MR 23

[KingSize]

a white sheet on a pole. ‘Oh, and by the way . . . my name is
Christine. And, you
know, I really don’t think I could get used to wearing a dress
again . . .’
Maladict and Jade were chosen to see Polly through the castle, a troll
because a
troll commands respect and a vampire because a vampire demands it.
There were
groans and cheers as they elbowed their way along the passages,
because news had
already got around. That was another reason for taking Jade. Trolls
could push.
‘Okay,’ said Jackrum, bringing up the rear. ‘At the bottom of these
steps there’s a
door, and beyond that door is enemy territory. Put the white flag out
first. Important
safety tip.’
‘Can’t you come with us, sarge?’
‘Hah, me? I dare say there’s a few people out there who’d take a pot
shot at me
white flag or no. Don’t you worry. The word’s gone out.’
‘What word’s that, sarge?’
Jackrum leaned closer. ‘They ain’t gonna shoot a girl, Perks!’
‘You told them?’
‘Let’s just say that news gets around fast,’ said Jackrum. ‘Grab the
advantage. And
I’ll find your brother while you’re gone, upon my oath. Oh, one other
thing . . . look at
me, Perks.’ Polly turned, in the crowded, jostling corridor. Jackrum’s
eyes twinkled.
‘I know I can trust you, Perks. I’d trust you like I’d trust myself.
Best of luck. And
make the most of it, lad. Kissin’ don’t last!’
Well, that couldn’t be plainer, Polly thought, as the armed men by the
door
beckoned them forward.
‘Stick to the walls, okay, ladies? And be quick with that rag!’
The heavy door swung open. Half a dozen arrows bounced and pinwheeled
along
the corridor. Another one tore through the flag. Polly waved it
desperately. She heard
distant shouting, and then cheers.
‘Okay, go!’ said a guard, pushing her forward.
She stepped out into the sudden daylight and, to make sure, waved the
flag
overhead a few more times. There were men in the courtyard and lining
the
battlements around it. There were bodies, too.
A captain, with blood soaking through his jacket, stepped across the
fallen and held
out his hand. ‘You may give that to me, soldier,’ he said.
‘No, sir. I must deliver it to your commander, and wait for his reply,
sir.’
‘Then you give it to me, soldier, and I will bring you back the reply.
You have
surrendered, after all.’
‘No. This is a truce. That’s not the same thing. I have to hand this
over personally
and you aren’t big enough.’ A thought hit her. ‘I demand to take this
to Commander
Vimes!’
The captain stared at her, and then looked closer. ‘Aren’t you one of
those—’
‘Yes,’ said Polly.
‘And you locked them in chains and threw the key away?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, seeing her life start to flash past her eyes.
‘And they had to hop miles with shackles on and no clothes?’
‘Yes!’
‘And you’re just . . . women?’
‘Yes!’ said Polly, letting the ‘just’ go for now.
The captain leaned closer and spoke while trying not to move his lips.
‘Dan gug
show. Ell done. Agout time soes arragunk arsetards ere aken own a eg!’
He leaned
back. ‘Commander Vimes it is, then. Follow me, miss.’
Polly felt hundreds of eyes on her as the squad was let into the inner
keep. There
were one or two wolf whistles, because there were more soldiers in
there, including
quite a few trolls. Jade bent down, snatched up a rock and hurled it
at one of them,
hitting him between the eyes.
‘No one move!’ shouted Maladict, waving his hands urgently as a
hundred men
raised their weapons. ‘That was the troll version of blowing a kiss!’
And, indeed, the troll who had been hit was waving at Jade, a little
unsteadily.
‘Can we knock it off with the lovey-dovey, please?’ said Polly to
Jade. ‘The soft
people are likely to get the wrong idea.’
‘It’s stopped the whistling, though,’ Maladict observed.
More people watched them as they climbed flight after flight of stone
steps. No
one could take this place, Polly could see that. Every flight was seen
by another one
higher up, every visitor would be sighted on before she’d even
glimpsed a face.
A figure stepped out of the shadows as they reached the next floor. It
was a young
woman, in old-fashioned leather and mail armour, with a breastplate.
She had long,
very fair hair; for the first time in weeks, Polly felt a twinge of
envy.
‘Thank you, captain, I’ll take over from here,’ she said, and nodded
to Polly.
‘Good evening, Corporal Perks . . . if you would follow me, please?’
‘She’s a woman! And a sergeant!’ Maladict whispered.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Polly.
‘But she gave an order to that captain!’
‘Maybe she’s a political . . .’
‘And she’s obviously female!’
‘I’m not blind, Mal,’ said Polly.
‘I’m not deaf, either,’ said the woman, turning and smiling. ‘My name
is Angua. If
you will wait here, I’ll have some coffee sent in. There’s a bit of an
argument going
on in there at the moment.’
They were in a sort of anteroom, not much more than a widened area of
corridor
with a few benches. There were big double doors at the far end, behind
which voices
were being raised. Angua left.
‘Just like that?’ said Maladict. ‘What’s to stop us taking over the
place?’
‘All those men with crossbows we passed on the way up?’ said Polly.
Why us? she
thought, looking blankly at the wall.
‘Oh, yes. Those. Yes. Er . . . Poll?’ -v
‘Yes?’
‘I’m actually Maladicta.’ She sat back. ‘There! I’ve told someone!’
‘Dat’s nice,’ said Jade.
‘Oh, good,’ said Polly. I’d be going out to give the latrines their
afternoon swill
about now, she thought. This has got to be better than that, right?
‘I thought I did pretty well,’ Maladicta went on. ‘Now, I know what
you’re
thinking. You’re thinking: vampires have a pretty good time of it
whatever sex they
are, right? But it’s the same everywhere. Velvet dresses, underwired
nightgowns,
acting crazy all the time, and don’t let’s even go near the whole
“bathing in virgin’s
blood” thing. You get taken a lot more seriously if they think you’re
male.’
‘Right,’ said Polly. All in all, it’s been a long day. A bath would be
nice.
‘I thought I did pretty well right up until the whole coffee thing. A
necklace of the
roast beans, that’d be the thing. I’ll be better prepared another
time.’
‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Good idea. With real soap.’
‘Soap? How would soap work?’
‘What? Oh . . . sorry,’ said Polly.
‘Did you hear anything I said?’
‘Oh, that. Yes. Thank you for telling me.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘You’re you. That’s good. I’m me, whoever I am.
Tonker’s
Tonker. It’s all just. . . people. Look, a week ago the high spot of
my day was reading
the new graffiti in the men’s latrines. I think you’d agree that a lot
has happened since
then. I don’t think I’m going to be surprised at anything any more.
The coffee-bean
necklace sounds good, by the way.’ She drummed her feet on the floor
impatiently.
‘Right now, I just wish they’d hurry up in there.’
They sat and listened, and then Polly became aware of a little column
of smoke
coming from behind a bench on the other side of the space. She walked
over and
peered over the back. A man was lying there, head on one arm, smoking
a cigar. He
nodded when he saw Polly’s face.
‘They’re going to be ages yet,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you that sergeant I saw in the old kitchen? Making faces
behind Lord Rust
from Ankh-Morpork?’
‘I was not making faces, miss. That’s how I always look when Lord Rust
is
talking. And I was a sergeant once, it’s true, but, look, no stripes.’
‘Make der faces once too often?’ said Jade.
The man laughed. He hadn’t shaved today, by the look of it. ‘Something
like that,
yes. Come along to my office, it’s warmer. I only came out here
because people
complain about the smoke. Don’t worry about that lot in there, they
can wait. I’m only
down the passage.’
They followed him. The door was, indeed, only a few steps away. The
man pushed
it open, walked across the little room beyond, and sat down in a
chair. The table in
front of it overflowed with papers.
‘I think we can get enough food up here to see you through the
winter,’ he said,
picking up a sheet of paper apparently at random. ‘Grain’s a bit short
but we’ve got a
handy surplus of white drumhead cabbage, keeps wonderfully, full of
vitamins and
minerals . . . but you might want to keep your windows open, if you
follow me. Don’t
stare. I know the country’s a month away from starvation.’
‘But I haven’t even shown this letter to anyone!’ Polly protested.
‘You don’t know
what we—’
‘I don’t have to,’ said the man. ‘This is about food and mouths. Good
grief, we
don’t have to fight you. Your country is going to fall over anyway.
Your fields are
overgrown, most of your farmers are old men, the bulk of the grub goes
to the army.
And armies don’t do much for agriculture except marginally raise the
fertility of the
battlefield. The honour, the pride, the glory . . . none of that
matters. This war stops,
or Borogravia dies. Do you understand?’
Polly remembered the gale-swept fields, the old people salvaging what
they could .
. .
‘We’re just messengers,’ she said. ‘I can’t negotiate—’
‘You know your god’s dead?’ said the man. ‘Nothing left but a voice,
according to
some of our priests. The last three Abominations were against rocks,
ears and
accordion players. Okay, I might be with him on the last one,
but . . . rocks? Hah! We
can advise you if you’re going to look for a new one, by the way. Om’s
very popular
at the moment. Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns
you can sing
in the bath. You won’t get Offler the Crocodile God up here with your
winters, and
the Unorthodox Potato Church is probably a bit too uncomplicated for—’
Polly started to laugh. ‘Look, sir, I’m just a . . . what is your
name, please?’
‘Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but
without the
little gold chocolates.’
‘Vimes the Butcher?’ said Maladicta.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard that one,’ said Vimes, grinning. ‘Your people
haven’t really
mastered the fine art of propaganda. And I’m telling you because—
well, have you
heard of Om?’
They shook their heads.
‘No? Well, in the Old Book of Om there’s a story about some city full
of
wickedness, and Om decided to destroy it with holy fire, this being
back in the old
smiting days before he’d got religion. But Bishop Horn protested about
this plan, and
Om said he’d spare the city if the bishop could find one good man.
Well, the bishop
knocked on every door, and turned up empty-handed. It turned out,
after the place had
been reduced to a glass plain, that there were probably plenty of good
people there
and, being good, they weren’t the sort to admit it. Death by modesty,
a terrible thing.
And you, ladies, are the only Borogravians I know much about, apart
from the
military who, frankly, aren’t chatty. You don’t appear to be as insane
as your
country’s foreign policy. You’re the one piece of international
goodwill it has. A
bunch of young boys outwitting crack cavalrymen? Kicking the Prince in
the fork?
People at home liked that. And now it turns out that you’re girls?
They’ll love that.
Mr de Worde is going to have fun with that when he finds out.’
‘But we don’t have any power! We can’t negotiate a—’
‘What does Borogravia want? Not the country. I mean the people.’
Polly opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again and thought
about the
answer. ‘To be left alone,’ she said. ‘By everybody. For a while,
anyway. We can
change things.’
‘You’ll accept the food?’
‘We are a proud country.’
‘What are you proud of?’
It came swiftly, like a blow, and Polly realized how wars happened.
You took that
shock that had run through her, and let it boil.
. . . it may be corrupt, benighted and stupid, but it’s ours . . .
Vimes was watching her face. ‘From this desk here,’ he said, ‘the only
thing your
country has to be proud of right now is you women.’
Polly stayed silent. She was still trying to cope with the anger. It
made it worse to
know that he was right. We have our pride. And that’s what we’re proud
of. We’re
proud of being proud . . .
‘Very well, then, will you buy some food?’ said Vimes, watching her
carefully.
‘On credit? I suppose you still have someone in your country who knows
about the
kind of international affairs that don’t involve edged weapons?’
‘People would accept that, yes,’ said Polly hoarsely.
‘Good. I’ll send a clacks back tonight.’
‘And why would you be so generous, Mr Ankh-Morpork?’
‘Because I’m from a wonderfully warm-hearted city, corporal . . . hah,
no, I can’t
say that and keep a straight face,’ said Vimes. ‘Do you want to know
the truth? Most
people in Ankh-Morpork hadn’t even heard of your country until the
clacks went
down. There’s dozens of little countries round here selling one
another hand-painted
clogs or beer made from turnips. Then they knew you as the bloody mad
idiots who
fight everyone. Now they know you as . . . well, people who do just
what^hey’d do.
And tomorrow they’ll laugh. And there’re other people, people who sit
and think
about the future every day, who believe it’s worth a little to be
friends with a country
like that.’
‘Why?’ said Maladicta suspiciously.
‘Because Ankh-Morpork is a friend to all freedom-loving people
everywhere!’ said
Vimes. ‘Gods, it must be the way I tell ‘em. Ze chzy Brogocia
proztfik!’ He saw their
blank expressions. ‘Sorry, I’ve been away from home too long. And
frankly, I’d
rather be back there.’
‘But why did you say you were a cherry pancake?’ said Polly.
‘Didn’t I say I am a citizen of Borogravia?’
‘No. Brogocia is the cherry pancake, Borogvia is the country.’
‘Well, I made the effort, at least. Look, we’d rather Prince Heinrich
wasn’t ruler of
two countries. That’d make one quite big country, much bigger than the
other ones
round here. So it’d probably get bigger still. He wants to be like
Ankh-Morpork, you
see. But what he means is he wants power, and influence. He doesn’t
want to earn
them, he doesn’t want to grow into them or learn the hard way how to
use them. He
just wants them.’
‘That’s playing politics!’ said Maladicta.
‘No. It’s just telling the truth. Make peace with him, by all means.
Just leave the
road and the towers alone. You’ll get the food anyway, at whatever
price. Mr de
Worde’s article will see to that.’
‘You sent the coffee,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, yes. That was Corporal Buggy Swires, my eye in the sky. He’s a
gnome.’
‘And you set a werewolf on us?’
‘Well, set is a bit strong. Angua followed you, just to be on the safe
side. She’s a
werewolf, yes.’
‘The girl we met? She didn’t look like one!’
‘Well, they don’t, usually,’ said Vimes. ‘Right up until the moment
when they do,
if you see what I mean. And she was following you because I was
looking for
anything that’d stop thousands of people dying. And that’s not
politics either,’ said
Vimes. He stood up. ‘And now, ladies, I have to go and present your
document to the
alliance leaders.’
‘You came out for a smoke at the right time, didn’t you?’ said Polly,
slowly and
carefully. ‘You knew we were on our way, and you made sure you’d get
to us first.’
‘Of course. Can’t leave this to a bunch of . . . oh, yes . . .
ruperts.’
‘Where is my brother, Mister Vimes?’ said Polly stiffly.
‘You seem very sure I know . . .’ said Vimes, not looking her in the
face.
‘I’m certain you do,’ said Polly.
‘Why?’
‘Because no one else does!’
Vimes stubbed out his cigar. ‘Angua was right about you,’ he said.
‘Yes, I, er,
arranged for him to be put in what I like to call “protective
custody”. He’s fine.
Angua will take you to him now, if you like. Your brother, possibility
of revenge,
blackmail, who knows what . . . I thought he might be safer if I knew
exactly who
held the keys.’
The end of the journey, Polly thought. But it wasn’t, not any more.
She got the
distinct impression that the man opposite was reading her thoughts.
‘That’s what all this was about, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘No, sir. It’s just how it started,’ said Polly.
‘Well, it continues like this,’ said Vimes. ‘This is going to be a
busy day. Right
now I shall take this offer of a truce into the room down the passage
and present it to
the very important men’ - his voice went flat to say those words -
‘who are discussing
what to do about Borogravia. You’ll get a truce, the food, and
probably some other
help.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Polly. ‘They haven’t discussed it!’
‘Not yet. But, as I said . . . I used to be a sergeant. Angua!’
The door opened. Angua came in. As Vimes had said, you couldn’t tell
who was a
werewolf until you found out . . .
‘And now I’d better have a shave before I go to see the very important
men,’ said
Vimes. ‘People set a lot of store by shaving.’
Polly felt embarrassed walking down the steps with Sergeant Angua. How
did you
start a conversation? ‘So you’re a werewolf, then?’ would be sort of
idiotic. She was
glad that Jade and Maladicta had been left in the waiting room.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Angua.
‘But I didn’t say it!’ Polly burst out.
‘No, but I’m used to situations like this. I’ve learned to recognize
the way people
don’t say things. Don’t worry.’
‘You followed us,’ said Polly.
‘Yes.’
‘So you must’ve known we weren’t men.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angua. ‘My sense of smell is much better than my
eyesight, and
I’ve got sharp eyes. Humans are smelly creatures. For what it’s worth,
though, I
wouldn’t have told Mister Vimes if I hadn’t heard you talking to one
another. Anyone
could have heard you, you don’t need to be a werewolf for that.
Everyone’s got
secrets they don’t want known. Werewolves are a bit like vampires in
that way. We’re
tolerated . . . if we’re careful.’
‘That I can understand,’ said Polly. So are we, she thought.
Angua stopped by a heavy, studded door. ‘He’s in here,’ she said,
producing a key
and turning it in the lock. ‘I’ll go back and chat to the others. Come
and find me when
you’re ready . . .’
Polly stepped inside, heart pounding, and there was Paul. And there
was a buzzard,
on a perch by the open window. And on the wall, where Paul was working
so
intensely that his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth
and he hadn’t
even noticed the door opening, was another buzzard, flying in the
heart of the sunrise.
Right now, Polly could forgive Ankh-Morpork anything. Someone had
found Paul
a box of coloured chalks.
The long day got longer. She had a kind of power. They all did. People
gave them
space, watched them. The fighting had stopped and they were the cause
and no one
knew exactly why.
There were lighter moments. They might have power, but General Froc
gave the
orders. And General Froc might give the orders, but it was permissible
to suppose that
it was Sergeant-major Jackrum who anticipated them.
And perhaps that was why Shufti asked Polly and Tonker to go with her,
and they
were ushered into a room where a couple of guards stood on either side
of a sheepish
young man called Johnny who had fair hair and blue eyes and a gold
earring and his
trousers round his knees in case Shufti wanted to check his other
distinguishing
feature.
He also had a black eye.
‘This the one?’ said Major Clogston, who was leaning against the wall
eating an
apple. ‘The general has asked me to tell you that there will be a
dowry of five hundred
crowns, with the army’s compliments.’
Johnny brightened up slightly when he heard that. Shufti gave him a
long and
careful look.
‘No,’ she said at last, turning away. That’s not him.’
Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: ‘No one asked you to
speak,
private!’ And, such was the nature of the day, he shut up.
‘I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,’ said Clogston. ‘We’ve got any
amount of
earrings, heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies - and,
surprisingly, a fair number
of carbuncles. But he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?’
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, still staring at the boy. ‘My Johnny must
have been killed.’
Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. ‘In that case, uh, the
general did say,
informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension
could be
arranged,’ she said.
‘Can she do that?’ whispered Polly.
‘For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,’ said
Clogston.
‘Don’t think too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical
man.’
‘No,’ said Shufti. ‘I . . . it’s . . . well, no. Thank you, but no.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Polly.
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally
a defying kind
of person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it
ought to have been,
having overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.
Clogston stepped back. ‘Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough,
then. Take
that man away, sergeant.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered
Johnny, stood in
front of him, held out her hand and said: ‘Before they take you away
again I want my
sixpence back, you son of a bitch!’
Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There
had been
another little victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even
square pebbles will
roll.
*
Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made
available as the
women’s barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women.
Men, grown men,
had fallen over themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood
for the fire. It
was all very strange. Polly felt they were being treated as something
dangerous and
fragile, like, say, a huge and wonderful jar full of poison. She
turned the corner into
the big courtyard and there was de Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no
escaping
them. They were definitely people looking for someone.
The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope.
‘Er . . . so
you’re women, then?’ he said.
‘Er, yes,’ said Polly.
De Worde took out his notebook.
‘This is an amazing story,’ he said. ‘You really fought your way here
and got in
disguised as washerwomen?’
‘Well, we were women, and we did some washing,’ said Polly. ‘I suppose
it was
quite a cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised,
you could say.’
‘General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,’ de
Worde went
on.
‘Oh, he has got promoted, then?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.’
‘Yes, I suppose we did,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. Very well, for women.’
‘The general went on to say . . .’ de Worde consulted his notebook,
‘that you are a
credit to the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to
comment?’
He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging
argument that had
just broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your
country. We’re proud of
you. Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place,
patted you on the
head and dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to
start
somewhere . . .
‘That’s very nice of him,’ said Polly. ‘But we just want to get the
job done and go
home. That’s what soldiers want.’ She thought for a moment, and then
added: ‘And
hot sweet tea.’ To her amazement, he wrote this down.
‘Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a
different place if
more women were soldiers?’ de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she
noted, so
this was probably a joky kind of question.
‘Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,’ said Polly. And I’d
like to watch
her expression if you do . . .
‘Yes, but what do you think, miss?’
‘That’s corporal, please.’
‘Sorry, corporal . . . and?’
The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things
down, and
then they got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the
sword, but maybe
the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words
can change
everything . . .
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘I—’
There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other end of the
courtyard, and
some cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because
Zlobenian
officers were converging in a great hurry.
‘Ah, I see the Prince is back,’ said de Worde. ‘He^s probably not
going to be
happy about the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.’
‘Can he do anything about it?’
De Worde shrugged. ‘He left some very senior officers here. It would
be rather
shocking if he did.’
The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or
rather, she
realized, the big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers
trailed after him, and
were brushed off. But when a white oblong was waved in front of his
face by one man
he grabbed it and stopped so quickly that several other officers
bumped into him.
‘Um,’ said de Worde. ‘The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.’
The paper was thrown down.
‘Yes, probably that was it,’ said de Worde.
Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression.
It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in
his
notebook and cleared his throat.
‘You’re going to talk to him?’ said Polly. ‘In that mood? He’ll cut
you down!’
‘I have to,’ said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached
the doorway
he took a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly,
‘Your highness? I
wonder if I could have a word?’
Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their
gazes locked.
The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to
his sword
they closed on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was
some frantic
whispering, in which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on
the broad theme
of ‘What?’ could be heard, followed by a toccata on ‘The hell you
say!’
The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some
dust off his
spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to
Polly’s horror,
strolled towards her . . .