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 -
¨Cand 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: 000000000! But had it been more capable of coherent thought, and known something about how birds of prey catch pigeons2, 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: 000000000!
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?"
"Sure," said Maladict. "Some things we're good at smelling. But how did you know?"
"They watch the burns like hawks," said Polly, staring at the hut. "He wouldn't let it go out of control like that if he was alive. Is he in the hut?"
"They are in the hut," said Maladict flatly. He set off across the smoky ground.
Polly ran after him. "Man and woman?" she said. "Their wives often live out with - "
"Can't tell, not if they're old."
The hut was only a temporary thing, made of woven hazel and roofed with tarpaulin; the charcoal-burners moved around a lot, from coppice to coppice. It didn't have windows, but it did have a doorway, with a rag for a door. The rag had been pulled away; the doorway was dark.
I've got to be a man about this, Polly thought.
There was a woman on the bed, and a man lying on the floor. There were other details, which the eye saw but the brain did not focus on. There was a great deal of blood. The couple had been old. They would not grow older.
Back outside, Polly took frantic mouthfuls of air. "Do you think those cavalrymen did it?" she said at last, and then realized that Maladict was shaking. "Oh... the blood..." she said.
"I can deal with it! It's okay! I just have to get my mind right, it's okay!" He leaned against the hut, breathing heavily. "Okay, I'm fine," he said. "And I can't smell horses. Why don't you use your eyes? Nice soft mud everywhere after the rain, but no hoof-prints. Plenty of footprints, though. We did it."
"Don't be silly, we were - "
The vampire had reached down and pulled something out of the fallen leaves. He rubbed the mud off it with a thumb. In thin pressed brass, it was the Flaming Cheese badge of the Ins-and-Outs.
"But... I thought we were the good guys," said Polly weakly. "If we were guys, I mean."
"I think I need a coffee," said the vampire.
"Deserters," said Sergeant Jackrum, ten minutes later. "It happens." He tossed the badge into the fire.
"But they were on our side!" said Shufti.
"So? Not everyone's a nice gennelman like you, Private Manickle," said Jackrum. "Not after a few years of gettin' shot at and eatin' rat scubbo. On the retreat from Khrusk I had no water for three days and then fell on my face in a puddle of horse piss, a circumstance which did nothing for my feelin's of goodwill towards my fellow man or horse. Something the matter, corporal?"
Maladict was on his knees, going through his pack with a distracted air. "My coffee's gone, sarge."
"Can't have packed it properly, then," said Jackrum unsympathetically.
"I did, sarge! I washed out the engine and packed it up with the bean bag after supper last night. I know I did. I don't take coffee lightly!"
"If someone else did, they're going to wish I'd never been born," growled Jackrum, looking round at the rest of the squad. "Anyone else lost anything?"
"Er... I wasn't going to say anything, 'cos I wasn't sure," Shufti volunteered, "but my stuff looked as if it had been pulled about when I opened my pack just now..."
"Oh-ho!" said Jackrum. "Well, well, well. I'll say this once, lads. Pinching from yer mates is a hanging offence, understood? Nothing breaks down morale faster'n some sneaky little sod dipping into people's packs. And if I find out someone's been at it, I'll swing on their heels!" He glared at the squad. "I ain't gonna demand that you all empty out your packs as if you's criminals," he said, "but you'd better check that nothing's missing. O' course, one of you might have packed something that wasn't theirs by accident, okay. Packing in a rush, poor light, easy to do. In which case, you sort it out amongst yourselves, understand? Now, I'm off to have a shave. Lieutenant Blouse is having a throw-up behind the shelter after a-viewin' of the corpses, poor chap."
Polly rummaged desperately in her pack. She'd thrown things in any old how last night, but what she was frantically searching for was -
¨Cnot there. Despite the heat from the charcoal mounds, she shivered.
The ringlets had gone. Feverishly, she tried to remember the events of yesterday evening. They'd just dumped their packs as soon as they were in the barracks, right? And Maladict had made himself some coffee at suppertime. He'd washed and dried the little machine¨C
There was a thin little wail. Wazzer, the meagre contents of her pack spread around her, held up the coffee engine. It had been stamped almost flat.
"B-b-b - " she began.
Polly's mind worked faster, like a millwheel in a flood. Then everyone took their packs into the back room with all the mattresses, didn't they? So they'd still be there when the squad fought the troopers -
"Oh, Wazz," said Shufti. "Oh, dear..."
So who might have sneaked in through the back door? There was no one around except the squad and the cavalrymen. Perhaps someone wanted to watch, and cause a little trouble on the way¨C
"Strappi!" she said aloud. "It must have been him! The little weasel ran into the cavalry and then snuck back to watch! He was dar - damn well going through our packs out the back! Oh, come on," she added, as they stared at her, "can you see Wazzer stealing from anyone? Anyway, when did she have the chance?"
"Wouldn't they have taken him prisoner?" said Tonker, staring at the crushed machine in Wazzer's shaking hands.
"If he'd whipped off his shako and jacket he'd just be another stupid civilian, wouldn't he? Or he could just say he was a deserter. He could make up some story," said Polly. "You know how he was with Wazzer. He went through my pack, too. Stole... something of mine."
"What was it?" said Shufti.
"Just something, okay? He just wanted to... make trouble." She watched them thinking.
"Sounds convincing," said Maladict, nodding abruptly. "Little weasel. Okay, Wazz, just fish out the beans and I'll do the best I can - "
"T-there's no b-b-b - "
Maladict put a hand over his eyes. "No beans?" he said. "Please, has anyone got the beans?"
There was a general rummaging, and a general lack of a result.
"No beans." moaned Maladict. "He threw away the beans..."
"Come on, lads, we've got to get sentries posted," said Jackrum, approaching. "Sorted it all out, have you?"
"Yes, sarge. Ozz thinks - " Shufti began.
"It was all a bit of mis-packing, sarge!" said Polly quickly, anxious to keep away from anything connected with missing ringlets. "Nothing to worry about! All sorted, sarge. No problem. Nothing to worry anyone. Not... a... thing, sarge."
Jackrum looked from the startled squad to Polly, and back, and back again. She felt his gaze boring into her, daring her to change her expression of mad, tense honesty.
"Ye-es," he said slowly. "Right. Sorted out, eh? Well done, Perks. Attention! Officer present!"
"Yes, yes, sergeant, thank you, but I don't think we need to be too formal," said Blouse, who looked rather pale. "A word with you when you have finished, if you please? And I think we should bury the, er, bodies."
Jackrum saluted. "Right you are, sir. Two volunteers to dig a grave for those poor souls! Goom and Tewt - what's he doing?"
Lofty was over by the blazing charcoal oven. She was holding a burning branch a foot or two from her face and turning it this way and that, watching the flames.
"I'll do it, sarge," said Tonker, stepping beside Wazzer.
"What are you, married?" said Jackrum. "You are on guard, Halter. I doubt whoever did it'll come back, but if they do, you sing out, right? You and Igor come with me, and I'll show you your stations."
"No coffee," moaned Maladict.
"Foul muck, anyway," said Jackrum, walking away. "A cup of hot sweet tea is the soldier's friend."
Polly grabbed the kettle for Blouse's shaving water, and hurried away. That was another thing you learned in the milit'ry: look busy. Look busy and no one worried too much about what you were busy at.
Bloody, bloody Strappi! He'd got her hair! He'd try to use it against her if he could, that was certain. That'd be his style. What would he do now? Well, he'd want to keep away from Jackrum, that'd be another certainty. He'd wait, somewhere. She'd have to, too.
The squad had made camp upwind of the smoke. It was supposed to be a rest stop, since no one had got much sleep last night, but as Jackrum handed out tasks he reminded them: "There is an old milit'ry saying, which is: Hard Luck For You."
There was no question of using the woven hut, but there were a few tarpaulin-covered frames built to keep the coppiced wood dry. Those not given jobs to do lay down on the stacked piles of twigs, which were yielding and didn't smell and were in any case better than the inhabited palliasses back at the barracks.
Blouse, as an officer, had a shelter to himself. Polly had stacked bundles of twigs to make a chair that was at least springy. Now she laid out his shaving things and turned to go -
"Could you shave me, Perks?" said the lieutenant.
Fortunately, Polly's back was turned and he didn't see her expression.
"This damn hand is quite swollen, I'm afraid," Blouse went on. "I would not normally ask, but - "
"Yes, of course, sir," said Polly, because there was no alternative. Well now, let's see... she'd got quite good at scraping a blunt razor across a face bare of hair, yes. Oh, and she'd shaved a few dead pigs in the kitchens at The Duchess, but that was only because nobody likes hairy bacon. They didn't really count, did they? Panic rose, and rose faster at the sight of Jackrum approaching. She was going to cut an officer's throat in the presence of a sergeant.
Well, when in doubt, bustle. Milit'ry rule. Bustle, and hope there's a surprise attack.
"Are you not being a little strict with the men, sergeant?" said Blouse, as Polly flapped a towel round his neck.
"No, sir. Keep 'em occupied, that's the bunny. Otherwise they'll mope," said Jackrum confidently.
"Yes, but they have just seen a couple of badly mutilated bodies," said Blouse, and shuddered.
"Good practice for 'em, sir. They'll see plenty more."
Polly turned to the shaving gear she'd laid out on another towel. Let's see... cut-throat razor, oh dear, the grey stone for coarse sharpening, the red stone for fine sharpening, the soap, the brush, the bowl... well, at least she knew how to make foam...
"Deserters, sergeant. Bad business," Blouse went on.
"You always get 'em, sir. That's why the pay is always late. Walking away from three months' back pay makes a man think twice."
"Mr de Worde the newspaper man said there had been a great many desertions, sergeant. It is very strange that so many men would desert from a winning side."
Polly whirled the brush vigorously. Jackrum, for the first time since Maladict had joined, looked uncomfortable.
"But whose side is he on, sir?" he said.
"Sergeant, I am sure you are not a stupid man," said Blouse, as, behind him, foam poured over the edge of the bowl and flopped onto the floor. "There are desperate deserters abroad. Our borders appear to be sufficiently unguarded to enable enemy cavalry to operate forty miles inside 'our fair country'. And High Command appears to be so desperate, yes, desperate, sergeant, that even half a dozen untrained and, frankly, very young men must go to the front."
The foam had a life of its own now. Polly hesitated.
"Hot towel first, please, Perks," said Blouse.
"Yessir. Sorry, sir. Forgot, sir," said Polly, panic rising. She had a vague recollection of walking past the barber shop in Munz. Hot towel on face. Right. She grabbed a small towel, tipped boiling water onto it, wrung it out and dropped it on the lieutenant's face. He did not actually scream, as such.
"Aaaaagh something else worries me, sergeant."
"Yessir?"
"The cavalry must have apprehended Corporal Strappi. I cannot see how else they found out about our men."
"Good thinking, sir," said the sergeant, watching Polly apply the lather across mouth and nose.
"I do hope they didn't pff torture the poor man," said the lieutenant. Jackrum was silent on that issue, but meaningfully so. Polly wished he wouldn't keep glancing at her.
"But why would a deserter pff head straight for the pff front?" said Blouse.
"Makes sense, sir, for an old soldier. Especially a political."
"Really?"
"Trust me on that, sir," said Jackrum. Behind Blouse, Polly brushed the razor up and down the red stone. It was already as slick as ice.
"But our boys, sergeant, are not old 'soldiers'. It takes pff two weeks to turn a recruit into a 'fighting man'," said the lieutenant.
"They're promising material, sir. I could do it in a couple of days, sir," said Jackrum. "Perks?"
Polly nearly sliced her thumb off. "Yes, sarge," she quavered.
"Do you think you could kill a man today?"
Polly glanced at the razor. The edge glowed.
"I'm sorry to say I think I could, sir!"
"There you have it, sir," said Jackrum, with a lopsided grin. "There's something about these lads, sir. They're quick." He walked behind Blouse, took the razor from Polly's grateful hand without a word, and said: "There's a few matters we ought to discuss, sir, private like. I think Perks here ought to get some rest."
"Of course, sergeant. 'Pas devant les soldat jeune,' eh?"
"And them too, sir," said Jackrum. "You're dismissed, Perks."
Polly walked away, her right hand still trembling. Behind her, she heard Blouse sigh and say: "These are tricky times, sergeant. Command has never been so burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times the commander must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the hawk and see every detail."
"Yessir," said Jackrum, gliding the razor down a cheek. "And if he acts like a common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon."
"Er... well said, sergeant."
The charcoal-burner and his wife were buried to the accompaniment of, to Polly's lack of surprise, a small prayer from Wazzer. It asked the Duchess to intercede with the god Nuggan to give eternal rest and similar items to the departed. Polly had heard it many times before; she'd wondered how the process worked.
She'd never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her mother was dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god like that was not worth a prayer.
But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes screwed up and hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled with such belief that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed and, finally, after the ringing "amen", amazed that the world appeared no different from before. For a minute or two, it had been a better place...
There was a cat in the hut. It cowered under the crude bed and spat at anyone who came close.
"All the food's been taken but there's carrots and parsnips in a little garden down the hill a bit," Shufti said, as they walked away.
"It'd be s-stealing from the dead," said Wazzer.
"Well, if they object they can hold on, can't they?" said Shufti. "They're underground already!"
For some reason that was, at this time, funny. They'd have laughed at anything.
Now there was Jade, Lofty, Shufti and Polly. Everyone else was on guard duty. They sat by the fire, on which a small pot seethed. Lofty tended the fire. She always seemed more animated near a fire, Polly noticed.
"I'm doing horse scubbo for the rupert," said Shufti, easily dropping into a slang learned all of twenty hours ago. "He specifically asked for it. Got lots of dry horse jerky from Threeparts, but Tonker says she can knock over some pheasants while she's on duty."
"I hope she spends some time watching for enemies too," said Polly.
"She'll be careful," said Lofty, prodding the fire with a stick.
"You know, if we're found out, we'll be beaten and sent back," said Shufti.
"Who by?" said Polly, so suddenly she surprised herself. "By whom? Who's going to try, out here? Who cares out here?"
"Well, er, wearing men's clothes is an Abomination Unto Nuggan - "
"Why?"
"It just is," said Shufti firmly. "But - "
" - you're wearing them," said Polly.
"Well, it was the only way," said Shufti. "And I tried them on and they didn't seem all that abominable to me."
"Have you noticed men talk to you differently?" said Lofty shyly.
"Talk?" said Polly. "They listen to you differently, too."
"They don't keep looking at you all the time," said Shufti. "You know what I mean. You're just a... another person. If a girl walked down the street wearing a sword a man would try to take it off her."
"Wi' trolls, we ain't allowed to carry clubs," said Jade. "Only large rocks. An' it ain't right for a girl to wear lichen, 'cos der boys say bald is modest. Had to rub bird doin's inna my head to grow this lot."
That was quite a long speech for a troll.
"We didn't know that," said Polly. "Er... trolls all look the same to us, more or less."
"I'm nat'rally craggy," said Jade. "I don't see why I should polish."
"There is a difference," said Shufti. "I think it's the socks. It's like they pull you forward all the time. It's like the whole world spins around your socks." She sighed and looked at the horsemeat, which had been boiled almost white. "It's done," she said. "You'd better go and give it to the rupert, Polly... I mean, Ozzer. I told the sarge I could do something better but he said the lieutenant said how good it was last night - "
A small wild turkey, a brace of pheasants and a couple of rabbits, all tied together, landed in front of Shufti.
"Good job we were guarding you, eh?" said Tonker, grinning and whirring an empty sling around in one hand. "One rock, one lunch. Maladict's staying on guard. He said he'll smell anyone before they see him and he's too edgy to eat. What can you do with that lot?"
"Casserole of game," said Shufti firmly. "We've got the veg and I've still got half an onion.3 I'm sure I can make an oven out of one of those - "
"On your feet! Attention!" snapped the silently moving Jackrum, behind them. He stood back with a faint smile on his face as they scrambled to their feet. "Private Halter, I must have bleedin' amazin' eyesight," he said, when they were approximately upright.
"Yes, sarge," said Tonker, staring straight ahead.
"Can you guess why, Private Halter?"
"No, sarge."
"It's because I knows you are on perimeter guard, Halter, but I can see you as clear as if you was standing right here in front of me, Halter! Can't I, Halter?"
"Yes, sarge!"
"It's just as well you are still on perimeter duty, Halter, because the penalty for absenting yourself from your post in time of war is death, Halter!"
"I only - "
"No onlys! I don't want to hear no onlys! I don't want you to think that I am a shouty man, Halter! Corporal Strappi was a shouty man, but he was a damn political! Upon my oath I am not a shouty man but if you ain't back at your post inside of thirty seconds I'll rip yer tongue out!"
Tonker fled. Sergeant Jackrum cleared his throat and continued, in a level voice: "This, my lads, is what we call a real orientation lectchoor, not one of the fancy political ones like Strappi gave yer." He cleared his throat. "The purpose of this lectchoor is to let you know where we are. We are in the deep cack. It couldn't be worse if it was raining arseholes. Any questions?"
Since there were none from the bemused recruits, he continued, while beginning a slow stroll around the squad, "We know enemy forces are in the area. Currently they have no boots. But there will be others with boots aplenty. Also, there may be deserters in the area. They will not be nice people! They will be impolite! Therefore Lieutenant Blouse has decreed that we will travel off the roads and by night. Yes, we have met the enemy, and we have prevailed. That was a fluke. They weren't expecting you to be rough, tough soldiers. Nor were you, so I don't want you to feel cocky about it." He leaned forward until his face was inches from Polly's. "Are you feeling cocky, Private Perks?"
"No, sarge!"
"Good. Good." Jackrum stepped back. "We are heading for the front, lads. The war. And in a nasty war, where's the best place to be? Apart from on the moon, o' course? No one?"
Slowly, Jade raised a hand.
"Go on, then," said the sergeant.
"In the army, sarge," said the troll. "'cos..." She began to count on her fingers. "One, you got weapons an' armour an' dat. Two, you are surrounded by other armed men. Er... Many, youse gettin' paid and gettin' better grub than the people in Civilian Street. Er... Lots, if'n you gives up, you getting taken pris'ner and dere's rules about that like Not Kicking Pris'ners Inna Head and stuff, 'cos if you kick their pris'ners inna head they'll kick your pris'ners inna head so dat's, like, you're kickin' your own head, but dere's no rule say you can't kick enemy civilians inna head. There's other stuff too, but I ran outa numbers." She gave them a diamond grin. "We may be slow but we ain't stoopid," she added.
"I am impressed, private," said Jackrum. "And you are right. The only wasp in the jam is that you ain't soldiers! But I can help you there. Bein' a soldier is not hard. If it was, soldiers would not be able to do it. There is only three things you need to remember, which are, viz: one obey orders two give it to the enemy good and hard three don't die. Got that? Right! You're nearly there! Well done! I propose to assist you in the execution of all three! You are my little lads and I will look after you! In the meantime, you got duties! Shufti, get cooking! Private Perks, see to the rupert! And after that, practise your shaving! I will now visit those on guard and deliver unto them the holy word! Dismissed!"
They remained at something like attention until he was probably out of earshot, and then sagged.
"Why does he always shout?" said Shufti. "I mean, he only has to ask..."
Polly upended the horrible scubbo into a tin bowl, and almost ran to the lieutenant's shelter. He looked up from a map and smiled at her as if she was delivering a feast.
"Ah, scubbo," he said.
"We are actually having other stuff, sir," Polly volunteered. "I'm sure there's enough to go round - "
"Good heavens, no, it's been years since I've had food like this," said Blouse, picking up the spoon. "Of course, at school we didn't appreciate it so much."
"You had food like this at school, sir?" said Polly.
"Yes. Most days," said Blouse happily.
Polly couldn't quite fit this in her head. Blouse was a nob. Nobs ate nobby food, didn't they? "Had you done something bad, sir?"
"I can't imagine what you mean, Perks," said Blouse, slurping at the horrible thin gruel. "Are the men rested?"
"Yes, sir. The dead people were a bit of a shock - "
"Yes. Bad business," sighed the lieutenant. "Such is war, alas. I am only sorry you had to learn so fast. Such a terrible waste all the time. I am sure things can be sorted out when we reach Kneck, though. No general can expect young men like yourselves to be instant soldiers. I shall have something to say about that." His rabbity features looked unusually determined, as if a hamster had spotted a gap in its treadmill.
"Do you require me for anything else, sir?" said Polly.
"Er... do the men talk about me, Perks?"
"Not really, sir, no."
The lieutenant looked disappointed. "Oh. Oh, well. Thank you. Perks."
Polly wondered if Jackrum ever slept. She did a spell of guard duty, and he stepped out from behind her with "Guess who, Perks! You're on lookout. You should see the dreadful enemy before they see you. What're the four Ss?"
"Shape, shadow, silhouette and shine, sarge!" said Polly, snapping to attention. She'd been expecting this.
That caused a moment's pause from the sergeant before he said: "Just knew that, did yer?"
"Nosir! A little bird told me when we changed guard, sir! Said you'd asked him, sir!"
"Oh, so Jackrum's little lads are gangin' up on their kindly ol' sergeant, are they?" said Jackrum.
"Nosir. Sharing information important to the squad in a vital survival situation, sarge!"
"You've got a quick mouth on you, Perks, I'll grant you that."