MR 7

[KingSize]

Osculate the Doxie?’
‘Not at my time o’ life,’ said Jackrum, putting on his jacket again.
‘There,’ he said.
‘All smart, all neat, all legal. Go on, Perks, I gave you an order.’
Blouse was snoring. His candle had burned down. A book was open on his
blanket.
Polly gently pulled it out from under his fingers. The title, almost
invisible on the
stained cover, was: Tacticus: The Campaigns.
‘Sir?’ she whispered.
Blouse opened his eyes, saw her, and then turned and frantically
scrabbled by the
bed.
‘Here they are, sir,’ said Polly, handing him his spectacles.
‘Ah, Perks, thank you,’ said the lieutenant, sitting up. ‘Midnight, is
it?’
‘A bit after, sir.’
‘Oh, dear! Then we must hurry! Quick, pass me my breeches! Have the
men had a
good night?’
‘We were attacked by Zlobenian troops, sir. First Heavy Dragoons. We
took them
prisoner, sir. No casualties, sir.’ . . . because they didn’t expect
us to fight. They
wanted to take us alive. And they walked in on Carborundum and
Maladict and . . .
me.
It had been hard, very hard, to force herself to swing that cudgel.
But once she had
done it, it had been easy. And then she’d felt embarrassed about being
caught in a
petticoat, even though she had her breeches on underneath. She’d gone
from boy to
girl just by thinking it, and it had been so . . . easy. She needed
some time to consider
this. She needed time to think about a lot of things. She suspected
that time was going
to be in short supply.
Blouse was still sitting there with his breeches half on, staring at
her.
‘Run that past me again one more time, will you, Perks?’ he said. ‘You
have
captured some of the enemy?’
‘Not just me, sir, I only got two of ‘em,’ said Polly. ‘We all, er,
piled in, sir.’
‘Heavy Dragoons?’
‘Yessir.’
‘That’s the Prince’s personal regiment! They’ve invaded?’
‘I think it was more of a patrol, sir. Seven men.’
‘And none of you are hurt?’
‘Nosir.’
‘Pass me my shirt! Oh, blast!’
It was then that Polly noticed the bandage around his right hand. It
was red with
blood. He saw her expression.
‘Bit of a self-inflicted wound, Perks,’ he said nervously. ‘ “Brushing
up” on my
sword drill after supper. Nothing serious. Just a bit “rusty”, you
know. Can’t quite
manage buttons. If you would be so good . . .’
Polly helped the lieutenant struggle into the rest of his clothes, and
threw his few
other possessions in a bag. It took a special kind of man, she
reflected, to cut his
sword hand with his own sword.
‘I should pay my bill . . .’ the lieutenant muttered, as they hurried
down the
darkened stairs.
‘Can’t, sir. Everyone’s fled, sir.’
‘Perhaps I should leave them a note, do you think? I wouldn’t like
them to think
that I had “done a runner” without—’
‘They’ve all gone, sir!’ said Polly, pushing him towards the front
door. She
stopped outside the barracks, straightened his coat and stared at his
face. ‘Did you
wash last night, sir?’
‘There was no—’ Blouse began.
The response was automatic. Even though she was fifteen months
younger, she’d
been mothering Paul for too long.
‘Handkerchief!’ she demanded. And, since some things get programmed
into the
brain at an early age, one was obediently produced.
‘Spit!’ Polly commanded. Then she used the damp hanky to wipe a mark
off
Blouse’s face and realized, as she was doing it, that she was doing
it. There was no
going back. The only way out was ahead.
‘All right,’ she said brusquely. ‘Have you got everything?’
‘Yes, Perks.’
‘Have you been to the privy this morning?’ her mouth went on, while
her brain
cowered in fear of a court martial. I’m in shock, she thought, and
so’s he. So you
cling to what you know. And you can’t stop . . .
‘No, Perks,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Then you must go properly before we get on the boat, all right?’
‘Yes, Perks.’
‘In you go, then, there’s a good lieutenant.’
She leaned against the wall and got her breath back in a few hurried
gulps as
Blouse stepped into the barracks, then slipped in after him.
‘Officer present!’ Jackrum barked. The squad, already lined up, stood
to varying
degrees of attention. The sergeant jerked a salute in front of Blouse,
causing the
young man to sway backwards.
‘Apprehended enemy scouting party, sir! Dangerous business all round,
sir! In
view of the emergency nature of the emergency sir, and seeing as how
you have no
NCO what with Corporal Strappi having scarpered, and seeing as how I’m
an old
soldier in good standing, you are allowed to conscript me as an
auxiliary under
Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 796, Section 3 [a], Paragraph ii, sir,
thank you, sir!’
‘What?’ said Blouse, staring around blearily and becoming aware that
in a world of
sudden turmoil there was a big red coat that seemed to know what it
was doing. ‘Oh.
Yes. Fine. Rule 796, you say? Absolutely. Well done. Carry on,
sergeant.’
‘Are you in command here?’ barked Horentz, standing.
‘Indeed I am, captain,’ said Blouse.
Horentz looked him up and down. ‘You?’ he said, disdain oozing from
the word.
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Blouse, his eyes narrowing.
‘Oh well, we shall have to do what we can. That fat bastard,’ said
Horentz,
pointing a threatening finger at Jackrum, ‘that bastard offered me
violence! As a
prisoner! In chains! And that . . . boy,’ the captain added, spitting
the word towards
Polly, ‘kicked me in the privates and almost clubbed me to death! I
demand that you
let us go!’
Blouse turned to Polly. ‘Did you kick Captain Horentz in the
“privates”, Parts?’
‘Er . . . yessir. Kneed, actually. And it’s Perks actually, sir,
although I can see why
you made the mistake.’
‘What was he doing at the time?’
‘Er . . . embracing me, sir.’ Polly saw Blouse’s eyebrows rise, and
plunged on. ‘I
was temporarily disguised as a girl, sir, in order to allay
suspicion.’
‘And then you . . . clubbed him?’
‘Yessir. Once, sir.’
‘What in the world possessed you to stop at once?’ said Blouse.
‘Sir?’ said Polly, as Horentz gasped. Blouse turned with an almost
seraphic look of
pleasure on his face.
‘And you, sergeant,’ he went on, ‘did you in fact lay a hand on the
captain?’
Jackrum took a step forward and saluted smartly. ‘Not as in fact per
se and such,
sir, no,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed on a point some twelve feet
high on the far
wall. ‘I just considered, since he had invaded our country to capture
our lads, sir, that
it wouldn’t hurt if he experienced temporary feelings of shock and
awe, sir. On my
oath, sir, I am not a violent man.’
‘Of course not, sergeant,’ said Blouse. And now, while he still
smiled, it was edged
with a kind of malevolent glee.
‘For heaven’s sake, you fool, you can’t believe these ignorant yokels,
they’re the
dregs of—’ Horentz began.
‘I do believe them, indeed I do,’ said Blouse, shaking with nervous
defiance. ‘I
would believe their testimony against yours, sir, if they told me the
sky was green.
And it would appear that untrained as they are, they have bested some
of Zlobenia’s
finest soldiers by wit and daring. I have every confidence that they
have further
surprises in store for us—’
‘Dropping your drawers would do it,’ whispered Maladict.
‘Shutup!’ hissed Polly, and then had to cram a fist into her mouth
again.
‘I know you, Captain Horentz,’ said Blouse, and just for a moment the
captain
looked worried. ‘I mean I know your sort. I’ve had to put up with them
all my life.
Big jovial bullies, with their brains in their breeches. You dare to
come riding into our
country and think we’re going to be frightened of you? You think you
can appeal to
me over the heads of my men? You demand? On the soil of my country?’
‘Captain?’ murmured the cavalry sergeant, as Horentz stared open-
mouthed at the
lieutenant, ‘they’ll be here soon . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Horentz uncertainly. Then he seemed, with some effort, to
regain his
composure. ‘Reinforcements are coming,’ he snapped. ‘Free us now, you
idiot, and I
might just put this down to native stupidity. Otherwise I shall see to
it that things go
very, very badly for you and your . . . ha . . . men.’
‘Seven cavalrymen were considered not enough to deal with farm boys?’
said
Blouse. ‘You’re sweating, captain. You are worried. And yet you have
reinforcements
coming?’
‘Permission to speak, sir!’ barked Jackrum, and went straight on to:
‘Cheesemongers! Get bleedin’ armed again right now! Maladict, you give
Private
Goom his sword back an’ wish him luck! Carborundum, you grab a handful
of them
twelve-foot pikes! The rest of—’
‘There’s these as well, sarge,’ said Maladict. ‘Lots of them. I got
them off our
friends’ saddles.’ He held up what looked to Polly like a couple of
large pistol
crossbows, steely and sleek.
‘Horsebows?’ said Jackrum, like a child opening a wonderful Hogswatch
present.
‘That’s what you gets for leading an honest and sober life, my lads.
Dreadful little
engines they are. Let’s have two each!’
‘I don’t want unnecessary violence, sergeant,’ said Blouse.
‘Right you are, sir!’ said the sergeant. ‘Carborundum! First man comes
through
that door runnin’, I want him nailed to the wall!’ He caught the
lieutenant’s eye, and
added: ‘But not too hard!’
. . . and someone did knock at the door.
Maladict levelled two bows at it. Carborundum lifted a couple of pikes
in either
hand. Polly raised her cudgel, a weapon she at least knew how to use.
The other boys,
and girls, raised whatever weapon Threeparts Scallot had been able to
procure. There
was silence. Polly looked around.
‘Come in?’ she suggested.
‘Yeah, right, that should do it,’ said Jackrum, rolling his eyes.
The door was pushed open and a small, dapper man stepped through
carefully. In
build, colouring and hairstyle he looked rather like Mala—
‘A vampire?’ said Polly softly.
‘Oh, damn,’ said Maladict.
The newcomer’s clothing, however, was unusual. It was an old-fashioned
evening
dress coat with the sleeves removed and many, many pockets sewn all
over it. In front
of him, slung around his neck, was a large black box. Against all
common sense, he
beamed at the sight of a dozen weapons poised to deliver perforated
death.
‘Vonderful!’ he said, lifting up the box and unfolding three legs to
form a tripod
for it. ‘But . . . could zer troll move a little to his left please?’
‘Huh?’ said Carborundum. The squad looked at one another.
‘Yes, and if the sergeant vould be so kind as to move into the centre
more, and
raise those swords a little bit higher?’ the vampire went on. ‘Great!
And you, sir, if
you could give me a grrrrh . . . ?’
‘Grrrrh?’ said Blouse.
‘Very good! Really fierce now . . .’
There was a blinding flash and a brief cry of ‘Oh, sh—’, followed by
the tinkle of
breaking glass.
Where the vampire had been standing was a little cone of dust.
Blinking, Polly
watched it fountain up into a human shape which coalesced once more
into the
vampire.
‘Oh dear, I really thought ze new filter vould do it,’ he said. ‘Oh
veil, ve live und
learn.’ He gave them a bright smile and added, ‘Now - vhich vun of you
is Captain
Horentz, please?’
Half an hour had passed. Polly was still bewildered. The trouble was
not that she
didn’t understand what was going on. The problem was that before she
could
understand that, she had to understand a lot of other things. One of
them was the
concept of a ‘newspaper’.
Blouse was looking proud and worried by turns, but nervous all the
time. Polly
watched him carefully, not least because he was talking to the man who
had come in
behind the iconographer. He was wearing a big leather coat and
jodhpurs, and spent
most of the time writing things down in a notebook, with occasional
puzzled glances
at the squad. Finally, Maladict, who had good hearing, sauntered over
to the recruits
from his lounging spot by the wall.
‘Okay,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘It’s all a bit complicated,
but . . . do any of
you know about newspapers?’
‘Yeth, my thecond couthin Igor in Ankh-Morpork told me about them,’
said Igor.
‘They’re like a kind of government announthement.’
‘Um . . . sort of. Except they’re not written by the government.
They’re written by
ordinary people who write things down,’ said Maladict.
‘Like a diary?’ said Tonker.
‘Um . . . no . . .’
Maladict tried to explain. The squad tried to understand. It still
made no sense. It
sounded to Polly like some kind of Punch and Judy show. Anyway, why
would you
trust anything written down? She certainly didn’t trust ‘Mothers of
Borogravia!’ and
that was from the government. And if you couldn’t trust the
government, who could
you trust?
Very nearly everyone, come to think of it . . .
‘Mr de Worde works for a newspaper in Ankh-Morpork,’ said Maladict.
‘He says
we’re losing. He says casualties are mounting and troops are deserting
and all the
civilians are heading for the mountains.’
‘W-why should we believe him?’ Wazzer demanded.
‘Well, we’ve seen a lot of casualties and refugees and Corporal
Strappi hasn’t been
around since he heard he was going to the front,’ said Maladict.
‘Sorry, but it’s true.
We’ve all seen it.’
‘Yeah, but he’s just some man from a foreign country. Why w-would the
Duchess
lie to us? I mean, why would she send us out just to die?’ said
Wazzer. ‘She wwatches
over us!’
‘Everyone says we’re winning,’ said Tonker, doubtfully, after that
moment of
embarrassment. Tears were running down Wazzer’s face.
‘No, they don’t,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t think we are, either.’
‘Does anyone think we are?’ said Maladict. Polly looked from face to
face.
‘But saying so . . . it’s like treachery against the Duchess, isn’t
it?’ said Wazzer.
‘It’s spreading Alarm and Despondency, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe we ought to be alarmed,’ said Maladict. ‘Do you know how he
came to be
here? He travels around writing down things about the war for his
paper of news. He
met these cavalry just up the road. In our country! And they told him
they’d just heard
that the very last recruits from Borogravia were here and they were
nothing but, er, “a
wet little bunch of squeaking boys”. They said they’d capture us for
our own good
and he could get a picture of us for his paper. He could show
everybody how dreadful
things were, they said, because we were scraping the bottom of the
barrel.’
‘Yeah, but we beat ‘em so that’s foxed him!’ said Tonker, grinning
nastily.
‘Nothing for him to write down now, eh?’
‘Um . . . not really. He says that this is even better!’
‘Better? Whose side is he on?’
‘Bit of a puzzler, really. He comes from Ankh-Morpork, but he’s not
exactly on
their side. Er . . . Otto Chriek, who makes the pictures for him—’
‘The vampire? He crumbled to dust when the light flashed!’ said Polly.
‘Then he . .
. came back!’
‘Well, I was standing behind Carborundum at the time,’ said Maladict,
‘but I know
the technique. He probably had a thin glass vial of b . . . bl. . .
blur . . . no, wait, I can
say this . . . blood.’ He sighed. ‘There! No problem. A thin vial
of . . . what I said . . .
which smashed on the ground and pulled the dust back together again.
It’s a great
idea.’ Maladict gave them a wan smile. ‘I think he really cares a lot
about what he
does, you know. Anyway, he told me de Worde just tries to find out the
truth. And
then he writes it down and sells it to anyone who wants it.’
‘And people let him do that?’ said Polly.
‘Apparently. Otto says he makes Commander Vimes livid with rage about
once a
week, but nothing ever happens.’
‘Vimes? The Butcher?’ said Polly.
‘He’s a duke, Otto says. But not like ours. Otto says he’s never seen
him butcher
anybody. Otto’s a Black Ribboner, like me. He wouldn’t lie to a fellow
Ribboner.
And he says that picture he took is going on the clacks from the
nearest tower tonight.
It will be in the paper of news tomorrow! And they print a copy here!’
‘How can you send a picture on the clacks?’ said Polly. ‘I know people
who’ve
seen them. It’s just a lot of boxes on a tower that go clack-clack!’
‘Ah, Otto explained that to me, too,’ said Maladict. ‘It’s very
ingenious.’
‘How does it work, then?’
‘Oh, I didn’t understand what he said. It was all about . . . numbers.
But it certainly
sounded very clever. Anyway, de Worde just told the lieu— the rupert
that news
about a bunch of boys beating up experienced soldiers would certainly
make people
sit up and take notice!’
The squad looked at one another sheepishly.
‘It was a bit of a fluke, and anyway we had Carborundum,’ said Tonker.
‘And I used trickery,’ said Polly. ‘I mean, I couldn’t do it twice.’
‘So what?’ said Maladict. ‘We did it. The squad did it! Next time
we’ll do it
differently!’
‘Yeah!’ said Tonker. And there was a shared moment of exhilaration in
which they
were capable of anything. It lasted all of . . . a moment.
‘But it won’t work,’ said Shufti. ‘We’ve just been lucky. You know it
won’t work,
Maladict. You all know it won’t work, right?’
‘Well, I’m not saying we could, you know, take on a regiment all at
once,’ said
Maladict. ‘And the lieu— rupert might be a bit wet. But we could help
make a
difference. Old Jackrum knows what he’s doing—’
‘Upon my oath I am not a violent man . . . whack!’ sniggered Tonker,
and there
were a few . . . yes, giggles, they were giggles, Polly knew, from the
squad.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Shufti flatly. ‘None of us are, right? Because
we’re girls.’
There was a dead silence.
‘Well, not Carborundum and Ozzer, okay,’ Shufti went on, as if the
silence was
sucking unwilling words out of her. ‘And I’m not sure about Maladict
and Igor. But I
know the rest of us are, right? I’ve got eyes, I’ve got ears, I’ve got
a brain. Right?’
In the silence there was the slow rumble that preceded a pronouncement
from
Carborundum.
‘If it any help,’ she said, in a voice suddenly more sandy than
gravelly, ‘my real
name’s Jade.’
Polly felt questing eyes boring into her. She was embarrassed, of
course. But not
for the obvious reason. It was for the other one, the little lesson
that life sometimes
rams home with a stick: you are not the only one watching the world.
Other people
are people; while you watch them they watch you, and they think about
you while you
think about them. The world isn’t just about you.
There was going to be no possibility of getting out of this. And, in a
way, it was a
relief.
‘Polly,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
She looked questioningly at Maladict, who smiled in a distinctly non-
committal
way. ‘Is this the time?’ he said.
‘All right, you lot, what’reyou standing about for?’ bawled Jackrum,
six inches
from the back of Maladict’s head. No one saw him arrive there; he
moved with an
NCO’s stealth, which sometimes mystifies even Igors.
Maladict’s smile didn’t change. ‘Why, we’re awaiting your orders,
sergeant,’ he
said, turning round.
‘D’you think you’re clever, Maladict?’
‘Um . . . yes, sarge. Quite clever,’ the vampire conceded.
There wasn’t a lot of humour in Jackrum’s smile. ‘Good. Glad to hear
it. Don’t
want another stupid corporal. Yeah, I know you ain’t even a proper
private yet, but
glory be, you’re a corporal now ‘cos I need one and you’re the
snappiest dresser. Get
some stripes from Threeparts. The rest of you . . . this isn’t a
bleedin’ mothers’
meeting, we’re leaving in five minutes. Move!’
‘But the prisoners, sarge—’ Polly began, still trying to digest the
revelation.
‘We’re goin’ to drag ‘em over to the inn an’ leave ‘em tied up in the
nood, and
shackled together,’ said Jackrum. ‘Vicious little devil when he’s
roused, our rupert,
eh? And Threeparts is having their boots and horses. They won’t be
going too far for
a while, not in the nood.’
‘Won’t the writing man let them out?’ said Tonker.
‘Don’t care,’ said Jackrum. ‘He could probably cut the ropes, but I’m
dropping the
shackle key in the privy, and that’ll take a bit of fishing out.’
‘Whose side is he on, sarge?’ said Polly.
‘Dunno. I don’t trust ‘em. Ignore ‘em. Don’t talk to ‘em. Never talk
to people who
writes things down. Milit’ry rule. Now, I know I just gave you lot an
order ‘cos I
heard the bleedin’ echo! Get on with it! We are leaving!’
‘Road to perdition, lad, promotion,’ said Scallot to Maladict,
swinging up with two
stripes hanging from his hook. He grinned. ‘That’s three pence extra a
day you’re due
now, only you won’t get it ‘cos they ain’t payin’ us, but to look on
the bright side, you
won’t get stoppages, and they’re a devil for stoppages. The way I see
it, march
backwards and yer pockets’ll overflow!’
The rain had stopped. Most of the squad were parading outside the
barracks where
there was, now, a small covered wagon belonging to the writer of the
paper of news.
A large flag hung from a pole attached to it, but Polly couldn’t make
out the design by
moonlight. Beside the wagon, Maladict was deep in conversation with
Otto.
The centre of attention, though, was the line of cavalry horses. One
had been
offered to Blouse, but he’d waved it away with a look of alarm,
muttering something
about ‘being loyal to his steed’, which to Polly’s eye looked like a
self-propelled
toast-rack with a bad attitude. But he’d probably made the right
decision, at that,
because they were big beasts, broad, battle-hardened and bright-eyed;
sitting astride
one of them would have strained the crotch in Blouse’s trousers and an
attempt at
reining one of them in would have pulled his arms off at the shoulder.
Now each
horse had a pair of boots hanging from its saddle, except for the
leading horse, a truly
magnificent beast upon which Corporal Scallot sat like an
afterthought.
‘I’m no donkey-walloper as you know, Threeparts,’ said Jackrum, as he
finished
lashing the crutches behind the saddle, ‘but this is a hell of a good
horse you’ve got
here.’
‘Damn right, sarge. You could feed a platoon for a week off’f it!’
said the corporal.
‘Sure you won’t come with us?’ Jackrum added, standing back. ‘I reckon
you still
must’ve one or two things left for the bastards to cut off, eh?’
‘Thank you, sarge, it’s a kind offer,’ said Threeparts. ‘But fast
horses are going to
be at a real premium soon, and I’ll be in on the ground floor, as you
might say. This
lot’ll be worth three years’ pay.’ He turned in the saddle and nodded
at the squad.
‘Best of luck, lads,’ he added cheerfully. ‘You’ll walk with Death
every day, but I’ve
seen ‘im and he’s been known to wink. And remember: fill your boots
with soup!’ He
urged the horses into a walk, and disappeared with his trophies into
the gloom.
Jackrum watched him go, shook his head, and turned to the recruits.
‘All right,
ladies— What’s funny, Private Halter?’
‘Er, nothing, sarge, I just . . . thought of something . . .’ said
Tonker, almost
choking.
‘You ain’t paid to think of things, you’re paid to march. Do it!’
The squad marched away. The rain slackened to nothing but the wind
rose a little,
rattling windows, blowing through the deserted houses, opening and
shutting doors
like someone looking for something they could have sworn they put down
here only a
moment ago. That was all that moved in Plotz, except for one candle
flame, down
near the floor in the back room of the deserted barracks.
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—
—and 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 pigeons*,
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!
* And allowing for the fact that all pigeons who know how birds of
prey catch
are dead, and therefore capable of slightly less thought than a living
pigeon.
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