MR 12

[KingSize]

madly. ‘Please, sir! Permission to speak, sir!’
‘Yes, Perks?’ said Blouse.
Polly saw there was one chance, and one only. She had to find out
about Paul.
Now her mind worked as fast as it had on the hill last night, when
she’d gone for the
man with the code book.
‘Sir, I don’t know if he’s worth talking to, sir, but he may be worth
listening to.
Even if you think he’ll only tell us lies. Because sometimes, sir, the
way people tell
you lies, if they tell you enough lies, well, they sort of . . . show
you what shape the
truth is, sir. And we don’t have to tell him the truth, sir. We could
lie to him, too.’
‘I am not by nature an untruthful man, Perks,’ said Blouse coldly.
‘Glad to hear it, sir. Are we winning the war, sir?’
‘You stop that right now, Perks!’ Jackrum roared.
‘It was only a question, sarge,’ said Polly reproachfully.
Around the clearing the squad waited, ears sucking up every sound.
Everyone
knew the answer. They waited for it to be said aloud.
‘Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency,’ Blouse began, but he
said it as if he
didn’t believe it and didn’t care who knew.
‘No, sir. It doesn’t really. It’s better than being lied to,’ said
Polly. She changed her
voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was
being scolded.
‘It’s evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please.’
Some harmonic of that tone must have found a home in an old part of
Blouse’s
brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a
hand.
‘We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet.’
‘I think we all know that, sir, but it’s good to hear you say it,’
said Polly, giving
him an encouraging smile.
That seemed to work, too. ‘I suppose there is no harm in at least
being civil to the
wretched fellow,’ said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. ‘He may give away
valuable
information under cunning questioning.’
Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man
in prayer.
‘Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir,’ said the
sergeant.
‘Permission denied, sergeant,’ said Blouse. ‘I’d like him to live and
don’t want to
lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and
drive it up here.’
Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to
recognize it; it
meant that Jackrum had already made plans.
‘Very good, sir,’ he said. ‘Come on, Perks.’
Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted
slope.
Then, after a while, he said: ‘D’you know why them troopers found our
little nook,
Perks?’
‘No, sarge.’
‘The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. It
wasn’t as if there
was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it.’
Polly gave this a few seconds’ thought. ‘Steam, sarge?’
‘Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti’s fault. The
gallopers weren’t
any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen
crossbows, at
least. That’s clever for a cavalryman.’
‘Well done, sarge.’
‘Don’t talk to me as if I was a rupert, lad,’ said Jackrum easily.
‘Sorry, sarge.’
‘I see you’re learnin’ how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make
sure they
gives you the right orders, see? You’ll make a good sergeant, Perks.’
‘Don’t want to, sarge.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.
After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and
headed towards
the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a
notebook, but he stood
up hurriedly when he saw them.
‘It’d be a good idea to get off the track,’ he said, as soon as they
approached.
‘There are a lot of patrols, I understand.’
‘Zlobenian patrols, sir?’ said Jackrum.
‘Yes. In theory this’ - he pointed to the flag that hung limply from
the cart -
‘should keep us safe, but everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren’t
you Sergeant
Jack Ram?’
‘Jackrum, sir. And I’ll thank you for not writing my name down in your
little book,
sir.’
‘Sorry, sergeant, but that’s my job,’ said de Worde breezily. ‘I have
to write things
down.’
‘Well, sir, soldierin’ is my job,’ said Jackrum, climbing on to the
cart and gathering
up the reins. ‘But you’ll note how at this moment in time I am not
killin’ you. Let’s
go, eh?’
Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was
full of boxes and
equipment, and while it might once have been neatly organized, that
organization was
now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the
property of a man.
Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen
dozed on a perch in
their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of
them opened
one eye and lazily went ‘Lollollop?’ which is pigeon for ‘Duh?’
Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like - she leaned closer -
‘Capt Horace
Calumney’s Patent Field Biscuits’, and ‘Dried Stew’. As she was musing
that Shufti
would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of those
boxes, a bundle
of clothes hanging from the ceiling of the rocking cart moved slightly
and a face
appeared.
‘Good mornink,’ it said, upside down.
William de Worde turned round on the seat in front. ‘It’s only Otto,
private,’ he
said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘Yes, I vill not bite,’ said the face cheerfully. It smiled. A
vampire’s face does not
look any better upside down, and a smile in these circumstances does
nothing to
improve matters. ‘That is guaranteed.’
Polly lowered the crossbow. Jackrum would have been impressed by how
quickly
she had raised it. So was she, and embarrassed too. The socks were
doing the thinking
again.
Otto very elegantly lowered himself to the bed of the cart. ‘Vhere are
ve goink?’ he
said, steadying himself as they bounced over a rut.
‘A little place I know, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Nice and quiet.’
‘Good. I need to exercise the imps. Zey get fretful if zey are cooped
up for too
long.’ Otto pushed aside a stack of paper and revealed his large
picture-making box.
He lifted a small hatch.
‘Rise und shine, lads,’ he said. There was a chorus of high-pitched
voices from
inside.
‘I’d better just mark your card re Tiger, Mr de Worde,’ said Jackrum,
as the cart
rolled up an old logging track.
‘Tiger? Who’s Tiger?’
‘Oops,’ said Jackrum. ‘Sorry, that’s what we call the lieutenant, sir,
on account of
him being so brave. Forget I said that, will you?’
‘Brave, is he?’ said de Worde.
‘And clever, sir. Don’t let him fool you, sir. He is one of the great
milit’ry minds
of his generation, sir.’
Polly’s mouth dropped open. She had suggested they lied to the man,
but . . . this?
‘Really? Then why is he just a lieutenant?’ said the writer.
‘Ah, I can see there’s no fooling you, sir,’ said Jackrum, oozing
knowingness.
‘Yes, it’s a puzzler, sir, why he calls himself a lieutenant. Still, I
dare say he has his
reasons, eh? Just like Heinrich calling himself a captain, right?’ He
tapped the side of
his nose. ‘I see everything, sir, and I don’t say a word!’
‘All I could find out was that he did some kind of desk job at your
HQ, sergeant,’
said de Worde. Polly saw him taking his notebook out, slowly and
carefully.
‘Yes, I expect that’s what you would find out, sir,’ said Jackrum,
with a huge
conspiratorial wink. ‘And then, when things are at their worst, they
let him out, sir.
They unleash him, sir. Me, I don’t know a thing, sir.’
‘What does he do, explode?’ said de Worde.
‘Haha, nice one, sir!’ said Jackrum. ‘No, sir. What he does, sir, is
assess situations,
sir. I don’t understand it myself, sir, not being a big thinker, but
the proof of the
pudding, sir, is in the eating of same, and last night we were jumped
by eight—
twenty Zlobenian troopers, sir, and the lieutenant just assessed the
situation in a flash
and skewered five of the buggers, sir. Like a kebab, sir. Mild as milk
to look at, but
rouse him and he’s a whirlwind of death. Of course, you did not hear
it from me, sir.’
‘And he’s in charge of a bunch of recruits, sergeant?’ said de Worde.
‘That doesn’t
sound very likely to me.’
‘Recruits who captured some crack cavalrymen, sir,’ said Jackrum,
looking pained.
‘That’s leadership for you. Comes the hour, comes the man, sir. I’m
just a simple old
soldier, sir, seen ‘em come and seen ‘em go. Upon my oath I am not a
lying man, sir,
but I look at Lieutenant Blouse in wonderment.’
‘He just seemed confused, to me,’ said de Worde, but there was a hint
of
uncertainty in his voice.
‘That was a bit of concussion, sir. He took a wallop that would have
felled a lesser
man, and still got back on to his feet. Amazing, sir!’
‘Hmm,’ said de Worde, making a note.
The cart splashed across the shallow little stream and rocked into the
gully.
Lieutenant Blouse was sitting on a rock. He’d made an effort, but his
tunic was
grubby, his boots were muddy, his hand was swollen and one ear,
despite Igorina’s
ministrations, was still inflamed. He had his sword on his knees.
Jackrum carefully
brought the cart to a halt by a thicket of birch trees. All four of
the enemy troopers
were tied up against the cliff. Apart from them, the camp appeared to
be deserted.
‘Where are the rest of the men, sergeant?’ whispered de Worde, as he
slid down off
the cart.
‘Oh, they’re around, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Watching you. Probably not a
good idea
to make any sudden move, sir.’
No one else was visible . . . and then Maladict faded into view.
People never really looked at things, Polly knew. They glanced. And
what had
been a patch of scrub was now Corporal Maladict. Polly stared. He’d
cut a hole in the
centre of his old blanket, and the mud and grass stains on the
mildewed greyness had
turned him into part of the landscape until he’d saluted. He’d also
stuck leafy twigs all
over his hat.
Sergeant Jackrum goggled. Polly had never really seen proper goggling
before, but
the sergeant had the face to do it at championship level. She could
feel him drawing
breath while at the same time assembling cusswords for a right royal
thundering - and
then he remembered he was playing Sergeant Big Jolly Fat Man, and this
was not the
time to segue into Sergeant Incandescent.
‘Lads, eh?’ he chuckled to de Worde. ‘What will they think of next?’
De Worde nodded nervously, pulled a wad of newspapers from under his
seat, and
advanced on the lieutenant.
‘Mr de Worde, isn’t it?’ said Blouse, standing up. ‘Perks, can we
manage a cup of,
er, “saloop” for Mr de Worde? There’s a good chap. Do take a rock,
sir.’
‘Good of you to see me, lieutenant,’ said de Worde. ‘It looks as
though you’ve
been in the wars!’ he added, with an attempt at joviality.
‘No, only this one,’ said Blouse, looking puzzled.
‘I meant that you have been wounded, sir,’ said de Worde.
‘These? Oh, they’re nothing, sir. I’m afraid the one on my hand was
self-inflicted.
Sword drill, you know.’
‘You’re left-handed then, sir?’
‘Oh, no.’
Polly, washing out a mug, heard Jackrum say out of the corner of his
mouth:
‘Should’ve seen the other two fellows, sir!’
‘Are you aware of the progress of the war, lieutenant?’ said de Worde.
‘You tell me, sir,’ said Blouse.
‘All your army is bottled up in the Kneck valley. Dug in, mostly, just
beyond the
reach of the keep’s weaponry. Your forts elsewhere along the border
have been
captured. The garrisons at Drerp and Glitz and Arblatt have been
overwhelmed. As
far as I can tell, lieutenant, your squad are the only soldiers still
at large. At least,’ he
added, ‘the only ones still fighting.’
‘And my regiment?’ said Blouse quietly.
‘The remnant of the Tenth took part in a brave but, frankly, suicidal
attempt to
retake Kneck Keep a few days ago, sir. Most of the survivors are
prisoners of war,
and I have to tell you that almost all your high command have been
captured. They
were in the keep when it was taken. There are big dungeons in that
fort, sir, and
they’re pretty full.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
I do, thought Polly. So Paul is either dead, wounded or captured. And
it doesn’t
help much by thinking of it as two chances in three that he is alive.
De Worde threw his newspapers at the lieutenant’s feet. ‘It’s all
there, sir. I didn’t
make it up. It’s the truth. It will remain true whether you believe it
or not. There are
more than six countries ranged against you, including Genua and
Mouldavia and
Ankh-Morpork. There is no one on your side. You are alone. The only
reason you’re
not beaten yet is because you won’t admit it. I’ve seen your generals,
sir! Great
leaders, and your men fight like demons, but they won’t surrender!’
‘Borogravia doesn’t know the .meaning of the word “surrender”, Mr de
Worde,’
said the lieutenant.
‘Can I lend you a dictionary, sir?’ snapped de Worde, going red in the
face. ‘It’s
very similar to the meaning of “making some kind of peace while you’ve
got a
chance”, sir! It’s rather like “quitting while you’ve still got a
head”, sir! Good
heavens, sir, don’t you understand? The reason that there still is an
army in the Kneck
valley is that the allies haven’t decided what to do with it! They’re
fed up with the
slaughter!’
‘Ah, so we still fight back!’ said Blouse.
De Worde sighed. ‘You don’t understand, sir. They are fed up with
slaughtering
you. They’ve got the keep now. There’s some big war engines up there.
They . . .
frankly, sir, some of the alliance would just as soon wipe out the
remains of your
army. It’d be like shooting rats in a barrel. They have you at their
mercy. And yet you
keep on attacking. You attack the keep! It’s on sheer rock and it’s
got walls a hundred
feet high. You make salients across the river. You’re bottled up and
you’ve got
nowhere to go and the allies could simply massacre you any time they
want, and you
act as though you’re just facing some kind of temporary setback.
That’s what’s really
happening, lieutenant! You are just a last little detail.’
‘Have a care, please,’ Blouse warned.
‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know anything about recent history? In the
past thirty
years you have declared war on every single one of your neighbours at
least once. All
countries fight, but you brawl. And then last year you invaded
Zlobenia again!’
‘They invaded us, Mr de Worde.’
‘You have been misinformed, lieutenant. You invaded the Kneck
province.’
‘That was confirmed as Borogravian by the Treaty of Lint, more than a
hundred
years ago.’
‘Signed at swordpoint, sir. And no one cares now, in any case. It’s
all got beyond
your stupid little royal scuffles. Because your men tore down the
Grand Trunk, you
see. The clacks towers. And tore up the coach road. Ankh-Morpork
regards that as
bandit activity.’
‘Have a care, I said!’ said Blouse. ‘I note you are displaying the
Ankh-Morpork
flag with evident pride on your wagon.’
‘Civis Morporkias sum, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork citizen. You could
say that
Ankh-Morpork shelters me under her wide and rather greasy wing,
although I agree
the metaphor could use some work.’
‘Your Ankh-Morpork soldiers aren’t in a position to protect you,
however.’
‘Sir, you are right. You could have me killed right now,’ said de
Worde simply.
‘You know that. I know that. But you won’t, for three reasons. The
officers of
Borogravia tend towards honour. Everyone says that. That’s why they
don’t
surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don’t need to,
because everyone is
interested in you. Suddenly, it’s all changed.’
‘Interested in us?’
‘Sir, in a sense you could help a lot right now. Apparently people
back in Ankh-
Morpork were amazed when . . . look, have you heard about what we call
“human
interest”, sir?’
‘No.’
De Worde tried to explain. Blouse listened with his mouth open and, at
the end,
said: ‘Have I got this right? Although many people have been killed
and wounded in
this wretched war, it’s not been of much “interest” to your readers?
But it is now, just
because of us? Because of a little skirmish in a tciwn they’ve never
heard of? And
because of it, we’re suddenly a “plucky little country” and people are
telling your
newspaper that your great city should be on our side?’
‘Yes, lieutenant. We put out a second edition last night, you see.
After I’d found
out that “Captain Horentz” was really Prince Heinrich. Did you know
this at the time,
sir?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped Blouse.
‘And you, Private, er, Perks, would you have kicked him in the . . .
would you have
kicked him had you known?’
Polly dropped a mug in her nervousness, and looked at Blouse.
‘You may answer, of course, Perks,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Well, yes, sir. I would have kicked him. Harder, probably. I was
defending
myself, sir,’ Polly said, carefully avoiding further details. You
couldn’t be sure what
someone like de Worde would do with them.
‘Right, good, yes,’ said de Worde. ‘Then you might be pleased with
this. Our
cartoonist Fizz drew this for the special edition. It was on the front
page. We’ve sold a
record number of copies.’ He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, which
by the look of
the creases had been folded many times.
It was a line drawing, with lots of shading. It showed a huge figure,
with a large
sword, a monstrous monocle and a moustache as wide as a coathanger,
menacing a
much smaller figure armed with nothing more than an instrument for
lifting beets -in
fact there was a beet stuck on the end of it. At least, that was
clearly what had been
happening right up to the point when the smaller figure, wearing a not
bad attempt at
an Ins-and-Outs shako and a face that looked slightly like Polly’s,
had kicked the
other one squarely in the groinal regions. A sort of balloon was
coming out of Polly’s
mouth, containing the words: ‘That for your Royal Prerogative, you
Blaggard!’ The
balloon issuing from the mouth of the ogre, who could only be Prince
Heinrich, said:
‘Oh my Succession! That such A Small Thing could hurt so Much!’ And in
the
background a fat woman in a rumpled ballgown and a huge old-fashioned
helmet was
clasping her hands to an unbelievably large bosom, staring at the
fight with a mixture
of concern and admiration, and ballooning: ‘Oh my Swain! I fear our
Liaison is Cut
short!’
Since no one else was saying much, but was simply staring, de Worde
said, rather
nervously: ‘Fizz is rather, er, direct in these matters, but amazingly
popular. Ahem.
You see, the curious thing is that although Ankh-Morpork is probably
the biggest
bully around, in a subtle kind of way, we nevertheless have a soft
spot for people who
stand up to bullies. Especially royal ones. We tend to be on their
side, provided it
doesn’t cost us too much.’
Blouse cleared his throat. ‘It’s quite a good likeness of you, Perks,’
he said
hoarsely.
‘I only used my knee, sir!’ Polly protested. ‘And that fat lady
certainly wasn’t
there!’
‘That’s Morporkia,’ said de Worde. ‘She’s a sort of representation of
the city,
except that in her case she’s not covered in mud and soot.’
‘And I have to add, for my part,’ said Blouse, in his talking-to-a-
meeting voice,
‘that Borogravia is in fact larger than Zlobenia, although most of the
country is little
more than barren mountainside—’
‘That doesn’t actually matter,’ said de Worde.
‘It doesn’t?’ said Blouse.
‘No, sir. It’s just a fact. It’s not politics. In politics, sir,
pictures like this are
powerful. Sir, even the alliance commanders are talking about you, and
the
Zlobenians are angry and bewildered. If you, the heroes of the hour,
could make a
plea for a little common sense—’
The lieutenant took a long, deep breath. ‘This is a foolish war, Mr de
Worde. But I
am a soldier. I have “kissed the Duchess”, as we say. It’s an oath of
loyalty. Don’t
tempt me to break it. I must fight for my country. We will repel all
invaders. If there
are deserters, we will find them and rally them again. We know the
country. While we
are free, Borogravia will be ftjee. You have “had your say”. Thank
you. Where is that
tea, Perks?’
‘What? Oh, nearly done, sir!’ said Polly, turning back to the fire.
It had been a sudden strange fancy, but a stupid plan. Now, out here,
all the
drawbacks were visible. How would she have got Paul home? Would he
have wanted
to come? Could she have managed it? Even if he was still alive, how
could she hope
to get him out of a prison?
‘So you’ll be guerilla fighters, eh?’ said Mr de Worde, behind her.
‘Madmen, all of
you.’
‘No, we are not irregulars,’ said Blouse. ‘We kissed the Duchess. We
are
soldiers.’
‘Oh, well,’ said de Worde. ‘Then I admire your spirit, at least. Ah,
Otto . . .’
The vampire iconographer ambled up, and gave them a shy smile. ‘Do not
be
afraid. I am a Black Ribboner just like your corporal,’ he said.
‘Light is my passion
now.’
‘Oh? Er . . . well done,’ said Blouse.
‘Take the pictures, Otto,’ said de Worde. These gentlemen have a war
to fight.’
‘Out of interest, Mr de Worde,’ Blouse interrupted, ‘how did you get
the pictures
back to your city so quickly? Magic, I assume?’
‘What?’ De Worde looked momentarily off balance. ‘Oh no, sir. Wizards
are
expensive and Commander Vimes has said that there is going to be no
first use of
magic in this war. We send things by pigeon to our office in the keep
and then by
clacks from the nearest trunk tower.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Blouse, showing rather more animation than Polly
had seen up
until now. ‘Using numbers to indicate a scale of grey shades,
perhaps?’
‘Mein Gotts!’ said Otto.
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact we do,’ said de Worde. ‘I’m very
impressed that
you—’
‘I have seen the clacks towers on the far bank of the Kneck,’ said
Blouse, his eyes
lighting up. ‘Very clever idea, using big shuttered boxes rather than
the old-fashioned
semaphore arms. And would I be right in my surmise that the box on the
top, which
opens its shutters once a second, is a kind of system, er, clock that
makes certain the
whole clacks line keeps in step? Oh, good. I thought so. One beat a
second is probably
the limit of the mechanisms, so no doubt all your efforts now are
concentrated on
maximizing the information content per shutter operation? Yes, I
imagined that would
be the case. As for sending pictures, well, sooner or later all things
are numbers, yes?
Of course, you would use each of the two columns of four boxes to send
a grey code,
but it must be very slow. Have you considered a squeezing algorithm?’
De Worde and Chriek exchanged a glance. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been
talking
to anyone about this, sir?’ said the writer.
‘Oh, it’s all very elementary,’ said Blouse, smiling happily. ‘I had
thought about it
in the context of military maps which are, of course, mostly white
space. So I
wondered if it would be possible to indicate a required shade on one
column and, on
the other side, indicate how far along that rank that shade would
persist. And a
delightful bonus here is that if your map is simply in black and
white, then you have
even more—’
‘You haven’t seen inside a clacks tower, have you?’ said de Worde.
‘Alas, no,’ said Blouse. ‘This is simply “thinking aloud” based on the
de facto
existence of your picture. I believe I can see a number of other
little mathematical,
ahem, tricks to make the passage of information even swifter, but I am
sure these have
already occurred to you. Of course, a fairly minor modification could
potentially
double the information burden of the whole system at a stroke. And
that is without
using coloured filters at night, which I’m sure even with the overhead
of extra
mechanical effort would surely increase throughput by— I’m sorry, did
I say
something wrong?’
The two men both wore a glazed expression. De Worde shook himself.
‘Oh . . . er,
no. Nothing,’ he said. ‘Er . . . you seem to have got the grasp of
things quite . . .
quickly.’
‘Oh, it was perfectly straightforward once I started thinking about
it,’ said Blouse.
‘It was exactly the same wr>en I had to redesign the department’s
filing system, you
see. People build something that works. Then circumstances change, and
they have to
tinker with it to make it continue to work, and they are so busy
tinkering that they
cannot see that a much better idea would be to build a whole new
system to deal with
the new circumstances. But to an outsider, the idea is obvious.’
‘In politics as well as, er, filing systems and clackses, do you
think?’ said de
Worde.
Blouse’s brow wrinkled. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow . . .’ he
said.
“Would you agree that sometimes a country’s system is so out of date
that it’s only
the outsiders that can see the need for wholesale change?’ said de
Worde. He smiled.
Lieutenant Blouse did not.
‘Just a point to ponder, maybe,’ said de Worde. ‘Er . . . since you
wish to tell the
world of your defiance, would you object if my colleague takes your
picture?’
Blouse shrugged. ‘If it gives you any satisfaction,’ he said. ‘It’s an
Abomination,
of course, but these days it’s hard to find something that isn’t. You
must tell the
world, Mr de Worde, that Borogravia won’t lie down. We will not give
in. We will
fight on. Write that down in your little notebook, please. While we
can stand, we will
kick!’
‘Yes, but once again may I implore you to—’
‘Mr de Worde, you have I am sure heard the saying that the pen is
mightier than
the sword?’
De Worde preened a little. ‘Of course, and I—’
‘Do you want to test it? Take your picture, sir, and then my men will
escort you
back to your road.’
Otto Chriek stood up and bowed to Blouse. He unslung his picture box.
‘This vill only take vun minute,’ he said.
It never does. Polly watched in horrified fascination as Otto took
picture after
picture of Lieutenant Blouse in a variety of what the lieutenant
thought were heroic
poses. It is a terrible thing to see a man trying to jut out a chin he
does not, in fact,
have.
‘Very impressive,’ said de Worde. ‘I just hope you live to see it in
my paper, sir.’
‘I shall look forward to it with the keenest anticipation,’ said
Blouse. ‘And now,
Perks, please go along with the sergeant and put these two gentlemen
back on their
way.’
Otto sidled up to Polly as they walked back to the cart. ‘I need to
tell you somezing
about your vampire,’ he said.