Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (13 page)

 
 
  
the shoulder. Now each horse had a pair of boots hanging from its saddle, except for the
leading horse, a truly magnificent beast upon which Corporal Scallot sat like an afterthought.
‘I’m no donkey-walloper as you know, Threeparts,’ said Jackrum, as he finished lashing
the crutches behind the saddle, ‘but this is a hell of a good horse you’ve got here.’
‘Damn right, sarge. You could feed a platoon for a week off’f it!’ said the corporal.
‘Sure you won’t come with us?’ Jackrum added, standing back. ‘I reckon you still must’ve
one or two things left for the bastards to cut off, eh?’
‘Thank you, sarge, it’s a kind offer,’ said Threeparts. ‘But fast horses are going to be at a
real premium soon, and I’ll be in on the ground floor, as you might say. This lot’ll be worth
three years’ pay.’ He turned in the saddle and nodded at the squad. ‘Best of luck, lads,’ he
added cheerfully. ‘You’ll walk with Death every day, but I’ve seen ‘im and he’s been known
to wink. And remember: fill your boots with soup!’ He urged the horses into a walk, and
disappeared with his trophies into the gloom.
Jackrum watched him go, shook his head, and turned to the recruits. ‘All right, ladies—
What’s funny, Private Halter?’
‘Er, nothing, sarge, I just . . . thought of something . . .’ said Tonker, almost choking.
‘You ain’t paid to think of things, you’re paid to march. Do it!’
The squad marched away. The rain slackened to nothing but the wind rose a little, rattling
windows, blowing through the deserted houses, opening and shutting doors like someone
looking for something they could have sworn they put down here only a moment ago. That
was all that moved in Plotz, except for one candle flame, down near the floor in the back
room of the deserted barracks.
The candle had been tilted so that it leaned against a cotton thread fastened between the
legs of a stool. This meant that when the candle burned low enough, it would burn through
the thread and fall all the way to the floor and into a ragged trail of straw that led to a pile of
palliasses on which had been stood two ancient cans of lamp oil.
It took about an hour in the wet, dejected night, for this to happen, and then all the
windows blew out.
Tomorrow dawned on Borogravia like a great big fish. A pigeon rose over the forests,
banked slightly, and headed straight for the valley of the Kneck. Even from here, the black
stone bulk of the keep was visible, rising above the sea of trees. The pigeon sped on, one
spark of purpose in the fresh new morning—
—and squawked as darkness dropped from the sky, gripping it in talons of steel. Buzzard
and pigeon tumbled for a moment, and then the buzzard gained a little height and flapped
onwards.
The pigeon thought: OOOOOOOOO! But had it been more capable of coherent thought,
and known something about how birds of prey catch pigeons*, it might have wondered why it
was being gripped so . . . kindly. It was being held, not squeezed. As it was, all it could think
was: OOOOOOOOO!
* 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.

 
 
  
The buzzard reached the valley and began to circle low over the keep. As it gyred, a tiny
figure detached itself from the leather harness on its back and, with great care, inched itself
around the body and down to the talons. It reached the imprisoned pigeon, knelt on it and put
its arms round the bird’s neck. The buzzard skimmed low over a stone balcony, reared in the
air, and let the pigeon go. Bird and tiny man rolled and bounced across the flagstones in a
trail of feathers, and lay still.
Eventually a voice from somewhere under the pigeon said: ‘Bugger . . .’
Urgent footsteps ran across the stones and the pigeon was lifted off Corporal Buggy
Swires. He was a gnome, and barely six inches tall. On the other hand, as the head and only
member of Ankh-Morpork City Watch’s Airborne Section, he spent most of his time so high
that everyone looked small.
‘Are you all right, Buggy?’ said Commander Vimes.
‘Not too bad, sir,’ said Buggy, spitting out a feather. ‘But it wasn’t elegant, was it? I’ll do
better next time. Trouble is, pigeons are too stupid to be steered—’
‘What’ve you got me?’
‘The Times sent this up from their cart, sir! I tracked it all the way!’
‘Well done, Buggy!’
There was a flurry of wings and the buzzard landed on the battlements.
‘And, er— what is his name?’ Vimes added. The buzzard gave him the mad, distant look
of all birds.
‘She’s Morag, sir. Trained by the pictsies. Wonderful bird.’
‘Was she the one we paid a crate of whisky for?’
‘Yes, sir, and worth every dram.’
The pigeon struggled in Vimes’s hand.
‘You wait there, then, Buggy, and I’ll get Reg to come out with some raw rabbit,’ he said,
and walked into his tower.
Sergeant Angua was waiting by his desk, reading the Living Testament of Nuggan. ‘Is that
a carrier pigeon, sir?’ she said, as Vimes sat down.
‘No,’ said Vimes. ‘Hold it a minute, will you? I want to have a look inside the message
capsule.’
‘It does look like a carrier pigeon,’ said Angua, putting down the book.
‘Ah, but messages flying through the air are an Abomination unto Nuggan,’ said Vimes.
‘The prayers of the faithful bounce off them, apparently. No, I think I’ve found someone’s
lost pet and I’m looking in this little tube here to see if I can find the owner’s name and
address, because I am a kind man.’
‘So you’re not actually waylaying field reports from the Times, then, sir?’ said Angua,
grinning.
‘Not as such, no. I’m just such a keen reader that I want to see tomorrow’s news today.
And Mr de Worde seems to have a knack of finding things out. Angua, I want to stop these

 
 
  
stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and if that means allowing the occasional
pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice. I expect it’ll wipe off.’
‘Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?’
When she’d gone Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of
very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the tiny writing, smiling as he did
so. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the picture.
He was still staring at it when Angua returned with Reg and half a bucket of crunchy rabbit
bits.
‘Anything interesting, sir?’ said Angua ingenuously.
‘Well, yes. You could say that. All plans are changed, all bets are off. Ha! Oh, Mr de
Worde, you poor fool . . .’
He handed her the paper. She read the story carefully.
‘Good for them, sir,’ she said. ‘Most of them look fifteen years old, and when you see the
size of those dragoons, well, you’ve got to be impressed.’
‘Yes, yes, you could say that, you could say that,’ said Vimes, his face gleaming like a man
with a joke to share. ‘Tell me, did de Worde interview any Zlobenian high-ups when he
arrived?’
‘No, sir. I understand he was turned away. They don’t really know what a reporter is, so I
gather the adjutant threw him out and said he was a nuisance.’
‘Dear me, the poor man,’ said Vimes, still grinning. ‘You met Prince Heinrich the other
day. Describe him to me . . .’
Angua cleared her throat. ‘Well, sir, he was . . . largely green, shading to blue, with
overtones of grllss and trail of—’
‘I meant describe him to me on the assumption that I’m not a werewolf who sees with his
nose,’ said Vimes.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angua. ‘Sorry, sir. Six foot two, a hundred and eighty pounds, fair hair,
green-blue eyes, sabre scar on his left cheek, wears a monocle in his right eye, waxed
moustache—’
‘Good, well observed. And now look at “Captain Horentz” in the picture, will you?’
She looked again, and said, very quietly: ‘Oh dear. They didn’t know?’
‘He wasn’t going to tell them, was he? Would they have seen a picture?’
Angua shrugged. ‘I doubt it, sir. I mean, where would they see it? There’s never been a
newspaper here until the Times carts turned up last week.’
‘Some woodcut, maybe?’
‘No, they’re an Abomination, unless they’re of the Duchess.’
‘So they really didn’t know. And de Worde has never seen him,’ said Vimes. ‘But you saw
him when we arrived the other day. What did you think of him? Just between ourselves.’
‘An arrogant son-of-a-bitch, sir, and I know what I’m talking about. The kind of man who
thinks he knows what a woman likes and it’s himself. All very friendly right up until they say
no.’

 
 
  
‘Stupid?’
‘I don’t think so. But not as clever as he thinks he is.’
‘Right, ‘cos he didn’t tell our writer friend his real name. Did you read the bit at the end?’
Angua read, at the end of the text: ‘Perry, the captain threatened and harangued me after
the recruits had gone. Alas, I had no time to fish for the manacle key in the privy. Please let
the Prince know where they are soonest. WDW’
‘Looks like William didn’t take to him, either,’ she said. ‘I wonder why the Prince was out
with a scouting party?’
‘You said he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch,’ said Vimes. ‘Maybe he just wanted to pop
across and see if his auntie was still breathing . . .’
His voice trailed off. Angua looked at Vimes’s face, which was staring through her. She
knew her boss. He thought war was simply another crime, like murder. He didn’t much like
people with titles, and regarded being a duke as a job description rather than a lever to
greatness. He had an odd sense of humour. And he had a sense for what she thought of as
harbingers, those little straws in the wind that said there was a storm coming.
‘In the nuddy,’ he chuckled. ‘Could have slit their throats. Didn’t. They took their boots
away and left them to hop home in the nood.’ The squad, it seemed, had found a friend.
She waited.
‘I feel sorry for the Borogravians,’ he said.
‘Me too, sir,’ said Angua.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Their religion’s gone bad on them. Have you seen the latest Abominations? They
Abominate the smell of beets and people with red hair. In rather shaky writing, sir. And root
vegetables are a staple here. Three years ago it was Abominable to grow root crops on ground
which had grown grain or peas.’
Vimes looked blank, and she remembered that he was a city boy.
‘It means no real crop rotation, sir,’ she explained. ‘The ground sours. Diseases build up.
You were right when you said they were going mad. These . . . commandments are dumb,
and any farmer can see that. I imagine people go along with them as best they can, but sooner
or later you either have to break them and feel guilty, or keep them and suffer. For no reason,
sir. I’ve had a look around. They’re very religious here, but their god’s let them down. No
wonder they mostly pray to their royal family.’
She watched him stare at the piece of pigeon post for a while. Then he said: ‘How far is it
to Plotz?’
‘About fifty miles,’ said Angua, adding, ‘As the wolf runs, maybe six hours.’
‘Good. Buggy’ll keep an eye on you. Little Henry is going to hop home, or meet one of his
patrols, or an enemy patrol . . . whatever. But the midden is going to hit the windmill when
everyone sees that picture. I bet de Worde would have let him out if he’d been nice and
polite. That’ll teach him to meddle with the awesome power of a fair and free press, haha.’
He sat upright and rubbed his hands together like a man who meant business. ‘Now, let’s get
that pigeon on its way again before it gets missed, eh? Get Reg to lurch along to where the
Times people are staying and tell them their pigeon flew in the wrong window. Again.’

 
 
  
That was a good time, Polly remembered.
They didn’t go down to the river docks. They could see there was no boat there. They
hadn’t turned up and the boatman had left without them. Instead, they crossed the bridge and
headed up into the forests, with Blouse leading the way on his ancient horse. Maladict went
on ahead and . . . Jade brought up the rear. You didn’t need a light at night when a vampire
led the way, and a troll at the rear would certainly discourage hangers-on.
No one mentioned the boat. No one spoke at all. The thing was . . . the thing was, Polly
realized, that they were no longer marching alone. They shared the Secret. That was a huge
relief, and right now they didn’t need to talk about it. Nevertheless, it was probably a good
idea to keep up a regular output of farts, belches, nose-pickings and groin-scratchings, just in
case.
Polly didn’t know whether to be proud that they’d taken her for a boy. I mean, she thought,
I’d worked hard to get it right, I mastered the walk, except I suppose what I really did was
mistress the walk, haha, I invented the fake shaving routine and the others didn’t even think
of that, I haven’t cleaned my fingernails for days and I pride myself I can belch with the best
of them. So, I mean, I was trying. It was just slightly annoying to find that she’d succeeded so
well.
After a few hours of this, when true dawn was breaking, they smelled smoke. There was a
faint pall of it amongst the trees. Lieutenant Blouse raised a hand for them to halt, and
Jackrum joined him in whispered conversation.
Polly stepped forward. ‘Permission to whisper too, sarge? I think I know what this is.’
Jackrum and Blouse stared at her. Then the sergeant said: ‘All right, Perks. Go and find out
if you’re right, then.’
That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to Polly, but she’d left herself open. Jackrum
relented when he saw her expression, nodded to Maladict, and said, ‘Go with him, corporal.’
They left the squad behind and walked forward carefully, over the beds of new-fallen
leaves. The smoke was heavy and fragrant and, above all, reminiscent. Polly headed to where
thicker undergrowth was taking advantage of the extra light of a clearing, and pushed through
into an airy thicket of hazel trees. The smoke was denser here, and barely moving.
The thicket ended. A few yards away, in a wide patch of cleared ground, a mound like a
small volcano was spewing flame and smoke into the air.
‘Charcoal oven,’ whispered Polly. ‘Just clay plastered on a stack of hazel. Should sit there
smouldering for days. The wind probably caught it last night and the fire’s broken out. Won’t
make good charcoal now, it’s burning too fast.’
They edged round it, keeping to the bushes. Other clay domes were dotted about the
clearing, with faint wisps of steam and smoke coming from their tops. There were a couple of
ovens in the process of being built, the fresh clay stacked alongside some bundles of hazel
sticks. There was a hut, and the domes, and nothing else but silence, apart from the crackle of
the runaway fire.
‘The charcoal-burner is dead, or nearly dead,’ said Polly.
‘He’s dead,’ said Maladict. ‘There’s a smell of death here.’
‘You can smell it above the smoke?’