MR 8

[KingSize]

found someone’s lost pet and I’m looking in this little tube here to
see if I can find the
owner’s name and address, because I am a kind man.’
‘So you’re not actually waylaying field reports from the Times, then,
sir?’ said
Angua, grinning.
‘Not as such, no. I’m just such a keen reader that I want to see
tomorrow’s news
today. And Mr de Worde seems to have a knack of finding things out.
Angua, I want
to stop these stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and
if that means
allowing the occasional pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice. I expect it’ll wipe off.’
‘Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?’
When she’d gone Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and
pulled out a
roll of very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the
tiny writing,
smiling as he did so. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the
picture.
He was still staring at it when Angua returned with Reg and half a
bucket of
crunchy rabbit bits.
‘Anything interesting, sir?’ said Angua ingenuously.
‘Well, yes. You could say that. All plans are changed, all bets are
off. Ha! Oh, Mr
de Worde, you poor fool . . .’
He handed her the paper. She read the story carefully.
‘Good for them, sir,’ she said. ‘Most of them look fifteen years old,
and when you
see the size of those dragoons, well, you’ve got to be impressed.’
‘Yes, yes, you could say that, you could say that,’ said Vimes, his
face gleaming
like a man with a joke to share. ‘Tell me, did de Worde interview any
Zlobenian highups
when he arrived?’
‘No, sir. I understand he was turned away. They don’t really know what
a reporter
is, so I gather the adjutant threw him out and said he was a
nuisance.’
‘Dear me, the poor man,’ said Vimes, still grinning. ‘You met Prince
Heinrich the
other day. Describe him to me . . .’
Angua cleared her throat. ‘Well, sir, he was . . . largely green,
shading to blue, with
overtones of grllss and trail of—’
‘I meant describe him to me on the assumption that I’m not a werewolf
who sees
with his nose,’ said Vimes.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angua. ‘Sorry, sir. Six foot two, a hundred and eighty
pounds, fair
hair, green-blue eyes, sabre scar on his left cheek, wears a monocle
in his right eye,
waxed moustache—’
‘Good, well observed. And now look at “Captain Horentz” in the
picture, will
you?’
She looked again, and said, very quietly: ‘Oh dear. They didn’t know?’
‘He wasn’t going to tell them, was he? Would they have seen a
picture?’
Angua shrugged. ‘I doubt it, sir. I mean, where would they see it?
There’s never
been a newspaper here until the Times carts turned up last week.’
‘Some woodcut, maybe?’
‘No, they’re an Abomination, unless they’re of the Duchess.’
‘So they really didn’t know. And de Worde has never seen him,’ said
Vimes. ‘But
you saw him when we arrived the other day. What did you think of him?
Just between
ourselves.’
‘An arrogant son-of-a-bitch, sir, and I know what I’m talking about.
The kind of
man who thinks he knows what a woman likes and it’s himself. All very
friendly right
up until they say no.’
‘Stupid?’
‘I don’t think so. But not as clever as he thinks he is.’
‘Right, ‘cos he didn’t tell our writer friend his real name. Did you
read the bit at
the end?’
Angua read, at the end of the text: ‘Perry, the captain threatened and
harangued me
after the recruits had gone. Alas, I had no time to fish for the
manacle key in the
privy. Please let the Prince know where they are soonest. WDW’
‘Looks like William didn’t take to him, either,’ she said. ‘I wonder
why the Prince
was out with a scouting party?’
‘You said he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch,’ said Vimes. ‘Maybe he
just wanted
to pop across and see if his auntie was still breathing . . .’
His voice trailed off. Angua looked at Vimes’s face, which was staring
through
her. She knew her boss. He thought war was simply another crime, like
murder. He
didn’t much like people with titles, and regarded being a duke as a
job description
rather than a lever to greatness. He had an odd sense of humour. And
he had a sense
for what she thought of as harbingers, those little straws in the wind
that said there
was a storm coming.
‘In the nuddy,’ he chuckled. ‘Could have slit their throats. Didn’t.
They took their
boots away and left them to hop home in the nood.’ The squad, it
seemed, had found a
friend.
She waited.
‘I feel sorry for the Borogravians,’ he said.
‘Me too, sir,’ said Angua.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Their religion’s gone bad on them. Have you seen the latest
Abominations? They
Abominate the smell of beets and people with red hair. In rather shaky
writing, sir.
And root vegetables are a staple here. Three years ago it was
Abominable to grow
root crops on ground which had grown grain or peas.’
Vimes looked blank, and she remembered that he was a city boy.
‘It means no real crop rotation, sir,’ she explained. ‘The ground
sours. Diseases
build up. You were right when you said they were going mad.
These . . .
commandments are dumb, and any farmer can see that. I imagine people
go along
with them as best they can, but sooner or later you either have to
break them and feel
guilty, or keep them and suffer. For no reason, sir. I’ve had a look
around. They’re
very religious here, but their god’s let them down. No wonder they
mostly pray to
their royal family.’
She watched him stare at the piece of pigeon post for a while. Then he
said: ‘How
far is it to Plotz?’
‘About fifty miles,’ said Angua, adding, ‘As the wolf runs, maybe six
hours.’
‘Good. Buggy’ll keep an eye on you. Little Henry is going to hop home,
or meet
one of his patrols, or an enemy patrol . . . whatever. But the midden
is going to hit the
windmill when everyone sees that picture. I bet de Worde would have
let him out if
he’d been nice and polite. That’ll teach him to meddle with the
awesome power of a
fair and free press, haha.’ He sat upright and rubbed his hands
together like a man
who meant business. ‘Now, let’s get that pigeon on its way again
before it gets
missed, eh? Get Reg to lurch along to where the Times people are
staying and tell
them their pigeon flew in the wrong window. Again.’
That was a good time, Polly remembered.
They didn’t go down to the river docks. They could see there was no
boat there.
They hadn’t turned up and the boatman had left without them. Instead,
they crossed
the bridge and headed up into the forests, with Blouse leading the way
on his ancient
horse. Maladict went on ahead and . . . Jade brought up the rear. You
didn’t need a
light at night when a vampire led the way, and a troll at the rear
would certainly
discourage hangers-on.
No one mentioned the boat. No one spoke at all. The thing was . . .
the thing was,
Polly realized, that they were no longer marching alone. They shared
the Secret. That
was a huge relief, and right now they didn’t need to talk about it.
Nevertheless, it was
probably a good idea to keep up a regular output of farts, belches,
nose-pickings and
groin-scratchings, just in case.
Polly didn’t know whether to be proud that they’d taken her for a boy.
I mean, she
thought, I’d worked hard to get it right, I mastered the walk, except
I suppose what I
really did was mistress the walk, haha, I invented the fake shaving
routine and the
others didn’t even think of that, I haven’t cleaned my fingernails for
days and I pride
myself I can belch with the best of them. So, I mean, I was trying. It
was just slightly
annoying to find that she’d succeeded so well.
After a few hours of this, when true dawn was breaking, they smelled
smoke.
There was a faint pall of it amongst the trees. Lieutenant Blouse
raised a hand for
them to halt, and Jackrum joined him in whispered conversation.
Polly stepped forward. ‘Permission to whisper too, sarge? I think I
know what this
is.’
Jackrum and Blouse stared at her. Then the sergeant said: ‘All right,
Perks. Go and
find out if you’re right, then.’
That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to Polly, but she’d left
herself open.
Jackrum relented when he saw her expression, nodded to Maladict, and
said, ‘Go with
him, corporal.’
They left the squad behind and walked forward carefully, over the beds
of newfallen
leaves. The smoke was heavy and fragrant and, above all, reminiscent.
Polly
headed to where thicker undergrowth was taking advantage of the extra
light of a
clearing, and pushed through into an airy thicket of hazel trees. The
smoke was denser
here, and barely moving.
The thicket ended. A few yards away, in a wide patch of cleared
ground, a mound
like a small volcano was spewing flame and smoke into the air.
‘Charcoal oven,’ whispered Polly. ‘Just clay plastered on a stack of
hazel. Should
sit there smouldering for days. The wind probably caught it last night
and the fire’s
broken out. Won’t make good charcoal now, it’s burning too fast.’
They edged round it, keeping to the bushes. Other clay domes were
dotted about
the clearing, with faint wisps of steam and smoke coming from their
tops. There were
a couple of ovens in the process of being built, the fresh clay
stacked alongside some
bundles of hazel sticks. There was a hut, and the domes, and nothing
else but silence,
apart from the crackle of the runaway fire.
‘The charcoal-burner is dead, or nearly dead,’ said Polly.
‘He’s dead,’ said Maladict. ‘There’s a smell of death here.’
‘You can smell it above the smoke?’
‘Sure,’ said Maladict. ‘Some things we’re good at smelling. But how
did you
know?’
‘They watch the burns like hawks,’ said Polly, staring at the hut. ‘He
wouldn’t let
it go out of control like that if he was alive. Is he in the hut?’
‘They are in the hut,’ said Maladict flatly. He set off across the
smoky ground.
Polly ran after him. ‘Man and woman?’ she said. ‘Their wives often
live out
with—’
‘Can’t tell, not if they’re old.’
The hut was only a temporary thing, made of woven hazel and roofed
with
tarpaulin; the charcoal-burners moved around a lot, from coppice to
coppice. It didn’t
have windows, but it did have a doorway, with a rag for a door. The
rag had been
pulled away; the doorway was dark.
I’ve got to be a man about this, Polly thought.
There was a woman on the bed, and a man lying on the floor. There were
other
details, which the eye saw but the brain did not focus on. There was a
great deal of
blood. The couple had been old. They would not grow older.
Back outside, Polly took frantic mouthfuls of air. ‘Do you think those
cavalrymen
did it?’ she said at last, and then realized that Maladict was
shaking. ‘Oh . . . the blood
. . .’ she said.
‘I can deal with it! It’s okay! I just have to get my mind right, it’s
okay!’ He leaned
against the hut, breathing heavily. ‘Okay, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘And I
can’t smell horses.
Why don’t you use your eyes? Nice soft mud everywhere after the rain,
but no hoofprints.
Plenty of footprints, though. We did it.’
‘Don’t be silly, we were—’
The vampire had reached down and pulled something out of the fallen
leaves. He
rubbed the mud off it with a thumb. In thin pressed brass, it was the
Flaming Cheese
badge of the Ins-and-Outs.
‘But . . . I thought we were the good guys,’ said Polly weakly. ‘If we
were guys, I
mean.’
‘I think I need a coffee,’ said the vampire.
‘Deserters,’ said Sergeant Jackrum, ten minutes later. ‘It happens.’
He tossed the
badge into the fire.
‘But they were on our side!’ said Shufti.
‘So? Not everyone’s a nice gennelman like you, Private Manickle,’ said
Jackrum.
‘Not after a few years of gettin’ shot at and eatin’ rat scubbo. On
the retreat from
Khrusk I had no water for three days and then fell on my face in a
puddle of horse
piss, a circumstance which did nothing for my feelin’s of goodwill
towards my fellow
man or horse. Something the matter, corporal?’
Maladict was on his knees, going through his pack with a distracted
air. ‘My
coffee’s gone, sarge.’
‘Can’t have packed it properly, then,’ said Jackrum unsympathetically.
‘I did, sarge! I washed out the engine and packed it up with the bean
bag after
supper last night. I know I did. I don’t take coffee lightly!’
‘If someone else did, they’re going to wish I’d never been born,’
growled Jackrum,
looking round at the rest of the squad. ‘Anyone else lost anything?’
‘Er . . . I wasn’t going to say anything, ‘cos I wasn’t sure,’ Shufti
volunteered, ‘but
my stuff looked as if it had been pulled about when I opened my pack
just now . . .’
‘Oh-ho!’ said Jackrum. ‘Well, well, well. I’ll say this once, lads.
Pinching from yer
mates is a hanging offence, understood? Nothing breaks down morale
faster’n some
sneaky little sod dipping into people’s packs. And if I find out
someone’s been at it,
I’ll swing on their heels!’ He glared at the squad. ‘I ain’t gonna
demand that you all
empty out your packs as if you’s criminals,’ he said, ‘but you’d
better check that
nothing’s missing. O’ course, one of you might have packed something
that wasn’t
theirs by accident, okay. Packing in a rush, poor light, easy to do.
In which case, you
sort it out amongst yourselves, understand? Now, I’m off to have a
shave. Lieutenant
Blouse is having a throw-up behind the shelter after a-viewin’ of the
corpses, poor
chap.’
Polly rummaged desperately in her pack. She’d thrown things in any old
how last
night, but what she was frantically searching for was—
—not there. Despite the heat from the charcoal mounds, she shivered.
The ringlets had gone. Feverishly, she tried to remember the events of
yesterday
evening. They’d just dumped their packs as soon as they were in the
barracks, right?
And Maladict had made himself some coffee at suppertime. He’d washed
and dried
the little machine—
There was a thin little wail. Wazzer, the meagre contents of her pack
spread around
her, held up the coffee engine. It had been stamped almost flat.
‘B-b-b—’ she began.
Polly’s mind worked faster, like a millwheel in a flood. Then everyone
took their
packs into the back room with all the mattresses, didn’t they? So
they’d still be there
when the squad fought the troopers—
‘Oh, Wazz,’ said Shufti. ‘Oh, dear . . .’
So who might have sneaked in through the back door? There was no one
around
except the squad and the cavalrymen. Perhaps someone wanted to watch,
and cause a
little trouble on the way—
‘Strappi!’ she said aloud. ‘It must have been him! The little weasel
ran into the
cavalry and then snuck back to watch! He was dar— damn well going
through our
packs out the back! Oh, come on,’ she added, as they stared at her,
‘can you see
Wazzer stealing from anyone? Anyway, when did she have the chance?’
‘Wouldn’t they have taken him prisoner?’ said Tonker, staring at the
crushed
machine in Wazzer’s shaking hands.
‘If he’d whipped off his shako and jacket he’d just be another stupid
civilian,
wouldn’t he? Or he could just say he was a deserter. He could make up
some story,’
said Polly. ‘You know how he was with Wazzer. He went through my pack,
too. Stole
. . . something of mine.’
‘What was it?’ said Shufti.
‘Just something, okay? He just wanted to . . . make trouble.’ She
watched them
thinking.
‘Sounds convincing,’ said Maladict, nodding abruptly. ‘Little weasel.
Okay, Wazz,
just fish out the beans and I’ll do the best I can—’
‘T-there’s no b-b-b—’
Maladict put a hand over his eyes. ‘No beans?’ he said. ‘Please, has
anyone got the
beans?’
There was a general rummaging, and a general lack of a result.
‘No beans.’ moaned Maladict. ‘He threw away the beans . . .’
‘Come on, lads, we’ve got to get sentries posted,’ said Jackrum,
approaching.
‘Sorted it all out, have you?’
‘Yes, sarge. Ozz thinks—’ Shufti began.
‘It was all a bit of mis-packing, sarge!’ said Polly quickly, anxious
to keep away
from anything connected with missing ringlets. ‘Nothing to worry
about! All sorted,
sarge. No problem. Nothing to worry anyone. Not . . . a . . . thing,
sarge.’
Jackrum looked from the startled squad to Polly, and back, and back
again. She felt
his gaze boring into her, daring her to change her expression of mad,
tense honesty.
‘Ye-es,’ he said slowly. ‘Right. Sorted out, eh? Well done, Perks.
Attention!
Officer present!’
‘Yes, yes, sergeant, thank you, but I don’t think we need to be too
formal,’ said
Blouse, who looked rather pale. ‘A word with you when you have
finished, if you
please? And I think we should bury the, er, bodies.’
Jackrum saluted. ‘Right you are, sir. Two volunteers to dig a grave
for those poor
souls! Goom and Tewt— what’s he doing?’
Lofty was over by the blazing charcoal oven. She was holding a burning
branch a
foot or two from her face and turning it this way and that, watching
the flames.
‘I’ll do it, sarge,’ said Tonker, stepping beside Wazzer.
‘What are you, married?’ said Jackrum. ‘You are on guard, Halter. I
doubt
whoever did it’ll come back, but if they do, you sing out, right? You
and Igor come
with me, and I’ll show you your stations.’
‘No coffee,’ moaned Maladict.
‘Foul muck, anyway,’ said Jackrum, walking away. ‘A cup of hot sweet
tea is the
soldier’s friend.’
Polly grabbed the kettle for Blouse’s shaving water, and hurried away.
That was
another thing you learned in the milit’ry: look busy. Look busy and no
one worried
too much about what you were busy at.
Bloody, bloody Strappi! He’d got her hair! He’d try to use it against
her if he
could, that was certain. That’d be his style. What would he do now?
Well, he’d want
to keep away from Jackrum, that’d be another certainty. He’d wait,
somewhere. She’d
have to, too.
The squad had made camp upwind of the smoke. It was supposed to be a
rest stop,
since no one had got much sleep last night, but as Jackrum handed out
tasks he
reminded them: ‘There is an old milit’ry saying, which is: Hard Luck
For You.’
There was no question of using the woven hut, but there were a few
tarpaulincovered
frames built to keep the coppiced wood dry. Those not given jobs to do
lay
down on the stacked piles of twigs, which were yielding and didn’t
smell and were in
any case better than the inhabited palliasses back at the barracks.
Blouse, as an officer, had a shelter to himself. Polly had stacked
bundles of twigs
to make a chair that was at least springy. Now she laid out his
shaving things and
turned to go—
‘Could you shave me, Perks?’ said the lieutenant.
Fortunately, Polly’s back was turned and he didn’t see her expression.
‘This damn hand is quite swollen, I’m afraid,’ Blouse went on. ‘I
would not
normally ask, but—’
‘Yes, of course, sir,’ said Polly, because there was no alternative.
Well now, let’s
see . . . she’d got quite good at scraping a blunt razor across a face
bare of hair, yes.
Oh, and she’d shaved a few dead pigs in the kitchens at The Duchess,
but that was
only because nobody likes hairy bacon. They didn’t really count, did
they? Panic rose,
and rose faster at the sight of Jackrum approaching. She was going to
cut an officer’s
throat in the presence of a sergeant.
Well, when in doubt, bustle. Milit’ry rule. Bustle, and hope there’s a
surprise
attack.
‘Are you not being a little strict with the men, sergeant?’ said
Blouse, as Polly
flapped a towel round his neck.
‘No, sir. Keep ‘em occupied, that’s the bunny. Otherwise they’ll
mope,’ said
Jackrum confidently.
‘Yes, but they have just seen a couple of badly mutilated bodies,’
said Blouse, and
shuddered.
‘Good practice for ‘em, sir. They’ll see plenty more.’
Polly turned to the shaving gear she’d laid out on another towel.
Let’s see . . . cutthroat
razor, oh dear, the grey stone for coarse sharpening, the red stone
for fine
sharpening, the soap, the brush, the bowl . . . well, at least she
knew how to make
foam . . .
‘Deserters, sergeant. Bad business,’ Blouse went on.
‘You always get ‘em, sir. That’s why the pay is always late. Walking
away from
three months’ back pay makes a man think twice.’
‘Mr de Worde the newspaper man said there had been a great many
desertions,
sergeant. It is very strange that so many men would desert from a
winning side.’
Polly whirled the brush vigorously. Jackrum, for the first time since
Maladict had
joined, looked uncomfortable.
‘But whose side is he on, sir?’ he said.
‘Sergeant, I am sure you are not a stupid man,’ said Blouse, as,
behind him, foam
poured over the edge of the bowl and flopped on to the floor. ‘There
are desperate
deserters abroad. Our borders appear to be sufficiently unguarded to
enable enemy
cavalry to operate forty miles inside “our fair country”. And High
Command appears
to be so desperate, yes, desperate, sergeant, that even half a dozen
untrained and,
frankly, very young men must go to the front.’
The foam had a life of its own now. Polly hesitated.
‘Hot towel first, please, Perks,’ said Blouse.
‘Yessir. Sorry, sir. Forgot, sir,’ said Polly, panic rising. She had a
vague
recollection of walking past the barber shop in Munz. Hot towel on
face. Right. She
grabbed a small towel, tipped boiling water on to it, wrung it out and
placed it on the
lieutenant’s face. He did not actually scream, as such.
‘Aaaaagh something else worries me, sergeant.’
‘Yessir?’
‘The cavalry must have apprehended Corporal Strappi. I cannot see how
else they
found out about our men.’
‘Good thinking, sir,’ said the sergeant, watching Polly apply the
lather across
mouth and nose.
‘I do hope they didn’t pff torture the poor man,’ said the lieutenant.
Jackrum was
silent on that issue, but meaningfully so. Polly wished he wouldn’t
keep glancing at
her.
‘But why would a deserter pff head straight for the pff front?’ said
Blouse.
‘Makes sense, sir, for an old soldier. Especially a political.’
‘Really?’
‘Trust me on that, sir,’ said Jackrum. Behind Blouse, Polly brushed
the razor up
and down the red stone. It was already as slick as ice.
‘But our boys, sergeant, are not “old soldiers”. It takes pjf two
weeks to turn a
recruit into a “fighting man”,’ said the lieutenant.
‘They’re promising material, sir. I could do it in a couple of days,
sir,’ said
Jackrum. ‘Perks?’
Polly nearly sliced her thumb off. ‘Yes, sarge,’ she quavered.
‘Do you think you could kill a man today?’
Polly glanced at the razor. The edge glowed. ‘I’m sorry to say I think
I could, sir!’
‘There you have it, sir,’ said Jackrum, with a lopsided grin. ‘There’s
something
about these lads, sir. They’re quick.’ He walked behind Blouse, took
the razor from
Polly’s grateful hand without a word, and said: ‘There’s a few matters
we ought to
discuss, sir, private like. I think Perks here ought to get some
rest.’
‘Of course, sergeant. Pas devant les soldats jeuttes, eh?’
‘And them too, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘You’re dismissed, Perks.’
Polly walked away, her right hand still trembling. Behind her, she
heard Blouse
sigh and say: ‘These are tricky times, sergeant. Command has never
been so
burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times
the commander
must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the
hawk and see every
detail.’
‘Yessir,’ said Jackrum, gliding the razor down a cheek. ‘And if he
acts like a
common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon.’
‘Er . . . well said, sergeant.’
The charcoal-burner and his wife were buried to the accompaniment of,
to Polly’s
lack of surprise, a small prayer from Wazzer. It asked the Duchess to
intercede with
the god Nuggan to give eternal rest and similar items to the departed.
Polly had heard
it many times before; she’d wondered how the process worked.
She’d never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her
mother was
dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god
like that was
not worth a prayer.
But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes
screwed up and
hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled
with such belief
that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed and, finally, after the
ringing ‘amen’,
amazed that the world appeared no different from before. For a minute
or two, it had
been a better place . . .
There was a cat in the hut. It cowered under the crude bed and spat at
anyone who
came close.
‘All the food’s been taken but there’s carrots and parsnips in a
little garden down
the hill a bit,’ Shufti said, as they walked away.
‘It’d be s-stealing from the dead,’ said Wazzer.
‘Well, if they object they can hold on, can’t they?’ said Shufti.
‘They’re
underground already!’
For some reason that was, at this time, funny. They’d have laughed at
anything.
Now there was Jade, Lofty, Shufti and Polly. Everyone else was on
guard duty.
They sat by the fire, on which a small pot seethed. Lofty tended the
fire. She always
seemed more animated near a fire, Polly noticed.
‘I’m doing horse scubbo for the rupert,’ said Shufti, easily dropping
into a slang
learned all of twenty hours ago. ‘He specifically asked for it. Got
lots of dry horse
jerky from Threeparts, but Tonker says she can knock over some
pheasants while
she’s on duty.’
‘I hope she spends some time watching for enemies too,’ said Polly.
‘She’ll be careful,’ said Lofty, prodding the fire with a stick.
‘You know, if we’re found out, we’ll be beaten and sent back,’ said
Shufti.
‘Who by?’ said Polly, so suddenly she surprised herself. ‘By whom?
Who’s going
to try, out here? Who cares out here?’
‘Well, er, wearing men’s clothes is an Abomination unto Nuggan—’
‘Why?’
‘It just is,’ said Shufti firmly. ‘But—’
‘—you’re wearing them,’ said Polly.
‘Well, it was the only way,’ said Shufti. ‘And I tried them on and
they didn’t seem
all that abominable to me.’
‘Have you noticed men talk to you differently?’ said Lofty shyly.
‘Talk?’ said Polly. ‘They listen to you differently, too.’
‘They don’t keep looking at you all the time,’ said Shufti. ‘You know
what I mean.
You’re just a . . . another person. If a girl walked down the street
wearing a sword a
man would try to take it off her.’
‘Wi’ trolls, we ain’t allowed to carry clubs,’ said Jade. ‘Only large
rocks. An’ it
ain’t right for a girl to wear lichen, ‘cos der boys say bald is
modest. Had to rub bird
doin’s inna my head to grow this lot.’
That was quite a long speech for a troll.
‘We didn’t know that,’ said Polly. ‘Er . . . trolls all look the same
to us, more or
less.’
‘I’m nat’rally craggy,’ said Jade. ‘I don’t see why I should polish.’
‘There is a difference,’ said Shufti. ‘I think it’s the socks. It’s
like they pull you
forward all the time. It’s like the whole world spins around your
socks.’ She sighed
and looked at the horsemeat, which had been boiled almost white. ‘It’s
done,’ she
said. ‘You’d better go and give it to the rupert, Polly . . . I mean,
Ozzer. I told the