MR 14

[KingSize]

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.
‘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.
‘If you’re a hallucination, how do you know that?’
I KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT. I AM SIMPLY BETTER AT
ARTICULATING IT.
‘I’m not going to die, am I? I mean, right now?’
No. BUT YOU WERE TOLD THAT YOU WOULD WALK WITH DEATH
EVERY DAY.
‘Oh . . . yes. Corporal Scallot said that.’
HE IS AN OLD FRIEND.YOU MIGHT SAY HE IS ON THE INSTALMENT
PLAN.
‘Do you mind walking a bit more . . . invisibly?’
OF COURSE. HOW’S THIS?
‘And quietly, too?’
There was silence, which was presumably the answer. ‘And polish
yourself up a
bit,’ said Polly to the empty air. ‘And that robe needs a wash.’
There was no reply, but she felt better for saying it.
Shufti had cooked beef stew with dumplings and herbs. It was
magnificent. It was
also a mystery.
‘I don’t recall us passing a cow, private,’ said Blouse, as he handed
his tin plate
along for a second helping.
‘Er . . . no, sir.’
‘And yet you have acquired beef?’
‘Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . when that writer man came up in his cart,
well, when you
were talking, er, I crept round and took a look inside . . .’
‘There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, private,’
said Blouse
severely.
‘Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,’ said Jackrum. ‘If that
writer man gets
hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, lieutenant?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ said Blouse carefully. ‘Yes. Of course. Good
initiative, private.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,’ said Shufti brightly. ‘Sarge told me
to.’
Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swivelled her eyes from
sergeant
to lieutenant.
‘You teach looting, sergeant?’ said Blouse. There was a joint gasp
from the squad.
If this was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been
hurrying out of
the doors and Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles
off the shelf.
‘Not looting, sir, not looting,’ said Jackrum, calmly licking his
spoon. ‘Under
Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1 [c], Paragraph i, sir, it
would be
plundering, said cart being the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir,
which is aiding
and abetting the enemy. Plundering is allowed, sir.’
The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Blouse reached
behind him
and into his pack. Polly saw him draw out a small yet thick book.
‘Rule 611,’ he murmured. Blouse glanced up at the sergeant, and
thumbed through
the thin, shiny pages. ‘611. Pillaging, Plundering and Looting. Ah,
yes. And . . . let
me see . . . you are with us, Sergeant Jackrum, owing to Rule 796, I
think you
reminded me at the time . . .’
There was another silence broken only by the riffle of the pages.
There’s no Rule
796, Polly remembered. Are they going to fight over this?
‘796, 796,’ said Blouse softly. ‘Ah . . .’ He stared at the page, and
Jackrum stared
at him.
Blouse closed the book with a leathery flwap. ‘Absolutely correct,
sergeant!’ he
said brightly. ‘I commend you on your encyclopaedic knowledge of the
regulations!’
Jackrum looked thunderous. ‘What?’
‘You were practically word perfect, sergeant!’ said Blouse. And there
was a gleam
in his eye. Polly remembered Blouse looking at the captured cavalry
captain. This was
that same look, the look which said: now I have the upper hand.
Jackrum’s chins wobbled.
‘You had something to add, sergeant?’ said Blouse.
‘Er, no . . . sir,’ said Jackrum, his face an open declaration of war.
‘We’ll leave at moonrise,’ said Blouse. ‘I suggest we all get some
rest until then.
And then . . . may we prevail.’ He nodded to the group, and walked
over to where
Polly had spread his blanket in the lee of the bushes. After a few
moments there were
some snores, which Polly refused to believe. Jackrum certainly didn’t.
He got up and
strode out of the firelight. Polly hurried after him.
‘Did you hear that?’ snarled the sergeant, staring out at the
darkening hills. ‘The
little yoyo! What right has he got, checking up in the book o’ words?’
‘Well, you did quote chapter and verse, sarge,’ said Polly.
‘So? Officers are s’posed to believe what they’re told. And then he
smiled! Did
you see? Caught me out and smiled at me! Thinks he’s got one over on
me, just
because he caught me out!’
‘You did lie, sarge.’
‘I did not Perks! It’s not lying when you do it to officers! It’s
presentin’ them with
the world the way they think it ought to be! You can’t let ‘em start
checkin’ up for
themselves. They get the wrong ideas. I told you, he’ll be the death
of all of us.
Invading the bloody keep? The man’s wrong in the head!’
‘Sarge!’ said Polly urgently.
‘Yes, what?’
‘We’re being signalled, sarge!’
On a distant hilltop, twinkling like an early evening star, a white
light was flashing.
Blouse lowered his telescope. ‘They’re repeating “CQ”,’ he said. ‘And
I believe
those longer pauses are when they’re aiming their tube in different
directions. They’re
looking for their spies. “Seek You”, see? Private Igor?’
‘Thur?’
‘You know how that tube works, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yeth, thur. You jutht light a flare in the box, and then it’th
just point and
click.’
‘You’re not going to answer it, are you, sir?’ said Jackrum,
horrified.
‘I am indeed, sergeant,’ said Blouse briskly. ‘Private Carborundum,
please
assemble the tube. Manickle, please bring the lantern. I shall need to
read the code
book.’
‘But that’ll give away our position!’ said Jackrum.
‘No, sergeant, because although this term may be unfamiliar to you I
intend to
what we call “lie”,’ said Blouse. ‘Igor, I’m sure you have some
scissors, although I’d
rather you didn’t attempt to repeat the word.’
‘I have thome of the appliantheth you mention, thur,’ said Igorina
stiffly.
‘Good.’ Blouse looked round. ‘It’s almost pitch dark now. Ideal. Take
my blanket
and cut, oh, a three-inch circle out of it, then tie the blanket over
the front of the tube.’
‘That will cut off motht of the light, thur!’
‘Indeed it will. My plan depends upon it,’ said Blouse proudly.
‘Sir, they will see the light, they’ll know we’re here,’ said Jackrum,
as though
repeating things to a child.
‘I explained, sergeant. I will lie,’ said Blouse.
‘You can’t lie when—’
‘Thank you for your input, sergeant, that will be all for now,’ said
Blouse. ‘Are we
ready, Igor?’
‘Jutht about, thur,’ said Igorina, tying the blanket across the end of
the tube. ‘Okay,
thur. I’ll light the flare when you thay.’
Blouse unfolded the little book. ‘Ready, private?’ he said.
‘Yup,’ said Jade.
‘On the word “long” you will hold the trigger for the count of two,
and then let go.
On the word “short” you will hold it down for the count of one, and
likewise let go.
Got that?’
‘Yup, el-tee. Could hold it down for lots, if you like,’ said Jade.
‘One, two, many,
lots. I’m good at countin’. High as you like. Jus’ say der word.’
‘Two will suffice,’ said Blouse. ‘And you, Private Goom, I want you to
take my
telescope and look for long and short flashes from that light over
there, understand?’
Polly saw Wazzer’s face and said quickly: ‘I’ll do that, sir!’
A small white hand was laid on her arm. In the miserly glimmer of the
dark
lantern, Wazzer’s eyes glowed with the light of certainty. ‘The
Duchess guides our
footsteps now,’ she said, and took the telescope from the lieutenant.
‘What we are
doing is her work, sir.’
‘Is it? Oh. Well . . . that’s good,’ said Blouse. \
‘She will bless this instrument of far seeing that I may use it,’ said
Wazzer.
‘Indeed?’ said Blouse nervously. ‘Well done. Now . . . are we ready?
Send as
follows . . . long . . . long . . . short . . .’
The shutter in the tube clicked and rattled as the message flashed out
across the
sky. When the troll lowered the tube, there was half a minute of
darkness. And then:
‘Short . . . long . • •’ Wazzer began.
Blouse held the code book up to his face, his lips moving as he read
by the
pinpoints of light escaping from the loins of the box. ‘W . . .
R . . . U,’ he said. ‘And
M. . .S. . .G. . .P. . .R. . .’
‘That’s not a message!’ said Jackrum.
‘On the contrary, they want to know where we are, because they’re
having trouble
seeing our light,’ said Blouse. ‘Send as follows . . . short. . .’
‘I protest, sir!’
Blouse lowered the book. ‘Sergeant, I am about to tell our spy that we
are seven
miles further away than we really are, do you understand? And I am
certain they will
believe us because I have artificially reduced the light output from
our device, do you
understand? And I will tell them that their spies have encountered a
very large party
of recruits and deserters heading for the mountains and are in
pursuit, do you
understand? I am making us invisible, do you understand? Do you
understand,
Sergeant Jackrum?’
The squad held their breath.
Jackrum drew himself stiffly to attention. ‘Fully understood, sir!’ he
said.
‘Very well!’
Jackrum continued at attention as the messages were exchanged, like a
naughty
pupil forced to stand by the teacher’s desk.
Messages flashed across the sky, from hilltop to hilltop. Lights
flickered. The
clacks tube rattled. Wazzer called out the longs and shorts. Blouse
scribbled in the
book. ‘S . . . P . . . P . . . 2,’ he said aloud. ‘Hah. That’s an
order to remain where we
are.’
‘More flashes, sir,’ said Wazzer.
‘T . . . Y . . . E . . . 3 . . .’ said Blouse, still making notes.
‘That’s “be ready to give
aid”. N. . .V. . .A. . .S. . .N. . . That’s . . .’
‘That’s not a code, sir!’ said Polly.
‘Private, send as follows right now!’ Blouse croaked. ‘Long . . .
long . . .’
The message went. They watched, while the dew fell and, overhead, the
stars came
out and twinkled messages no one ever tried to read.
The clacks went silent.
‘Now we leave as soon as possible,’ said Blouse. He gave a little
cough. ‘I believe
the phrase is “Let us get the heck out of here”.’
‘Close, sir,’ said Polly. ‘Quite . . . close.’
There was an old, very old Borogravian song with more Zs and Vs in it
than any
lowlander could pronounce. It was called ‘Plogviehze!’ It meant ‘The
Sun Has Risen!
Let’s Make War!’ You needed a special kind of history to get all that
in one word.
Sam Vimes sighed. The little countries here fought because of the
river, because of
idiot treaties, because of royal rows, but mostly they fought because
they had always
fought. They made war, in fact, because the sun came up.
This war had tied itself in a knot.
Downriver, the valley narrowed to a canyon before the Kneck plunged
over a
waterfall a quarter of a mile high. Anyone trying to get up through
the jagged
mountains there would find themselves in a world of gorges, knife-
edged ridges,
permanent ice and even more permanent death. Anyone trying to cross
the Kneck into
Zlobenia now would be butchered on the shore. The only way out of the
valley was
back along the Kneck, which would put an army under the shadow of the
keep. That
had been fine when the keep was in Borogravian hands. Now that it had
been
captured, they’d be passing in range of their own weapons.
. . . And such weapons! Vimes had seen catapults that would throw a
stone ball
three miles. When it landed it would crack into needle-sharp shards.
Or there was the
other machine that sent six-foot steel discs skimming through the air.
Once they’d hit
the ground and leapt up again they were unreliable as hell, but that
only made them
more terrifying. Vimes had been told that the edged disc would
probably keep going
for several hundred yards, no matter how many men or horses it
encountered on the
way. And they were only the latest ideas. There were plenty of
conventional weapons,
if by that you meant giant bows, catapults and mangonels that hurled
balls of
Ephebian fire, which clung while it burned.
From up here, in his draughty tower, he could see the fires of the dug-
in army all
across the plain. They couldn’t retreat, and the alliance, if that’s
what you could call
the petulant hubbub, didn’t dare head up the valley into the heart of
the country with
that army at their back, yet didn’t have enough men to hold the keep
and corral the
enemy.
And in a few weeks it would start to snow. The passes would fill up.
Nothing
would be able to get through. And every day, thousands of men and
horses would
need feeding. Of course, the men could, eventually, eat the horses,
thus settling two
feeding problems at a stroke. After that there would have to be the
good ol’ leg rota,
which Vimes understood from one of the friendlier Zlobenians was a
common feature
of winter warfare up here. Since he was Captain ‘Hopalong’ Splatzer,
Vimes believed
him.
And then it would rain, and then the rain and the snowmelt together
would turn the
damn river into a flood. But before that the alliance would have
bickered itself apart
and gone home. All the Borogravians had to do, in fact, was hold their
ground to
score a draw.
He swore under his breath. Prince Heinrich had inherited the throne in
a country
where the chief export was a kind of hand-painted wooden clog, but in
ten years, he
vowed, his capital city of Rigour would be ‘the Ankh-Morpork of the
mountains’! For
some reason, he thought Ankh-Morpork would be pleased about this.
He was anxious, he said, to learn the Ankh-Morpork way of doing
things, the kind
of innocent ambition that could well lead an aspiring ruler to . . .
well, find out the
Ankh-Morpork way of doing things. Heinrich had a reputation locally
for cunning,
but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped
past
devious, had left artful far behind and had now, by a roundabout
route, arrived at
straightforward.
Vimes leafed through the papers on his desk, and looked up when he
heard a shrill,
harsh cry outside. A buzzard came in a long, shallow swoop through the
open window
and alighted on a makeshift perch at the far end of the room. Vimes
strolled over as
the little figure on the bird’s back raised his flying goggles.
‘How’s it going, Buggy?’ he said.
‘They’re getting suspicious, Mister Vimes. And Sergeant Angua says
it’s getting a
bit risky now they’re so close.’
‘Tell her to come on in, then.’
‘Right, sir. And they still need coffee.’
‘Oh, damn! Haven’t they found any?’
‘No, sir, and it’s getting tricky with the vampire.’
‘Well, if they’re suspicious now then they’ll be certain if we drop a
flask of coffee
on them!’
‘Sergeant Angua says we’ll probably get away with it, sir. She didn’t
say why.’
The gnome looked expectantly at Vimes. So did his buzzard. ‘They’ve
come a long
way, sir. For a bunch of girls. Well . . . mostly girls.’
Vimes reached out absent-mindedly to pet the bird.
‘Don’t, sir! She’ll have your thumb off!’ Buggy yelled.
There was a knock on the door, and Reg came in with a tray of raw
meat. ‘Saw
Buggy overhead, so I thought I’d nip down to the kitchens, sir.’
‘Well done, Reg. Don’t they ask why you want raw meat?’
‘Yes, sir. I tell them you eat it, sir.’
Vimes paused before answering. Reg meant well, after all.
‘Well, it probably can’t do my reputation any harm,’ he said. ‘By the
way, what
was going down in the crypt?’
‘Oh, they’re not what I’d call proper zombies, sir,’ said Reg,
selecting a piece of
meat and dangling it in front of Morag. ‘More like dead men walking.’
‘Er . . . yes?’ said Vimes.
‘I mean there’s no real thinking going on,’ the zombie continued,
picking up
another lump of raw rabbit. ‘No embracing the opportunities of a life
beyond the
grave, sir. They’re just a lot of old memories on legs. That sort of
thing gives zombies
a bad name, Mister Vimes. It makes me so angryV Morag tried to snap at
another
lump of bloody rabbit fur that Reg, oblivious for the moment, was
waving aimlessly.
‘Er . . . Reg?’ said Buggy.
‘How hard can it be, sir, to move with the times? Now take me, for
example. One
day I woke up dead. Did I—’
‘Reg!’ Vimes warned, as Morag’s head bobbed back and forth. ‘—take it
lying
down? No! And I didn’t—’ ‘Reg, be careful! She’s just had two of your
fingers off!’
‘What? Oh.’ Reg held up a denuded hand and stared at it. ‘Oh, now,
will you look at
that?’ He peered down at the floor, with a hope that was quickly
dashed. ‘Blast. Any
chance we can make her throw up?’
‘Only by sticking your fingers down her throat, Reg. Sorry. Buggy, do
the best you
can, please. And you, Reg, go back downstairs and see if they’ve got
any coffee, will
you?’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Shufti.
‘It’s big,’ said Tonker.
Blouse said nothing.
‘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.