Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (28 page)

 
 
  
‘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 on to 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
show up. 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
mouth 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 anything 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 on to 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 idiol knowingness.
‘A word of advice, lads,’ he said. ‘Always give the guard a tip. He keeps the riff-riff-raff
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 whether 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
slap 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 better finish 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?’