Polly couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was the socks. Maybe it was the pleading expression on Lofty’s face. When someone’s broadcasting ‘Don’t look!’ the eyes have a mind of their own, and go where they’re not wanted. Lofty jumped up, dragging at her clothes.
‘No, look, it’s all right—’ Polly began, but it was too late. The girl had gone.
Polly stared at the bushes, and thought: Blast! There’s two of us! But what would I have said next? ‘It’s okay, I’m a girl too. You can trust me. We could be friends. Oh, and here’s a good tip about socks’?
Igor and Tonker arrived back late, without a word. Sergeant Jackrum said nothing. The squad moved off.
Polly marched at the back, with Carborundum. This meant she could keep a wary eye on Lofty, whoever she was. For the first time, Polly really looked at her. She was easy to miss, because she was always, as it were, in Tonker’s shadow. She was short, although now Polly knew she was female the word ‘petite’ could be decently used, dark and dark-haired and had a strange, self-absorbed look, and she was always marching with Tonker. Come to think of it, she always slept close to him, too.
Ah, so that was it. She’s following her boy, Polly thought. It was kind of romantic, and very, very dumb. Now she knew to look beyond the clothes and haircut, she could see all the little clues that Lofty was a girl, and a girl who hadn’t planned enough. She saw Lofty whisper something to Tonker, who half turned and gave Polly a look of instant hatred and a hint of threat.
I can’t tell her, she thought. She would tell him. I can’t afford to let them know. I’ve put too much into this. I didn’t just cut my hair and wear trousers. I planned . . .
Ah, yes . . . the plans.
It had begun as a sudden strange fancy, but it had continued as a plan. First, Polly had started to watch boys closely. This had been reciprocated hopefully by a few of them, to their subsequent disappointment. She observed how they moved, she listened to the rhythm of what passed, among boys, for conversation, she’d noted how they punched one another in greeting. It was a new world.
She already had good muscles for a girl, because running a large inn was all about moving heavy things, and she took over a number of the grittier chores, which coarsened her hands nicely. She’d even worn a pair of her brother’s old breeches under her long skirt, to get the feel of them.
A woman could be beaten for that sort of thing. Men dressed like men and women like women; doing it the other way round was ‘a blasphemous Abomination unto Nuggan’, according to Father Jupe.
And that was probably the secret of her success so far, she thought, as she trudged through a puddle. People didn’t look for a woman in trousers. To the casual observer, men’s clothes and short hair and a bit of swagger were what it took to be a man. Oh, and a second pair of socks.
That had been gnawing at her, too. Someone knew about her, just as she knew about Lofty. And he hadn’t given her away. She’d suspected it was Eyebrow, but doubted it; he’d have told the sergeant about her, he was that sort. Right now she was guessing it was Maladict, but perhaps that was just because he seemed so knowing all the time.
Carbor— no, he’d been out cold, and in any case . . . no, not the troll. And Igor lisped. Tonker? After all, he’d know about Lofty so maybe . . . No, because why would he want to help Polly? No, there was nothing but danger in owning up to Lofty. The best she could do was try to see to it that the girl didn’t give both of them away.
She could hear Tonker whispering to his girl. ‘. . . had just died so he cut off one of his legs and an arm and sewed ‘em on men who needed ‘em, just like I’d darn a tear! You should’ve seen it! You couldn’t see his fingers move! And he has all these ointments that just . . .’ Tonker’s voice died away. Strappi was haranguing Wazzer again.
‘Dat Strappi really gets on my crags,’ muttered Carborundum. ‘You want I should pull the head off f him? I c’d make it look like a accident.’
‘Better not,’ said Polly, but she did entertain the thought for a moment.
They’d reached a junction, where the road down from the mountains joined what passed for a main highway. It was crowded. There were carts and wheelbarrows, people driving herds of cows, grandmothers carrying all the household possessions on their backs, a general excitement of pigs and children . . . and it was all heading one way.
It was the opposite way to the way the squad was going. The people and animals flowed around it like a stream around an inconvenient rock. The recruits bunched up. It was that or be separated by cows.
Sergeant Jackrum stood up in the cart. ‘Private Carborundum!’
‘Yes, sergeant?’ rumbled the troll.
‘To the front!’
That helped. The stream still flowed, but at least the crowds parted some distance further ahead and gave the squad a wide berth. No one wants to barge up against even a slow-moving troll.
But faces stared as the people hurried by. An old lady darted out for a moment, pressed a loaf of stale bread into Tonker’s hands, and said, ‘You poor boys!’ before being swept away in the throng.
‘What’s this all about, sarge?’ said Maladict. ‘These look like refugees!’
‘Talk like that spreads Alarm and Despondency!’ shouted Corporal Strappi.
‘Oh, you mean they’re just people getting away early for the holidays to avoid the rush?’ said Maladict. ‘Sorry, I got confused. It must be that woman carrying a whole haystack we just passed.’
‘D’you know what can happen to you for cheeking a superior officer?’ screamed Strappi.
‘No! Tell me, is it worse than whatever it is these people are running away from?’
‘You signed up, Mr Bloodsucker! You obey orders!’
‘Right! But I don’t remember anyone ordering me not to think!’
‘Enough of that!’ snapped Jackrum. ‘Less shouting down there! Move on! Carborundum, you give people a push if they don’t make way, y’hear?’
They moved on. After a while the press of people abated a little, so that what had been a torrent became a trickle. Occasionally there would be a family group, or just one hurrying woman, burdened with bags. One old man was struggling with a wheelbarrow full of turnips. They’re even taking the crops out of the fields, Polly noted. And everyone moved at a kind of half-run, as if things would be a little better when they’d caught up with the mass of people ahead. Or merely passed the squad, perhaps.
They made way for an old woman bent double under the weight of a black and white pig. And then there was just the road, rutted and muddy. An afternoon mist was rising from the fields on either side, quiet and clammy. After the noise of the refugees, the silence of the low countryside was suddenly oppressive. The only sound was the trudge and splash of the recruits’ boots.
‘Permission to speak, sarge?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, private?’ said Jackrum.
‘How far is it to Plotz?’
‘You don’t have to tell ‘em, sarge!’ said Strappi.
‘About five miles,’ said Sergeant Jackrum. ‘You’ll get your uniforms and weapons at the depot there.’
‘That’s a milit’ry secret, sarge,’ Strappi whined.
‘We could shut our eyes so’s we don’t see what we’re wearing, how about that?’ said Maladict.
‘Stop that, Private Maladict,’ said Jackrum. ‘Just keep moving, and guard that tongue.’
They plodded on. The road grew muddier. A breeze sprang up, but instead of carrying the mist away it merely streamed it across the damp fields in twisty, clammy, unpleasant shapes.
The sun became an orange ball.
Polly saw something large and white flutter across the field, blown by the wind. At first she thought it was a migratory lesser egret that had left things a little late, but it was clearly being blown by the wind. It flopped down once or twice and then, as a gust caught it, blew across the road and wrapped itself across Corporal Strappi’s face.
He screamed. Lofty grabbed at the fluttering thing, which was damp. It tore in his— her hands, and most of it dropped away from the struggling corporal.
‘It’s just a bit of paper,’ she said.
Strappi flailed at it. ‘I knew that,’ he said. ‘I never asked you!’
Polly picked up one of the torn scraps. The paper was thin, and stained with mud, although she recognized the word Ankh-Morpork. The godawful city. And the genius of Strappi was that anything he was against automatically sounded attractive.