? There’s a couple more women on it.”
   “Tiny gateway, though,” said Polly. “And it’d be so easy to search people for weapons.”
   “Soldiers couldn’t get through, them,” said the vampire.
   “We could,” said Polly. “And we’re soldiers. Aren’t we?”
   There was a pause before Maladict said: “Soldiers need weapons. Swords and crossbows get noticed.”
   “There will be weapons inside,” said Wazzer. “the Duchess has told me. The castle is full of weapons.”
   “Did she tell you how to make the enemy let go of them?” said Maladict.
   “All right, all right,” said Polly quickly. “We ought to tell the rupert as soon as possible, okay? Let’s get back!”
   “Hold on, I’m the corporal,” said Maladict.
   “Well?” said Polly. “And?”
   “Let’s get back?” said Maladict.
   “Good idea.”
   She should have listened to the birdsong, she realized later. The shrill calls in the distance would have told her the news, if only she’d been calm enough to listen.
   They hadn’t gone more than thirty yards before they saw the soldier. Someone in the Zlobenian army was dangerously clever. He’d realized that the way to spot interlopers was not to march noisily along the beaten paths, but to sneak quietly between the trees.
   The soldier had a crossbow; it was sheer luck… probably sheer luck that he was looking the other way when Polly came round a holly bush.
   She flung herself behind a tree and gestured madly at Maladict further down the path, who had the sense to take cover.
   Polly drew her sword and held it clutched to her chest in both hands. She could hear the man. He was some way away, but he was moving towards her. Probably the little lookout they had just found was a regular point on the patrol route. After all, she thought bitterly, it was just the sort of thing some untrained idiots might come across, maybe a quiet patrol could even surprise them there…
   She shut her eyes and tried to breathe normally. This was it this was it this was it! This was where she found out.
   What to remember what to remember what to remember… when the metal meets the meat… be holding the metal.
   She could taste metal in her mouth.
   The man would walk right past her. He’d be alert, but not that alert. A slash would be better than a stab. Yes, a good swipe at head height would kill…
   …some mother’s son, some sister’s brother, some lad who’d followed the drum for a shilling and his first new suit. If only she’d been trained, if only she’d had a few weeks stabbing straw men until she could believe that all men were made of straw…
   She froze. Down the angle of the path, still as a tree, head bowed, stood Wazzer. As soon as the scout reached Polly’s tree, she’d be seen.
   She’d have to do it now. Perhaps that’s why men did it. You didn’t do it to save duchesses, or countries. You killed the enemy to stop him killing your mates, that they in turn might save you…
   She could hear the cautious tread close to the tree. She raised the sabre, saw the light flash along its edge—
   A wild turkey rose from the scrub on the other side of the path in one rocketing tower of wings and feathers and echoing noise. Half flying, half running, it bounded off into the woods. There was the thud of a bow and a last squawk.
   “Oh, good shot, Woody,” said a voice near by. “Looks like a big ’un!”
   “Did you see that?” said another voice. “Another step and I’d have tripped over it!”
   Behind her tree, Polly breathed out.
   A third voice, some way off, called out: “Let’s head back, eh, corp? The way that went off, the Tiger’s probably run a mile!”
   “Yeah, and I’m so scared,” said the closest voice. “The Tiger’s behind every tree, right?”
   “Okay, let’s call it a day. My wife’ll cook him a treat—”
   Gradually, the voices of the soldiers got lost amongst the trees. Polly lowered the sword. She saw Maladict peer out of his bush and stare at her. She raised a finger to her lips. He nodded. She waited until the birdsong had settled down a little before stepping out. Wazzer seemed to be lost in thought; Polly took her very carefully by the hand. Quietly, dodging from tree to tree, they headed back to the hollow. Most particularly, Polly and Maladict didn’t talk. But they looked one another in the eye once or twice.
   Of course a turkey would lie low until a hunter almbst trod on it. Of course that one must’ve been there all the time, and only lost its bird nerve when the scout crept up. It had been an unusually large bird, one that no hungry soldier could resist, but… well?
   Because the brain treacherously does not stop thinking just because you want it to, Polly’s added: she said the Duchess could move small things. How small is a thought in the mind of a bird?
   Only Jade and Igorina were waiting for them in the hollow. The others had found a better base a mile away, they said.
   “We found the secret entrance,” said Polly quietly, as they headed away.
   “Can we get in?” said Igorina.
   “It’s the washerwomen’s entrance,” said Maladict. “It’s right down by the river. But there’s a path.”
   “Washerwomen?” said Igorina. “But this is a war!”
   “Clothes still get dirty, I suppose,” said Polly.
   “Dirtier, I should think,” said Maladict.
   “But… our countrywomen? Washing clothes for the enemy?” said Igorina, looking shocked.
   “If it’s that or starve, yes,” said Polly. “I saw a woman come out carrying a basket of loaves. They say the Keep is full of granaries. Anyway, you sewed up an enemy officer, didn’t you?”
   “That’s different,” said Igorina. “We are duty bound to thave our fellow ma—person. Nothing has ever been said about his—their underwear.”
   “We could get in,” said Polly, “if we disguised ourselves as women.”
   Silence greeted this. Then: “Disguised?” said Igorina.
   “You know what I mean!” said Polly.
   “As washerwomen?” said Igorina. “These are thurgeon’s hands!”
   “Really? Where did you get them?” said Maladict. Igorina stuck out her tongue at him.
   “Anyway, I don’t intend that we should do any washing,” said Polly.
   “Then what do you intend?” said Igorina.
   Polly hesitated. “I want to get my brother out if he’s in there,” she said. “And if we could stop the invasion that would be a good idea.”
   “That might take extra starch,” said Maladict. “I don’t want to, you know, spoil the spirit of the moment, but that is a really awful idea. The el-tee won’t agree to something as wild as that.”
   “No, he won’t,” said Polly. “But he’ll suggest it.”
 
   “Hmm,” said Blouse, a little later. “Washerwomen? Is that usual, Sergeant Jackrum?”
   “Oh, yes, sir. I expect the women in the villages round here do it, just like they did when we held the Keep,” said Jackrum.
   “You mean they give aid and comfort to the enemy? Why?”
   “Better than starving, sir. Fact of life. It doesn’t always stop at washing, neither.”
   “Sergeant, there are young men here!” snapped Blouse, blushing.
   “They’ll have to find out about ironing and darning sooner or later, sir,” said Jackrum, grinning.
   Blouse opened his mouth. Blouse shut his mouth.
   “Tea’s up, sir,” said Polly. Tea was an amazingly useful thing. It gave you an excuse to talk to anyone.
   They were in what remained of a half-ruined farmhouse. By the look of it, not even patrols bothered to come here—there were no signs of former fires or even the most temporary occupation. It stank of decay and half the roof was gone.
   “Do the women just come and go, Perks?” said the lieutenant.
   “Yes, sir,” said Polly. “And I had an idea, sir. Permission to tell you my idea, sir?” She saw Jackrum raise an eyebrow. She was laying it on thick, she had to admit, but time was pressing.
   “Please do. Perks,” said Blouse. “Else I fear you may explode.”
   “They could be spies for us, sir! We could even get them to open the gates for us!”
   “Well done, private!” said Blouse. “I do like a soldier to think.”
   “Yeah, right,” growled Jackrum. “Any sharper’n he’ll cut hisself. Sir, they’re washerwomen, sir, basically. No offence to young Perks, keen lad that he is, but your average guard pays attention when Old Mother Riley tries to open the gates. There’s not just a pair of gates, neither. There’s six pairs, and nice little courtyards between ’em for the guards to have a squint at you to see if you’s a wrong ’un, and drawbridges, and spiky ceilings that drop down if someone doesn’t like the look of you. Try opening that lot with soapy hands!”
   “I’m afraid the sergeant has a point, Perks,” said Blouse sadly.
   “Well, supposing a couple of women managed to knock out a few guards, sir, they could let us in through their little door,” said Polly. “We might even be able to capture the commander of the fort, sir! I bet there’s plenty of women in the Keep, sir. In the kitchens and so on. They could… open doors for us!”
   “Oh, come on, Perks—” Jackrum began.
   “No, sergeant. Wait,” said Blouse. “Astonishingly enough, Perks, in your boyish enthusiasm you have, although you haven’t realized it, given me a very interesting idea…”
   “Have I, sir?” said Polly, who in her boyish enthusiasm had considered trying to tattoo the idea on Blouse’s head. For someone so clever, he really was slow.
   “Indeed you have, Perks,” said Blouse. “Because, of course, we only need one ‘washerwoman’ to get us inside, do we not?”
   The inverted commas sounded promising. “Well, yes, sir,” said Polly.
   “And, if one as it were thinks ‘outside the box’, the ‘woman’ does not in fact need to be a woman!”
   Blouse beamed. Polly allowed her brow to wrinkle in honest puzzlement.
   “Doesn’t she, sir?” she said. “I don’t think I quite understand, sir. I am perplexed, sir.”
   “‘She’ could be a man, Perks!” said Blouse, almost exploding with delight. “One of us! In disguise!”
   Polly breathed a sigh of relief. Sergeant Jackrum laughed.
   “Lord bless you, sir, dressing up as washerwomen is for gettin’ out of places! Milit’ry rules!”
   “If a man gets inside, he could disable any guards near the door, spy out the situation from a military perspective, and let the rest of the troops in!” said Blouse. “If this was done at night, men, we could be holding key positions by the morning!”
   “But these aren’t men, sir,” said Jackrum. Polly turned. The sergeant was looking right at her, right through her. Oh darn, I mean damn… he knows…
   “I beg your pardon?”
   “They are… my little lads, sir,” Jackrum went on, winking at Polly. “Keen lads, full of mustard, but they ain’t ones for cuttin’ throats and stabbin’ hearts. They signed up to be pikemen in the press, sir, in a proper army. You are my little lads, I says to ’em when I signed ’em up, and I will look after you. I can’t stand by and let you take ’em to certain death!”
   “It’s my decision to make, sergeant,” said Blouse. “We are at ‘the hinge of destiny’. Who, in the pinch, is not ready to lay down his life for his country?”
   “In a proper stand-up fight, sir, not getting beaten over the head by a bunch of nasty men for creeping around their fort. You know I’ve never been one for spies an’ hidin’ your colours, sir, never.”
   “Sergeant, we have no choice. We must take advantage of the ‘tide of fortune’.”
   “I know about tides, sir. They leave little fish gaspin’.” The sergeant stood up, fists clenching.
   “Your concern for your men does you credit, sergeant, but it falls to us—”
   “A famous last stand, sir?” said Jackrum. He spat expertly into the fire in the tumbledown hearth. “To hell with them, sir. That’s just a way of dyin’ famous!”
   “Sergeant, your insubordination is getting—”
   “I’ll go,” said Polly quietly.
   Both men stopped, turned and stared.
   “I’ll go,” Polly repeated, louder. “Someone ought to.”
   “Don’t be daft, Perks!” snapped Jackrum. “You don’t know what’s in there, you don’t know what guards are waitin’ just inside the door, you don’t know—”
   “I’ll find out, then, sarge, won’t I,” said Polly, smiling desperately. “Maybe I can get to somewhere where you can see and send signals, or…”

   “On this issue, at least, the sergeant and I are of one mind, Perks,” said Blouse. “Really, private, it would simply not work. Oh, you’re brave, certainly, but what makes you think you stand a chance of passing yourself off as a woman?”
   “Well, sir… what?”
   “Your keenness will not go unrecorded, Perks,” said Blouse, smiling. “But, y’know, a good officer keeps an eye on his men and I have to say that I’ve noticed in you, in all of you, little… habits, perfectly normal, nothing to worry about, like the occasional deep exploration of a nostril maybe, and a tendency to grin after passing wind, a natural boyish inclination to, ahem, scratch your… selves in public… that sort of thing. These are the kind of little details that’d give you away in a trice and tell any observer that you were a man in women’s clothing, believe me.”
   “I’m sure I could pull it off, sir,” said Polly weakly. She could sense Jackrum’s eyes on her. You bloomi—you bloody well know, don’t you. How long have you known?
   Blouse shook his head. “No, they would see through you in a flash. You are a fine bunch of lads, but there is only one man here who’d stand a chance of getting away with it. Manickle?”
   “Yessir?” said Shufti, rigid with instant panic.
   “Can you find me a dress, do you think?”
   Maladict was the first to break the silence. “Sir, are you telling us… you’re going to try to get in dressed as a woman?”
   “Well, I’m clearly the only one who’s had any practice,” said Blouse, rubbing his hands together. “At my old school, we were in and out of skirts all the time.” He looked around at the circle of absolutely expressionless faces. “Theatricals, you see?” he said brightly. “No gels at our boarding school, of course. But we didn’t let that stop us. Why, my Lady Spritely in A Comedy of Cuckolds is still talked about, I understand, and as for my Yumyum– Is Sergeant Jackrum all right?”
   The sergeant had folded up, but with his face level with his knees he managed to croak: “Old war wound, sir. Come upon me sudden, like.”
   “Please help him, Private Igor. Where was I… I can see you all look puzzled, but there’s nothing strange about this. Fine old tradition, men dressing up as gels. In the sixth form, the chaps used to do it for a jape all the time.” He paused for a moment, and added thoughtfully, “Especially Wrigglesworth, for some reason…” He shook his head as if dislodging a thought and went on: “Anyway, I have some experience in this field, d’ye see?”
   “And… what would you do if—I mean when you got in, sir?” said Polly. “You won’t just have to fool the guards. There’ll be other women in there.”
   “That will not present a problem, Perks,” said Blouse. “I shall act in a feminine way and I have this stage trick, d’ye see, where I make my voice sound quite high-pitched, like this.” The falsetto could have scratched glass. “See?” he said. “No, if we need a woman, I’m your man.”
   “Amazing, sir,” said Maladict. “For a moment I could have sworn there was a woman in the room.”
   “And I could certainly find out if there are any other badly guarded entrances,” Blouse went on. “Who knows, I might even be able to procure a key off one of the guards by means of feminine wiles! In any case, if things are all clear I shall send a signal. A towel hanging from a window, perhaps. Something clearly unusual, anyway.”
   There was some more silence. Several of the squad were staring at the ceiling.
   “Ye-es,” said Polly. “I can see you’ve thought this out carefully, sir.”
   Blouse sighed. “If only Wriggles worth were here,” he said.
   “Why, sir?”
   “Amazingly clever chap at layin’ his hands on a dress, young Wrigglesworth,” said the lieutenant.
   Polly caught Maladict’s eye. The vampire made face and shrugged.
   “Um…” said Shufti.
   “Yes, Manickle?”
   “I do have a petticoat in my pack, sir.”
   “Good heavens! Why?”
   Shufti went red. She hadn’t worked out an answer.
   “Bandageth, thur,” Igorina cut in smoothly.
   “Yes! Yes! That’s right!” said Shufti. “I… found it in the inn, back in Plün…”
   “I athked the lads to acquire any thuitable linen they might find, thur. Jutht in cathe.”
   “Very sound thinking, that man!” said Blouse. “Anyone else got anything?”
   “I wouldn’t be at all thurprithed, thur,” said Igorina, staring round the room.
   Glances were exchanged. Packs were unslung. Everyone except Polly and Maladict had something, produced with downcast eyes. A shift, a petticoat and, in most cases, a dimity scarf, carried out of some sort of residual, unexplainable need.
   “You obviously must’ve thought we’d take serious damage,” said Blouse.
   “Can’t be too careful, thur,” said Igorina. She grinned at Polly.
   “Of course, I have rather short hair at present…” Blouse mused.
   Polly thought of her ringlets, now lost and probably stroked by Strappi. But desperation spooled through her memory.
   “They looked like older women, mostly,” she said quickly. “They wore headscarves and wimples. I’m sure Igori—sure Igor can make up something, sir.”
   “We Igorth are very rethortheful, thur,” Igorina agreed. She pulled a black leather wallet out of her jacket. “Ten minuteth with a needle, thur, that’th all I need.”
   “Oh, I can do old women wonderfully well,” said Blouse. With a speed that made Lofty jump, he suddenly thrust out both hands twisted like claws, contorted his face into an expression of mad imbecility and screeched, “Oh deary me! My poor old feet! Things today aren’t what they used to be! Lawks!”
   Behind him, Sergeant Jackrum put his head in his hands.
   “Amazing, sir,” said Maladict. “I’ve never seen a transformation like it!”
   “Perhaps just a wee bit less old, sir?” Polly suggested, although in truth Blouse had reminded her of her Auntie Hattie two-thirds of the way through a glass of sherry.
   “You think so?” said Blouse. “Oh, well, if you’re really sure.”
   “And, er, if you do meet a guard, er, old women don’t usually try to, try to—”
   “—canoodle—” whispered Maladict, whose mind had clearly been hurtling down the same horrible slope.
   “—canoodle with them,” Polly finished, blushing, and then after a second’s thought added, “Unless she’s had a glass of sherry, anyway.”
   “And I do thuggetht you go and have a thhave, thur…”
   “Thhave?” said Blouse.
   “Shave, sir,” said Polly. “I’ll lay out the kit, sir.”
   “Ooh, yes. Of course. Don’t see many old women with beards, eh? Except my Auntie Parthenope, as I recall. And… er… no one’s got a couple of balloons, have they?”
   “Er, why, sir?” said Tonker.
   “A big bosom always gets a laugh,” said Blouse. He looked round the row of faces. “Not a good idea, perhaps? I got a huge round of applause as the Widow Trembler in ’Tis Pity She’s a Tree. No?”
   “I think Igor could sew something a bit more, er, realistic, sir,” said Polly.
   “Really? Oh, well, if you really think so,” said Blouse dejectedly. “I’ll just go and get myself into character.”
   He disappeared into the building’s only other room. After a few seconds, the rest of them heard him reciting “lawks, my poor feet!” in varying tones of fingernail screech.
   The squad went into a huddle.
   “What was all that about?” said Tonker.
   “He was talking about the theatre,” said Maladict.
   “What’s that?”
   “An Abomination Unto Nuggan, of course,” said the vampire. “It’d take too long to explain, dear child. People pretending to be other people to tell a story in a huge room where the world is a different place. Other people sitting and watching them and eating chocolate. Very, very Abominable.”
   “I woud like to eat chocolates in a great big room where the world is a different place,” mumbled Lofty sadly.
   “I saw a Punch and Judy show in the town once,” said Shufti. “Then they dragged the man away and it became an Abomination.”
   “I remember that,” said Polly. Crocodiles should not be seen to eat figures of authority, apparently, although until the puppet show no one in the town knew what a crocodile was. The bit where the clown had beaten his wife had also contravened Abomination, because he’d used a stick thicker than the regulation one inch.
   “The lieutenant won’t last a minute, you know,” she said.
   “Yes, but he won’t listen, will he?” said Igorina. “I’ll do the best with my scissorth and needle to make a woman of him, but—”
   “Igorina, when it’s you talking about this sort of thing, some very strange pictures turn up in my head,” said Maladict.
   “Sorry,” said Igorina
   “Can you pray for him, Wazzer?” said Polly. “I think we’re going to need a miracle here.”
   Wazzer obediently closed her eyes and folded her hands for a moment and then said shyly: “I’m afraid she says it will take more than a turkey.”
   “Wazz?” said Polly. “Do you really—” Then she stopped, with the bright little face watching her.
   “Yes, I do,” said Wazzer. “I really talk to the Duchess.”
   “Yeah, well, I used to, too,” snapped Tonker. “I used to beg her, once. That stupid face just stared and did nothing. She never stopped anything. All that stuff, all that stupid—” The girl stopped, too many words blocking her brain. “Anyway, why should she talk to you?”
   “Because I listen,” said Wazzer quietly.
   “And what does she say?”
   “Sometimes she just cries.”
   “She cries?”
   “Because there are so many things that people want, and she can’t give them anything.” Wazzer gave them all one of her smiles that lit up the room. “But everything will be fine when I am in the right place,” she said.
   “Well, that’s all right, then—” Polly began, in that cloud of deep embarrassment that Wazzer called up within her.
   “Yeah, right,” said Tonker. “But I’m not praying to anyone, okay? Ever again. I don’t like this, Wazz. You’re a decent kid, but I don’t like the way you smile—” She stopped. “Oh, no…”
   Polly stared at Wazzer. Her face was thin and all angles, and the Duchess in the painting had looked, well, like an overfed turbot, but now the smile, the actual smile…
   “I’m not putting up with that!” Tonker snarled. “You stop that right now! I mean it! You’re giving me the creeps! Ozz, you stop her—him smiling like that!”
   “Just calm down, all of you—” Polly began.
   “Bleedin’ well shut up!” said Jackrum. “A man can’t hear himself chew. Look, you’re all edgy. That happens. And Wazzer here’s just got a bit of religion before the fight. That happens, too. And what you do is, you save it all up for the enemy. Quieten down. That is what we in the milit’ry call an order, okay?”
   “Perks?” It was Blouse.
   “You’d better hurry,” said Maladict. “His corset probably wants lacing…”

   In fact Blouse was sitting on what remained of a chair.
   “Ah, Perks. A shave, please,” he said.
   “Oh, I thought your hand was better, sir…”
   “Er… yes.” Blouse looked awkward. “The problem, Perks, is… I have never actually shaved myself at all, to be honest. I had a man to do it for me at school, and then of course in the army I shared a batman with Blitherskite and, er, those attempts I made on my own behalf have been somewhat bloody. I never really thought about it until I got to Plotz and, er… suddenly it was embarrassing…”
   “Sorry about that, sir,” said Polly. It was a strange old world.
   “Later on perhaps you could give me a few tips,” Blouse went on. “You keep yourself beautifully shaven, I can’t help noticing. General Froc would be pleased. He’s very anti-whiskers, they say.”
   “If you like, sir,” said Polly. There was no getting out of it. She made a show of sharpening the razor. Perhaps she could manage it with only a few small cuts…
   “Do you think I should have a reddened nose?” said Blouse.
   “Probably, sir,” said Polly. Sarge knows about me, I’m sure, she thought. I know he does. Why’s he keeping quiet?
   “Probably, Perks?”
   “What? Oh. No… why a red nose, sir?” said Polly, applying the lather with vigour.
   “It would look more pff amusing, perhaps.”
   “Not sure that’s the purpose of the exercise, sir. Now, if you’d just, er, lie back, sir—”
   “There’s something you should know about young Perks, sir.”
   Polly actually yelped. Walking as silently as only a sergeant can, Jackrum had stolen into the room.
   “pff Sergeant?” said Blouse.
   “Perks doesn’t know how to shave a man, sir,” said Jackrum. “Give me the razor, Perks.”
   “Doesn’t know how to shave?” said Blouse.
   “Nosir. Perks lied to us, right, Perks?”
   “All right, sarge, no need to drag it out,” sighed Polly. “Lieutenant, I’m—”
   “—under age,” said Jackrum. “Right, Perks? Only fourteen, aren’t you?” He looked at Polly over the top of the lieutenant’s head, and winked.
   “Er… I told a lie to get enlisted, sir, yes,” said Polly.
   “I don’t think a lad like that ought to be dragged into the Keep, however game he is,” said Jackrum. “And I don’t think he’s the only one. Right, Perks?”
   Oh, so that’s the game. Blackmail, Polly thought.
   “Yes, sarge,” she said wearily.
   “Can’t have a massacre of little lads, sir, now can we?” said Jackrum.
   “I see your pff point, sergeant,” said the lieutenant, as Jackrum gently drove the blade down his cheek. “That is a tricky one.”
   “Best to call it a day, then?” said Jackrum.
   “On the other hand, sergeant, I do know that you pff yourself joined up as a child,” said Blouse. The blade stopped moving.
   “Well, it was all different in those—” Jackrum began.
   “You were five years old, apparently,” the lieutenant went on. “You see, when I heard that I would be meeting you, a legend in the army, of course I had a look at our files so that I could, perhaps, make a few timely jokes in presenting you with your honourable discharge. You know, humorous little reminiscences about times gone by? Imagine how puzzled I was, therefore, to find that you appear to have been drawing actual wages for, well, it was a little hard to be certain, but possibly as much as sixty years.”
   Polly had put a keen edge on the razor. It rested against the lieutenant’s cheek. Polly thought about the murder—oh, all right, the killing of an escaping prisoner—in the wood. It won’t be the first officer I’ve killed…
   “Probably one of them clerical errors, sir,” said Jackrum coldly. In the gloomy room, with moss now colonizing the walls, the sergeant loomed large.
   An owl, perched on the chimney, gave a screech. It echoed down into the room.
   “In fact no, sergeant,” said Blouse, apparently oblivious of the razor. “Your package, sergeant, had been tampered with. On numerous occasions. Once, even by General Froc. He deducted ten years from your age and signed the change. And he wasn’t the only one. Frankly, sergeant, I’m forced to only one conclusion.”
   “And what’s that, sir?” The razor halted again, still pressed against Blouse’s neck. The silence seemed to last for some time, sharp and drawn out.
   “That there was some other man called Jackrum,” said Blouse slowly, “whose records have… got mixed up with yours and… every attempt to sort it out by officers who were, er, not entirely at home with figures only made it more confusing.”
   The razor started to move again, with silky smoothness. “I think you’ve put your finger right on it, sir,” said Jackrum.
   “I am going to write an explanatory note and add it to the packet,” Blouse went on. “It seems to me the sensible thing to do would be to ask you here and now how old you are. How old are you, sergeant?”
   “Forty-three, sir,” said Jackrum instantly. Polly looked up, expecting the generic thunderclap that ought to accompany such a universe-sized untruth.
   “Are you sure?” said Blouse.
   “Forty-five, sir. The hardships of a soldier’s life show up onna face, sir.”
   “Even so—”
   “Ah, I recall a couple of extra birthdays what had slipped my memory, sir. I’m forty-seven, sir.” Still no rumble of celestial disapproval, Polly noticed.
   “Er… yes. Very well. After all, you should know, eh, sergeant? I shall amend it.”
   “Thank you, sir.”
   “Just like General Froc did. And Major Galosh. And Colonel Legin, sergeant.”
   “Yessir. Clerical error has followed me around all the days of my life, sir. I’ve been a martyr to it.” Jackrum stood back. “There we are, sir. Face as smooth as a baby’s bum. Smooth is how things should be, eh, sir? I’ve always liked things smooth.”

   They watched Lieutenant Blouse walk down through the trees to the path. They watched him join the erratic, straggling line of women on their way to the door. They listened for screams, and heard none.
   “D-does any woman sway that much?” said Wazzer, peering through the bushes.
   “Not legally, I think,” said Polly, scanning the Keep with the lieutenant’s telescope. “Well, we’ll just have to wait for some sort of signal that he’s okay.”
   Somewhere overhead, a buzzard screamed.
   “No, they’ll have got him the moment he walked through the door,” said Maladict. “Bet on it.”
   They left Jade on watch. With her paint scraped off, a troll could settle into rocky scenery so well that no one was likely to notice her before they walked into her, and by the time they’d walked into her it was too late.
   They made their way back through the woods, and had almost reached the ruined farmhouse when it happened.
   “You are holding up well, Mal,” said Polly. “Maybe those acorns did the trick? You haven’t mentioned coffee at all—”
   Maladict stopped, and turned slowly. To Polly’s horror, his face was suddenly shiny with sweat. “You had to bring it up, didn’t you?” he said hoarsely. “Oh, please, no! I was holding on so tight! I was doing so well!” He fell forward, but managed to get onto his hands and knees. Then he raised his head, and his eyes were glowing red. “Fetch… Igorina,” he muttered, gasping. “I know she’s ready for this…”
   …whopwhopwhop…
   Wazzer was praying furiously. Maladict tried to stand up again, fell back onto his knees, and raised his arms imploringly to the sky.
   “Get out of here while you can,” he mumbled, as his teeth visibly lengthened. “I’ll—”
   There was a shadow, a sense of movement, and the vampire slumped forward, stunned by an eight-ounce sack of coffee beans that had dropped out of a clear sky.

   Polly arrived at the farmhouse carrying Maladict on her shoulder. She made him as comfortable as possible on some ancient straw, and the squad consulted.
   “Do you think we ought to try to take the sack out of his mouth?” said Shufti nervously.
   “I tried, but he fights,” said Polly.
   “But he’s unconscious!”
   “He still won’t let go of it! He’s sucking it. I’d swear he was out cold, but he just sort of reached out and grabbed it and bit! It dropped out of a clear sky!”
   Tonker stared at Wazzer. “The Duchess does room service?” she said.
   “No! She says she d-didn’t!”
   “You get freak rainth of fish,” said Igorina, kneeling down by Maladict. “I suppose it’s possible that a whirlwind tore through a coffee plantation, and then possibly a lightning discharge in the upper ether—”
   “At what point did it blow through a factory making small coffee sacks?” said Tonker. “Ones with a jolly turbaned man printed on them apparently saying ‘Klatchian Rare Roasted! When a Pickaxe is Not Enough!’”
   “Well, if you’re going to put it like that, it does theem a little far-fetched…” Igorina stood up, adding, “I think he’ll be fine when he wakes up. Possibly a little talkative, though.”
   “Okay, lads, get some rest,” said Jackrum, coming in. “Let’s give the rupert a couple of hours to muck things up, and then we can nip around the valley and slip down and join the rest of the army. Good grub and proper blankets to sleep on, hey? That’s the ticket!”
   “We don’t know he’s going to mess up, sarge,” said Polly.
   “Oh, yeah, right, maybe he’ll have married the commander of the garrison by now, eh? Stranger things have happened, although I can’t remember when. Perks and Manickle, you’re on watch. The rest of you, get some shut-eye.”

   A Zlobenian patrol went past in the distance. Polly watched it out of sight. It was turning into a fine day, warm with a bit of wind. Good drying weather. A good day to be a washerwoman. And maybe Blouse would succeed. Maybe all the guards were blind.
   “Pol?” Shufti whispered.
   “Yes, Shuf… Look, what was your name back in the world?”
   “Betty. It’s Betty. Er… most of the Ins-and-Outs are in the Keep, right?”
   “Apparently.”
   “So that’s where I’m most likely to find my fiancé, yes?”
   We’ve talked about that, Polly thought. “Could be.”
   “Might be quite hard if there’s a lot of men…” said Betty, a woman with something on her mind.
   “Well, if we get as far as the prisoners and ask around they’ll be bound to know his name. What is it?”
   “Johnny,” whispered Betty.
   “Just Johnny?” said Polly.
   “Er… yes…”
   Ah, Polly thought. I think I know how this goes…
   “He’s got fair hair and blue eyes, and I think he had one gold earring, and… and a funny-shaped… what d’you call it? Oh, yes… sort of carbuncle on his, his… bottom.”
   “Right. Right.”
   “Um… now I come to tell someone, it doesn’t sound very helpful, I suppose.”
   Not unless we’re in a position to have a very unusual identity parade, Polly thought, and I can’t imagine what position that would be.
   “Not as such,” she said.
   “He said everyone in the regiment knows him,” Betty went on.
   “Right? Oh, good,” said Polly. “All we need to do is ask.”
   “And, er, we were going to break a sixpence in half, you know, like they do, so that if he had to be away for years we’d be sure we’d got the right person ’cos the two halves would match…”
   “Oh, that would be a bit of a help, I expect.”
   “Well, yes, except, well, I gave him the sixpence, and he said he’d get the blacksmith to break it in his vice, and he went off and, er, I think he got called away…” Betty’s voice trailed off.
   Well, that was about what I expected, Polly thought.
   “I expect you think I’m a silly girl,” mumbled Betty after a while.
   “A foolish woman, perhaps,” said Polly, turning to watch the landscape intently.
   “It was, you know a whirlwind romance…”
   “Sounds more like a hurricane to me,” said Polly, and Betty grinned.
   “Yes, it was a bit like that,” she said.
   Polly matched smile for smile. “Betty, it’s daft to talk about silly and foolish at a time like this,” she said. “Where are we going to look for wisdom? To a god who hates jigsaws and the colour blue? A fossil government led by a picture? An army that thinks stubbornness is the same as courage? Compared to all that, all you’ve got wrong is timing!”
   “I don’t want to end up in the School, though,” said Betty. “They took away a girl from our village and she was kicking and screaming—”
   “Then fight them!” said Polly. “You’ve got a sword now, haven’t you? Fight back!” She saw the look of horror on Betty’s face, and remembered that this wasn’t Tonker she was talking to. “Look, if we get out of this alive we’ll talk to the colonel. He might be able to help.” After all, perhaps your boy really was called Johnny, she thought, perhaps he really was called away suddenly. Hope is a wonderful thing. She went on: “If we get out of this, there’s going to be no School and no beatings. Not for you or any of us. Not if we’ve got brains. Not if we’re smart.”
   Betty was almost in tears, but she managed another smile. “And Wazzer’s talking to the Duchess, too. She’ll fix things!”
   Polly stared out at the bright, unchanging landscape, empty except for a buzzard making wide circles in the forbidden blue.
   “I’m not sure about that,” she said. “But someone up there likes us.”

   Twilight was brief at this time of year. There had been no sign from Blouse.
   “I watched until I couldn’t see,” said Jade, as they sat and watched Shufti make stew. “Some of der women dat came out was ones I saw goin’ in dis mornin’, too.”
   “Are you sure?” said Jackrum.
   “We might be fick, sarge,” said Jade, looking hurt, “but trolls have great… er… vis-you-all ack-you-it-tee. More women was going in dis evenin’, too.”
   “Night shift,” said Tonker.
   “Oh well, he tried,” said Jackrum. “With any luck he’s in a nice warm cell and they’ve found him a pair of long pants. Get your kit together, lads. We’ll creep around and into our lines and you’ll be snug in bed by midnight.”
   Polly remembered what she’d said, hours ago, about fighting. You had to start somewhere.
   “I want to try the Keep again,” she said.
   “You do, Perks, do you?” said Jackrum, with mock interest.
   “My brother’s in there.”
   “Nice safe place for him, then.”
   “He might be injured. I vote for the Keep.”
   “Vote?” said Jackrum. “My word, that’s a new one. Voting in the army? Who wants to get killed, lads, let’s have a show of hands? Knock it off, Perks.”
   “I’m going to try it, sarge!”
   “You are not!”
   “Try and stop me!” The words came out before she could stop them. And that’s it, she thought, the shout heard round the world. No going back after this. I’ve run off the edge of the cliff and it’s all downhill from here.
   Jackrum’s expression stayed blank for a second or two, and then he said, “Anyone else voting for the Keep?”
   Polly looked at Shufti, who blushed.
   But:
   “We are,” said Tonker. Beside her, Lofty struck a match, and held it so that it flared. That was pretty much a speech from Lofty.
   “Why, pray?” said Jackrum.
   “We don’t want to sit around in a swamp,” said Tonker. “And we don’t like being ordered about.”
   “Should have thought of that before you joined an army, lad!”
   “We aren’t lads, sarge.”
   “You are if I says you are!”
   Well, it’s not as though I wasn’t expecting it, Polly thought. I’ve played this out enough times in my head. Here goes…
   “All right, sarge,” she said. “It’s time to have it out, here and now.”
   “Ooo, er,” said Jackrum theatrically, fishing his screwed-up paper of tobacco out of his pocket.
   “What?”
   Jackrum sat down on the remains of a wall. “Just injecting a little sauciness into the conversation,” he said. “Carry on, Perks. Have your say. I thought it’d come to this.”
   “You know I’m a woman, sarge,” said Polly.
   “Yup. I wouldn’t trust you to shave cheese.”
   The squad stared. Jackrum opened his big knife and examined the chewing tobacco as though it was the most interesting thing present.
   “So… er… what are you going to do about it?” said Polly, feeling derailed.
   “Dunno. Can’t do anything, can I? You were born like it.”
   “You didn’t tell Blouse!” said Polly.
   “Nope.”
   Polly wanted to knock the wretched tobacco out of the sergeant’s hand. Now that she had got over the surprise, there was something offensive about this lack of reaction. It was like someone opening a door just before your battering ram hit it; suddenly you were running through the building and not certain how to stop.
   “Well, we’re all women, sarge,” said Tonker. “How about that?”
   Jackrum sawed at the tobacco.
   “So?” he said, still paying attention to the job in hand.
   “What?” said Polly.
   “Think no one else ever tried it? Think you’re the only ones? Think your ol’ sarge is deaf, blind and stupid? You could fool one another and anyone can fool a rupert, but you can’t fool Jackrum. Weren’t sure about Maladict and still ain’t, because with a vampire, who knows? And not sure about you, Carborundum, because with a troll, who cares? No offence.”
   “None taken,” rumbled Jade. She caught Polly’s eye and shrugged.
   “Not so good at reading the signs, not knowing many trolls,” said the sergeant. “I had you down pat in the first minute, Ozz. Something in the eyes, I reckon. Like… you were watching to see how good you were.”
   Oh hell, Polly thought. “Er… do I have a pair of socks belonging to you?”
   “Yep. Well washed, I might add.”
   “You’ll have them back right now!” said Polly, grabbing for her belt.
   “In your own time, Perks, in your own time, no rush,” said Jackrum, raising a hand. “Well washed, please.”
   “Why, sarge?” said Tonker. “Why didn’t you give us away? You could’ve given us away any time!”
   Jackrum slewed his wad from cheek to cheek and sat chewing for a while, staring at nothing.
   “No, you ain’t the first,” he said. “I’ve seen a few. Mostly by themselves, always frightened… and mostly they didn’t last long. But one or two of them were bonny soldiers, very bonny soldiers indeed. So I looked at you lot and I thought to myself, well now, I thought, I wonder how they’ll do when they find out they’re not alone? You know about lions?” They nodded. “Well, the lion is a big ol’ coward, mostly. If you want trouble, you want to tangle with the lioness. They’re killers, and they hunt together. It’s the same everywhere. If you want big grief, look to the ladies. Even with insects, right? There’s a kind of beetle where she bites his head off right while he’s exercisin’ his conjugals, and that’s what I call serious grief. On the other hand, from what I heard, he carries on regardless, so maybe it’s not the same for beetles.”
   He looked around at their blank expressions.
   “No?” he said. “Well, maybe I thought, a whole bunch of girls all at once, that’s… strange. Maybe there’s a reason.” Polly saw him glance briefly at Wazzer. “Anyway, I wasn’t goin’ to shame you all in front of a little toad like Strappi, and then there was all that business in Plotz, and then, well, we was gallopin’, as it were, caught up in things with no time to get off. You did well, lads. Very well. Shaped up like good ’uns.”
   “I’m going into the Keep,” said Polly.
   “Oh, don’t worry about the rupert,” said Jackrum. “Probably he’s enjoying a nice bowl of scubbo right now. He went to a school for young gentlemen, so prison will be just like old times.”
   “We’re still going, sarge. Sorry,” said Polly.
   “Oh, don’t say sorry, Perks, you were doing well up ’til then,” said Jackrum bitterly.
   Shufti stood up. “I’m going too,” she said. “I think my… fiancé is in there.”
   “I have to go,” said Wazzer. “The Duchess guides my steps.”
   “I’ll go, then,” said Igorina. “I’m probably going to be needed.”
   “I shouldn’t fink I could get by as a washerwoman,” rumbled Jade. “I’ll stay here and watch over Mal. Hah, if he’s still after blood when he wakes up he’s gonna have blunt teeth!”
   They looked at one another in silence, embarrassed but defiant. Then there was the sound of someone clapping, slowly.
   “Oh, very nice,” said Jackrum. “A band of brothers, eh? Sorry… sisters. Oh dear, oh dear. Look, Blouse was a fool. It was prob’ly all them books. He read all that stuff about it being a noble thing to die for your country, I expect. I was never that keen on readin’, but I know the job is making some other poor devil die for his.”
   He slewed his black tobacco from side to side. “I wanted you to be safe, lads. Down in the press of men, I reckoned I could get you through this, no matter how many friends the Prince has sent after you. I look at you lads, and I think: you poor boys, you don’t know nothin’ about war. What you goin’ to do? Tonker, you are a crack shot, but after one shot who’s backing you up while you reload? Perks, you know a trick or two, but the blokes in the castle will maybe know a trick or five. You’re a good cook, Shufti; too bad it’s going to be too hot in there. Will the Duchess turn aside arrows, Wazzer?”
   “Yes. She will.”
   “I hope you are right, my lad,” said Jackrum, giving the girl a long slow look. “Pers’nally, I’ve found religion in battle is as much use as a chocolate helmet. You’ll need more than a prayer if Prince Heinrich catches you, I might add.”
   “We’re going to try it, sarge,” said Polly. “There’s nothing for us in the army.”
   “Will you come with us, sarge?” said Shufti.
   “No, lad. Me as a washerwoman? I doubt it. Don’t seem to have a skirt anywhere about me, for a start. Er… just one thing, lads. How are you going to get in?”
   “In the morning. When we see the women going in again,” said Polly.
   “Got it all planned, general? And you’ll be dressed as women?”
   “Er… we are women, sarge,” said Polly.
   “Yes, lad. Technical detail. But you kitted out the rupert with all your little knick-knacks, didn’t you? What’re you going to do, tell the guards you opened the wrong cupboard in the dark?”
   Another embarrassed silence descended. Jackrum sighed. “This ain’t proper war,” he said. “Still, I said I’d look after you. You are my little lads, I said.” His eyes gleamed. “And you still are, even if the world’s turned upside down. I’ll just have to hope, Miss Perks, that you picked up a few tricks from ol’ sarge, although I reckon you can think of a few of your own. And now I’d better get you kitted up, right?”
   “Perhaps we could sneak in and steal something from the villages where the servants come from?” said Tonker.
   “From a bunch of poor women?” said Polly, her heart sinking. “Anyway, there’d be soldiers everywhere.”
   “Well, how do we get women’s clothes on a battlefield?” said Lofty.
   Jackrum laughed, stood up, stuck his thumbs in his belt and grinned. “I told you, lads, you don’t know nuffin’ about war!” he said.

   …and one of the things they hadn’t known was that it has edges.
   Polly wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Men and horses, obviously. In her mind’s eye they were engaged in mortal combat, but you couldn’t go on doing that all day. So there would be tents. And that was about as far as the mind’s eye had seen. It hadn’t seen that an army on campaign is a sort of large, portable city. It has only one employer, and it manufactures dead people, but like all cities it attracts… citizens. What was unnerving was the sound of babies crying, off in the rows of tents. She hadn’t expected that. Or the mud. Or the crowds. Everywhere there were fires, and the smell of cooking. This was a siege, after all. People had settled in.
   Getting down onto the plain in the dark had been easy. There was only Polly and Shufti trailing after the sergeant, who’d said that more would be too many and in any case would attract too much attention.
   There were patrols, but their edge had been dulled by sheer repetitiveness. Besides, the allies weren’t expecting anyone to make much effort to get into the valley, at least in small groups. And men in the dark make a noise, far more noise than a woman. They’d located a Borogravian sentry in the gloom by the noise of him trying to suck a morsel of dinner out of his teeth.
   But another one had located them when they were a stone’s throw from the tents. He was young, so he was still keen.
   “Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe!”
   The light from a cooking-fire glinted off a crossbow.
   “See?” whispered Jackrum. “This is where your uniform is your friend. Aren’t you glad you kept it?”
   He swaggered forward, and spat tobacco between the young sentry’s boots.
   “My name’s Jackrum,” he said. “That’s Sergeant Jackrum. As for the other bit… you choose.”
   “Sergeant Jackrum?” said the boy, his mouth staying open.
   “Yes, lad.”
   “What, the one who killed sixteen men at the Battle of Zop?”
   “There was only ten of ’em, but good lad for knowin’ it.”
   “The Jackrum who carried General Froc through fourteen miles of enemy territory?”
   “That’s right.”
   Polly saw teeth in the gloom as the sentry grinned.
   “My dad told me he fought with you at Blunderberg!”
   “Ah, that was a hot battle, that was!” said Jackrum.
   “No, he meant in the pub afterwards. He pinched your drink and you smacked him in the gob and he kicked you in the nadgers and you hit him in the guts and he blacked your eye and then you hit him with a table and when he came round his mates stood him beer for the evening for managing to lay nearly three punches on Sergeant Jackrum. He tells the story every year, when it’s the anniversary and he’s pis– reminiscing.”
   Jackrum thought for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the young man. “Joe Hubukurk, right?” he said.
   The smile broadened to the point where the top of the young man’s head was in danger of falling off. “He’ll be smirking all day when I tell him you remember him, sarge! He says that where you piss grass don’t grow!”
   “Well, what can a modest man say to that, eh?” said Jackrum.
   Then the young man frowned. “Funny, though, he thought you were dead, sarge,” he said.
   “Tell him I bet him a shilling I’m not,” said Jackrum. “And your name, lad?”
   “Lart, sarge. Lart Hubukurk.”
   “Glad you joined, are you?”
   “Yes, sarge,” said Lart loyally.
   “We’re just having a stroll, lad. Tell your dad I asked after him.”
   “I will, sarge!” The boy stood to attention like a one-man guard of honour. “This is a proud moment for me, sarge!”
   “Does everyone know you, sarge?” whispered Polly, as they walked away.
   “Aye, pretty much. On our side, anyway. I’ll make so bold as to declare that most of the enemy that meets me don’t know any hing much afterwards.”
   “I never thought it was going to be like this!” hissed Shufti.
   “Like what?” said Jackrum.
   “There’s women and children! Shops! I can smell bread baking! It’s like a… a city.”
   “Yeah, but what we’re after isn’t going to be in the main streets. Follow me, lads.” Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of boxes and emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.
   Here the tents were open-sided. Armourers and saddlers worked by lantern-light, shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of the way of a mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules moved aside for Jackrum. Maybe he’s met them before, too, thought Polly, maybe he really does know everyone.
   The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He acknowledged other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were around here, and ignored everybody else.
   “You been here before, sarge?” said Shufti.
   “No, lad.”
   “But you know where you’re going?”
   “Correct. I ain’t been here, but I know battlefields, especially when everyone’s had a chance to dig in.” Jackrum sniffed the air. “Ah, right. That’s the stuff. Just you two wait here.”
   He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant muttering and, after a moment or two, he reappeared holding a small bottle.
   Polly grinned. “Is that rum, sarge?”
   “Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn’t it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.”
   “Hangman?” said Shufti.
   “One drop and you’re dead,” said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.
   “That’s right, Shufti. It’s rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old kettle and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?”
   Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.
   “Good lad. Stick to beer,” he said.
   “Don’t the officers stop it?” said Polly.
   “Officers? What do they know about anything?” said Jackrum. “An’ I bought this off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?”
   Polly peered into the gloom. “No, sarge.”
   Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it onto his face. “Ye-ouch,” he hissed. “Stings like the blazes. And now to kill the tooth worms. Got to do the job properly.” He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat it out, and shoved the cork back in. “Muck,” he said. “Okay, let’s go.”
   “Where are we going, sarge?” said Shufti. “You can tell us now, can’t you?”
   “A quiet little place where our needs will be met,” said Jackrum. “It’ll be around here somewhere.”
   “You don’t half smell of drink, sarge,” said Shufti. “Will they let you in if you smell drunk?”
   “Yes, Shufti, lad, they will,” said Jackrum, setting off again. “The reason being, my pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk. Ah… down this little valley here, that’ll be our… yeah, I was right. This is the place. Tucked away, delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?”
   There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab tents in this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by winter rains. If there had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.
   “Shame,” said Jackrum. “Okay, so we’ll have to do it the hard way. Remember: just act natural and listen to what I say.”
   “I’m sh-shaking, sarge.” Shufti muttered.
   “Good, good, very natural,” said Jackrum. “This is our place, I think. Nice and quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the wash…” He stopped at a, very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his swagger stick.
   “The SoLid DoVes,” Polly read.
   “Yeah, well, these ladies weren’t hired for their spelling,” said Jackrum, pushing open the flap of the tent of ill repute.
   Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady, lumpy and crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the trio the most calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a price on her boots.
   The sergeant doffed his cap and in a jovial, rotund voice that peed brandy and crapped plum pudding said, “Good evening, madarm! Sergeant Smith’s the name, yes indeed! An’ me and my bold lads here have been so fortunate as to acquire the spoils of war, if you catch my drift, and nothing would do for it but they were clamouring, clamouring to go to the nearest house of good repute for to have a man made of ’em!”
   Little beady eyes skewered Polly again. Shufti, ears glowing like signal beacons, was staring fixedly at the ground.
   “Looks like that’d be a job and a half,” said the woman shortly.
   “You never spoke a truer word, madarm!” beamed Jackrum. “Two of your fair flowers apiece should do it, I reckon.” There was a clink as, staggering slightly, Jackrum put several gold coins on the rickety little table.
   Something about the gleam of them thawed things no end. The woman’s face cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.
   “Well, now, we are always honoured to entertain the Ins-and-Outs, sergeant,” she said. “If you… gentlemen would like to step through to the, er, inner sanctum?”
   Polly heard a very faint sound behind her, and turned. She hadn’t noticed the man sitting on a chair just inside the door. He had to be a man, because trolls weren’t pink; he made Eyebrow back in Plün look like some kind of weed. He wore leather, which was what she’d heard creaking, and he had his eyes just slightly open. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. It wasn’t a friendly wink.
   There are times when a plan suddenly isn’t going to work. When you’re in the middle of it, is not the time to find this out.
   “Er, sarge,” she said. The sergeant turned, saw her frantic grimace, and appeared to spot the guard for the first time.
   “Oh dear, where’s my manners?” he said, lurching back and fumbling in his pocket. He came up with a gold coin which he folded in the astonished man’s hand. Then he turned round, tapping the side of his nose with an expression of idiot knowingness.
   “A word of advice, lads,” he said. “Always give the guard a tip. He keeps the riffraff out, very important. Very important man.”
   He stumbled back to the lady in black, and belched hugely.
   “And now, madarm, if we can meet these visions of loveliness you are hiding under this here bushel?” he said.
   It depended, Polly thought a few seconds later, on how and when and after drinking how much of what that you had those visions. She knew about these places. Serving behind a bar can really broaden your education. There were a number of ladies back home who were, as her mother put it, “no better than they should be”, and at twelve years old Polly had got a smack for asking how good they should have been, then. They were an Abomination Unto Nuggan, but men have always found space in their religion for a little sinning here and there.
   The word to describe the four ladies seated in the room beyond, if you wanted to be kind, was “tired”. If you didn’t want to be kind a whole range of words were just hanging in the air.
   They looked up without much interest.
   “This is Faith, Prudence, Grace and Comfort,” said the lady of the house. “The night shift has not yet come on, I’m afraid.”
   “I’m sure these beauties will be a great education for my roaring boys,” said the sergeant. “But… may I be so bold as to enquire about your name, madarm?”
   “I’m Mrs Smother, sergeant.”
   “And do you have a first name, may I ask?”
   “Dolores,” said Mrs Smother, “to my… special friends.”
   “Well now, Dolores,” said Jackrum, and there was another jingle of coins in his pocket, “I will come right out with it and be frank, because I can see you are a woman of the world. These frail blossoms are all very well in their way, for I know the fashion these days is for ladies with less meat on ’em than a butcher’s pencil, but a gentleman such as me, who has been around the world and seen a thing or two, well, he learns the value of… maturity.” He sighed. “Not to mention Hope and Patience.” The coins jingled again. “Perhaps you and I might retire to some suitable boodwah, madarm, and discuss the matter over a cordial or two?”
   Mrs Smother looked from the sergeant to the “lads”, glanced back in the anteroom, and looked back at Jackrum with her head on one side and a thin, calculating smile on her lips.
   “Ye-es,” she said. “You’re a fine figure of a man, Sergeant Smith. Let us take a load off your… pockets, shall we?”
   She joined arm-in-arm with the sergeant, who winked roguishly at Polly and Shufti.
   “We’re well set, then, lads!” he chuckled. “Now, just so’s you don’t get carried away, when it’s time to go I’ll blow my whistle and you’d better have finished what you’re doin’, haha, and meet me sharpish. Duty calls! Remember the fine tradition of the Ins-and Outs!”
   Giggling and almost tripping up, he left the room on the arm of the proprietress.
   Shufti sidled hurriedly up to Polly and whispered: “Is sarge all right, Ozzer?”
   “He’s just had a bit too much to drink,” said Polly loudly, as all four of the girls stood up.
   “But he—” Shufti got a nudge in the ribs before she could say any more. One of the girls carefully laid down her knitting, took Polly’s arm, flashed her well-crafted expression of interest, and said, “You’re a well set-up young man, aren’t you… what’s your name, dear? I’m Gracie.”
   “Oliver,” said Polly. And what the hell is the fine tradition of the Ins-and-Outs?
   “Ever seen a woman with no clothes on before, Oliver?” The girls giggled.
   Polly’s brow wrinkled as, just for a moment, she was caught unawares. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
   “Ooo, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a regular Don Joo-ann, girls,” said Gracie, stepping back. “We may have to send out for reinforcements! Why don’t you an’ me and Prudence go off to a little nook I know, and your little friend will be the guest of Faith and Comfort. Comfort’s very good with young men, ain’t you, Comfort?”
   Sergeant Jackrum had been wrong in his description of the girls. Three of them were indeed several meals short of a healthy weight, but when Comfort got up out of her large armchair you realized that it had, in fact, been quite a small armchair and had mostly been Comfort. For a large woman she had a small face, locked in a piggy-eyed scowl. There was a death’s head tattoo on one arm.
   “He’s young,” said Gracie. “He’ll heal. Come along, Don Joo-ann…”
   In a way, Polly was relieved. She didn’t take to the girls. Oh, the profession could bring anyone down, but she’d got to know some of her town’s ladies of uneasy virtue and they had an edge she couldn’t find here.
   “Why do you work here?” she said, as they entered a smaller, canvas-walled room. There was a rickety bed taking up most of the space.
   “You know, you look a bit too young to be that sort of customer,” said Gracie.
   “What sort?” said Polly.
   “Oh, a holy joe,” said Gracie. “‘What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?’ and all that stuff. Feel sorry for us, do you? At least if someone cuts up rough we’ve got Garry outside and after he’s finished with the bloke the colonel gets told and the bastard gets bunged in clink.”
   “Yeah,” said Prudence. “From what we hear we’re the safest ladies within twenty-five miles. Old Smother’s not too bad. We get money to keep and we get fed and she don’t beat us, which is more than can be said for husbands, and you can’t wander around loose, now, can you?”
   Jackrum put up with Blouse because you’ve got to have an officer, Polly thought. If you don’t have an officer, some other officer’ll take you over. And a woman by herself is missing a man, while a man by himself is his own master. Trousers. That’s the secret. Trousers and a pair of socks. I never dreamed it was like this. Put on trousers and the world changes. We walk different. We act different. I see these girls and I think: idiots! Get yourself some trousers!

   “Can you please get your clothes off?” she said. “I think we’d better hurry.”
   “One of the Ins-and-Outs, this one,” said Gracie, slipping her dress off her shoulders. “Keep an eye on your cheeses, Pru!”
   “Er… why does that mean we’re in the Ins-and-Outs?” said Polly. She made a show of unbuttoning her jacket, wishing that she believed in anyone there to pray to so that she could pray for the whistle.
   “That’s ’cos you lads always have your eye on business,” said Gracie.
   And maybe there was someone listening, at that. The whistle blew.
   Polly grabbed the dresses and ran out, oblivious of the yells behind her. She collided with Shufti outside, tripped over the groaning form of Garry, saw Sergeant Jackrum holding the tent flap open, and bulleted into the night.
   “This way!” the sergeant hissed, grabbing her by the collar before she’d gone a few feet and swinging her round. “You too, Shufti! Move!”
   He ran up the side of the wash like a child’s balloon being blown by the wind, leaving them to scramble after him. His arms were full of clothing, which snagged and danced behind him. Up above was knee-deep scrub, treacherous in the gloom. They tripped and staggered across it until they reached heavier growth, whereupon the sergeant got hold of both of them and pushed them into the bushes. The shouts and screams were fainter now.
   “Now we’ll just keep quiet, like,” he whispered. “There’s patrols about.”
   “They’ll be bound to find us,” Polly hissed, while Shufti wheezed.
   “No, they won’t,” said Jackrum. “First, they’ll all be running towards the shoutin’, because that’s natur– there they go…” Polly heard more shouts in the distance. “And bloody fools they are, too. They’re supposed to be guarding the perimeter, and they’re running towards trouble in the camp. And they’re running straight towards lamplight, so there goes their night eyes! If I was their sergeant they’d be due a fizzer! C’mon.” He stood up, and hauled Shufti to her feet. “Feeling all right, lad?”
   “It w-was horrible, sarge! One of them put her hand… on… on my socks!”
   “Something that doesn’t often happen, I’ll bet any man,” said Jackrum. “But you did a good job. Now, we’ll walk nice and quiet, and no more talking ’til I say, okay?”
   They plodded on for ten minutes, skirting the camp. They heard several patrols, and saw a couple of others on the hilltops as the moon rose, but it dawned on Polly that, loud though the shouting had been, it was only part of the huge patchwork of sound that rose from the camp. The patrols this far away probably hadn’t heard it, or at least were commanded by the kinds of soldiers who didn’t want to get put on a fizzer.
   In the dark, she heard Jackrum take a deep breath. “Okay, that’s far enough. Not a bad job of work, lads. You’re real Ins-and-Outs now!”
   “That guard was out cold,” said Polly. “Did you hit him?”
   “Y’see, I’m fat,” said Jackrum. “People don’t think fat men can fight. They think fat men are funny. They think wrong. Gave ’im a chop to the windpipe.”
   “Sarge!” said Shufti, horrified.
   “What? What? He was coming at me with his club!” said Jackrum.
   “Why was he doing that, sarge?” said Polly.
   “Ooh, you cunning soldier, you,” said Jackrum. “All right, I grant you that I’d just given madarm the ol’ quietus, but to be fair I know when someone’s just handed me a bleedin’ drink full o’ sleepy drops.”
   “You hit a woman, sarge?” said Polly.
   “Yeah, and maybe when she wakes up in her corsets she’ll decide that next time a poor ol’ drunk fat man wanders in it mightn’t be such a good idea to try to roll him for his wad,” growled Jackrum. “I’d be in a ditch wi’out my drawers on and a damned great headache if she’d had her way, and if you two was daft enough to complain to an officer she’d swear black was blue that I didn’t have a penny on me when I came in and was drunk and disorderly. And the colonel wouldn’t care a fig, ’cos he’d reckon a sergeant daft enough to get caught like that had it coming to him. I know, you see. I look after my lads.” There was a clink in the dark. “Plus a few extra dollars won’t go amiss.”
   “Sarge, you didn’t steal the cashbox, did you?” said Polly.
   “Yeah. Got a good armful of her wardrobe, too.”
   “Good!” said Shufti fervently. “It wasn’t a nice place!”
   “It was mostly my money in any case,” said Jackrum. “Business has been a bit slow today, by the feel of it.”
   “But it’s immoral earnings!” said Polly, and then felt a complete fool for saying it.
   “No,” said Jackrum. “It was immoral earnings, now it’s the proceeds of common theft. Life’s a lot easier when you learns to think straight.”

   Polly was glad there was no mirror. The best that could be said for the squad’s new clothing was that it covered them up. But this was a war. You seldom saw new clothes on anybody. Yet they felt awkward. And there was no sense in that at all. But they looked at one another in the chilly light of dawn and giggled in embarrassment. Wow, Polly thought, look at us: dressed as women.
   Oddly enough, it was Igorina who really looked the part. She’d disappeared into the other tumbledown room carrying her pack. For ten minutes the squad had heard the occasional grunt or “ouch”, and then she’d returned with a full head of fair, shoulder-length hair. Her face was the right shape, missing the lumps and bumps they’d come to know. And the stitches on her forehead shrank and disappeared as Polly watched in astonishment.
   “Doesn’t that hurt?” she said.
   “It smarts a bit for a few minutes,” said Igorina. “You just have to have the knack. And the special ointment, of course.”
   “But why’s there a curved scar on your cheek now?” said Tonker. “And those stitches are staying.”
   Igorina looked down demurely. She’d even restyled one of the dresses into a dirndl, and looked like a fresh young maid from the beer cellar. Just to look at her was to mentally order a large pretzel.
   “You’ve got to have something to show,” she said. “Otherwise you’re letting down the clan. And actually I think the stitches are rather fetching…”
   “Well, okay,” Tonker conceded. “But lisp a bit, will you? I know this is completely wrong, but now you look, oh, I don’t know… weird, I suppose.”
   “Okay, line up,” said Jackrum. He stood back, and gave them a look of theatrical disdain. “Well, I’ve never seen such a lot of scrubb– washerwomen in all my life,” he said. “I wish you all the luck you’re bleeding well gonna need. There’ll be someone watching the door for you to come out, and that’s all I can promise. Private Perks, you’re acting, unpaid corporal on this one. I hope you’ve picked up one or two little lessons on our stroll. In and out, that’s what you should do. No famous last stands, please. When in doubt, kick ’em in the nadgers and scarper. Mind you, if you frighten them like you frighten me, you should have no trouble.”
   “Are you sure you won’t join us, sarge?” said Tonker, still trying not to laugh.
   “No, lad. You won’t get me in skirts. Everyone has their place, right? The place where they draw the line? Well, that’s mine. I’m pretty steeped in sin, one way and another, but Jackrum always shows his colours. I’m an old soldier. I’ll fight like a soldier does, in the ranks, on the battlefield. Besides, if I went in there simpering in petticoats I’d never hear the end of it.”
   “The Duchess says there is a d-different path for Sergeant Jackrum,” said Wazzer.
   “And I don’t know if you don’t frighten me worst of all, Private Goom,” said Jackrum. He hitched up his equatorial belt. “You’re right, though. When you’re inside I shall nip down, nice and quiet, and slip into our lines. If I can’t raise a little diversionary attack, my name’s not Sergeant Jackrum. And since it is Sergeant Jackrum, that proves it. Hah, there’s plenty of men in this man’s army that owe me a favour”—he gave a little sniff—“or wouldn’t say no to my face. And plenty of likely lads who’ll want to tell their grandchildren they fought alongside Jackrum, too. Well, I’ll give ’em their chance at real soldierin’.”
   “Sarge, it’ll be suicide to attack the main gates!” said Polly.
   Jackrum slapped his belly. “See this lot?” he said. “It’s like having yer own armour. Bloke once stuck a blade in this up to the hilt and was as surprised as hell when I nutted him. Anyway, you lads’ll be making so much fuss the guards will be distracted, right? You’re relying on me, I’m relying on you. That’s milit’ry, that is. You give me a signal, any signal. That’s all I’ll need.”
   “The Duchess says your path takes you further,” said Wazzer.
   “Oh yeah?” said Jackrum jovially. “And where’s that, then? Somewhere with a good pub, I hope!”
   “The Duchess says, um, it should lead to the town of Scritz,” said Wazzer. She said it quietly while the rest of the squad were laughing, less at the comment than as a way of losing some of the tension. But Polly heard it.
   Jackrum really, really was good, she thought. The fleeting expression of terror was gone in an instant. “Scritz? Nothing there,” he said. “Dull town.”
   “There was a sword,” said Wazzer.
   Jackrum was ready this time. There was not a flicker of expression, just the blank face that he was so good at. And that was odd, Polly thought, because there should have been something, even if it was only puzzlement.
   “Handled lots of swords in my time,” he said dismissively. “Yes, Private Halter?”
   “There’s one thing you didn’t tell us, sarge,” said Tonker, lowering her hand. “Why is the regiment called the Ins-and-Outs?”
   “First into battle, last out of the fray,” said Jackrum automatically.
   “So why are we nicknamed the Cheesemongers?”
   “Yes,” said Shufti. “Why, sarge? Because the way those girls were talking, it sounded like it’s something we ought to know.”
   Jackrum made a clicking noise of exasperation. “Oh, Tonker, why the hell did you wait ’til you’d got your trousers off before asking me that? I’ll feel embarrassed telling yer now!” And Polly thought: that’s bait, right? You want to tell us. You want to get any conversation away from Scritz…
   “Ah,” said Tonker. “It’s about sex, then, is it?”
   “Not as such, no…”
   “Well, tell me, then,” said Tonker. “I’d like to know before I die. If it makes you feel any better I’ll nudge people and go gnher, gnher, gnher.”
   Jackrum sighed. “There’s a song,” he said. “It starts ’Twas on a Monday morning, all in the month of May—”
   “Then it is about sex,” said Polly flatly. “It’s a folk song, it starts with ’twas, it takes place in May, QED it’s about sex. Is a milkmaid involved? I bet there is.”
   “There could be,” Jackrum conceded.
   “Going for to market? For to sell her wares?” said Polly.
   “Very likely.”
   “O-kay. That gives us the cheese. And she meets, let’s see, a soldier, a sailor, a jolly ploughboy or just possibly a man clothed all in leather, I expect? No, since it’s about us, it’ll be a soldier, right? And since it’s one of the Ins-and-Outs… oh dear, I feel a humorous double-entendre coming on. Just one question: what item of her clothing fell down or came untied?”
   “Her garter,” said Jackrum. “You’ve heard it before, Perks.”
   “No, but I just know how folk songs go. We had folk singers in the lower bar for six months back hom– where I worked. In the end we had to get a man in with a ferret. But you remember stuff… oh, no…”
   “Was there canoodling, sarge?” said Tonker, grinning.
   “Kayaking, I expect,” said Igorina, to general sniggering.
   “No, he stole the cheese, didn’t he?” sighed Polly. “As the poor girl was lying there waiting for her garter to be tied, hem hem, he damn well made off with her cheese, right?”
   “Er… not damn. Not with the skirt on, Ozz,” Tonker warned.
   “Then it’s not Ozz, either,” said Polly. “Fill yer hat with bread, fill yer boots with soup! And steal the cheese, eh, sarge?”
   “That’s right. We’ve always been a very practical regiment,” said Jackrum. “An army marches on its stomach, lads. On mine, o’ course, it could troop the colour!”
   “It was her own fault. She should have been able to tie up her own garters,” said Lofty.
   “Yeah. Probably wanted her cheese stolen,” said Tonker.
   “Wise words,” said Jackrum. “Off you go, then… cheesemongers!”

   The mist was still thick as they made their way down through the woods to the path by the river. Polly’s skirt kept catching in brambles. It must have done so before she’d joined up, but she’d never noticed it so much. Now it was seriously hindering her. She reached up and absent-mindedly adjusted the socks, which she’d separated to use as padding elsewhere. She was too skinny, that was the trouble. The ringlets had been useful there. They said “girl”. In their absence, she had to rely on a scarf and a socks change.
   “All right,” she whispered, as the ground levelled out. “Remember, no swearing. Giggle, don’t snigger. No belching. No weapons, either. They can’t be that stupid in there. Anyone brought a weapon?”
   There was a shaking of heads.
   “Did you bring a weapon, Tonk—Magda?”
   “No, Polly.”
   “No item of any sort with a certain weapon-like quality?” Polly insisted.
   “No, Polly,” said Tonker demurely.
   “Anything, perhaps, with an edge?”
   “Oh, you mean this?”
   “Yes, Magda.”
   “Well, a woman can carry a knife, can’t she?”
   “It’s a sabre, Magda. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s a sabre.”
   “But I’m only using it like a knife, Polly.”
   “It’s three feet long, Magda.”
   “Size isn’t important, Polly.”
   “No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please. That is an order.”
   “Oh, all right!”
   After a while, Shufti, who had appeared to be thinking deeply, said: “I can’t understand why she didn’t just tie up her own garter…”
   “Shuft, what the hell—” Tonker began.
   “—heck,” Polly corrected her, “and you’re talking to Betty, remember.”
   “What the heck are you talking about, Betty?” said Tonker, rolling her eyes.
   “Well, the song, of course. And you don’t have to lie down to tie a garter in any case. It’d be more difficult,” said Shufti. “It’s all a bit silly.”
   No one said anything for a while. It was, perhaps, easy to see why Shufti was on her quest.
   “You’re right,” said Polly eventually. “It’s a silly song.”
   “A very silly song,” Tonker agreed.
   They all agreed. It was a silly song.
   They stepped out onto the river path. Ahead of them a small group of women were hurrying round the bend in the track. Automatically, the squad looked up. The Keep grew out of the sheer cliff; it was hard to see where the unhewn rock ended and the ancient masonry began. They could see no windows. From here, it was just a wall extending to the sky. No way in, it said. No way out. In this wall are few doors, and they close with finality.
   This close to the deep, slow river, the air was bone-chillingly cold, and grew colder the higher they looked. Around the curve they could see the little rock shelf where the back door was, and the women ahead of them talking to a guard.
   “This is not going to work,” said Shufti under her breath. “They’re showing him some papers. Anyone brought theirs? No?”
   The soldier had looked up and was watching the girls, with that blank official expression of someone who was not looking for excitement or adventure in his life.
   “Keep moving,” murmured Polly. “If it all gets really bad, burst into tears.”
   “That’s disgusting,” said Tonker.
   Their treacherous feet were taking them closer all the time. Polly kept her eyes downwards, as was proper in an unmarried woman. There would be others watching, she knew it. They’d probably be bored, they might not be expecting any trouble, but up on those walls there were eyes fixed on her.
   They reached the guard. Just inside the narrow stone doorway there was another one, lounging in the shadow.
   “Papers,” said the guard.
   “Oh, sir, I have none,” said Polly. She’d been working out the speech on the way down through the wood. War, fears of invasion, people fleeing, no food… you didn’t have to make things up, you just had to reassemble reality. “I had to leave—”
   “Oh, right,” the guard interrupted. “No papers? No problem! If you’d just step in and see my colleague? Nice of you to join us!” He stood aside and waved a hand towards the dark entrance.
   Mystified, Polly stepped inside, with the others following. Behind them, the door swung shut. Inside, she saw that they were in a long passage with many slits in the walls to rooms on either side. Lamplight shone from the slits. She could see shadows beyond them. Bowmen concealed there could turn anyone trapped in here into mince.
   At the end of the corridor another door swung open. It led into a small room in which there sat, at a desk, a young man in a uniform Polly didn’t recognize, although it had a captain’s insignia. Standing to one side was a much, much larger man in the same uniform, or possibly two uniforms stitched together. He had a sword. There was that about him: when this man held a sword, it was clearly being held, and held by him. The eye was drawn to it. Even Jade would have been impressed.
   “Good morning, ladies,” said the captain. “No papers, eh? Take off your scarves, please.”
   And that’s it, thought Polly, as the bottom of her stomach dropped away. And we thought we were being clever. There was nothing for it but to obey.
   “Ah. You’ll tell me your hair was shaved off as a punishment for fraternizing with the enemy, eh?” said the man, barely looking up. “Except for you,” he added to Igorina. “Didn’t feel like fraternizing with any enemies? Something wrong with decent Zlobenian boys?”
   “Er… no,” said Igorina.
   Now the captain gave them a bright little smile. “Gentlemen, let’s not mess about, shall we? You walk wrong. We do watch, you know. You walk wrong and you stand wrong. You,” he pointed to Tonker, “have got a bit of shaving soap under one ear. And you, sir, are either deformed or you’ve tried the old trick of sticking a pair of socks down your vest.”
   Crimson with embarrassment and humiliation, Polly hung her head.
   “Getting in or out disguised as washerwomen,” said the captain, shaking his head. “Everyone outside this stupid country knows that one, lads, but most of them make more effort than you boys. Well, for you the war is over. This place has got big, big dungeons and I don’t mind telling you you’re probably going to be better off in here than outside—Yeah, what do you want?”
   Shufti had raised a hand. “Can I show you something?” she said. Polly didn’t turn, but watched the captain’s face as, beside Polly, cloth rustled. She couldn’t believe it. Shufti was raising her skirt…
   “Oh,” said the captain, sitting back in his chair. His face went red.
   There was an explosion from Tonker, but it was an explosion of tears. They came out accompanied by a long, mournful wail, as she threw herself onto the floor.
   “We walked so-oo far! We lay in ditches to hide from soldiers! There’s no food! We want to work! You called us boys! Why are you so-oo cruel?”
   Polly knelt down and half picked her up, patting her on the back as Tonker’s shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs.
   “It’s been very hard for all of us,” she said to the red-faced captain.
   “If you can take him down I can garrotte the other one with my apron string,” whispered Tonker in her ear, between howls.
   “Have you seen everything you wish to see?” said Polly to the blushing captain, every syllable tinkling with ice.
   “Yes! No! Yes! Please!” said the captain, giving the guard the agonized glance of a man who knows that he’s going to be the laughing stock of the whole fort inside the hour. “Once was quite—I mean, I’ve seen… look, I’m completely satisfied. Private, go and fetch one of the women from the laundry. I am so sorry, ladies, I… I have a job to do…”
   “Do you enjoy it?” said Polly, still freezing.
   “Yes!” said the captain hurriedly. “I mean, no! No, yes! We have to be careful… ah…”
   The big soldier had returned, trailing a woman. Polly stared.
   “Some, er, new volunteers,” said the captain, waving vaguely towards the squad. “I’m sure Mrs Enid will have some use for them… er…”
   “Certainly, captain,” said the woman, curtsying demurely. Polly still stared.
   “Off you go… ladies,” said the captain. “And if you’re hard workers Mrs Enid will I am sure give you a pass so’s we don’t have this trouble again… er…”
   Shufti put both hands on his desk, leaned towards him and said “Boo”. His chair hit the wall.
   “I may not be clever,” she said to Polly. “But I’m not stupid.”

   But Polly was still staring at Lieutenant Blouse. He’d curtsied surprisingly well.
   The soldier escorted them along a tunnel which opened onto a ledge overlooking what was either a cave or a room; it was at that level in the Keep where there was not much difference. This wasn’t a laundry, but clearly some hot, damp afterlife for those who required punishment with extra scrubbing. Steam rolled across the ceiling, condensed, and dripped onto a floor that was already running with water. And it went on for ever, washtub after washtub. Women moved like ghosts through the drifting, tumbling clouds of fog.
   “There you go, ladies,” he said, and slapped Blouse on the rump. “See you tonight, then, Daphne?”
   “Oh, yes!” trilled Blouse.
   “Five o’clock, then,” said the soldier, and ambled off down the corridor.
   “Daphne?” said Polly, when the man had gone.
   “My ‘nom de guerre’,” said Blouse. “I still haven’t found a way out of the lower areas but the guards all have keys and I shall have his key in my hand by half past five. Pardon?”
   “I think Tonker—sorry, Magda—just bit her tongue,” said Polly.
   “Her? Oh, yes. Well done for staying in character, er…”
   “Polly,” said Polly.
   “Good choice of name,” said Blouse, leading the way down some steps. “It’s a good common, maidservanty sort of name.”
   “Yes, that’s what I thought,” said Polly gravely.
   “Er… Sergeant Jackrum not with you, then?” said the lieutenant, with a trace of nervousness.
   “No, sir. He said he was going to lead a charge on the main gates, sir, if we sent him a signal. I hope he doesn’t try without one.”
   “Good heavens, the man’s mad,” said Blouse. “Splendid effort from the lads, though. Well done. You’d definitely pass for women to the casual observer.”
   “Coming from you, Daphne, that is a big compliment,” said Polly, thinking: gosh, I’m really good at keeping a straight face.
   “But you didn’t need to come after me,” said Blouse. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get a signal to you, but Mrs Enid allowed me to stay overnight, you see. The guards don’t do so many checks at night so I made use of my time to look for ways into the Upper Keep. All gated or really heavily guarded, I’m afraid. However, Private Hauptfidel has taken rather a shine to me…”
   “Well done, sir!” said Polly.
   “Sorry, I want to be clear, sir,” said Tonker. “You have a date with a guard.”
   “Yes, and I’ll suggest we go somewhere dark and then when I’ve got what I want I shall break his neck,” said Blouse.
   “Isn’t that going a bit far on a first date?” said Tonker.
   “Sir, did you have any trouble getting in?” said Polly. This had been nagging at her. It seemed so unfair.
   “No, not at all. I just smiled and wiggled my hips and they waved me through. What about you?”
   “Oh, we had a little bit,” said Polly. “It was a bit hair—it was a bit awkward for a moment or two.”
   “What did I tell you?” said Blouse triumphantly. “It’s all down to thespian ability! But you were plucky lads to try it. Come and meet Mrs Enid. A very loyal lady. The brave womenfolk of Borogravia are on our side!”
   And, indeed, there was a picture of the Duchess in the alcove that served the laundry mistress for an office. Mrs Enid wasn’t a particularly large woman but she had forearms like Jade, a soaking wet apron, and the most mobile mouth Polly had ever seen. Her lips and tongue drew out every word like a big shape in the air, the laundresses, in a cavern full of hissing steam, echoes, falling water and the thud of wet clothes on stone, watched lips when ears were overwhelmed. When she was listening her mouth moved all the time, too, like someone trying to dislodge a piece of nut from a tooth. She wore her sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
   She listened impassively as Blouse introduced the squad. “I see,” she said. “Right. You leave your lads here with me, sir. You ought to get back to the pressing room.”
   When Blouse had bounced and wobbled back through the steam, Mrs Enid looked them all up and down, and then straight through.
   “Lads,” she grunted. “Hah! That’s all he knows, eh? For a woman to wear the clothes of a man is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan!”
   “But we’re dressed as women, Mrs Enid,” said Polly meekly.
   Mrs Enid’s mouth moved ferociously. Then she folded her arms. It was like a barricade going up against all that was ungodly.
   “It’s not right,” she said. “I’ve got a son and a husband prisoner in this place and I’m working meself to the bone for the enemy just so’s I can keep an eye on ’em. They’re gonna invade, y’know. It’s amazing what we hear down here. So what good’s rescuing your men going to do ’em when we’re all under the heel of the Zlobenian hand-painted clog, eh?”
   “Zlobenia will not invade,” said Wazzer confidently. “The Duchess will see to it. Be not afraid.”
   Wazzer got given the sort of look she always got when someone heard her for the first time.
   “Been praying, ’ave yer?” said Mrs Enid kindly.
   “No, just listening,” said Wazzer.
   “Nuggan talks to you, does he?”
   “No. Nuggan is dead, Mrs Enid,” said Wazzer.
   Polly took Wazzer’s matchstick-thin arm and said: “Excuse us a moment, Mrs Enid.” She hustled the girl behind a huge, water-driven clothes mangle. It heaved and clanked as a background to their conversation.
   “Wazzer, this is getting…” Polly’s native tongue had no word for “freaky”, but if she had known about the word she would have welcomed its inclusion “…strange. You’re worrying people. You can’t just go around saying that a god is dead.”
   “Gone, then. Dwindled… I think,” said Wazzer, her brow furrowing. “No longer with us…”
   “We still get the Abominations.”
   Wazzer tried to concentrate. “No, they’re not real. They’re like… echoes. Dead voices in an ancient cave, bouncing back and forth, the words changing, making nonsense… like flags that were used for signals but now just flap in the wind…” Wazzer’s eyes went unfocused and her voice altered, became more adult, more certain “…and they come from no god. There is no god here now.”
   “So where do they come from?”
   “From your fear… They come from the part that hates the Other, that will not change. They come from the sum of all your pettiness and stupidity and dullness. You fear tomorrow, and you’ve made your fear your god. The Duchess knows this.”
   The water-mangle creaked onwards. Around Polly the boilers hissed, water gushed in the runnels. The air was loaded with the smells of soap and damp cloth.
   “I don’t believe in the Duchess, either,” said Polly. “That was just trickery in the woods. Anyone’d look round. It doesn’t mean I believe in her.”
   “That doesn’t matter, Polly. She believes in you.”
   “Really?” Polly glanced around the steaming, dripping cave. “Is she here, then? Has she graced us with her presence?”
   Wazzer had no concept of sarcasm. She nodded. “Yes.”
   Yes.
   Polly looked behind her.
   “Did you just say yes?” she demanded.
   “Yes,” said Wazzer.
   Yes.
   Polly relaxed. “Oh, it’s an echo. This is a cave, after all. Uh…”
   …which doesn’t explain why my voice doesn’t come bouncing back…
   “Wazz… I mean, Alice?” she said thoughtfully.
   “Yes, Polly?” said Wazzer.
   “I think it would be a really good idea if you don’t talk too much about this to the others,” she said. “People don’t mind believing in, you know, gods and so on, but they get very nervous if you tell them they’re showing up. Er… she’s not going to show up, is she?”
   “The person you don’t believe in?” said Wazzer, showing a flash of spirit.
   “I’m… not saying she doesn’t exist,” said Polly weakly. “I just don’t believe in her, that’s all.”
   “She’s very weak,” said Wazzer. “I hear her crying in the night.”
   Polly sought for further information in the pinched-up face, hoping that in some way Wazzer was making fun of her. But nothing but puzzled innocence looked back.
   “Why does she cry?” she said.
   “The prayers. They hurt her.”
   Polly spun round when something touched her shoulder. It was Tonker.
   “Mrs Enid says we’re to get to work,” she said. “She says the guards come round and check…”

   It was women’s work, and therefore monotonous, backbreaking and social. It had been a long time since Polly had got her hands in a washtub, and the ones here were long wooden troughs, where twenty women could work at once. Arms on either side of her squeezed and pummelled, wrung out garments and slapped them into the rinsing trough behind them. Polly joined in, and listened to the buzz of conversation around her.
   It was gossip, but bits of information floated in it like bubbles in the washtub. A couple of guards had “taken liberties”—that is, more than had already been taken—and had apparently been flogged for it. This caused much comment along the tub. Apparently some big milord from Ankh-Morpork was in charge of things and had ordered it. He was some kind of wizard, said the woman opposite. They said he could see things happening everywhere, and lived on raw meat. They said he had secret eyes. Of course, everyone knew that that city was the home of Abominations. Polly, industriously rubbing a shirt on a washboard, thought about this. And thought about a lowland buzzard in this upland country, and some creature so fast and stealthy that it was only a suggestion of shadow…
   She took a spell on the copper boilers, ramming the stewing garments under the bubbling surface, and noted that in this place without weapons of any sort she was using a heavy stick about three feet long.
   She enjoyed the work, in a dumb kind of way. Her muscles did all the necessary thinking, leaving her brain free. No one knew for sure that the Duchess was dead. It more or less didn’t matter. But Polly was sure of one thing. The Duchess had been a woman. Just a woman, not a goddess. Oh, people prayed to her in the hope that their pleas would be gift-wrapped and sent on to Nuggan, but that gave her no right to mess with the heads of people like Wazzer, who had enough trouble as it was. Gods could do miracles; duchesses posed for pictures.
   Out of the corner of her eye, Polly saw a line of women taking large baskets from a platform at the end of the room and stepping out through another doorway. She dragged Igorina away from the wash trough and told her to join them. “And notice everything!” she added.
   “Yes, corp,” said Igorina.
   “Because I know one thing,” said Polly, waving at the piles of damp linen, “and it’s that this lot will need the breeze…”
   She went back to work, occasionally joining in the chatter for the look of the thing. It wasn’t hard. The washerwomen kept away from some subjects, particularly ones like “husbands” and “sons”. But Polly picked up clues here and there. Some were in the Keep. Some were probably dead. Some were out there, somewhere.
   Some of the older women wore the Motherhood Medal, awarded to women whose sons had died for Borogravia. The bastard metal was corroding in the damp atmosphere, and Polly wondered if the medals had arrived in a letter from the Duchess, with her signature printed on the bottom and the son’s name squeezed up tight to fit the space.

   We honour and congratulate you, Mrs L. Lapchic of Well Lane, Munz, on the death of your son Otto PiotrHanLapchic on June 25 at ■■

   The place was always censored in case it brought aid and comfort to the enemy. It astonished Polly to find that the cheap medals and thoughtless words did, in a way, bring aid and comfort to the mothers. Those in Munz who had received them wore them with a sort of fierce, indignant pride.
   She wasn’t sure she trusted Mrs Enid very much. She had a son and a husband up in the cells, and she’d had a chance to weigh up Blouse. She’d be asking herself: what’s more likely, that he gets them all out and keeps them safe, or that there’s going to be an almighty mess which might well harm us all? And Polly couldn’t blame her if she went with the evidence…
   She was aware of someone talking to her. “Hmm?” she said.
   “Look at this, will you?” said Shufti, waving a sodden pair of men’s long pants at her. “They keep putting the colours in with the whites!”
   “Well? So what? These are enemy longjohns,” said Polly.
   “Yes, but there’s such a thing as doing it properly! Look, they put in this red pair and all the others are going pink!”
   “And? I used to love pink when I was about seven.”9
   “But pale pink? On a man?”
   Polly looked at the next tub for a moment, and patted Shufti on the shoulder. “Yes. It is very pale, isn’t it? You’d better find a couple more red items,” she said.
   “But that’d make it even worse—” Shufti began.
   “That was an order, soldier,” Polly whispered in her ear. “And add some starch.”
   “How much?”
   “All you can find.”
   Igorina returned. Igorina had good eyes. Polly wondered if they’d ever belonged to someone else. She gave Polly a wink and held up a thumb. It was, to Polly’s relief, one of her own.

   In the huge ironing room, only one person was working at the long boards when Polly, taking advantage of the temporary absence of Mrs Enid, hurried in. It was “Daphne”. All the rest of the women were gathered round, as if they were watching a demonstration. And they were.
   “—the collar, d’you see,” said Lieutenant Blouse, flourishing the big, steaming, charcoal-filled iron. “Then the sleeve cuffs and finally the sleeves. Do one front half at a time. You should hang them immediately but, and here’s a useful tip, don’t iron them completely dry. It’s really a matter of practice, but—”
   Polly stared in fascinated wonder. She’d hated ironing. “Daphne, could I have a word?” she said, during a pause.
   Blouse looked up. “Oh, P… Polly,” he said. “Um, yes, of course.”
   “It’s amazing what Daphne knows about pleat lines,” said a girl, in awe. “And press cloths!”
   “I am amazed,” said Polly.
   Blouse handed the iron to the girl. “There you are, Dympha,” he said generously. “Remember: always iron the wrong side first, and only ever do the wrong side on dark linens. Common mistake. Coming, Polly.”
   Polly kicked her heels for a while outside, and one of the girls came up with a big pile of fresh-smelling ironing. She saw Polly, and leaned close as she went past. “We all know he’s a man,” she said. “But he’s having such fun and he irons like a demon!”
   “Sir, how do you know about ironing?” said Polly, when they were back in the washing room.
   “Had to do my own laundry back at HQ,” said Blouse. “Couldn’t afford a gel and the batman was a strict Nugganite and said it was girls’ work. So I thought, well, it can’t be hard, otherwise we wouldn’t leave it to women. They really aren’t very good here. You know they put the colours and the whites together?”
   “Sir, you know you said you were going to steal a gate key off a guard and break his neck?” said Polly.
   “Indeed.”
   “Do you know how to break a man’s neck, sir?”
   “I read a book on martial arts, Perks,” said Blouse, a little severely.
   “But you haven’t actually done it, sir?”
   “Well, no! I was at HQ, and you are not allowed to practise on real people, Perks.”
   “You see, the person whose neck you want to break will have a weapon at that moment and you, sir, won’t,” said Polly.
   “I have tried out the basic principle on a rolled-up blanket,” said Blouse reproachfully. “It seemed to work very well.”
   “Was the blanket struggling and making loud gurgling noises and kicking you in the socks, sir?”
   “The socks?” said Blouse, puzzled.
   “In fact I think your other idea would be better, sir,” said Polly hurriedly.
   “Yes… my, er… other idea… which one was that, exactly?”
   “The one where we escape from the washhouse via the clothes-drying area, sir, after silently disabling three guards, sir. There’s a kind of moving room down the corridor over there, sir, which gets winched all the way to the roof. Two guards go up there with the women, sir, and there’s another guard up on the roof. Acting together, we’d take out each unsuspecting guard, which would be more certain than you against an armed man, with all due respect, sir, and that would leave us very well positioned to go anywhere in the Keep via the rooftops, sir. Well done, sir!”
   There was a pause. “Did I, er, go into all that detail?” said Blouse.
   “Oh, no, sir. You shouldn’t have to, sir. Sergeants and corporals deal with the fine detail. Officers are there to see the big picture.”
   “Oh, absolutely. And, er… how big was this particular picture?” said Blouse, blinking.
   “Oh, very big, sir. A very big picture indeed, sir.”
   “Ah,” said Blouse, and straightened up and assumed what he considered to be the expression of one with panoramic vision.
   “Some of the ladies here used to work in the Upper Keep, sir, when it was ours,” Polly went on quickly. “Anticipating your order, sir, I had the squad engage them in light conversation about the layout of the place, sir. Being aware of the general thrust of your strategy, sir, I think I have found a route to the dungeons.”
   She paused. It had been good flannelling, she knew. It was almost worthy of Jackrum. She’d larded it with as many “sirs” as she dared. And she was very proud of “anticipating your order”.
   She hadn’t heard Jackrum use it, but with a certain amount of care it was an excuse to do almost anything. “General thrust” was pretty good, too.
   “Dungeons,” said Blouse thoughtfully, momentarily losing sight of the big picture. “In fact I thought I said—”
   “Yessir. Because, sir, if we can get a lot of the lads out of the dungeons, sir, you’ll be in command inside the enemy’s citadel, sir!”
   Blouse grew another inch, and then sagged again. “Of course, there are some very senior officers here. All of them senior to me—”
   “Yessir!” said Polly, well on the way to graduating from the Sergeant Jackrum School of Outright Rupert Management. “Perhaps we’d better try to let the enlisted men out first, sir? We don’t want to expose the officers to enemy fire.”
   It was shameless and stupid, but now the light of battle was in Blouse’s eyes. Polly decided to fan it, just in case. “Your leadership has really been a great example to us, sir,” she said.
   “Has it?”
   “Oh, yes, sir.”
   “No officer could have led a finer bunch of men, Perks,” said Blouse.
   “Probably they have, sir,” said Polly.
   “And what man could dare hope for such an opportunity, eh?” said Blouse. “Our names will go down in the history books! Well, mine will, obviously, and I shall jolly well see to it that you chaps get a mention too. And who knows? Perhaps I may win the highest accolade that a gallant officer may obtain!”
   “What’s that, sir?” said Polly dutifully.
   “Having either a foodstuff or an item of clothing named after one,” said Blouse, his face radiant. “General Froc got both, of course. The frock coat and Beef Froc. Of course, I could never aspire that high.” He looked down bashfully. “But I have to say, Perks, that I have devised several recipes, just in case!”
   “So we’ll be eating a Blouse one day, sir?” said Polly. She was watching the baskets being stacked.
   “Possibly, possibly, if I may dare hope,” said Blouse. “Er… my favourite is a sort of pastry ring, d’you see, filled with cream and soaked in rum—”
   “That’s a Rum Baba, sir,” said Polly absently. Tonker and the others were watching the stacked baskets, too.
   “It’s been done?”
   “’fraid so, sir.”
   “How about… er… a dish of liver and onions?”
   “It’s called liver-and-onions, sir. Sorry,” said Polly, trying not to lose concentration.
   “Er, er, well, it has struck me that some dishes are named after people when really they just made a little change to a basic recipe—”
   “We must go now, sir! Now or never, sir!”
   “What? Oh. Right. Yes. We must go!”
   It was a military manoeuvre hitherto unrecorded. The squad, coming from different directions on Polly’s signal, arrived at the baskets just ahead of the women who’d proposed to take them up, grabbed the handles and advanced. Only then did she realize that probably no one else wanted the job, and the women were only too happy to let idiot newcomers take the strain. The baskets were big and the wet washing was heavy. Wazzer and Igorina could barely lift one basket between them.
   A couple of soldiers were waiting by the door. They looked bored, and paid little attention. It was a long walk to the “elevator”.
   Polly hadn’t been able to picture it when it had been described. You had to see it. It really was just a big open box of heavy timbers, attached to a thick rope, which ran up and down in a sort of chimney in the rock. When they were aboard, one of the soldiers hauled on a much thinner rope that disappeared up into the darkness. The other one lit a couple of candles, whose only apparent role was to make the darkness more gloomy.
   “No fainting now, girls!” he said. His mate chuckled.
   Two of them and seven of us, Polly thought. The copper stick banged against her leg as she moved, and she knew for a fact that Tonker was limping because she had strapped a washing dolly under her dress. That was for serious washerwomen; it was a long stick with what looked like a three-legged milking stool on the end of it, the better for agitating clothes in a big cauldron of boiling water. You could probably smash a skull with it.
   The stone walls dropped past as the platform rose.
   “How thrilling!” trilled “Daphne”. “And this goes all the way up through your big castle, does it?”
   “Oh, no, miss. Gotta go up through the rock first, miss. Lots of old workings and everything before we get that high.”
   “Oh, I thought we were in the castle already.” Blouse gave Polly a worried look.
   “No, miss. There’s just the washhouse down there, ’cos of the water. Hah, it’s a climb and a half even to the lower cellars. Lucky for you there’s this elevator, eh?”
   “Wonderful, sergeant,” said Blouse, and allowed Daphne back. “How does it work?”
   “It’s corporal, miss,” said the string-puller, touching his forelock. “It’s pulled up and down by pris’ners in a treadmill, miss.”
   “Oh, how horrid!”
   “Oh no, miss, it’s quite humane. Er… if you’re free after work, er, I could take you up and show you the mechanism…”
   “That would be lovely, sergeant!”
   Polly put her hand over her eyes. Daphne was a disgrace to womanhood.
   The elevator rumbled upwards, quite slowly. Mostly they passed raw rock but sometimes there were ancient gratings or areas of masonry, suggestive of tunnels long ago blocked—
   There was a jerk, and the platform stopped moving. One of the soldiers swore under his breath, but the corporal said, “Don’t be afraid, ladies. This often happens.”
   “Why should we be afraid?” said Polly.
   “Well, because we’re hanging by a rope a hundred feet up the shaft and the lifting machinery’s thrown a cog.”
   “Again,” said the other soldier. “Nothing works properly here.”
   “Sounds like a good reason to me,” said Igorina.
   “How long will it take to repair?” said Tonker.
   “Hah! Last time it happened we were stuck for an hour!”
   Too long, Polly thought. Too many things could happen. She looked up through the beams in the roof. The square of daylight was a long way up.
   “We can’t wait,” she said.
   “Oh dear, who will save us?” Daphne quavered.
   “We’ll have to find a way to pass the time, eh?” said one of the guards. Polly sighed. That was one of those phrases, like “Well, lookee what we have here”, that meant things were only going to get a lot worse.
   “We know how it is, ladies,” the guard went on. “Your menfolk away, and all. It’s as bad for us, too. I can’t remember when I last kissed my wife.”
   “And I can’t remember when I last kissed his wife, either,” said the corporal.
   Tonker jumped up, caught a beam, and chinned herself to the top of the box. The elevator shook and, somewhere, a piece of rock dislodged and crashed down the shaft.
   “Hey, you can’t do that!” said the corporal.
   “Where does it say?” said Tonker. “Polly, there’s one of those filled-in tunnels here, only most of the stones have been knocked out. We could get in easily.”
   “You can’t get out! We’ll get into trouble!” said the corporal.
   Polly pulled his sword out of his scabbard. The space was too crowded to do much with it except threaten, but she had it, not him. It made a huge difference.
   “You’re already in trouble,” she said. “Please don’t force me to make it worse. Let’s get out of here. Is that okay, Daphne?”
   “Um… yes, of course,” said Blouse.
   The other guard laid a hand on his own sword.
   “Okay, girls, this has gone—” he began, and then slumped. Shufti lowered her copper stick.
   “I hope I didn’t hit him too hard,” she said.
   “Who cares? Come on, I can give you all a hand up,” said Tonker.
   “Igorina, could you have a look at him, and—” Shufti began nervously.
   “He’s a man, and he’s groaning,” said Tonker from above. “That’s good enough for me. Come on.”
   The lone guard watched as the others were womanhandled onto the beams.
   “Er, excuse me,” he said to Polly, as she helped Blouse up.
   “Yes? What?”
   “Would you mind giving me a wallop on the back of the head?” he said, looking wretched. “So that it doesn’t look like I didn’t put up a fight against a bunch of women.”
   “Why don’t you put up a fight?” said Polly, narrowing her eyes. “We’re only a bunch of women.”
   “I’m not crazy!” said the guard.
   “Here, let me,” said Igorina, producing her stick. “Blows to the head are potentially harmful and should not be undertaken lightly. Turn round, sir. Remove your helmet, please. Would twenty minutes’ unconsciousness be okay?”
   “Yes, thanks very mu—”
   The guard folded up.
   “I really hope I didn’t hurt the other one,” moaned Shufti, from above.
   “He’s swearing,” said Polly, removing his sword. “That sounds like he’s okay.”
   She handed up the candles, and then was hauled onto the trembling roof of the elevator. When she had a firm footing in the mouth of the tunnel she found a sliver of stone and stamped it hard into the space between the shaft wall and the wooden frame, which shook. It wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
   Tonker and Lofty were already investigating the tunnel. By candlelight, it looked like good masonry beyond the clumsy attempt at walling it up.
   “It must be cellars,” said Tonker. “I reckon they must’ve made the shaft not long ago and just walled up where it cut through. Could have done a better job, too.”
   “Cellars are close to dungeons,” said Polly. “Now, pinch out one candle, because that way we’ll have light for twice as long, and then—”
   “Perks, a word please?” said Blouse. “Over here?”
   “Yessir.”
   When they were standing a little apart from the rest of the squad, Blouse lowered his voice and said: “I don’t wish to discourage initiative, Perks, but what are you doing?”
   “Er… anticipating your orders, sir.”
   “Anticipating them?”
   “Yessir.”
   “Ah. Right. This is still small-picture stuff, is it?”
   “Exactly, sir.”
   “Then may orders, Perks, are to proceed with speed and caution to release the prisoners.”
   “Well done, sir. We’ll go through this… this—”
   “Crypt,” said Igorina, looking round.
   The candle blew out.
   Somewhere ahead of them, in darkness absolute and velvet-thick, stone moved on stone.
   “I wonder why this passage was sealed up?” said the voice of Blouse.
   “I think I’ve stopped wondering why it was sealed up in such a hurry,” said Tonker.
   “I wonder who tried to open it?” said Polly.
   There was a crash of, as it might be, a heavy slab falling off an ornate tomb. It could have been half a dozen other things but, somehow, that was the image that sprang to rnind. The dead air moved a little.
   “I don’t want to worry anyone,” said Shufti, “but I can hear the sound of sort of feet, sort of dragging.”
   Polly remembered the man lighting the candles. He’d dropped the bundle of matches into the brass saucer of the candlestick, hadn’t he? Moving her hand slowly, she groped for them.
   “If you didn’t want to worry anyone,” came the voice of Tonker from the dry, thick darkness, “why the hell did you just tell us that?”
   Polly’s fingers found a sliver of wood. She raised it to her nose, and sniffed the sulphurous smell.
   “I’ve got one match,” she said. “I’m going to try to light the candle again. Everyone look for a way out. Ready?”

She sidled to the invisible wall. Then she scratched the match down the stone, and yellow light filled the crypt.
   Someone whimpered. Polly stared, candle forgotten. The match went out.
   “O-kay,” said the subdued voice of Tonker. “Walking dead people. So?”
   “The one near the archway was the late General Puhloaver!” said Blouse. “I have his book on the art of defense!”
   “Best not to ask him to autograph it, sir,” said Polly, as the squad bunched together.
   There was the whimpering again. It seemed to come from where Polly remembered Wazzer standing. She heard her praying. There were no words that she could make out, just a fierce and urgent whispering.
   “Maybe these washing sticks can slow them down a bit?” Shufti quavered.
   “More than being dead already?” said Igorina.
   No, a voice whispered, and light filled the crypt.
   It was barely brighter than a glowworm, but a single photon can do a lot of work in chthonic darkness. It rose above the kneeling Wazzer until it was woman height, because it was a woman.
   Or, at least, it was the shadow of a woman. No, Polly saw, it was the light of a woman, a moving web of lines and highlights in which there came and went, like pictures in a fire, a female shape.
   “Soldiers of Borogravia… attention!” said Wazzer. And underneath her reedy little tone was a shadow voice, a whisper that filled and refilled the long rooms.
   Soldiers of Borogravia… attention!
   Soldiers…
   Soldiers… attention!
   Soldiers of Borogravia…
   The lurching figures stopped. They hesitated. They shuffled backwards. With a certain amount of clattering and tongueless bickering, they formed two lines.
   Wazzer stood up.
   “Follow me…” she said.
   Follow me…
   …me…
   “Sir?” said Polly to Blouse.
   “I think we go, don’t you?” said the lieutenant, who seemed oblivious of Wazzer’s activities now that he was in the presence of the military might of the centuries. “Oh, god… there’s Brigadier Galosh! And Major-general the Lord Kanapay! General Annorac! I’ve read everything he wrote! I never thought I’d see him in the flesh!”
   “Partly flesh, sir,” said Polly, dragging him forward.
   “Every great commander of the last five hundred years was buried here, Perks!”
   “I’m very pleased for you, sir. If we could just move a little faster…”
   “It is my fondest hope that I’ll spend the rest of eternity here, you know.”
   “Wonderful, sir, but not starting today. Can we catch up with the rest of them, sir?”
   As they passed, hand after ragged hand was raised in jerky salute. Staring eyes gleamed in hollow faces. The strange light glistened on dusty braid and stained, faded cloth. And there was a noise, harsher than the whispering, deep and guttural. It sounded like the creaking of distant doors, but individual voices rose and fell as the squad passed the dead figures…
   Death to Zlobenia… get them… remember… give them hell… vengeance… remember… they’re not human… avenge us… revenge…
   Up ahead, Wazzer had reached some high wooden doors. They swung open at her touch. Polly hurried after her. The light travelled with her, and the squad were on her heels. To be too far behind was to be in the dark.
   “Couldn’t I just ask Major-general—” Blouse began, dragging on Polly’s hand.
   “No! You can’t! Don’t dawdle! Come on!” Polly commanded.
   They reached the doors, which Tonker and Igorina slammed behind them.
   Polly leaned against the wall.
   “I think that was the most… most amazing moment of my life,” said Blouse, as the boom died away.
   “I think this is mine,” said Polly, fighting for breath.
   Light still glowed around Wazzer, who turned to face the squad with an expression of beatific pleasure.
   “You must speak to the High Command,” she said.
   You must speak to the High Command, whispered the walls.
   “Be kind to this child.”
   Be kind to this child…
   …this child…
   Polly caught Wazzer before she hit the ground.
   “What is happening with her?” said Tonker.
   “I think the Duchess really is speaking through her,” said Polly. Wazzer was unconscious, only the whites of her eyes showing. Polly laid her down gently.
   “Oh, come on! The Duchess is just a painting! She’s dead!”
   Sometimes you give in. For Polly, that time had been the length of time it took to walk through the crypt. If you don’t believe, or don’t want to believe, or if you don’t simply hope that there’s something worth believing in, why turn round? And if you don’t believe, who are you trusting to lead you out of the grip of dead men?
   “Dead?” she said. “So what? What about the old soldiers back there, who haven’t faded away? What about the light? And you heard how Wazzer’s voice sounded!”
   “Yeah, but… well, that sort of thing doesn’t happen to people you know,” said Tonker.
   “It happens to… well, strange religious people. I mean, a few days ago she was learning how to fart loudly!”
   “She?” whispered Blouse to Polly. “She? Why is—”
   Once again a part of Polly’s mind overtook the sudden panic.
   “Sorry, Daphne?” she said.
   “Oh… yes… of course… can’t be too… yes…” the lieutenant murmured.
   Igorina knelt down by the girl and put a hand on her forehead.
   “She’s on fire,” she said.
   “She used to pray all the time back at the Grey House,” said Lofty, kneeling down.
   “Yeah, well, there was a lot to pray about, if you weren’t strong,” growled Tonker. “And every bloody day we had to pray to the Duchess to thank Nuggan for slops you wouldn’t give to a pig! And that damn picture everywhere, that fishy stare… I hate it! It could drive you mad. That’s what happened to Wazz, right? And now you want me to believe the fat old biddy is here and treating our friend there like some… puppet or something? I don’t believe that. And if it’s true, it shouldn’t be!”
   “She’s burning up, Magda,” said Lofty quietly.
   “D’you know why we joined up?” said Tonker, red in the face. “To get away! Anything was better than what we had! I’ve got Lofty and Lofty’s got me, and we’re sticking with you because there’s nothing else for us. Everyone says the Zlobenians are terrible, right? But they’ve never done anything to us, they’ve never hurt us. If they want to come over here and hang a few bastards, I could give ’em a list! Everywhere there’s something bad happening, everywhere the small-minded bullies are inventing new cruelties, new ways of keeping us down, that bloody face is watching! And you say it’s here?”
   “We’re here,” said Polly. “And you are here. And we’re going to do what we came to do and get out, understand? You kissed the picture, you took the shilling!”
   “I damn well didn’t kiss her face! And a shilling’s the least they owe me!”
   “Then go!” shouted Polly. “Desert! We won’t stop you, because I’m sick of your… your bullshit! But you make up your mind right now, right now, understand? Because when we meet the enemy I don’t want to think you’re there to stab me in the back!”
   The words flew out before she could stop them, and there was no power in the world that could snatch them back.
   Tonker went pale, and a certain life drained out of her face like water from a funnel. “What was that you said?”
   The words “You heard me!” lined up to spring from Polly’s tongue, but she hesitated. She told herself: it doesn’t have to go this way. You don’t have to let a pair of socks do the talking.
   “Words that were stupid,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
   Tonker settled slightly. “Well… all right, then,” she said grudgingly. “Just so long as you know we’re in this for the squad, okay? Not for the army and not for the bloody Duchess.”
   “That was a treasonable speech, Private Halter!” said Lieutenant Blouse.
   Everyone but Polly had forgotten about him, and he stood there like an easy man to forget.
   “However,” he went on, “I realize we’re all somewhat…” he looked down at his dress “…confused and, er, bewildered by the pace of events…”
   Tonker tried to avoid Polly’s eye. “Sorry, sir,” she muttered, glowering.
   “I must make it clear that I will not stand to hear such things repeated,” said Blouse.
   “No, sir.”
   “Good,” said Polly quickly. “So let’s—”
   “But I will overlook it this time,” Blouse went on.
   Polly could see Tonker snap. The head was raised slowly. “You’ll overlook it?” said Tonker. “You will overlook it?”
   “Careful,” said Polly, just loud enough for Tonker to hear.
   “Let me tell you something about us, lieutenant,” said Tonker, grinning horribly.
   “We are here, private, whoever we are,” snapped Polly. “Now let’s find the cells!”
   “Um…” said Igorina, “we’re quite close, I think. I can see a sign. Um. It’s at the end of this passage. Um… just behind those three rather puzzled armed men with the, um… efficient–looking crossbows. Um. I think what you’ve just been saying was important and needed to be said. Only, um… not just now, perhaps? And not so loudly?”
   Only two guards were watching them now, raising their bows cautiously. The other was running away down the passage, shouting.
   The squad, as one man, or woman, shared the thoughts.
   They’ve got bows. We haven’t. They’ve got reinforcements behind them. We haven’t. All we’ve got is a darkness full of the restless dead. We haven’t even got a prayer any more.
   Blouse made an effort, nevertheless. In the tones of Daphne he shrilled: “Oh, officers… we seem to have got lost on the way to the ladies’ room…”

   They were not put into a dungeon, although they were marched past plenty. There were lots of bleak stone corridors, lots of heavy doors with bars and lots and lots of bolts, and lots of armed men whose job, presumably, only became interesting if all the bolts disappeared. They were put into a kitchen. It was huge, and clearly not the kind of place where people chopped herbs and stuffed mushrooms. In a gloomy, grimy, soot-encrusted hall like this, cooks had probably catered for hundreds of hungry men. Occasionally the door was opened and shadowy figures stared in at them. No one had said anything, at any time.
   “They were expecting us,” muttered Shufti. The squad were sitting on the floor with their backs to a huge, ancient chopping block, except for Igorina, who was tending to the still-unconscious Wazzer.
   “They couldn’t have got that elevator up by now,” said Polly. “I wedged that stone in good and hard.”
   “Then maybe the washerwomen gave us away,” said Tonker. “I didn’t like the look of Mrs Enid.”
   “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” said Polly, “is that the only door?”
   “There’s a storeroom at the other end,” said Tonker. “No exit, except a grille in the floor.”
   “Could we get out that way?”
   “Only diced.”
   They stared glumly at the distant door. It had opened again, and there was some muffled conversation amongst the silhouettes beyond. Tonker had tried advancing on the open doorway, and found men with swords suddenly occupying it.
   Polly turned to look at Blouse, who was slumped against the wall, staring blankly upwards.
   “I’d better go and tell him,” she said. Tonker shrugged.
   Blouse opened his eyes and smiled wanly when Polly approached. “Ah, Perks,” he said. “We almost made it, eh?”
   “Sorry we let you down, sir,” said Polly. “Permission to sit, sir?”
   “Treat the rather chilly flagstones as if they were your own,” said Blouse. “And it was I that let you down, I’m afraid.”
   “Oh, no, sir—” Polly protested.
   “You were my first command,” said Blouse. “Well, apart from Corporal Drebb and he was seventy and only had one arm, poor chap.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All I had to do was get you to the valley. That was all. But, no, I foolishly dreamed of a world where everyone would one day wear a Blouse. Or eat one, possibly. I should have listened to Sergeant Jackrum! Oh, will I ever look my dear Emmeline in the face again?”
   “I don’t know, sir,” said Polly.
   “That was meant to be more of a rhetorical cry of despair than an actual question, Perks,” said Blouse.
   “Sorry, sir,” said Polly. She took a deep breath, ready for the plunge into the icy depths of the truth. “Sir, you ought to know that—”
   “And I’m afraid once they realize we aren’t women we’ll be put in the big dungeons,” the lieutenant went on. “Very big, and very dirty, I’m told. And very crowded.”
   “Sir, we are women, sir,” said Polly.
   “Yes, well done, Perks, but we don’t have to pretend any more.”
   “You don’t understand, sir. We really are women. All of us.”
   Blouse grinned nervously. “I think you’ve got a little… confused, Perks. I seem to recall that the same thing happened to Wrigglesworth—”
   “Sir—”
   “—although I have to say he was very good at choosing curtains—”
   “No, sir. I was a—I am a girl, and I cut my hair and pretended I was a boy and took the Duchess’s shilling, sir. Take my word for it, sir, because I really don’t want to have to draw you a picture. We played a trick on you, sir. Well, not a trick, really, but we, all of us, had reasons for being somewhere else, sir, or at least not being where we were. We lied.”
   Blouse stared at her. “You’re sure?”
   “Yes, sir. I am of the female persuasion. I check every day, sir.”
   “And Private Halter?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “And Lofty?”
   “Oh, yes, sir. Both of them, sir. Don’t go there, sir.”
   “What about Shufti?”
   “Expecting a baby, sir.”
   Suddenly, Blouse looked terrified. “Oh, no. Here?”
   “Not for several months, sir, I believe.”
   “And poor little Private Goom?”
   “A girl, sir. And Igor is really an Igorina. And wherever she is, Carborundum is really Jade. We’re not sure about Corporal Maladict. But the rest of us definitely have pink blankets, sir.”
   “But you didn’t act like women!”
   “No, sir. We acted like men, sir. Sorry, sir. We just wanted to find our men or get away or prove a point or something. Sorry it had to happen to you, sir.”
   “You’re sure about all this, are you?”
   What are you expecting me to say? Polly thought. “Whoops, now I come to think about it, yes, we’re really men after all?” She settled for saying: “Yes, sir.”
   “So… you’re not called Oliver, then?” It seemed to Polly that the lieutenant was having a lot of difficulty with all this; he kept asking the same basic question in different ways, in the hope of getting something other than the answer he didn’t want to hear.
   “No, sir. I’m Polly, sir—”
   “Oh? Do you know there is a song about—”
   “Yes, sir,” said Polly firmly. “Believe me, I’d rather you didn’t even hum it.”
   Blouse stared at the far wall, eyes slightly unfocused. Oh dear, Polly thought. “You took a terrible risk,” he said distantly. “A battlefield is no place for women.”
   “This war isn’t staying on battlefields. At a time like this, a pair of trousers is a girl’s best friend, sir.”
   Blouse fell silent again. Suddenly, Polly felt very sorry for him. He was a bit of a fool, in that special way very clever people have of being foolish, but he wasn’t a bad man. He’d been decent to the squad and he’d cared about them. He didn’t deserve this.
   “Sorry you had to be involved, sir,” she said.
   Blouse looked up. “Sorry?” he said, and to her amazement he was looking more cheerful than he had all day. “Good heavens, you don’t have to be sorry. Do you know anything about history, Polly?”
   “Can we stick with Perks, sir? I’m still a soldier. No, I don’t know much history, sir. At least, much that I trust.”
   “Then you’ve never heard of the Amazon warriors of Samothrip? The most fearsome fighting force for hundreds of years. All women! Absolutely merciless in battle! They were deadly with the longbow, although in order to get maximum draw they had to cut off one of their, um… er… I say, you ladies haven’t been cutting off your, um, er…”
   “No, we haven’t cut off any um ers, sir. Only hair.”
   Blouse looked incredibly relieved. “Well, and then there’s the female bodyguards of King Samuel in Howandaland. All seven feet tall, I understand, and deadly with the spear. Throughout Klatch, of course, there are many stories of female warriors, often fighting alongside their men. Fearsome and fearless, I believe. Men would desert rather than face females, Perks. Couldn’t deal with ’em.”
   Once again, Polly felt the slightly unbalanced feeling of having tried to jump a hurdle that turned out not to be there. She took refuge in: “What do you think’s going to happen now, sir?”
   “I haven’t a clue, Perks. Um… what’s wrong with young Goom? Some kind of religious mania?”
   “Could be, sir,” said Polly guardedly. “The Duchess talks to her.”
   “Oh dear,” said Blouse. “She—”
   The door opened. A dozen soldiers filed in and spread out on either side. They had a variety of uniforms—mostly Zlobenian, but several Polly recognized now as Ankh-Morporkic or whatever they called it. They were all armed, and held their weapons like men who expected to use them.
   When they had lined up and were glaring at the squad, a smaller group of men stepped in. Again, there was a variety of uniforms, but they were a lot more expensive. These were worn by officers—high-ranking ones, to judge by the expressions of disdain. The tallest of them, made taller by his high, plumed cavalry helmet, stared along his nose at the women. He had pale blue eyes, and his face suggested that he did not really want to see anything at all in this room unless it had been thoroughly cleaned first.
   “Who is the officer here?” he said. He sounded like a lawyer.
   Blouse stood up and saluted. “Lieutenant Blouse, sir, Tenth Infantry.”
   “I see.” The man looked at his fellow officers. “I believe we can dispense with the guard now, don’t you? This matter should be handled quietly. And for heaven’s sake can’t we find this man a pair of trousers?”
   There were a few murmurs. The man nodded to the sergeant of the guard. The armed men filed out, and the door shut behind them.
   “My name is Lord Rust,” said the man. “I head the Ankh-Morpork detachment here. At least,” and he sniffed, “the military detachment. You have been treated well? You have not been manhandled? I see there is a… young lady on the floor.”
   “She’s in a swoon, sir,” said Polly. The blue eyes lighted upon her.
   “You would be—?” he said.
   “Corporal Perks, sir,” said Polly. There were some barely suppressed smiles from the officers.
   “Ah. I believe you are the one seeking her brother?” said Lord Rust.
   “How do you know my name?” said Polly.
   “We are an, mm, efficient army,” said Rust, and treated himself to a little smile of his own. “Your brother’s name is Paul?”
   “Yes!”
   “We shall locate him, eventually. And I understand another lady was seeking her young man?”
   Shufti curtsied nervously. “Me, sir.”
   “Again, we shall locate him, if you give us his name. Now, please listen to me carefully. You, Miss Perks, and the rest of you, will be taken from here, tonight, entirely unharmed, and escorted back into your country as far as our patrols can take you, which, I suspect, will be quite a long way. Is that understood? You will have what you came for. Won’t that be nice? And you will not return here. The troll and the vampire have been captured. The same offer applies to them.”
   Polly was watching the officers. They looked nervous…
   …except for one at the back. She’d thought all the guards had gone and, while this man was dressed like a guard—dressed, that is, like a badly dressed guard—he wasn’t acting like one. He was leaning against the wall by the door, smoking half a cigar, and grinning. He looked like a man enjoying a show.
   “Very generously,” Rust went on, “this offer applies to you too, Lieutenant… Blouse, wasn’t it? But in your case you would be on parole in a house in Zlobenia, very pleasant I understand, healthy walks in the countryside and all that sort of thing. This offer has not been extended to your superior officers here, I may add.”
   So why make it to us? Polly thought. Are you frightened? Of a bunch of girls? That makes no sense…
   Behind the officers, the man with the cigar winked at Polly. His uniform was very old-fashioned—an ancient helmet, a breastplate, some slightly rusted chain mail, and big boots. He wore it like a workman wears his overalls. Unlike the braid and brilliance in front of her, the only statement his clothes made was that he didn’t intend to get hurt. They had no insignia that Polly could see, apart from a small shield hooked onto the breastplate.
   “If you will excuse me a moment,” said Blouse, “I will consult with my men.”
   “Men?” said Rust. “They’re a bunch of women, man!”
   “But at this moment, sir,” said Blouse coolly, “I would not exchange them for any six men you offered me. If you gentlemen would care to wait outside?”
   Behind the group, the badly dressed man burst into silent laughter. His sense of humour was not shared by the rest of the group, however.
   “You cannot possibly consider refusing this offer!” said Lord Rust.
   “Nevertheless, sir,” said Blouse. “We will take a few minutes. I think the ladies would prefer some privacy. One of them is expecting a child.”
   “What, here?” As one man, the group drew back.
   “Not yet, I believe. But if you would just step outside—”
   When the officers had retreated to the masculine safety of the corridor the lieutenant turned to his squad. “Well, men? For you, it is a very attractive offer, I have to say.”
   “Not for us,” said Tonker. Lofty nodded.
   “Nor me,” said Shufti.
   “Why not?” said Blouse. “You would get your husband.”
   “That might be a bit difficult,” mumbled Shufti. “Anyway, what about the invasion?”
   “I’m not going to be sent home like a package,” said Igorina. “Anyway, that man has an objectionable bone structure.”
   “Well, Private Goom can’t join us right now,” sighed Blouse. “So that leaves you, Polly.”
   “Why are they doing this?” said Polly. “Why do they want us out of the way? Why aren’t they just leaving us locked up? This place must be full of cells.”
   “Ah, perhaps they are sensible of the frailties of your sex,” said Blouse, and then fried in their stares. “I didn’t say I was,” he added quickly.
   “They could just kill us,” said Tonker. “Well, they could,” she added. “Why not? Who’d care? I don’t think we count as prisoners of war.”
   “But they haven’t,” said Polly. “And they’re not even threatening us. They’re being very careful. I think they’re frightened of us.”
   “Oh, yeah, right,” said Tonker. “Maybe they think we’re going to chase them and give them a big wet sloppy kiss?”
   “Good, then we’re agreed that we’re not going to accept,” said Blouse. “Damn right… oh, I do apologize…”
   “We all know the words, sir,” said Polly. “I suggest we see how much we frighten them, sir.”

   The officers were waiting with unconcealed impatience, but Rust managed a brief smile when he stepped back into the kitchen. “Well, lieutenant?” he said.
   “We have given your offer due consideration, sir,” said Blouse, “and our reply is: stick it up your…” He leaned down to Polly, who whispered urgently. “Who? Oh, yes, right. Your jumper, sir. Stick it, in fact, up your jumper. Named after Colonel Henri Jumper, I believe. A useful woollen garment akin to a lightweight sweater, sir, which if I recall correctly was named after Regimental Sergeant-Major Sweat. That, sir, is where you may stick it.”
   Rust received this calmly, and Polly wondered whether it was because he hadn’t understood it. The scruffy man once more leaning against the wall had understood it, though, since he was grinning.
   “I see,” said Rust. “And that is the answer from all of you? Then you leave us no choice. Good evening to you.”
   His attempt to stride out was hindered by the other officers, who had less sense of the dramatic moment. The door slammed behind them, but not before the last man out turned very briefly and made a hand gesture. You would have missed it if you weren’t watching him—but Polly was watching.
   “That seemed to go well,” said Blouse, turning away.
   “I hope we’re not going to get into trouble for that,” said Shufti.
   “Compared to what?” said Tonker.
   “The last man out stuck his thumb up and winked,” said Polly. “Did you notice him? He wasn’t even wearing an officer’s uniform.”
   “Probably wanted a date,” said Tonker.
   “In Ankh-Morpork that means ‘jolly good’,” said Blouse. “In Klatch, I think, it means ‘I hope your donkey explodes’. I spotted the man. Looked like a guard sergeant to me.”
   “Didn’t have stripes,” said Polly. “Why’d he want to say jolly good to us?”
   “Or hate our donkey so much?” said Shufti. “How’s Wazzer?”
   “Sleeping,” said Igorina. “I think.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “Well, I don’t think she’s dead.”
   “You don’t think she is?” said Polly.
   “Yes,” said Igorina. “It’s like that. I wish I could keep her warmer.”
   “I thought you said she was burning up?”
   “She was. Now she’s freezing cold.”
   Lieutenant Blouse strode over to the door, grabbed its handle and, to the surprise of all, pulled it open. Four swords were levelled at him.
   “We have a sick man here!” he snapped to the astonished guards. “We need blankets and firewood! Get them now!” He slammed the door. “It might work,” he said.
   “That door doesn’t have a lock,” said Tonker. “Useful fact, Polly.”
   Polly sighed. “Right now, I just want something to eat. This is a kitchen, after all. There could be food here.”
   “This is a kitchen,” said Tonker. “There could be cleavers!”
   But it is always upsetting to find that the enemy is as bright as you. There was a well, but a web of bars across the top allowed for the passage of nothing bigger than a bucket. And someone with no sense of the narrative of adventure had removed from the room anything with an edge and, for some reason, anything that could be eaten.
   “Unless we want to dine on candles,” said Shufti, pulling a bundle of them out of a creaking cupboard. “’s tallow, after all. I bet old Scallot’d make candle scubbo.”
   Polly checked the chimney, which smelled as though there had not been a fire in it for a long time. It was big and wide, but six feet up a heavy grille was hung with sooty cobwebs. It looked rusted and ancient, and could probably be shifted by twenty minutes’ work with a crowbar, but there’s never a crowbar when you want one.
   There were some couple of sacks of ancient, dry and dusty flour in the storeroom. It smelled bad. There was a thing with a funnel and a handle and some mysterious screws.10 There were a couple of rolling pins, a lettuce strainer, some ladles… and there were forks. Lots of toasting forks. Polly felt let down. It was ridiculous to expect that someone imprisoning people in some ad hoc cell would leave in all the ingredients to effect an escape but, nevertheless, she felt that some universal rule had been broken. They had nothing better than a club, really. The toasting forks might prick, the lettuce strainer might pack a punch, and the rolling pins were at least a traditional female weapon, but all you could do with the thing with a funnel and a handle and mysterious screws was baffle people.
   The door opened. Armed men came in to act as protection for a couple of women, carrying blankets and firewood. They scurried in with their eyes cast down, deposited their burdens, and almost ran out. Polly strode over to the guard who seemed to be in charge, and he backed away. A huge key ring jingled on his belt.
   “You knock next time, all right?” she said.
   He grinned nervously. “Yeah, right,” he said. “They said we weren’t to talk to you…”
   “Really?”
   The jailer glanced around. “But we reckon you’re doing bloody well, for girls,” he said conspiratorially.
   “So that means you won’t shoot at us when we break out?” said Polly sweetly.
   The grin faded. “Don’t try it,” said the jailer.
   “What a big bunch of keys you have there, sir,” said Tonker, and the man’s hand flew to his belt.
   “You just stay in here,” he said. “Things are bad enough already. You stay here!”
   He slammed the door. A moment later they heard something heavy being pushed up against it.
   “Well, now we have a fire, at least,” said Blouse.
   “Er…” This was from Lofty. She volunteered a word so seldom that the rest turned to look at her, and she stopped in embarrassment.
   “Yes, Lofty?” said Polly.
   “Er… I know how to get the door open,” muttered Lofty. “So it stays open, I mean.”
   Had it been anyone else, someone would have laughed. But words from Lofty had obviously been turned over for some time before utterance.
   “Er… good,” said Blouse. “Well done.”
   “I’ve been thinking about it,” said Lofty.
   “Good.”
   “It will work.”
   “Just what we need, then!” said Blouse, like a man trying against all the odds to keep cheerful.
   Lofty looked up at the big sooty beams that ran across the room. “Yes,” she said.
   “But there’ll still be guards outside,” said Polly.
   “No,” said Lofty. “There won’t.”
   “There won’t?”
   “They’ll have gone away.” Lofty stopped, with the air of one who’d said everything that needed to be said.
   Tonker walked over and took her arm. “We’ll just have a little chat, shall we?” she said, and led the girl to the other side of the room. There was some whispered conversation. Lofty spent most of it staring at the floor, and then Tonker came back.
   “We will need the bags of flour from the storeroom, and the rope from the well,” she said. “And one of those… what are those big round things that cover dishes? With a knob on?”
   “Dish covers?” said Shufti.
   “And a candle,” Tonker went on. “And a lot of barrels. And a lot of water.”
   “And what will all this do?” said Blouse.
   “Make a big bang,” said Tonker. “Tilda knows a lot about fire, believe me.”
   “When you say she knows a lot…” Polly began uncertainly.
   “I mean every place she worked at burned down,” said Tonker.

   They rolled the empty barrels to the middle of the room and filled them with water from the pump. Under Lofty’s monosyllabic direction and the rope from the well, they hauled three leaking, dusty flour sacks up as high as possible, so that they twisted gently over the space between the barrels and the door.
   “Ah,” said Polly, standing back. “I think I understand. A flour mill on the other side of town blew up two years ago.”
   “Yes,” said Tonker. “That was Tilda.”
   “What?”
   “They’d been beating her. And worse. And the thing about Tilda is, she just watches and thinks and somewhere in there it all comes together. Then it explodes.”
   “But two people died!”
   “The man and his wife. Yes. But I heard that other girls sent there never came back at all. Shall I tell you that Tilda was pregnant when they brought her back to the Grey House after the fire? She had it, and they took it away, and we don’t know what happened to it. And then she got beaten again because she was an Abomination Unto Nuggan. Does that make you feel better?” said Tonker, tying the rope to a table leg. “There’s just us, Polly. Just her and me. No inheritance, no nice home to go back to, no relatives that we know of. The Grey House breaks us all, somehow. Wazzer talks to the Duchess, I don’t have… middle gears, and Tilda frightens me when she gets her hands on a box of matches. You should see her face then, though. It lights up. Of course,” Tonker smiled in her dangerous way, “so do other things. Better get everyone into the storeroom while we light the candle.”
   “Shouldn’t Tilda do that?”
   “She will. But we’ll have to be ready to drag her away, otherwise she’ll stay and watch.”
   This had started like a game. She hadn’t thought of it like a game, but it was a game called Let Polly keep The Duchess. And now… it didn’t matter. She’d made all kinds of plans, but she was beyond plans now. They’d done bloody well, for girls…
   A final barrel of water had been placed, after some discussion, in front of the storeroom’s door. Polly looked over the top of it at Blouse and the rest of the squad.
   “Okay, everybody, we’re… er… about to do it,” she said. “Are we sure about this, Tonker?”
   “Yep.”
   “And we won’t get hurt?”
   Tonker sighed. “The dusty flour will explode. That’s simple. The blast coming this way will hit the barrels full of water which’ll probably last just long enough to see it rebound. The worst that should happen to us is that we get wet. That’s what Tilda thinks. Would you argue? And in the other direction, there’s only the door.”
   “How does she work this out?”
   “She doesn’t. She just sees how it should go.” Tonker handed Polly the end of a rope. “This goes over the beam and down to the dish lid. Can you hold it, lieutenant? But don’t pull it until we say. I really mean that. C’mon, Polly.”
   In the space between the barrels and the door, Lofty was lighting a candle. She did it slowly, as if it was a sacrament or some ancient ceremony every part of which held enormous and complex meaning.
   She lit a match, and held it carefully until the flame caught. She waved it back and forth on the base of the candle, which she thrust firmly onto the flagstones so that the hot wax stuck it into position. Then she applied the match to the candlewick.
   Polly and Tonker watched her kneel there, staring at the dancing flame
   “Okay,” said Tonker. “I’m just going to pick her up, and you just carefully lower the lid over the candle, right? C’mon, Tilda.”
   She raised the girl carefully to her feet, whispering to her all the time, and then nodded to Polly, who lowered the lid with a carefulness that amounted to reverence.
   Lofty walked as though asleep.
   Tonker stopped by the leg of the heavy kitchen table, to which she’d attached the other end of the rope holding the flour bags.
   “Okay so far,” she said. “Now, when I pull the knot we each grab an arm and we run, Polly, understand? We run. Ready? Got her?” She hauled on the rope. “Run!”
   The flour sacks dropped, streaming white dust as they fell, and exploded in front of the door. Flour rose like a fog.
   They raced for the storeroom and fell in a heap past the barrel as Tonker screamed, “Okay, lieutenant!”
   Blouse pulled the rope that raised the lid and let the candle flame reach—
   The word was not whoomph. The experience was whoomph. It had a quality that overwhelmed every sense. It shook the world like a sheet, painted it white and then, surprisingly, filled it with the smell of toast. And then it was over, in a second, leaving nothing but distant screams and the rumble of collapsing masonry.
   Polly uncurled, and looked up into Blouse’s face.
   “I think we grab things and run now, sir,” she said. “And screaming would help.”
   “I think I can manage the screaming,” muttered Shufti. “This is not a very nurturing experience.”
   Blouse gripped his ladle.
   “I hope this isn’t going to be our famous last stand,” he said.
   “In fact, sir,” said Polly, “I think it’s going to be our first. Permission to yell in a bloodcurdling way, sir?”
   “Permission granted, Perks!”

   The floor was awash with water and bits—quite small bits—of barrel. Half the chimney had collapsed into the fireplace and the soot was blazing fiercely. Polly wondered if, down in the valley, it’d look like a signal…
   The door was gone. So was a lot of wall around it. Beyond—
   Smoke and dust filled the air. In it, men lay groaning, or picked their way aimlessly across the rubble. When the squad arrived, they did not simply fail to put up a fight, they failed to understand. Or hear.
   The women lowered their weapons. Polly spotted the sergeant, who was sitting and hitting the side of his head with the flat of his hand.
   “Give me the keys!” she demanded.
   He tried to focus.
   “What?”
   “The keys!”
   “I’ll have a brown one, please.”
   “Are you okay?”
   “What?”
   Polly reached down and snatched the keyring from the unresisting man’s belt, fighting down an instinct to apologize. She threw it to Blouse.
   “Will you do the honours, sir? I think we’ll be having a lot of visitors really soon.” She turned to the squad. “The rest of you, get their weapons off them!”
   “Some of these men are badly hurt, Polly,” said Igorina, kneeling down. “There’s one here with multiple.”
   “Multiple what?” said Polly, watching the steps.
   “Just… multiple. Multiple everything. But I know I can save his arm, because I’ve just found it over there. I think he must’ve been holding his sword and—”
   “Just do what you can, okay?” said Polly.
   “Hey, they’re enemies,” said Tonker, picking up a sword.
   “Thith ith an Igor thing,” said Igorina, taking off her pack. “I’m thorry, you wouldn’t underthtand.”
   “I’m beginning not to.” Tonker joined Polly in her watch on the stairs. Around them, men groaned and stone creaked. “I wonder how much damage we did? There’s a lot of dust up there…”
   “There’ll be a lot of people here soon,” said Polly, more calmly than she felt. Because this is going to be it, she thought. This time there’s going to be no turkey to save us. This is where I find out if I’m the meat or the metal…
   She could hear Blouse unlocking doors, and the shouts from those within. “Lieutenant Blouse, Tenth Infantry!” he was saying. “This is a rescue, broadly speaking. Sorry about the mess.”
   Probably his inner Daphne had added that last bit, Polly thought. And then the corridor was full of released men, and someone said, “What are these women doing here! For god’s sake, give me that sword, girl!”
   And, right now, she wasn’t inclined to argue.

   Men take over. It is probably because of socks.
   The squad retired to the kitchen, where Igorina was at work. She worked fast, efficiently and, on the whole, with very little blood. Her large pack was open beside her. The jars inside were blue, green and red; some of them smoked when she opened them, or gave off strange lights. Her fingers moved in a blur. It was fascinating to watch her working. At least, it was if you hadn’t just eaten.
   “Squad, this is Major Erick von Moldvitz! He asked to meet you.”
   They turned at the sound of Blouse’s voice. He’d brought a newcomer. The major was young, but much more heavily built than the lieutenant. He had a scar across his face.
   “Stand easy, lads,” he said. “Blouse here has been telling me what crackin’ work you’ve been doing. Well done! Dressin’ up as women, eh? Lucky you weren’t found out!”
   “Yessir,” said Polly. From outside, there came the sound of cries and fighting.
   “Didn’t bring your uniforms with you?” said the major.
   “Could’ve been tricky if they were found on us,” said Polly, staring at Blouse.
   “Could’ve been tricky anyway, eh, if you were searched?” said the major, winking.
   “Yessir,” said Polly obediently. “Lieutenant Blouse told you all about us, did he, sir?”
   Just behind the major, Blouse was making a universal gesture. It consisted of both hands held palm up and outwards and waggled furiously with all fingers extended.
   “Hah, yes. Stole some clothes from a knockin’ shop, eh? Young lads like you shouldn’t have gone in a place like that, eh? Those places are an Abomination, if they’re run right!” said the major, wagging a finger theatrically. “Anyway, we’re doing well. Hardly any guards this deep in the Keep, y’see. The whole place was built on the basis that the enemy would be on the outside! I say, what’s that man doin’ to the man on the slab?”
   “Patching him up, thur,” said Igorina. “Thewing hith arm back on.”
   “He’s an enemy, ain’t he?”
   “Code of the Igorth, thur,” said Igorina reproachfully. “A thpare hand where needed, thur.”
   The major sniffed. “Oh well, can’t argue with you fellows, eh? But when you’ve finished, we’ve got plenty of chaps out there who could do with your help.”
   “Thertainly, thur,” said Igorina.
   “Any news of my brother, sir?” said Polly. “Paul Perks?”
   “Yes, Blouse here mentioned him, Perks, but there’s men locked up everywhere and it’s a little tricky right now, eh?” said the major brusquely. “As for the rest of you, we’ll get you into a pair of trousers as soon as possible and you can join in the fun, eh?”
   “The fun,” said Tonker, in a hollow voice.
   “The fun being…?” said Polly.
   “We’ve got as far as the fourth floor already,” said von Moldvitz. “We might not have the whole Keep back, but we hold the outer courtyards and some of the towers. By morning, we’ll control who comes in and goes out. We’re back in the war! They won’t invade now. Most of their top brass are in the inner keep.”
   “Back in the war,” murmured Polly.
   “And we will win!” said the major.
   “Oh, sugar,” said Shufti.
   Something was going to give, Polly knew. Tonker had that look she got before she exploded, and even Shufti was fidgeting. It would only be a matter of time before Lofty found her box of matches, which Polly had hidden in a cupboard.
   Igorina packed up her bag and smiled brightly at the major. “Ready to go, thur,” she said.
   “At least remove the wig, eh?”
   “It’th my own hair, thur,” said Igorina.
   “Looks a bit… cissy, then,” said the major. “It would be better if—”
   “I am, in fact, female, sir,” said Igorina, dropping most of the lisp. “Trust me, I’m an Igor. We know about this sort of thing. And my needlework ith second to none.”
   “A woman?” said the major.
   Polly sighed. “We all are, sir. Really women. Not just dressed up as women. And right now I don’t want to put any trousers on because then I’d be a woman dressed up as a man dressed up as a woman dressed up as a man, and then I’d be so confused I wouldn’t know how to swear. And I want to swear right now, sir, very much.”
   The major turned stiffly to Blouse. “Did you know about this, lieutenant?” he barked.
   “Well… yes, sir. Eventually. But even so, sir, I would—”

   This cell was an old guardroom. It was damp, and had two creaking bunks.
   “On the whole,” said Tonker, “I think it was better when we were locked up by the enemy.”
   “There’s a grille in the ceiling,” said Shufti.
   “Not big enough to climb through,” said Polly.
   “No, but we can hang ourselves before they do it.”
   “I’m told it’s a very painful way to die,” said Polly.
   “Who by?” said Tonker.
   Occasionally the sounds of battle filtered through the narrow window. Mostly it was yells; often it was screams. Fun was being had.
   Igorina sat staring at her hands. “What’s wrong with these?” she said. “Didn’t I do a good job on that arm? But no, they’re afraid I might touch their privates.”
   “Perhaps you could have promised to operate only on officers,” said Tonker. No one laughed, and probably no one would have bothered to run for it if the door had swung open. It was a proud and noble thing to escape from the enemy, but if you were escaping from your own side, where would you escape to?
   On one of the bunks, Wazzer slept like a hibernating bear. You had to watch her for some time to see her breathe.
   “What can they do to us?” said Shufti nervously. “You know… really do to us?”
   “We were wearing men’s clothes,” said Polly.
   “But that’s only a beating.”
   “Oh, they’ll find some other stuff, believe you me,” said Tonker. “Besides, who knows we’re here?”
   “But we got them out of prison! Our side!”
   Polly sighed. “That’s why, Shufti. No one wants to know that a bunch of girls dressed up as soldiers and broke into a big fort and let out half an army. Everyone knows females can’t do that. Neither side wants us here, understand?”
   “On a battlefield like this, who’ll worry about a few more bodies?” said Tonker.
   “Don’t say that! Lieutenant Blouse spoke up for us,” said Shufti.
   “What, Daphne?” said Tonker. “Hah! Just another body. They’ve probably locked him up somewhere, just like us.”
   There was a distant cheering, which went on for some time.
   “Sounds like they’ve got the building,” said Polly.
   “Hooray for us,” said Tonker, and spat.
   After a while, a small hatch was opened in the door and a silent man handed through a big can of scubbo and a tray of horse-bread. It wasn’t bad scubbo or, at least, not bad scubbo by the standards of bad scubbo. There was some discussion about whether being fed meant you weren’t going to be executed, until someone pointed out the tradition of the Last Hearty Meal.
   Igorina gave it as her cultural opinion that the stew was not only hearty but lungy and livery too. But at least it was hot.
   A couple of hours later a can of saloop was handed through, with some mugs. This time, the guard winked.
   An hour after that, the door was unlocked. A young man in a major’s uniform stepped inside.
   Oh well, let’s go on as we started, Polly thought. She leapt to her feet. “Squaddd… tennn… hut!”
   With reasonable speed, the squad at least managed to stand up straight and in a line. The major acknowledged her by tapping the peak of his cap with a stick. It was definitely thinner than an inch.
   “Stand easy… corporal, isn’t it?” he said.
   “Yessir.” That sounded promising.
   “I am Major Clogston, of the Provost’s office,” said the major. “And I’d like you to tell me all about it. About everything. I will make notes, if you don’t mind.”
   “What’s this about?” said Tonker.
   “Ah, you’d be… Private Halter,” said Clogston. “I’ve already spoken at length to Lieutenant Blouse.” He turned, nodded at the guard hovering in the doorway, and shut the door. He also closed the hatch.
   “You are going to be tried,” he said, sitting down on the spare bunk. “The politicos want you to be tried by a full Nugganatic court, but that would be tricky here, and no one wants this to go on for any longer than it has to. Besides, there has been an… unusual event. Someone has sent a communique to General Froc asking about you all by name. At least,” he added, “by your surnames.”
   “Was that Lord Rust, sir?”
   “No, it was someone called William de Worde. I don’t know if you’ve run across his newspaper thing? We’re wondering how he knew you were captured.”
   “Well, we didn’t tell him!” said Polly.
   “It makes things a little… tricky,” said Clogston. “Although, from your point of view, a lot more hopeful. There are those members of the army who are, let us say, considering the future of Borogravia. That is, they would like there to be one. My job is to present your case to the tribunal.”
   “Is that a court martial?” said Polly.
   “No, they’re not that stupid. Calling it a court martial would indicate that they accept that you are soldiers.”
   “You did,” said Shufti.
   “De facto is not de jure,” said Clogston. “Now, as I said… tell me your story, Miss Perks.”
   “That’s Corporal, thank you!”
   “I apologize for the lapse. Now… go on…” Clogston opened his bag and produced a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he put on, and took out a pencil and something white and square. “Whenever you’re ready?” he added.
   “Sir, are you really going to write on a jam sandwich?” said Polly.
   “What?” The major looked down, and laughed. “Oh. No. Excuse me. I really mustn’t miss meals. Blood sugar, you know…”
   “Only it’s oozing, sir. Don’t mind us. We’ve eaten.”
   It took an hour, with many interruptions and corrections, and two more sandwiches. The major used up quite a lot of notebook, and occasionally had to stop and stare at the ceiling.
   “…and then we were thrown in here,” said Polly, sitting back.
   “Pushed, really,” said Igorina. “Nudged.”
   “Mmm,” said Clogston. “You say Corporal Strappi, as you knew him, was… suddenly very ill at the thought of going into battle?”

   “Yessir.”
   “And in the tavern in Plün you really kneed Prince Heinrich in the fracas?”
   “In or about the fracas, sir. And I didn’t know it was him at the time, sir.”
   “I see you haven’t mentioned the attack on the hilltop where, according to Lieutenant Blouse, your prompt action got the enemy code book…”
   “Not really worth mentioning, sir. We didn’t do much with it.”
   “Oh, I don’t know. Because of you and that nice man from the newspaper the Alliance has had two regiments trotting around in the mountains after some guerrilla leader called ‘Tiger’. Prince Heinrich insisted, and is in fact in command. He is, you could say, a sore loser. Very sore, according to rumour.”
   “The newspaper writer believed all that stuff?” said Polly, amazed.
   “I don’t know, but he certainly wrote it down. You say Lord Rust offered to let you all go home quietly?”
   “Yessir.”
   “And the consensus was that he could…”
   “Stick it up his jumper, sir.”
   “Oh, yes. I couldn’t read my own writing. J… U… M…” Clogston carefully wrote the word in capital letters, and then said: “I am not saying this, I am not here, but some… senior… people on our side are wondering if you would just quietly go…?”
   The question hung in the air like a corpse from a beam.
   “I’ll put that down as ‘jumper’ too, then, shall I?” said Clogston.
   “Some of us have got nowhere to go to,” said Tonker.
   “Or no one to go with,” said Shufti.
   “We haven’t done anything wrong,” said Polly.
   “Jumper it is, then,” said the major. He folded up his little spectacles and sighed. “They won’t even tell me what charges are going to be made.”
   “Being Bad Girls,” said Tonker. “Who are we fooling, sir? The enemy wanted just to be quietly rid of us, and the general wants the same thing. That’s the trouble about the good guys and the bad guys. They’re all guys!”
   “Would we have got a medal, sir, if we’d been men?” Shufti demanded.
   “Yep. Certainly. And Blouse would have been promoted on the spot, I imagine. But right now we’re at war, and this might not be the time—”
   “—to thank a bunch of Abominable women?” Polly suggested.
   Clogston smiled. “I was going to say ‘to lose concentration’. It’s the political branch who are pushing for this, of course. They want to stop word getting around. And high command want this over quickly for the same reason.”
   “When is all this going to start?” said Polly.
   “In about half an hour.”
   “This is stupid!” said Tonker. “They’re in the middle of a war and they’re going to take the time to hold a trial for a few women who haven’t even done anything wrong?”
   “The general has insisted,” said Clogston. “He wants this cleared out of the way.”
   “And what authority has this tribunal got?” said Polly coldly.
   “Thousands of men under arms,” said Clogston. “Sorry. The trouble is, when you say to a general ‘You and whose army?’ he just has to point out of the window. But I intend to prove that the meeting should be a court martial. You all kissed the Duchess? You took the shilling? I say that makes it military business.”
   “And that’s good, is it?”
   “Well, it means there are procedures. The last Abomination from Nuggan was against jigsaw puzzles. They break the world into pieces, he says. That’s making people think, at last. The army may be crazy, but at least it’s crazy by numbers. It’s reliably insane. Er, your sleeping friend… will you leave her here?”
   “No,” said the squad, as one woman.
   “She needs my constant attention,” said Igorina.
   “If we leave her she might have a sudden attack of vanishing without a trace,” said Tonker.
   “We stick together,” said Polly. “We don’t leave a man behind.”

   The room chosen for the tribunal was a ballroom. More than half the Keep had been taken back, Polly learned, but the distribution of ground was erratic. The Alliance still held the central buildings, and the armoury, but were entirely surrounded by Borogravian forces. The current prize to fight for was the main gate complex, which hadn’t been built to withstand attack from inside. What was happening out there now was a brawl, a midnight bar fight but on a huge scale. And, since there were various war engines atop the towers now occupied by either side, the Keep was shooting at itself, in the finest traditions of the circular firing squad.
   The floor in here smelled of polish and chalk. Tables had been pushed together to make a rough semicircle. There must have been more than thirty officers, Polly thought. Then she saw the other tables behind the semicircles, and the maps, and the people scurrying in and out, and realized that this was not just about them. This was a war-room.
   The squad were marched in, and stood at attention. Igorina had browbeaten a couple of guards to carry Wazzer on a stretcher. That circle of stitches under her eye was worth more than a colonel’s pips. No soldier wanted to be on the wrong side of the Igors.
   They waited. Occasionally an officer would glance at them, and go back to looking at a map, or talking. Then Polly saw some whispering going on, heads turned again, and there was a drift towards the semicircle of seats. There was a definite sense that here was a tiresome chore that, regrettably, had to be done.
   General Froc did not look directly at the squad until he had taken his seat in the centre of the group and adjusted his papers neatly. Even then, his eye passed over them quickly, as if it was afraid to stop. Polly had never seen him before. He was a handsome man, and still had a fine head of white hair. A scar down one side of his face had just missed an eye, and showed up against the wrinkles.
   “Things are moving well,” he said, to the room at large. “We have just heard that a flying column led by the remnant of the Tenth are closing on the Keep and attacking the main gates from outside. Someone must have seen what is happening. The army is on the move!”
   There was a certain amount of refined cheering at this, none of it from the squad. The general glanced at them again.
   “Is this all of them, Clogston?” he said.
   The major, who at least had a small table to himself, stood up and saluted. “No, sir,” he said. “We are awaiting—”
   The doors opened again. Jade was brought in, chained between two much larger trolls. Maladict and Blouse trailed behind her. It seemed that in all the rush and confusion no one had found any trousers for Blouse, and Maladict looked slightly blurred. His chains jingled constantly.
   “I object to the chains, sir,” said Clogston.
   The general held a whispered consultation with a few of the other officers. “Yes, we do not want undue formality,” he said, nodding at the guards. “Remove them. You trolls can go. I just want the guards to remain on the door. Now, let us proceed. This really shouldn’t take too long. Now then, you people,” he settled himself in his chair, “this really is very simple. With the exception of Lieutenant Blouse, you will agree to be returned to your homes and placed in the charge of a responsible male, understood? And no more will be said about this matter. You have showed considerable spirit, there is no doubt about that, but it was misplaced. We are not ungrateful, however. We understand that none of you is married and so we will present you all with suitable, indeed, with handsome dowries—”
   Polly saluted. “Permission to speak, sir?”
   Froc stared at her, and then looked pointedly at Clogston.
   “You’ll have a chance to speak later, corporal,” said the major.
   “But what exactly have we done wrong, sir?” said Polly. “They should tell us.”
   Froc looked at the far end of the row of chairs. “Captain?” he said.
   A short officer got to his feet. In Polly’s face, the tide of recognition raced across the mudflats of hatred.
   “Captain Strappi, political division, sir—” he began, and stopped at the groan from the squad. When it had died away he cleared his throat, and went on: “Twenty-seven Abominations have been committed under Nugganatic law, sir. I suspect there have been many more. Under military law, sir, we have the simple fact that they posed as men in order to join up. I was there, sir, and saw it all.”
   “Captain Strappi, may I congratulate you on your rapid promotion?” said Lieutenant Blouse.
   “Yes, indeed, captain,” said Clogston. “Apparently you were a humble corporal only a few days ago?”
   Plaster dust drifted down again as something heavy struck the wall outside. Froc brushed it off his paperwork.
   “Not one of ours, I hope,” he said, to a certain amount of laughter. “Do go ahead, captain.”
   Strappi turned to the general. “As you know, sir, it is occasionally necessary for us in the political division to assume a lower rank in order to gain intelligence. Covered under the Regulations, sir,” he added.
   The look that General Froc gave him stirred a little teacup of hope in Polly’s breast. No one could like something like Strappi, not even a mother. Then the general turned back to Clogston.
   “Is this germane, major?” he said testily. “We know they disguised themselves as—”
   “—women, sir,” said Clogston smoothly. “That’s all we know, sir. Apart from Captain Strappi’s assertion, and I intend to suggest later that this is tainted, I haven’t yet heard any evidence that they have dressed in any other way.”
   “We have the evidence of our own eyes, man!”
   “Yes, sir. They’re wearing dresses, sir.”
   “And they’re practically bald!”
   “Yes, sir,” said Clogston. He picked up a thick book, dripping with bookmarks. “Book of Nuggan, sir: ‘It is a Beatitude Unto Nuggan that An Woman shall wear her hair short, that the amorous propensities of men be not therefore inflamed.’”
   “I don’t see a lot of bald women around!” snapped Froc.
   “Yes, sir. It is one of those utterances that people find somewhat tricky, like the one about not sneezing. I should say at this point, sir, that I intend to show that Abominations are routinely committed by all of us. We have got into the habit of ignoring them, in fact, which opens up an interesting debate. In any case, short hair is Nugganatically correct. In short, sir, and in short hair, the ladies appear to have been involved in nothing more than a little laundry, a kitchen accident and the release of your good self from the cells.”
   “I saw them!” snarled Strappi. “They looked like men and they acted like men!”
   “Why were you in the recruiting party, captain?” said Major Clogston. “I would not have thought one of those would have been a hotbed of seditious activity?”
   “Is that a relevant question, major?” said the general.
   “I don’t know, sir,” said Clogston. “That’s why I asked. I don’t think we would wish it to be said that these ladies had not been given a fair hearing?”
   “Said by whom?” said Froc. “My officers can be relied upon to be discreet.”
   “Said by the ladies themselves, sir?”
   “Then we must require that they do not speak to anyone!”
   “Oh, I say!” said Blouse.
   “And how will you enforce this, sir?” said Clogston. “Against these women who, we are agreed, stole you out of the jaws of the enemy?”
   There was some muttering amongst the officers.
   “Major Clogston, did you have lunch?” said the general.
   “No, sir.”
   “Colonel Vester said you become a little… erratic when you miss meals…”
   “No, sir. I become tetchy, sir. But I think a little tetchiness is called for right now. I put a question to Captain Strappi, sir.”
   “Very well, captain, perhaps you will tell us why you were with that recruiting party?” said the general wearily.
   “I was… investigating a soldier, sir. A non-commissioned officer. Our attention had been drawn to irregularities in his files, sir, and where there are irregularities we generally find sedition. I hesitate to talk about this, sir, because this sergeant has been of some service to yourself—”
   “Hrumph!” said the general loudly. “This is not a matter for discussion here, I think.”
   “It was just that according to the files, several officers had helped—” Strappi went on.
   “Hrumph! Not matters for this court, captain! Are we agreed, gentlemen?”
   “Yes, sir, it was just that the major asked me and I—” Strappi began, bewildered.
   “Captain, I suggest you learn what a hrumph means!” roared Froc.
   “So what were you looking for when you rummaged through our stuff?” said Polly, as Strappi shrank.
   “Mmmmmy cccccoffee!” said Maladict. “Yyyyyou ssssstole mmmmmy cccccoffee!”
   “And you ran away when you were told you were going into combat, you little dog’s pizzle!” said Tonker. “Polly said you pissed your drawers!”
   General Froc slammed his fist on the table, but Polly noticed that one or two officers were trying to conceal a smile. “These are not matters for this inquiry!” he said.
   “Although, sir, one or two of them seem to me to be subjects for investigation later on,” said a colonel, further along the table. “The personal belongings of enlisted men may only be searched in their presence, general. This may seem a trivial point, but men have mutinied over it in the past. Did you, in fact, believe the… men to be women when you did this, captain?”
   Oh, say yes, please say yes, Polly thought, as Strappi hesitated. Because when we talk about how those cavalrymen found us so quickly, it’ll mean you set them on a bunch of Borogravian girls. Let’s see how that one plays in Plün! And if you didn’t know, then why were you rummaging?
   Strappi preferred the rock to the hard place. Stone clattered down in the courtyard outside, and he had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
   “I was, er, generally suspicious of them, sir, because they were so keen—”
   “Sir, I protest!” said Clogston. “Keenness is not a military vice!”
   “In moderation, certainly,” said Froc. “And you found evidence of some sort, did you?”
   “I did find a petticoat, sir,” said Strappi, feeling his way with care.
   “Then why didn’t you—” Froc began, but Strappi interrupted.
   “I did serve for a while with Captain Wrigglesworth, sir,” he said.
   “And?” said Froc, but the officer on his left leaned over and whispered something to him. “Oh, Wrigglesworth. Ha, yes,” said Froc. “Of course. Fine officer, Wrigglesworth. Keen on, er—”
   “Amateur dramatics,” a colonel supplied, in a noncommittal voice.
   “Right! Right! Ver’ good for morale, that sort of thing. Hrumph.”
   “With respect, general, I think I can offer a way through?” said another man with a general’s rank.
   “Really, Bob?” said Froc. “Oh, well… feel free. The record will show that I am yielding the floor to General Kzupi.”
   “I’m sorry, sir, I thought these proceedings were not being recorded?” said Clogston.
   “Yes, yes, of course, thank you so much for jogging my memory,” said Froc. “However, if we were to have a record, that is what it would show. Bob?”
   “Ladies,” said General Kzupi, flashing the squad a glossy smile. “And you too, of course, Lieutenant Blouse, and you too, er…” he looked quizzically at Maladict, who stared straight back “…sir?” General Kzupi, though, was not to be derailed by an eyeballing vampire, even one that couldn’t stand still. “Firstly, may I offer on behalf of all of us, I think, our thanks for the incredible job you have done? A splendid effort. But, sadly, the world we live in has certain… rules, you understand? To be frank, the problem here is not that you are women. As such, that is. But you persist in maintaining that you are. You see? We can’t have that.”
   “You mean if we put on uniforms again, and swaggered around belching and saying ‘har har, fooled you all’ that would be all right?” said Polly.
   “Perhaps I could help?” said yet another voice. Froc looked along the table.
   “Ah, Brigadier Stoffer. Yes?”
   “This is all rather damn silly, general—”
   “Hrumph!” said Froc.
   “What say?” said Stoffer, looking puzzled.
   “There are ladies present, brigadier. That is, ahah, the problem.”
   “Damn right!” said Tonker.
   “Understood, general. But the party was led by a man, am I right?”
   “Lieutenant Blouse tells me he is a man, sir,” said Clogston. “Since he is an officer and a gentleman, I will take his word for it.”
   “Well, then, problem solved. These young ladies helped him. Smuggled him in, and so forth. Assisted him. Fine traditions of Borogravian womanhood and all that. Not soldiers at all. Give the man a big medal and make him a captain, and all this’ll be forgotten.”
   “Excuse me one moment, general,” said Clogston. “I will consult with what we would call the accused if anyone would enlighten me as to the precise nature of the charges.”
   He walked over to the squad and lowered his voice. “I think this is the best offer you’re going to get,” he said. “I can probably get the money, too. How about it?”
   “It’s completely ridiculous!” said Blouse. “They showed tremendous courage and determination. All this would not have been possible without them.”
   “Yes, Blouse, and you would be allowed to say that,” said Clogston. “Stoffer has come up with quite a clever idea. Everyone gets what they want, but you just have to avoid any suggestion that you were in fact acting as soldiers. Brave Borogravian women going to the aid of a gallant hero, that works. You could take the view that these are changing times, and you are helping them change faster. Well?”
   The squad exchanged glances.
   “Er… I’d be happy about that,” Shufti ventured. “If everyone else is.”
   “So you’d have your baby without a husband?” said Polly.
   “He’s probably dead anyway, whoever he was,” sighed Shufti.
   “The general has influence,” said Clogston. “He might be able to—”
   “No, I’m not buying into this,” said Tonker. “It’s a gooey little lie. To hell with them.”
   “Lofty?” said Polly.
   Lofty struck a match, and stared at it. She could find matches anywhere.
   There was another crump, high above.
   “Maladict?” said Polly.
   “Llet tthe bball rroll. II ssay nno.”
   “And you, lieutenant?” Clogston asked.
   “It’s dishonourable,” said Blouse.
   “Could be problems for you if you don’t accept, though. With your career.”
   “I suspect I haven’t got one, major, whatever happens. No, I will not live a lie. I know, now, that I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who wanted to be one.”
   “Thank you, sir,” said Polly. “Er… Jade?”
   “One of der trolls wot arrested me hit me with his club an’ I frew a table at him,” said Jade, looking at the floor.
   “That was mistreatment of a pris—!” Blouse began, but Clogston said: “No, lieutenant, I know something about trolls. They are very… physical. So… he’s a rather attractive lad, is he, private?”
   “I got a good feelin’ about him,” said Jade, blushing. “So I don’t want to be sent home. Nothin’ for me there, anyway.”
   “Private Igor… ina?” said Blouse.
   “I think we ought to give in,” said Igorina.
   “Why?” said Polly.
   “Because Wazzer’s dying.” She raised a hand. “No, please don’t cluster round. Give her air, at least. She hasn’t eaten. I can’t get any water down her at all.” She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t know what to do!”
   “The Duchess talked to her,” said Polly. “You all heard. And you know what we saw down in the crypt.”
   “And I said I don’t believe any of that!” said Tonker. “It’s her… mind. They made her crazy enough. And we were all so tired, we’d see anything. All that stuff about wanting to get to the High Command? Well, here they are, and I don’t see any miracles. Do you?”
   “I don’t think she would have wanted us to give in,” said Polly.
   No.
   “Did you hear that?” said Polly, although she wasn’t certain that the word had turned up in her head via her ears.
   “No, I didn’t!” said Tonker. “I didn’t hear it!”
   “I don’t think we can accept this compromise, sir,” said Polly to the major.
   “Then I won’t,” said Shufti promptly. “I don’t… this wasn’t… I only came because… but… look, I’m staying with you. Erm… what can they do to us, sir?”
   “Put you in a cell for a long time, probably,” said the major. “They’re being kind to you—”
   “Kind?” said Polly.
   “Well, they think they’re being kind,” said Clogston. “And they could be a lot worse. And there’s a war on. They don’t want to look bad, but Froc didn’t get to be a general by being nice. I have to warn you about that. You’re still turning this down?”
   Blouse looked round at his men. “I believe we are, major.”
   “Good,” said Clogston, winking.
   Good.
   Clogston went back to his table and shuffled his papers. “The allegedly accused, sir, regretfully turn down the offer.”
   “Yes, I thought they might,” said Froc. “In that case, they are to be returned to the cells. They will be dealt with later.” Plaster showered down as something hit the outer wall again. “This has gone quite far enough!”
   “We won’t be sent to the cells!” Tonker shouted.
   “Then that is mutiny, sir!” said Froc. “And we know how to deal with that!”
   “Excuse me, general, does that then mean the tribunal does agree that these ladies are soldiers?” said Clogston.
   General Froc glared at him. “Don’t you try to tie me up with procedural nonsense, major!”
   “It’s hardly nonsense, sir, it’s the very basis—”
   Duck.
   The word was the faintest, merest suggestion in Polly’s head, but it also seemed to be wired to her central nervous system. And not only hers. The squad ducked, Igorina throwing herself across her patient’s body.
   Half the ceiling collapsed. The chandelier fell down and exploded in a kaleidoscope of splintering prisms. Mirrors shattered. And then there was, by comparison at least, silence, broken only by the thud of a few late bits of plaster and the tinkle of a tardy shard.
   Now…
   Footsteps approached the big doors at the end of the room, where the guards were just struggling to their feet. The doors swung open.
   Jackrum stood there, shining like the sunset. The light glinted off his shako badge, polished to the point where it would blind the incautious with its terrible gleam. His face was red, but his jacket was redder, and his sergeant’s sash was the pure quill of redness, its very essence, the red of dying stars and dying soldiers. Blood dripped off the cutlasses thrust into his belt. The guards, still shaking, tried to lower their pikes to bar his way.
   “Do not try it, lads, I beg you,” said Jackrum. “Upon my oath I am not a violent man, but do you think Sergeant Jackrum is going to be stopped by a set of bleedin’ cutlery?”
   The men looked at Jackrum, steaming with barely controlled rage, and then at the astonished generals, and took an immediate decision on their own desperate initiative.
   “Good lads,” said Jackrum. “With your permission, General Froc?”
   He did not wait for a reply but marched forward with parade-ground precision. He came to boot-crashing attention in front of the senior generals, still brushing plaster dust from their uniforms, and saluted with the precision of a semaphore.
   “I beg to report, sir, that we now hold the main gates, sir! Took the liberty of putting together a force of the Ins-and-Outs, the Side-to-Sides and the Backwards-and-Forwards, sir, just in case, saw a big cloud o’ flame and smoke over the place, and arrived at the gates just as your lads did. Got ’em coming and going, sir!”
   There was a general cheer, and General Kzupi leaned towards Froc. “In view of this pleasing development, sir, perhaps we should hurry up and close this—”
   Froc waved him into silence. “Jackrum, you old rogue,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I heard you were dead. How the devil are you?”
   “Fightin’ fit, sir!” barked Jackrum. “Not dead at all, despite the hopes of many!”
   “Glad to hear it, man. But, while your rosy face is a welcome sight at any time, we are here to—”
   “Fourteen miles I carried you, sir!” Jackrum roared, sweat pouring down his face. “Pulled that arrow out of your leg, sir. Sliced that devil of a captain who pushed an axe in your face, sir, and I’m glad to see the scar’s looking well. Killed that poor sentry lad just to steal his water bottle for you, sir. Looked into his dyin’ face, sir, for you. Never asked for nothing in return, sir. Right, sir?”
   Froc rubbed his chin and smiled. “Well, I seem to remember there was that little matter of fudging some details, changing a few dates—” he murmured.
   “Don’t give me that bleedin’ slop, sir, with respect. That wasn’t for me, that was for the army. For the Duchess, sir. And, yeah, I see a few other gentlemen round this table who had reason to do the same little service for me. For the Duchess, sir. And if you was to leave me one sword I’d stand and fight any man in your army, sir, be he never so young and full of mustard!”
   In one movement he pulled a cutlass from his belt and brought it down on the paperwork between Froc’s hands. It bit through into the wood of the table, and stayed there.
   Froc didn’t flinch. Instead he looked up and said calmly, “Hero though you may be, sergeant, I fear that you have gone too far.”
   “Have I gone the full fourteen miles yet, sir?” said Jackrum.
   For a moment there was no sound but that of the cutlass, vibrating to a halt. Froc breathed out. “Very well,” he said. “What is your request, sergeant?”
   “I notes you have my little lads before you, sir! I’m hearing that they are in a spot of bother, sir!”
   “The girls, Jackrum, are to be restrained in a place of safety. This is no place for them. And that is my order, sergeant.”
   “I said to ’em when they signed up, sir, I said: if anyone drags you away they’ll have to drag me away, too, sir!”
   Froc nodded. “Very loyal of you, sergeant, and very much in your character. Nevertheless—”
   “And I have information vital to these here deliberations, sir! There is something I must tell you, sir!”
   “Well, by all means tell us, man!” said Froc. “You don’t have to take all—”
   “It requires that some of you gentlemen quit this room, sir,” said Jackrum, desperately. He was still-at attention, still holding the salute.
   “Now you do ask too much, Jackrum,” said Froc. “These are loyal officers of her grace!”
   “No doubt of it, sir! Upon my oath I am not a gossiping man, sir, but I will speak my piece to those I choose, sir, or speak it to the world. There’s ways to do that, sir, nasty new-fangled ways. Your choice, sir!”
   At last, Froc coloured. He stood up abruptly. “Are you seriously telling me that you’d—”
   “This is my famous last stand, sir!” said Jackrum, saluting again. “Do or die, sir!”
   All eyes turned to Froc. He relaxed. “Oh, very well. It can’t do any harm to listen to you, sergeant. God knows you’ve earned it. But make it quick.”
   “Thank you, sir.”
   “But try this again and you’ll be on the biggest fizzer you can imagine.”
   “No worry there, sir. Never been one for fizzers. I will by your leave point to certain men…”
   They were about half of the officers. They rose with greater or lesser protest, but rise they did, under Froc’s sapphire glare, and filed out into the corridor.
   “General, I protest!” said a departing colonel. “We are being sent out of the room like naughty children while these… females are—”
   “Yes, yes, Rodney, and if our friend the sergeant doesn’t have a damn good explanation I’ll personally turn him over to you for punishment detail,” said Froc. “But he’s entitled to his last wild charge if any man is. Go quietly, there’s a good chap, and keep the war going until we get there. And have you finished this strange charade, sergeant?” he added, as the last of the officers left.
   “All but one last thing, sir,” said Jackrum, and stamped over to the guards. They were at attention already, but nevertheless contrived to become more attentive. “You lads go outside this door,” said the sergeant. “No one is to come close, understand. And I know you boys won’t try to eavesdrop, because of what’d happen to you if I ever found that you had done so. Off you go, hup, hup, hup!”
   He shut the doors behind them and the atmosphere changed. Polly couldn’t quite detect how, but perhaps it was that the click of the doors had said “This is our secret” and everyone present was in on it.
   Jackrum removed his shako and laid it gently on the table in front of the general. Then he took off his coat and handed it to Polly, saying, “Hold this, Perks. It’s the property of her grace.” He rolled up his sleeves. He relaxed his enormous red braces. And then, to Polly’s horror if not to her surprise, he brought out his paper screw of foul chewing tobacco and his blackened penknife.
   “Oh, I say—” a major began, before a colleague nudged him into silence. Never had a man cutting a wad of black tobacco been the subject of such rapt, horrified attention.
   “Things are going well outside,” he said. “Shame you aren’t all out there, eh? Still, the truth’s important too, right? And that’s what this tribunal is for, no doubt about it. It must be important, the truth, else you wouldn’t be here, am I right? ’Course I am.”
   Jackrum finished the cut, palmed the stuff into his mouth and got it comfortable in a cheek, while the sounds of battle filtered through from outside. Then he turned and walked towards the major who had just spoken. The man cringed a little in his chair.
   “What’ve you got to say about the truth. Major Derbi?” said Jackrum conversationally. “Nothing? Well, then, what shall I say? What shall I say about a captain who turned and ran sobbing when we came across a column of Zlobenians, deserting his own men? Shall I say that ol’ Jackrum tripped him up and pummelled him a bit and put the fear of… Jackrum into him, and he went back and ’twas a famous victory he had that day, over two enemies, one of them being in his own head. And he came to ol’ Jackrum again, drunk with battle, and said more’n he ought…”
   “You bastard,” said the major softly.
   “Shall I tell the truth today… Janet?” said Jackrum.
   The sounds of battle were suddenly much louder. They poured into the room like the water rushing to fill a hole in the ocean floor, but all the sound in the world could not have filled that sudden, tremendous silence.
   Jackrum strolled on towards another man. “Good to see you here, Colonel Cumabund!” he said cheerfully. “O’ course, you were only Lieutenant Cumabund when I was under your command. Plucky lad you were, when you led us against that detachment of Kopelies. And then you took a nasty sword wound in the fracas, or just above, and I got you through with rum and cold water, and found that plucky you might be, but lad you weren’t. Oh, how you gabbled away in your feverish delirium… Yes, you did. That’s the truth… Olga.”
   He stepped round the table and started to stroll along behind the officers; those he passed stared woodenly ahead, not daring to turn, not daring to make any movement that would attract attention.
   “You could say I know something about all of yez,” he said. “Quite a lot about some of you, just enough about most of you. A few of you, well, I could write a book.” He paused just behind Froc, who stiffened.
   “Jackrum, I—” he began.
   Jackrum put a hand on each of Froc’s shoulders. “Fourteen miles, sir. Two nights, ’cos we lay up by day, the patrols were that thick. Cut about pretty dreadful, you were, but you got better nursing from me than any sawbones, I’d bet.” He leaned forward until his mouth was level with the general’s ear, and continued in a stage whisper: “What is there left about you that I don’t know? So… are you really looking for the truth… Mildred?”
   The room was a museum of waxworks. Jackrum spat on the floor.
   “You cannot prove anything, sergeant,” said Froc eventually, with the calm of an icefield.
   “Well now, not as such. But they keep telling me this is the modern world, sir. I don’t need proof, exactly. I know a man who’d have such a tale to tell, and it’d be in Ankh-Morpork in a couple of hours.”
   “If you leave this room alive,” said a voice.
   Jackrum smiled his evillest smile, and bore down on the source of the threat like an avalanche. “Ah! I thought one of yez would try that, Chloe, but I note you never made it beyond major, and no wonder since you try to bluff with no bleedin’ cards in your hand. Nice try, though. But, first, I could take you to the bleedin’ cleaners before those guards were back in here, upon my oath, and, second, you don’t know what I’ve writ down and who else knows. I trained all you girls at one time or another, and some of the cunning you got, some of the mustard, some of the sense… well, you got it from me. Didn’t you? So don’t any of you go thinking you can be artful about this, because when it comes to cunning I am Mister Fox.”
   “Sergeant, sergeant, sergeant,” said Froc wearily, “what is it you want?”
   Jackrum completed his circuit of the table and finished in front of it, once again like a man before his judges.
   “Well, blow me down,” he said quietly, looking along the row of faces. “You didn’t know, did you… you didn’t know. Is there a… a man among you that knew? You thought, every one of you, that you were all alone. All alone. You poor devils. And look at you. More’n a third of the country’s High Command. You made it on your own, ladies. What could you have done if you’d acted tog—”
   He stopped, and took a step towards Froc, who looked down at her cloven paperwork. “How many did you spot, Mildred?”
   “That will be ‘general’, sergeant. I’m still a general, sergeant. Or ‘sir’ will do. And your answer is: one or two. One or two.”
   “And you promoted them, did you, if they was as good as men?”
   “Indeed not, sergeant. What do you take me for? I promoted them if they were better than men.”
   Jackrum opened his arms wide, like a ringmaster introducing a new act. “Then what about the lads I bought with me, sir? As cracking a bunch of lads as I’ve ever seen.” He cast a bloodshot eye around the table. “And I’m good at weighing up a lad, as you all know. They’d be a credit to your army, sir!”
   Froc looked at her colleagues on either side. An unspoken question harvested unsaid answers.
   “Yes, well,” she said. “All seems clear to us, in the light of new developments. When beardless lads dress up as gels, there’s no doubt that people will get confused. And that’s what we’ve got here, sergeant. Mere confusion. Mistaken identities. Much ado, in fact, about nothing. Clearly they are boys, and may return home right now with an honourable discharge.”
   Jackrum chuckled and stuck out a palm, flexing the fingers upwards like a man bargaining. Once again, there was the communion of spirits.
   “Very well. They can, if they wish, continue in the army,” said Froc. “With discretion, of course.”
   “No, sir!”
   Polly stared at Jackrum, and then realized the words had, in fact, come from her own mouth.
   Froc raised her eyebrows. “What is your name again?” she said.
   “Corporal Perks, sir!” said Polly, saluting.
   She watched Froc’s face settle into an expression of condescending benevolence. If she uses the words “my dear” I shall swear, she thought.
   “Well, my dear—”
   “Not your dear, sir or madam,” said Polly. In the theatre of her mind The Duchess Inn burned to a cinder and her old life peeled away, black as charcoal, and she was flying, ballistic, too fast and too high and unable to stop. “I am a soldier, general. I signed up. I kissed the Duchess. I don’t think generals call their soldiers ‘my dear’, do they?”
   Froc coughed. The smile remained, but had the decency to be a bit more restrained. “And private soldiers don’t talk like that to generals, young lady, so we’ll let that pass, shall we?”
   “Just here, in this room, I don’t know what passes and what stays, sir,” said Polly. “But it seems to me that if you are still a general then I’m still a corporal, sir. I can’t speak for the others, but the reason I’m holding out, general, is that I kissed the Duchess and she knew what I was and she… didn’t turn away, if you understand me.”
   “Well said, Perks,” said Jackrum.
   Polly plunged on. “Sir, a day or two ago I’d have rescued my brother and gone off home and I’d have thought it a job well done. I just wanted to be safe. But now I see there’s no safety while there’s all this… this stupidity. So I think I’ve got to stay and be a part of it. Er… try to make it less stupid, I mean. And I want to be me, not Oliver. I kissed the Duchess. We all did. You can’t tell us we didn’t and you can’t tell us it doesn’t count, because it’s between us and her—”
   “You all kissed the Duchess,” said a voice. It had an… echo.
   You all kissed the Duchess…
   “Did you think that it meant nothing? That it was just a kiss?”
   Did you think it meant nothing
   just a kiss
   The whispered words washed against the walls like surf, and came back stronger, in harmonies.
   Did you kiss meant nothing meant a kiss just think a kiss meant a kiss
   Wazzer was standing up.
   The squad stood petrified as she walked unsteadily past them.
   Her eyes focused on Polly, and then looked down at her own legs.
   “So good to have a body again,” she said. “I wonder what all the fuss is about…”
   So good a body
   the fuss is I wonder the fuss
   Something was in Wazzer’s face. Her features were all there, all correct, her nose was as pointed and as red, her cheekbones as hollow… but there were subtle changes.
   She held up a hand and flexed her fingers.
   “Ah,” she said. “So…” There was no echo this time, but the voice was stronger and deeper. No one would ever have said that Wazzer’s voice had been attractive but this one was.
   She turned to Jackrum, who dropped onto his fat knees and whipped off his shako.
   “Sergeant Jackrum, I know that you know who I am. You have waded through seas of blood for me. Perhaps we should have done better things with your life, but at least your sins were soldier’s sins, and not the worst of them, at that. You are hereby promoted to sergeant major, and a better candidate for the job I have never met. You are steeped in deviousness, cunning and casual criminality, Sergeant Jackrum. You should do well.”
   Jackrum, eyes cast down, raised a knuckle to his forehead.
   “…Not worthy, your grace,” he muttered.
   “Of course you aren’t.” The Duchess looked around. “Now, where is my army… ah.”
   There was no hesitancy now, and none of Wazzer’s cowering and downcast eyes. She positioned herself directly in front of Froc, who was staring with his mouth open.
   “General Froc, you must do one final service for me.”
   The general glared. “Who the hell are you?”
   “You need to ask? As always, Jackrum thinks faster than you. You know me. I am the Duchess Annagovia.”
   “But you are—” one of the other officers began, but Froc held up a hand again.
   “The voice… is familiar,” she said, in a faraway whisper.
   “Yes. You remember the ball. I remember it, too. Forty years ago. You were the youngest captain ever. We danced, stiffly in my case. I asked you how long you had been a captain, and you said—”
   “—Three days,” breathed Froc, with her eyes shut.
   “And we ate Brandy Pillows, and a cocktail that I believe was called—”
   “—Angel’s Tears,” said Froc. “I kept the menu, your grace, and the dance card.”
   “Yes,” said the Duchess. “You did. And when old General Scaffer led you away, he said, ‘That’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, my boy.’ But you were… so dedicated that you never had children… and what a man you became… my boy…”
   …my boy… my boy…
   “I see heroes!” said the Duchess, staring at the tableau of officers. “All of you gave up… much. But I demand more. Much more. Is there any amongst you who for the sake of my memory will not die in battle?” Wazzer’s head turned and looked along the row, and smiled.
   “No. I see there is not. And now I demand that you do what the ignorant might feel is the easier thing. You must refrain from dying in battle. Revenge is not redress. Revenge is a wheel, and it turns backwards. The dead are not your masters.”
   “What is it you want of me, ma’am?” Froc managed.
   “Call in your other officers. Make what truces are necessary, for now. This body, this poor child, will lead you. I am weak, but I can move small things. Thoughts, perhaps. I will leave her… something, a light in the eye, a tone in the voice. Follow her. You must invade.”
   “Certainly! But how—”
   “You must invade Borogravia! In the name of sanity, you must go home! The winter is coming, the trusting animals are not fed, old men die of cold, women mourn, the country corrodes. Fight Nuggan, because he is nothing now, nothing but the poisonous echo of all your ignorance and pettiness and malicious stupidity! Find yourself a worthier god. And let… me… go! All those prayers, all those entreaties… to me! Too many hands clasped, that could more gainfully answer your prayers by effort and resolve! And what was I? Just a rather stupid woman when I was alive. But you believed I watched over you, and listened to you… and so I had to, I had to listen, knowing that there was no help… I wish people would not be so careless about what they believe. Go. Invade the one place you’ve never conquered. And these women will help. Be proud of them. And, lest you think to twist my meaning, lest you doubt… let me, as I leave, return to you this gift. Remember. A kiss.”
   …a kiss
   …a kiss a kiss return to you kiss
   …remember
   As one woman, as one man, the crowd in the room reached up hesitantly to their left cheek. And Wazzer folded up, very gently, collapsing like a sigh.
   Froc was the first to speak. “This is… I think we need to…” She faltered into silence.
   Jackrum got to his feet, brushed the dust off his shako, placed it on his head and saluted. “Permission to speak, sir?” he said.
   “Oh, good heaven, Jackrum!” said Froc distractedly. “At a time like this? Yes, yes…”
   “What are your orders, sir?”
   “Orders?” Froc blinked, and looked around. “Orders, orders… yes. Well, I am the commander, I can request a… yes, I can request a truce, sergeant—”
   “That’s sergeant major, sir,” said Jackrum. “Right you are, sir, I’ll organize a runner to go to the Alliance.”
   “I suppose a… white flag would be—”
   “Good as done, sir. Leave it to me,” said Jackrum, radiating efficiency.
   “Yes, of course… Er, before, before we go any further… ladies and gentlemen, I… er… some of the things said here… the whole issue of women joining as… women… obviously…” She raised her hand to her cheek again, in a kind of wonderment. “They are welcome. I… salute them. But for those of us that went before, perhaps it is not… not yet the time. You understand?”
   “What?” said Polly.
   “Lips sealed, sir!” said Jackrum. “You can leave it all to me, sir! Captain Blouse’s squad, attention! You will obtain uniforms! You can’t go around still dressed as washerwomen, oh dear me!”
   “We are soldiers?” said Polly.
   “O’ course you are, otherwise I wouldn’t be shouting at you, you ’orrible little woman! The world’s turned upside down! It’s a bit more important than you right now, eh? You’ve got what you’re after, right? Now get hold of a uniform, find yourself a shako and wipe your face, at least. You are taking the official truce to the enemy.”
   “Me, sarge?” said Polly.
   “Right! Just as soon as the officers have done the official letter. Tonker, Lofty… see what you can find for Perks to wear. Perks, don’t be cowed, and bull yourself up. The rest of you, hurry up and wait!”
   “Sergeant Jac—er, sergeant major?” said Blouse.
   “Yessir?”
   “I’m not a captain, you know.”
   “Are you not?” said Jackrum, grinning. “Well, leave it to Jackrum, sir. We shall see what the day brings, eh? Minor point, sir. I should lose the dress if I was you!”
   Jackrum marched off, his inflated chest as red as a robin’s and twice as threatening. He shouted at orderlies, harried guards, saluted officers and, despite everything, hammered the blade of purpose out of the red-hot steel of panic. He was a sergeant major in a roomful of confused ruperts, and he was happier than a terrier in a barrel of rats.

   Stopping a battle is much harder than starting it. Starting it only requires you to shout “Attack!” but when you want to stop it, everyone is busy.
   Polly could feel the news spreading. They’re girls! The orderlies scuttling in and out once more kept staring at them, as if they were some kind of strange insects. I wonder how many Jackrum missed, Polly thought. I wonder…
   Bits of uniform turned up. Jade found some trousers that fitted by locating a clerk who was Polly’s height, lifting him up and pulling them off him. A jacket was acquired. Lofty even stole a shako of the right size and polished the badge with her sleeve until it gleamed. Polly was just doing up her belt when she spotted a figure on the far side of the room. She’d completely forgotten about him.
   She pulled the belt tight and thrust the leather through the buckle as she walked and then strode through the crowds of figures. Strappi saw her coming, but it was too late. There was no escape short of running, and captains didn’t run from corporals. He stood his ground, like a rabbit hypnotized by the approaching vixen, and raised his hands as she approached.
   “Now then, Perks, I’m a captain and I had a job to—” he began.
   “And how long do you think you’ll hold that rank, now, sir?” hissed Polly. “When I tell the general about our little fight? And how you sicked the Prince onto us? And how you bullied Wazzer? And about my hair, you sticky little miserable apology for a man! Shufti’s a better man than you and she’s pregnant!”
   “Oh, we knew there were women getting in,” said Strappi. “We just didn’t know how far the rot went—”
   “You took my hair because you thought it meant something to me,” hissed Polly. “Well, you can keep it! I’ll grow some more, and no one is going to stop me, understand? Oh, and one other thing. This is how far the rot goes!”
   It was a blow rather than a slap, and it knocked him down so hard that he rolled. But he was Strappi, and staggered upright with a finger pointed for vengeance.
   “She struck a superior officer!” he screamed.
   A few heads turned. They looked at Strappi. They looked at Polly. Then they looked back grinning to what they had been doing.
   “I should run away again, if I was you,” said Polly. She turned on her heel, feeling the heat of his impotent fury.
   As she was about to rejoin Jade and Maladict, someone touched her arm. She spun round.
   “What? Oh… sorry, Major Clogston,” she said. She felt she wouldn’t be able to deal with Strappi again, not without committing murder. That would probably get her into trouble, even now.
   “I should like to thank you for a most enjoyable day,” said the major. “I did my best, but I think we were all… outclassed.”
   “Thank you, sir,” said Polly.
   “This was a pleasure, Corporal Perks,” said Clogston. “I shall watch your future career with interest and envy. Congratulations. And since in here protocol seems to be flapping loose, I will shake you by the hand.”
   They shook. “And now, we have duties,” said Major Clogston, as Jade arrived with a white sheet on a pole. “Oh, and by the way… my name is Christine. And, you know, I really don’t think I could get used to wearing a dress again…”

   Maladict and Jade were chosen to see Polly through the castle, a troll because a troll commands respect and a vampire because a vampire demands it.
   There were groans and cheers as they elbowed their way along the passages, because news had already got around. That was another reason for taking Jade. Trolls could push.
   “Okay,” said Jackrum, bringing up the rear. “At the bottom of these steps there’s a door, and beyond that door is enemy territory. Put the white flag out first. Important safety tip.”
   “Can’t you come with us, sarge?”
   “Hah, me? I dare say there’s a few people out there who’d take a potshot at me, white flag or no. Don’t you worry. The word’s gone out.”
   “What word’s that, sarge?”
   Jackrum leaned closer. “They ain’t gonna shoot a girl, Perks!”
   “You told them?”
   “Let’s just say that news gets around fast,” said Jackrum. “Grab the advantage. And I’ll find your brother while you’re gone, upon my oath. Oh, one other thing… look at me, Perks.”
   Polly turned in the crowded, jostling corridor.
   Jackrum’s eyes twinkled.
   “I know I can trust you, Perks. Make the most of it, lad. Kissin’ don’t last!”
   Well, that couldn’t be plainer, Polly thought as the armed men by the door beckoned them forward.
   “Stick to the walls, okay, ladies? And be quick with that rag!”
   The heavy door swung open. Half a dozen arrows bounced and pinwheeled along the corridor. Another one tore through the flag.
   Polly waved it desperately. She heard distant shouting, and then cheers.
   “Go! Go!” said a guard, pushing her forward.
   She stepped out into the sudden daylight and, to make sure, waved the flag overhead a few more times. There were men in the courtyard and lining the battlements around it. There were bodies, too.
   A captain, with blood soaking through his jacket, stepped across the fallen and held out his hand.
   “You may give that to me, soldier,” he said.
   “No, sir. I must deliver it to your commander, and wait for his reply, sir.”
   “Then you give it to me, soldier, and I will bring you back the reply. You have surrendered, after all.”

Polly shook her head. “No. This is a truce. That’s not the same thing. I have to hand this over personally and you aren’t big enough.” A thought hit her. “I demand to take this to Commander Vimes!”
   The captain stared at her, and then looked closer. “Aren’t you one of those—”
   “Yes,” said Polly.
   “And you locked them in chains and threw the key away?”
   “Yes,” said Polly, seeing her life start to flash before her eyes.
   “And they had to hop miles with shackles on and no clothes?”
   “Yes!”
   “And you’re just… women?”
   “Yes!” said Polly, letting the “just” go for now.
   The captain leaned closer and spoke while trying not to move his lips.
   “Dan gug show. Ell done. Agout time soes arragunk arsetards ere aken own a eg!”
   He leaned back. “Commander Vimes it is, then. Follow me, miss.”
   Polly felt hundreds of eyes on her as the squad was let into the Inner Keep. There were one or two wolf whistles, because there were more soldiers in there, including quite a few trolls. Jade bent down, snatched up a rock, and hurled it at one of them, hitting him between the eyes.
   “No one move!” shouted Maladict, waving his hands urgently as a hundred men raised their weapons. “That was the troll version of blowing a kiss!”
   And, indeed, the troll who had been hit was waving at Jade, a little unsteadily.
   “Can we knock it off with the lovey-dovey, please?” said Polly to Jade. “The soft people are likely to get the wrong idea.”
   “It’s stopped the whistling, though,” Maladict observed.
   More people watched them as they climbed flight after flight of stone steps. No one could take this place, Polly could see that. Every flight was seen by another one higher up, every visitor would be sighted on before she’d even glimpsed a face.
   A figure stepped out of the shadows as they reached the next floor. It was a young woman, in old-fashioned leather and mail armour, with a breastplate. She had long, very fair hair; for the first time in weeks, Polly felt a twinge of envy.
   “Thank you, captain, I’ll take over from here,” she said, and nodded to Polly. “Good evening, Corporal Perks… if you would follow me, please?”
   “She’s a woman! And a sergeant!” Maladict whispered.
   “Yes, I know,” said Polly.
   “But she gave an order to that captain!”
   “Maybe she’s a political…”
   “And she’s obviously female!”
   “I’m not blind, Mal,” said Polly.
   “I’m not deaf, either,” said the woman, turning and smiling. “My name is Angua. If you will wait here, I’ll have some coffee sent in. There’s a bit of an argument going on in there at the moment.”
   They were in a sort of anteroom, not much more than a widened area of corridor with a few benches. There were big double doors at the far end, behind which voices were being raised. Angua left.
   “Just like that?” said Maladict. “What’s to stop us taking over the place?”
   “All those men with crossbows we passed on the way up?” said Polly. Why us? she thought, looking blankly at the wall.
   “Oh, yes. Those. Yes,” said Maladict. “Er… Poll?”
   “Yes?”
   “I’m actually Maladicta.” She sat back. “There! I’ve told someone!”
   “Dat’s nice,” said Jade.
   “Oh, good,” said Polly. I’d be going out to give the latrines their afternoon swill about now, she thought. This has got to be better than that, right?
   “I thought I did pretty well,” Maladicta went on. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: vampires have a pretty good time of it whatever sex they are, right? But it’s the same everywhere. Velvet dresses, underwired nightgowns, acting crazy all the time, and don’t let’s even go near the whole ‘bathing in virgin’s blood’ thing. You get taken a lot more seriously if they think you’re male.”
   “Right,” said Polly. All in all, it’s been a long day. A bath would be nice.
   “I thought I did pretty well right up until the whole coffee thing. A necklace of the roast beans, that’d be the thing. I’ll be better prepared another time.”
   “Yeah,” said Polly. “Good idea. With real soap.”
   “Soap? How would soap work?”
   “What? Oh… sorry,” said Polly.
   “Did you hear anything I said?”
   “Oh, that. Yes. Thank you for telling me.”
   “Is that it?”
   “Yes,” said Polly. “You’re you. That’s good. I’m me, whoever I am. Tonker’s Tonker. It’s all just… people. Look, a week ago the high spot of my day was reading the new graffiti in the men’s latrines. I think you’d agree that a lot has happened since then. I don’t think I’m going to be surprised at anything anymore. The coffee-bean necklace sounds good, by the way.” She drummed her feet on the floor impatiently. “Right now, I just wish they’d hurry up in there.”
   They sat and listened, and then Polly became aware of a little column of smoke coming from behind a bench on the other side of the space. She walked over and peered over the back. A man was lying there, head on one arm, smoking a cigar. He nodded when he saw Polly’s face.
   “They’re going to be ages yet,” he said.
   “Aren’t you that sergeant I saw in the old kitchen? Making faces behind Lord Rust from Ankh-Morpork?”
   “I was not making faces, miss. That’s how I always look when Lord Rust is talking. And I was a sergeant once, it’s true, but, look, no stripes.”
   “Make der faces once too often?” said Jade.
   The man laughed. He hadn’t shaved today, by the look of it. “Something like that, yes. Come along to my office, it’s warmer. I only came out here because people complain about the smoke. Don’t worry about that lot in there, they can wait. I’m only down the passage.”
   They followed him. The door was, indeed, only a few steps away. The man pushed it open, walked across the little room beyond, and sat down in a chair. The table in front of it overflowed with papers.
   “I think we can get enough food up here to see you through the winter,” he said, picking up a sheet of paper apparently at random. “Grain’s a bit short but we’ve got a handy surplus of white drumhead cabbage, keeps wonderfully, full of vitamins and minerals… but you might want to keep your windows open, if you follow me. Don’t stare. I know the country’s a month away from starvation.”
   “But I haven’t even shown this letter to anyone!” Polly protested. “You don’t know what we—”
   “I don’t have to,” said the man. “This is about food and mouths. Good grief, we don’t have to fight you. Your country is going to fall over anyway. Your fields are overgrown, most of your farmers are old men, the bulk of the grub goes to the army. And armies don’t do much for agriculture except marginally raise the fertility of the battlefield. The honour, the pride, the glory… none of that matters. This war stops, or Borogravia dies. Do you understand?”
   Polly remembered the gale-swept fields, the old people salvaging what they could…
   “We’re just messengers,” she said. “I can’t negotiate—”
   “You know your god’s dead?” said the man. “Nothing left but a voice, according to some of our priests. The last three Abominations were against rocks, ears and accordion players. Okay, I might be with him on the last one, but… rocks? Hah! We can advise you if you’re going to look for a new one, by the way. Om’s very popular at the moment. Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns you can sing in the bath. You won’t get Offler the Crocodile God up here with your winters, and the Unorthodox Potato Church is probably a bit too uncomplicated for—”
   Polly started to laugh. “Look, sir, I’m just a… what is your name, please?”
   “Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates.”
   “Vimes the Butcher?” said Maladicta.
   “Oh, yes. I’ve heard that one,” said Vimes, grinning. “Your people haven’t really mastered the fine art of propaganda. And I’m telling you because—well, have you heard of Om?”
   They shook their heads.
   “No? Well, in the Old Book of Om there’s a story about some city full of wickedness, and Om decided to destroy it with holy fire, this being back in the old smiting days before he’d got religion. But Bishop Horn protested about this plan, and Om said he’d spare the city if the bishop could find one good man. Well, the bishop knocked on every door, and turned up empty-handed. It turned out, after the place had been reduced to a glass plain, that there were probably plenty of good people there and, being good, they weren’t the sort to admit it. Death by modesty, a terrible thing. And you, ladies, are the only Borogravians I know much about, apart from the military who, frankly, aren’t chatty. You don’t appear to be as insane as your country’s foreign policy. You’re the one piece of international goodwill it has. A bunch of young boys outwitting crack cavalrymen? Kicking the Prince in the fork? People at home liked that. And now it turns out that you’re girls? They’ll love that. Mr de Worde is going to have fun with that when he finds out.”
   “But we don’t have any power! We can’t negotiate a—”
   “What does Borogravia want? Not the country. I mean the people.”
   Polly opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again and thought about the answer. “To be left alone,” she said. “By everybody. For a while, anyway. We can change things.”
   “You’ll accept the food?”
   “We are a proud country.”
   “What are you proud of?”
   It came swiftly, like a blow, and Polly realized how wars happened. You took that shock that had run through her, and let it boil.
   …it may be corrupt, benighted and stupid, but it’s ours…
   Vimes was watching her face. “From this desk here,” he said, “the only thing your country has to be proud of right now is you women.”
   Polly stayed silent. She was still trying to cope with the anger. It made it worse to know that he was right. We have our pride. And that’s what we’re proud of. We’re proud of being proud…
   “Very well, then, will you buy some food?” said Vimes, watching her carefully. “On credit? I suppose you still have someone in your country who knows about the kind of international affairs that don’t involve edged weapons?”
   “People would accept that, yes,” said Polly hoarsely.
   “Good. I’ll send a clacks back tonight.”
   “And why would you be so generous, Mr Ankh-Morpork?”
   “Because I’m from a wonderfully warm-hearted city, corporal… hah, no, I can’t say that and keep a straight face,” said Vimes. “Do you want to know the truth? Most people in Ankh-Morpork hadn’t even heard of your country until the clacks went down. There’s dozens of little countries round here selling one another hand-painted clogs or beer made from turnips. Then they knew you as the bloody mad idiots who fight everyone. Now they know you as… well, people who’d do just what they’d do. And tomorrow they’ll laugh. And there’re other people, people who sit and think about the future every day, who believe it’s worth a little to be friends with a country like that.”
   “Why?” said Maladicta suspiciously.
   “Because Ankh-Morpork is a friend to all freedom-loving people everywhere!” said Vimes. “Gods, it must be the way I tell ’em. Ze chzy Brogocia proztfik!” He saw their blank expressions. “Sorry, I’ve been away from home too long. And frankly, I’d rather be back there.”
   “But why did you say you were a cherry pancake?” said Polly.
   “Didn’t I say I am a citizen of Borogravia?”
   “No. Brogocia is the cherry pancake, Borogvia is the country.”
   “Well, I made the effort, at least. Look, we’d rather Prince Heinrich wasn’t ruler of two countries. That’d make one quite big country, much bigger than the other ones round here. So it’d probably get bigger still. He wants to be like Ankh-Morpork, you see. But what he means is he wants power, and influence. He doesn’t want to earn them, he doesn’t want to grow into them or learn the hard way how to use them. He just wants them.”
   “That’s playing politics!” said Maladicta.
   “No. It’s just telling the truth. Make peace with him, by all means. Just leave the road and the towers alone. You’ll get the food anyway, at whatever price. Mr de Worde’s article will see to that.”
   “You sent the coffee,” said Polly.
   “Oh, yes. That was Corporal Buggy Swires, my eye in the sky. He’s a gnome.”
   “And you set a werewolf on us?”
   “Well, set is a bit strong. Angua followed you, just to be on the safe side. She’s a werewolf, yes.”
   “The girl we met? She didn’t look like one!”
   “Well, they don’t, usually,” said Vimes. “Right up until the moment when they do, if you see what I mean. And she was following you because I was looking for anything that’d stop thousands of people dying. And that’s not politics either,” said Vimes. He stood up. “And now, ladies, I have to go and present your document to the Alliance leaders.”
   “You came out for a smoke at the right time, didn’t you?” said Polly, slowly and carefully. “You knew we were on our way, and you made sure you’d get to us first.”
   “Of course. Can’t leave this to a bunch of… oh, yes… ruperts.”
   “Where is my brother, Mister Vimes?” said Polly stiffly.
   “You seem very sure I know…” said Vimes, not looking her in the face.
   “I’m certain you do,” said Polly.
   “Why?”
   “Because no one else does!”
   Vimes stubbed out his cigar. “Angua was right about you,” he said. “Yes, I, er, arranged for him to be put in what I like to call ‘protective custody’. He’s fine. Angua will take you to him now, if you like. Your brother, possibility of revenge, blackmail, who knows what… I thought he might be safer if I knew exactly who held the keys.”
   The end of the journey, Polly thought. But it wasn’t, not any more. She got the distinct impression that the man opposite was reading her thoughts.
   “That’s what all this was about, isn’t it?” he said.
   “No, sir. It’s just how it started,” said Polly.
   “Well, it continues like this,” said Vimes. “This is going to be a busy day. Right now I shall take this offer of a truce into the room down the passage and present it to the very important men”—his voice went flat to say those words—“who are discussing what to do about Borogravia. You’ll get a truce, the food, and probably some other help.”
   “How do you know that?” said Polly. “They haven’t discussed it!”
   “Not yet. But, as I said… I used to be a sergeant. Angua!”
   The door opened. Angua came in. As Vimes had said, you couldn’t tell who was a werewolf until you found out…
   “And now I’d better have a shave before I go to see the very important men,” said Vimes. “People set a lot of store by shaving.”

   Polly felt embarrassed walking down the steps with Sergeant Angua. How did you start a conversation? “So you’re a werewolf, then?” would be sort of idiotic. She was glad that Jade and Maladicta had been left in the waiting room.
   “Yes, I am,” said Angua.
   “But I didn’t say it!” Polly burst out.
   “No, but I’m used to situations like this. I’ve learned to recognize the way people don’t say things. Don’t worry.”
   “You followed us,” said Polly.
   “Yes.”
   “So you must’ve known we weren’t men.”
   “Oh, yes,” said Angua. “My sense of smell is much better than my eyesight, and I’ve got sharp eyes. Humans are smelly creatures. For what it’s worth, though, I wouldn’t have told Mister Vimes if I hadn’t heard you talking to one another. Anyone could have heard you, you don’t need to be a werewolf for that. Everyone’s got secrets they don’t want known. Werewolves are a bit like vampires in that way. We’re tolerated… if we’re careful.”
   “That I can understand,” said Polly. So are we, she thought.
   Angua stopped by a heavy, studded door. “He’s in here,” she said, producing a key and turning it in the lock. “I’ll go back and chat to the others. Come and find me when you’re ready…”
   Polly stepped inside, heart pounding, and there was Paul. And there was a buzzard, on a perch by the open window. And on the wall, where Paul was working so intensely that his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he hadn’t even noticed the door opening, was another buzzard, flying in the heart of the sunrise.
   Right now, Polly could forgive Ankh-Morpork anything. Someone had found Paul a box of coloured chalks.

   The long day got longer. She had a kind of power. They all did. People gave them space, watched them. The fighting had stopped and they were the cause and no one knew exactly why.
   There were lighter moments. They might have power, but General Froc gave the orders. And General Froc might give the orders, but it was permissible to suppose that it was Sergeant-major Jackrum who anticipated them.
   And perhaps that was why Shufti asked Polly and Tonker to go with her, and they were ushered into a room where a couple of guards stood on either side of a sheepish young man called Johnny who had fair hair and blue eyes and a gold earring and his trousers round his knees in case Shufti wanted to check his other distinguishing feature.
   He also had a black eye.
   “This the one?” said Major Clogston, who was leaning against the wall eating an apple. “The general has asked me to tell you that there will be a dowry of five hundred crowns, with the army’s compliments.”
   Johnny brightened up slightly when he heard that. Shufti gave him a long and careful look.
   “No,” she said at last, turning away. “That’s not him.”
   Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: “No one asked you to speak, private!” And, such was the nature of the day, he shut up.
   “I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,” said Clogston. “We’ve got any amount of earrings, heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies—and, surprisingly, a fair number of carbuncles. But he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?”
   “Positive,” said Shufti, still staring at the boy. “My Johnny must have been killed.”
   Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. “In that case, uh, the general did say, informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension could be arranged,” she said.
   “Can she do that?” whispered Polly.
   “For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,” said Clogston. “Don’t think too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical man.”
   “No,” said Shufti. “I… it’s… well, no. Thank you, but no.”
   “Are you sure?” said Polly.
   “Positive,” said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally a defying kind of person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it ought to have been, having overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.
   Clogston stepped back. “Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough, then. Take that man away, sergeant.”
   “Just a moment,” said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered Johnny, stood in front of him, held out her hand and said: “Before they take you away again I want my sixpence back, you son of a bitch!”
   Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There had been another little victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even square pebbles will roll.


   Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made available as the women’s barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women. Men, grown men, had fallen over themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood for the fire. It was all very strange. Polly felt they were being treated as something dangerous and fragile, like, say, a huge and wonderful jar full of poison. She turned the corner into the big courtyard and there was de Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no escaping them. They were definitely people looking for someone.
   The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope. “Er… so you’re women, then?” he said.
   “Er, yes,” said Polly.
   De Worde took out his notebook.
   “This is an amazing story,” he said. “You really fought your way here and got in disguised as washerwomen?”
   “Well, we were women, and we did some washing,” said Polly. “I suppose it was quite a cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised, you could say.”
   “General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,” de Worde went on.
   “Oh, he has got promoted, then?” said Polly.
   “Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.”
   “Yes, I suppose we did,” said Polly. “Yes. Very well, for women.”
   “The general went on to say…” de Worde consulted his notebook, “that you are a credit to the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to comment?”
   He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging argument that had just broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your country. We’re proud of you. Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to start somewhere…
   “That’s very nice of him,” said Polly. “But we just want to get the job done and go home. That’s what soldiers want.” She thought for a moment, and then added: “And hot sweet tea.” To her amazement, he wrote this down.
   “Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a different place if more women were soldiers?” de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she noted, so this was probably a joky kind of question.
   “Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,” said Polly. And I’d like to watch her expression if you do…
   “Yes, but what do you think, miss?”
   “That’s corporal, please.”
   “Sorry, corporal… and?”
   The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things down, and then they got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words can change everything…
   “Well,” said Polly, “I—”
   There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other end of the courtyard, and some cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because Zlobenian officers were converging in a great hurry.
   “Ah, I see the Prince is back,” said de Worde. “He’s probably not going to be happy about the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.”
   “Can he do anything about it?”
   De Worde shrugged. “He left some very senior officers here. It would be rather shocking if he did.”
   The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or rather, she realized, the big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers trailed after him, and were brushed off. But when a white oblong was waved in front of his face by one man he grabbed it and stopped so quickly that several other officers bumped into him.
   “Um,” said de Worde. “The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.”
   The paper was thrown down.
   “Yes, probably that was it,” said de Worde.
   Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression.
   It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in his notebook and cleared his throat.
   “You’re going to talk to him?” said Polly. “In that mood? He’ll cut you down!”
   “I have to,” said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached the doorway he took a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly, “Your highness? I wonder if I could have a word?”
   Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their gazes locked.
   The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to his sword they closed on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was some frantic whispering, in which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on the broad theme of “What?” could be heard, followed by a toccata on “The hell you say!”
   The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some dust off his spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to Polly’s horror, strolled towards her…
   …with one white-gloved hand extended.
   Oh no, she thought. But he’s cleverer than Vimes thinks he is, and he can control his temper. And, suddenly, I’m everyone’s mascot.
   “For the good of our great countries,” said Heinrich, “it is suggested that we publicly shake the hand of friendship.” He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.
   Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently shook it.
   “Oh, ver’ good,” said Otto, grasping his picture box. “I can only take zer vun, of course, because unfortunately I shall have to use flash. Just vun moment…”
   Polly was learning that an art form which happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment. Heinrich and Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.
   “So,” muttered the Prince, “the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!”
   Polly kept her fixed grin. “Do you often menace frightened women?” she said.
   “Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life? And you showed spirit!”
   “Everyone say chiz!” Otto commanded. “Vun, two, three… oh, bug—”
   By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. “Vun day I hope to find a filter zat vorks,” he muttered. “Thank you, everyvun.”
   “That was for peace and goodwill between nations,” said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting go of the Prince’s hand. She took a step back. “And this, your highness, is for me…”
   Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go, and you could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch.
   She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in the ham-and-eggs.
   And now, there was one other little thing.

   The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through the high windows of the Keep’s biggest kitchen. He was sitting alone at a long table by the fire, in full uniform, and he was eating a slab of thick bread plastered with pork dripping. A mug of beer was not far from his other hand. He looked up as she approached, and nodded companionably towards another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro. “Pork drippin’ with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,” he said. “That’s the ticket. You can keep your cuisine. Want a slice?” He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing attendance on him.
   “Not right now, sarge.”
   “Sure?” said Jackrum. “There’s an old sayin’: kissing don’t last, cooking do. I hope that it’s one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.”
   Polly sat down. “Kissing is lasting so far,” she said.
   “Shufti get sorted out?” said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.
   “To her own satisfaction, sarge.”
   “Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?”
   “Dunno, sarge. I’ll go with Wa—with Alice and the army and see what happens.”
   “Best of luck. Look after ’em, Perks, ’cos I ain’t coming,” said Jackrum.
   “Sarge?” said Polly, shocked.
   “Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I dare say he will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.”
   “You’re sure, sarge?”
   “Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ ‘my country right or wrong’ thing has had its day. Time to put my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping? It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style, in dripping.”
   Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while Jackrum engulfed it.
   “Funny thing, really,” she said, at last.
   “What’s that, Perks?”
   “Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns out you’re really part of someone else’s story. Wazz—Alice will be the one they remember. We just had to get her here.”
   Jackrum said nothing but, as Polly would have predicted, pulled his crumpled bag of chewing tobacco out of his pocket. She slipped a hand in her own pocket and pulled out a small packet. Pockets, she thought. We’ve got to hang on to pockets. A soldier needs pockets.
   “Try this, sarge,” she said. “Go on, open it.”
   It was a small, soft leather pouch, with a drawstring. Jackrum held it up so that it twisted this way and that.
   “Well, Perks, upon my oath I am not a swearing man—” he began.
   “No, you’re not. I’ve noticed,” said Polly. “But that grubby old paper was getting on my nerves. Why didn’t you ever get a proper pouch made for yourself? One of the saddlers here sewed that up for me in half an hour.”
   “Well, that’s life, isn’t it?” said Jackrum. “Every day you think ‘ye gods, it’s about time I had a new bag’, but then it all gets so busy you end up using the old one. Thank you, Perks.”
   “Oh, I thought, ‘What can I give the man who has everything?’ and that was all I could afford,” said Polly. “But you don’t have everything, sarge. Sarge? You don’t, do you?”
   She sensed him freeze over.
   “You stop right there, Perks,” he said, lowering his voice.
   “I just thought you might like to show someone that locket of yours, sarge,” said Polly cheerfully. “The one round your neck. And don’t glare at me, sarge. Oh, yeah, I could walk away and I’d never be sure, really sure, and maybe you’d never show it to anyone else, ever, or tell them the story, and one day we’ll both be dead and… well, what a waste, eh?”
   Jackrum glared.
   “Upon your oath, you are not a dishonest man,” said Polly. “Good one, sarge. You told people every day.”
   Around them, beyond the dome, the kitchen buzzed with the busyness of women. Women always seemed to be doing things with their hands—holding babies, or pans, or plates, or wool, or a brush, or a needle. Even when they were talking, busyness was happening.
   “No one would believe yer,” said Jackrum, at last.
   “Who would I want to tell?” said Polly. “And you’re right. No one would believe me. I’d believe you, though.”
   Jackrum stared into his fresh mug of beer, as if trying to see the future in the foam. He seemed to reach a decision, pulled the gold chain out of his noisome vest, unfastened the locket, and gently snapped it open.
   “There you go,” he said, passing it across. “Much good may it do you.”
   There was a miniature painting in each side of the locket: a dark-haired girl, and a blond young man in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.
   “Good one of you,” said Polly.
   “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,” said Jackrum.
   “No, honestly,” said Polly. “I look at the picture, and look at you… I can see that face in her face. Paler, of course. Not so… full. And who was the boy?”
   “William, his name was,” said Jackrum.
   “Your sweetheart?”
   “Yes.”
   “And you followed him into the army…”
   “Oh, yeah. Same old story. I was a big strong girl, and… well, you can see the picture. The artist did his best, but I was never an oil painting. Barely a watercolour, really. Where I came from, what a man looked for in a future wife was someone who could lift a pig under each arm. And a couple of days later I was lifting a pig under each arm, helping my dad, and one of my clogs came off in the muck and the ol’ man was yelling at me and I thought: the hell with this, Willie never yelled. Got hold of some men’s clothes, never you mind how, cut my hair right off, kissed the Duchess, and was a Chosen Man within three months.”
   “What’s that?”
   “It’s what we used to call a corporal,” said Jackrum. “Chosen Man. Yeah, I smiled about that, too. And I was on my way. The army’s a piece of piss compared to running a pig farm and looking after three lazy brothers.”
   “How long ago was that, sarge?”
   “Couldn’t say, really. I swear I don’t know how old I am, and that’s the truth,” said Jackrum. “Lied about my age so often I ended up believing me.” She began, very carefully, to transfer the chewing tobacco into the new bag.
   “And your young man?” said Polly quietly.
   “Oh, we had great times, great times,” said Jackrum, stopping for a moment to stare at nothing. “He never got promoted on account of his stutter, but I had a good shouty voice and officers like that. But Willie never minded, not even when I made it to sergeant. And then he got killed at Sepple, right next to me.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “You don’t have to be, you didn’t kill him,” said Jackrum evenly. “But I stepped over his body and skewered the bugger that did. Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t my fault. We were soldiers. And then a few months later I had a bit of a surprise, and he was called William, too, just like his father. Good job I had a bit of leave, eh? Me gran raised him for me, put him to a trade as an armourer over in Scritz. Good trade, that. No one kills a good armourer. They tell me he looks just like his dad. A captain I met once had bought a bloody good sword off him. Showed it to me, not knowin’ the hist’ry, o’ course. Damn good sword. It had scrollwork on the hilt and everything, very classy. He’s married with four kids now, I heard. Got a carriage and pair, servants, big house… yeah, I see you’re paying attention…”
   “Wazzer—well, Wazzer and the Duchess said—”
   “Yeah, yeah, they talked about Scritz, and a sword,” said Jackrum. “That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me watchin’ over you lads. I knew you’d survive. The old girl needed you.”
   “So you’ve got to go there, sarge.”
   “Got to? Who says? I’ve served the old girl the whole of my life, and she’s got no call on me now. I’m my own man, always have been.”
   “Are you, sarge?” said Polly.
   “Are you crying, Perks?”
   “Well… it’s a bit sad, sarge.”
   “Oh, I dare say I sobbed a bit too, once in a while,” said Jackrum, still tucking the tobacco into the new pouch. “But when all’s said and done, I’ve had a good life. Saw the cavalry break at the Battle of Slomp. I was part of the Thin Red Line that turned aside the Heavy Brigade at Sheep’s Drift, I saved the Imperial flag from four real bastards at Raladan, and I’ve been to a lot of foreign countries and met some very interesting people, who I mostly subsequently killed before they could do me over good and proper. Lost a lover, still got a son… there’s many a woman who’s faced worse, believe me.”
   “And… you spotted other girls…”
   “Hah! Became a kind of hobby, really. Most of ’em were frightened little things, running away from god knows what. They got found out soon enough. And there were plenty like Shufti, chasin’ their lad. But there were a few who had what I call the twinkle. A bit of fire, maybe. They just needed pointing in the right direction. I gave them a leg up, you might say. A sergeant’s a powerful man, sometimes. A word here, a nod there, sometimes even doctorin’ some paperwork, a whisper in the dark—”
   “—a pair of socks,” said Polly.
   “Yeah, that sort of thing,” said Jackrum, grinning. “Always a big concern to them, the whole latrine business. Least of your worries, I used to say. In peace no one cares, in battle everyone takes a piss the same way, and damn quickly, too. Oh, I helped ’em. I was their whatsit, their eminence grease, and grease it was, too, slidin’ them to the top. Jackrum’s Little Lads, I called ’em.”
   “And they never suspected?”
   “What, suspect Jolly Jack Jackrum, so full of rum and vinegar?” said Jackrum, the old evil grin coming back. “Jack Jackrum, who could stop a bar fight by belchin’? No, sir! I dare say some of ’em suspected something, maybe, I dare say they worked out that there was something going on somewhere, but I was just the big fat sergeant who knew everyone and everything and drank everything, too.”
   Polly dabbed at her eyes. “What are you going to do now, then, if you don’t go to Scritz?”
   “Oh, I’ve got a bit put by,” said Jackrum. “More than a bit, in point of actual fact. Pillage, plunder, loot… it all adds up, what ever you call it. I didn’t piss it all up against a wall like the other lads, right? I expect I can remember most of the bleedin’ places I buried it. Always thought I might open an inn, or maybe a knocking shop… oh, a proper high class place, you don’t have to look at me like that, nothin’ like that stinking tent. No, I’m talkin’ about one with a chef and chandeliers and a lot of red velvet, very exclusive. I’d get some nobby lady to front it and I’d be the bouncer and run the bar. Here’s a tip, lad, for your future career, and it’s one some of the other Little Lads learned for ’emselves: sometimes it’ll help if you visits one of them naughty places, otherwise the men’ll wonder about you. I always used to take a book to read and advise the young lady to get some sleep, ’cos they does a tough job.”
   Polly let that pass, but said: “You don’t want to go back and see your grandchildren?”
   “Wouldn’t wish meself on him, lad,” said Jackrum firmly. “Wouldn’t dare. My boy’s a well-respected man in the town! What’ve I got to offer? He’ll not want some fat ol’ biddy banging on his back door and gobbing baccy juice all over the place and telling him she’s his mother!”
   Polly looked at the fire for a moment, and felt the idea creep into her mind. “What about a distinguished sergeant major, shiny with braid, loaded with medals, arriving at the front door in a grand coach and telling him he’s his father?” she said.
   Jackrum stared.
   “Tides of war, and all that,” Polly went on, mind suddenly racing. “Young love. Duty calls. Families scattered. Hopeless searching. Decades pass. Fond memories. Then… oh, an overheard conversation in a bar, yeah, that’d work. Hope springs. A new search. Greasing palms. The recollections of old women. At last, an address—”
   “What’re you saying, Perks?”
   “You’re a liar, sarge,” said Polly. “Best I’ve ever heard. One last lie pays for all! Why not? You could show him the locket. You could tell him about the girl you left behind you…”
   Jackrum looked away, but said: “You’re a shining bastard of a thinker, Perks. And where would I get a grand coach, anyway?”
   “Oh, sarge! Today? There are… men in high places who’ll give you anything you ask for, right now. You know that. Especially if it means they’d see the back of you. You never put the bite on them for anything much. If I was you, sarge, I’d cash in a few favours while you can. That’s the Ins-and-Outs, sarge. Take the cheese while it’s there, ’cos kissin’ don’t last.”
   Jackrum took a deep, long breath. “I’ll think about it, Perks. Now you push off, all right?”
   Polly stood up. “Think hard, sarge, eh? Like you said, anyone who’s got anyone left is ahead of the game right now. Four grandchildren? I’d be a proud kid if I had a grandad who could spit tobacco juice far enough to hit a fly on the opposite wall.”
   “I’m warning you, Perks.”
   “It was just a thought, sarge.”
   “Yeah… right,” Jackrum growled.
   “Thanks for getting us through it, sarge.”
   Jackrum didn’t turn round.
   “I’ll be going, then, sarge.”
   “Perks!” said Jackrum, as she reached the door. Polly stepped back into the room.
   “Yes, sarge?”
   “I… expected better of ’em, really. I thought they’d be better at it than men. Trouble was, they were better than men at being like men. They do say the army can make a man of you, eh? So… whatever it is you are going to do next, do it as you. Good or bad, do it as you. Too many lies and there’s no truth to go back to.”
   “Will do, sarge.”
   “That’s an order, Perks. Oh… and Perks?”
   “Yes, sarge?”
   “Thanks, Perks.”
   Polly paused when she got to the door. Jackrum had turned her chair to the fire, and had settled back. Around him, the kitchen worked.

   Six months passed. The world wasn’t perfect, but it was still turning.
   Polly had kept the newspaper articles. They weren’t accurate, not in the detail, because the writer told… stories, not what was actually happening. They were like paintings, when you had been there and had seen the real thing. But it was true about the march on the castle, with Wazzer on a white horse in front, carrying the flag. And it was true about people coming out of their houses and joining the march, so that what arrived at the gates was not an army but a sort of disciplined mob, shouting and cheering. And it was true that the guards had taken one look at it and had seriously reconsidered their future, and that the gates had swung open even before the horse had clattered onto the drawbridge. There was no fighting, no fighting at all. The shoe had dropped. The country had breathed out.
   Polly didn’t think it was true that the painting of the Duchess, alone on its easel in the big, empty throne room, had smiled when Wazzer walked towards it. Polly had been there and didn’t see it happen, but lots of people swore it had, and you might end up wondering what the truth really was, or whether there were lots of different kinds of truth.
   Anyway, it had worked. And then…
   …they went home. A lot of soldiers did, under the fragile truce. The first snows were already falling and, if people had wanted a war, then the winter had given them one. It came with lances of ice and arrows of hunger, it filled the passes with snow, it made the world as distant as the moon…
   That was when the old dwarf mines had opened up, and pony after pony emerged. It had always been said there were dwarf tunnels everywhere, and not just tunnels; secret canals under the mountains, docks, flights of locks that could lift a barge a mile high in busy darkness, far below the gales on the mountain tops.
   They brought, indeed, cabbage and potatoes and roots and apples and barrels of fat, things that kept. And winter was defeated, and the snowmelt roared down the valleys, and the Kneck scrawled its random wiggles across the flat silt of the valley.
   They’d gone home, and Polly wondered if they’d ever really been away. Were we soldiers? she wondered. They’d been cheered on the road to PrinceMarmadukePiotreAlbertHan sJosephBernhardtWilhelmsberg, and had been much better treated than their rank deserved, and even had a special uniform designed for them. But the vision of Gummy Abbens kept rising in her mind…
   We weren’t soldiers, she decided. We were girls in uniform. We were like a lucky charm. We were mascots. We weren’t real, we were always a symbol of something. We’d done very well, for women. And we were temporary.
   Tonker and Lofty were never going to be dragged back to the School now, and they’d gone their own way. Wazzer had joined the general’s household, and had a room of her own, and quietness, and made herself useful and was never beaten. She’d written Polly a letter, in tiny spiky handwriting. She seemed happy; a world without beatings was heaven. Jade and her beau had wandered off to do something more interesting, as trolls very sensibly did. Shufti… had been on a timetable of her own. Maladicta had disappeared. And Igorina had set up by herself in the capital, dealing with women’s problems, or at least those women’s problems that weren’t men. And senior officers had given them medals, and watched them go with fixed, faint smiles. Kisses don’t last.
   And, now, it wasn’t that good things were happening, it was just that bad things had stopped. The old women still grumbled, but they were left to grumble. No one had any directions, no one had a map, no one was quite certain who was in charge. There were arguments and debates on every street corner. It was frightening and exhilarating. Every day was an exploration. Polly had worn a pair of Paul’s old trousers to clean the floor of the big bar, and had got barely a “hurrumph” from anyone.
   Oh, and the Girls’ Working School had burned down, and on the same day two slim masked figures had robbed a bank. Polly had grinned when she heard that, and hoped that Tonker and Lofty would one day find a way to eat chocolates in a great big room where the world was a different place.
   Shufti, who’d somehow always be Shufti to Polly even if the rest of the world now called her Betty again, had moved into The Duchess. Her baby was called Jack. Paul doted on it.
   And now…
   Someone had been drawing in the gents’ privy again. Polly couldn’t wash it off, so she contented herself with correcting the anatomy. Then she swooshed the place clean—at least, clean by pub urinal standards—with a couple of buckets, and ticked off the chore, just as she did every morning.
   When she arrived back in the bar, there were a group of worried men there, talking to her father. They looked mildly frightened when she strode in.
   “What’s happening?” she said.
   Her father nodded to Gummy Abbens, and everyone stepped back a little. What with the spittle and the bad breach, you never wanted a conversation with Gummy to be particularly intimate.
   “The swede-eatersh is at it again!” he said. “They’re gonna invade ’cos the Prince saysh we belong to him now!”
   “It’s all down to him being the Duchess’s distant cousin,” said Polly’s father.
   “But I heard it still wasn’t settled!” said Polly. “Anyway, there’s still a truce!”
   “Sheems like he’s shettling it,” said Gummy.
   The rest of the day passed at an accelerated pace. There were groups of people talking urgently in the streets, and a crowd around the gates to the town hall. Every so often a clerk would come out and nail another communique on the gates; the crowd would close over it like a hand, open again like a flower.
   Polly elbowed her way to the front, ignoring the mutterings around her, and scanned the sheets.
   The same old stuff. They were recruiting again. The same old words. The same old croakings of long dead soldiers, inviting the living to join them. General Froc might be female, but he was also, as Blouse would have said, “a bit of an old woman”. Either that or the heaviness of those epaulettes had weighed her down.
   Kissing don’t last. Oh, the Duchess had come alive before them and turned the world upside down for a space and maybe they had all decided to be better people, and out of certain oblivion had come a space to breathe.
   But then… had it really happened? Even Polly sometimes wondered, and she had been there. Was it just a voice in their heads, some kind of hallucination? Weren’t soldiers in desperate straits famous for seeing visions of gods and angels? And somewhere in the course of the long winter the miracle had faded, and people had said “yes, but we’ve got to be practical.”
   All we were given was a chance, thought Polly. No miracle, no rescue, no magic. Just a chance.
   She walked back to the inn, her mind buzzing. When she got there, a package was waiting. It was quite long, and heavy.
   “It came all the way from Scritz on the cart,” said Shufti excitedly. She’d been working in the kitchen. It had become, now, her kitchen. “I wonder what it can be?” she said pointedly.
   Polly levered the lid off the rough wooden crate, and found that it was full of straw with an envelope lying on top of it. She opened it.
   Inside was an iconograph. It looked expensively done, a stiff family group with curtains and a potted palm in the background to give everything a bit of style. On the left was a middle-aged man looking proud; on the right was a woman of about the same age, looking rather puzzled but nevertheless pleased because her husband was happy; and here and there, staring at the viewer with variations of smile and squint, and expressions extending from interest to a sudden recollection that they should have gone to the toilet before posing, were children ranging from tall and gangly to small and smugly sweet.
   And sitting on a chair in the middle, the focus of it all, was Sergeant-major Jackrum, shining like the sun.
   Polly stared, and then turned the picture over. On the back was written, in big black letters: “SM Jackrum’s Last Stand!” and, underneath, “Don’t need these.”
   She smiled, and pulled aside the straw. In the middle of the box, wrapped in cloth, were a couple of cutlasses.
   “Is that old Jackrum?” said Shufti, picking up the picture.
   “Yes. He’s found his son,” said Polly, unwinding a blade. Shufti shuddered when she saw it.
   “Evil things,” she said.
   “Things, anyway,” said Polly. She laid both the cutlasses on the table, and was about to lift the box out of the way when she saw something small in the straw at the bottom. It was oblong, and wrapped in thin leather.
   It was a notebook, with a cheap binding and musty yellowing pages.
   “What’s that?” said Shufti.
   “I think it’s his address book,” said Polly, flicking through the pages.
   This is it, she thought. It’s all here. Generals and majors and captains, oh my. There must be… hundreds. Maybe a thousand! Names, real names, promotions, dates… everything…
   She pulled out a white pasteboard rectangle that had been inserted like a bookmark. It showed a rather florid coat of arms and bore the printed legend:

Someone had crossed out the “p” in “frep” and pencilled in an “e” above it.
   It was a sudden strange fancy…
   How many ways can you fight a war? Polly wondered. We have the clacks now. I know a man who writes things down. The world turns. Plucky little countries seeking self-determination… could be useful to big countries with plans of their own.
   Time to grab the cheese.
   Polly’s expression as she stared at the wall would have frightened a number of important people.
   They would have been even more concerned at the fact that she spent the next several hours writing things down, because it occurred to Polly that General Froc had not got where she was today by being stupid, and therefore she could profit from following her example. She copied out the entire notebook, and sealed it in an old jam jar, which she hid in the roof of the stables. She wrote a few letters. And she got her uniform out of the wardrobe and inspected it critically.
   The uniforms that had been made for them had a special, additional quality that could only be called… girlie. They had more braid, they were better tailored, and they had a long skirt with a bustle rather than trousers. The shakos had plumes, too.
   Her tunic had a sergeant’s stripes. It had been a joke. A sergeant of women. The world had been turned upside down, after all.
   They’d been mascots, good-luck charms… And, perhaps, on the march to PrinceMarmadukePiotreAlbertHan sJosephBernhardtWilhelmsberg a joke was what everyone needed. But, maybe, when the world turns upside down, you can turn a joke upside down too. Thank you, Gummy, even though you didn’t know what it was you were teaching me. When they’re laughing at you, their guard is down. When their guard is down, you can kick them in the fracas.
   She examined herself in the mirror. Her hair, now, was just long enough to be a nuisance without being long enough to be attractive, so she brushed it and left it at that. She put the uniform on, but with the skirt over her trousers, and tried to put aside the nagging feeling that she was dressing up as a woman.
   There. She looked completely harmless. She looked slightly less harmless with both cutlasses and one of the horsebows on her back, especially if you knew that the inn’s dartboards now had deep holes in the bullseyes from all the practising.
   She crept along the hall to the window that overlooked the inn yard. Paul was up a ladder, repainting the sign. Her father was steadying the ladder and calling out instructions in his normal way, which was to call out the instruction just a second or two after you’d already started doing it. And Shufti, although Polly was the only one in The Duchess who still called her that and knew why, was watching them, holding Jack. It made a lovely picture. For a moment, she wished she had a locket.
   The Duchess was smaller than she’d thought. But if you had to protect it by standing in the doorway with a sword, you were too late. Caring for small things had to start with caring for big things, and maybe the world wasn’t big enough.
   The note she left on her dressing table read: “Shufti, I hope you and Jack are happy here. Paul, you look after her. Dad, I’ve never taken any wages, but I need a horse. I’ll try to have it sent back. I love you all. If I don’t come back, burn this letter and look in the roof of the stables.”
   She dropped out of the window, saddled up a horse in the stables, and let herself out of the back gate. She didn’t mount up until she was out of earshot, and then rode down to the river.
   Spring was pouring through the country. Sap was rising. In the woods, a ton of timber was growing every minute. Everywhere, birds were singing.
   There was a guard on the ferry. He eyed her nervously as she led the horse aboard, and then grinned. “’Morning, miss!” he said cheerfully.
   Oh, well… time to start. Polly marched in front of the puzzled man.
   “Are you trying to be smart?” she demanded, inches from his face.
   “No, miss—”
   “That’s ‘sergeant’, mister!” said Polly. “Let’s try again, shall we? I said, are you trying to be smart?”
   “No, sergeant!”
   Polly leaned until her nose was an inch from his. “Why not?”
   The grin faded. This was not a soldier on the fast track to promotion. “Huh?” he managed.
   “If you are not trying to be smart, mister, you’re happy to be stupid!” shouted Polly. “And I’m up to here with stupid, understand?”
   “Yeah, but—”
   “But what, soldier?”
   “Yeah, but… well… but… nothing, sergeant,” said the soldier.
   “That’s good.” Polly nodded at the ferrymen. “Time to go?” she suggested, but in the tones of an order.
   “Couple of people just coming down the road, sergeant,” said one of them, a faster man with an uptake.
   They waited. There were, in fact, three people. One of them was Maladicta, in full uniform.
   Polly said nothing until the ferry was out in mid-stream. The vampire gave her the kind of smile only a vampire can give. It would have been sheepish, if sheep had different teeth.
   “Thought I’d try again,” she said.
   “We’ll find Blouse,” said Polly.
   “He’s a major now,” said Maladicta. “And happy as a flea because they’ve named a kind of fingerless glove after him, I heard. What do we want him for?”
   “He knows about the clacks. He knows about other ways war can be fought. And I know… people,” said Polly.
   “Ah. Do you mean the ‘Upon my oath, I am not a lying man, but I know people’ kind of people?”
   “Those were the kind of people I had in mind, yes.” The river slapped against the side of the ferry.
   “Good,” said Maladicta.
   “I don’t know where it’s going to lead, though,” said Polly.
   “Ah. Even better.”
   At which point, Polly decided that she knew enough of the truth to be going on with. The enemy wasn’t men, or women, or the old, or even the dead. It was just bleedin’ stupid people, who came in all varieties. And no one had the right to be stupid.
   She looked at the other two passengers who’d sidled aboard. They were country lads in ragged, ill-fitting clothes, keeping away from her and staring intently at the deck. But one glance was enough. The world turned upside down, and history repeated. For some reason, that suddenly made her feel very happy.
   “Going to join up, lads?” she said, cheerily.
   There was some mumbling on the theme of “yes”.
   “Good. Then stand up straight,” said Polly. “Let’s have a look at you. Chins up. Ah. Well done. Shame you didn’t practise walking in trousers, and I notice you didn’t bring an extra pair of socks.”
   They stared, mouths open.
   “What are your names?” said Polly. “Your real names, please?”
   “Er… Rosemary,” one of them began.
   “I’m Mary,” said the other. “I heard girls were joining, but everyone laughed, so I thought I’d better pretend to—”
   “Oh, you can join as men if you want,” said Polly. “We need a few good men.”
   The girls looked at one another.
   “You get better swear words,” said Polly. “And the trousers are useful. But it’s your choice.”
   “A choice?” said Rosemary.
   “Certainly,” said Polly. She put a hand on a shoulder of each girl, winked at Maladicta and added: “You are my little lads—or not, as the case may be—and I will look after… you.”
   And the new day was a great big fish.
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   1. Trolls might not be quick thinkers but they don’t forget in a hurry, either.
   2. And allowing for the fact that all pigeons who know how birds of prey catch are dead, and therefore capable of slightly less thought than a living pigeon.
   3. A woman always has half an onion left over, no matter what the size of the onion, the dish or the woman.
   4. And even then it was the kind of home that has a burned-out vehicle on the lawn.
   5. Lieutenant Blouse read only the more technical history books.
   6. Actually a tree is not, technically, required, but seems to be insisted upon for reasons of style.
   7. And failed to hit anything, especially a duck. This is so unusual in situations like this that it should be reported under new humour regulations. If it had hit a duck, which quacked and then landed on somebody’s head, this would of course have been very droll and would certainly have been reported. Instead, it drifted in the breeze a little and landed in an oak tree some thirty feet away, where it missed a squirrel.
   8. It’s hard to be an ornithologist and walk through a wood when all around you the world is shouting: “Bugger off, this is my bush! Aargh, the nest thief! Have sex with me, I can make my chest big and red!”
   9. It is an established fact that, despite everything society can do, girls of seven are magnetically attracted to the colour pink.
   10. Every long-established kitchen has one of these, and no one ever remembers why. It is generally for something that no one does any more and, even when it was done, it wasn’t done with any real enthusiasm, such as celery basting, walnut shredding or, in the worst case, edible dormouse stuffing.