Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (25 page)

 
 
  
‘Not seen it before, sir?’ said Jackrum cheerfully, as they stared at the distant keep from
where they lay in some bushes half a mile away.
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.
‘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. N
‘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 an’ 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?’