Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (23 page)

 
 
  
‘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.

Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment

Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment

 
 
  
‘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
. . .
She wondered how she’d 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.