‘We heard the bolt slide across. That means you’re in here somewhere. Make it easy on yourself. We don’t want to have to come and find you.’
I don’t want you to either, Polly thought. I’m not a soldier! Go away! And then the next thought was: What do you mean, you’re not a soldier? You took the shilling and kissed the picture, didn’t you? And suddenly an arm had reached under the bar and grabbed her. At least she didn’t have to act.
‘No! Please, sir! Don’t hurt me! I just got frightened! Please!’
But inside there was a certain . . . sock-ness that felt ashamed, and wanted to kick out.
‘Ye gods, what are you?’ said the cavalryman, pulling her upright and looking at her as if she was some kind of exhibit.
‘Polly, sir! Barmaid, sir! Only they cleared out and left me!’
‘Keep the noise down, girl!’
Polly nodded. The last thing she needed now was for Blouse to run down the stairs with his sabre and Fencing for Beginners.
‘Yes, sir,’ she squeaked.
‘Barmaid, eh? Three pints of what you’d probably call your finest ale, then.’
That at least could happen on automatic. She’d seen the mugs under the bar, and the barrels were behind her. The beer was thin and sharp but probably wouldn’t dissolve a penny.
The cavalryman watched her closely as she filled the mugs. ‘What happened to your hair?’ he said.
Polly had been ready for this. ‘Oh, sir, they cut it off, sir! ‘cos I smiled at a Zlobenian trooper, sir!’
‘Here?’
‘In Drok, sir.’ It was a town much nearer the border. ‘And me mam said it was shaming to the family and I got sent here, sir!’
Her hands shook as she put the mugs on the bar, and she was hardly exaggerating. Hardly . . . but a bit, nevertheless. You’re acting like a girl, she thought. Keep it up!
Now she could take stock of the invaders. They wore dark-blue uniforms, and big boots, and heavy cavalry helmets. One of them was standing by the shuttered windows. The other two were watching her. One had a sergeant’s stripes and an expression of deep suspicion. The one who’d grabbed her was a captain.
‘This is terrible beer, girl,’ he said, sniffing the mug.
‘Yes, sir, I know, sir,’ Polly gabbled. ‘They wouldn’t listen to me, sir, and said you have to put a damp sheet over the barrels in this thundery weather, sir, and Molly never cleans the spigot and—’
‘This town’s empty, you know that?’
‘They all scarpered, sir,’ said Polly earnestly. ‘Gonna be an invasion, sir. Everyone says. They’re frightened of you, sir.’
‘Except you, eh?’ said the sergeant.
‘What’s your name, girl who smiles at Zlobenian troopers?’ said the captain, smiling.
‘Polly, sir,’ said Polly. Her questing hand found what it was seeking under the bar. It was the barman’s friend. There always was one.
‘And are you frightened of me, Polly?’ said the captain. There was a snigger from the soldier by the window.
The captain had a well-trimmed moustache which had been waxed to points, and was over six feet tall, Polly reckoned. He had a pretty smile, too, which was somehow improved by the scar on his face. A circle of glass covered one eye. Her hand gripped the hidden cudgel.
‘No, sir,’ she said, looking back into one eye and one glass. ‘Er . . . what’s that glass for, sir?’
‘It’s a monocle,’ said the captain. ‘It helps me see you, for which I am eternally grateful. I always say that if I had two I’d make a spectacle of myself.’
That got a dutiful laugh from the sergeant. Polly looked blank.
‘And are you going to tell me where the recruits are?’ said the captain.
She forced her expression not to change. ‘No.’
The captain smiled. He had good teeth, but there was, now, no warmth in his eyes.
‘You are in no position to be ignorant,’ he said. ‘We won’t hurt them, I assure you.’
There was a scream in the distance.
‘Much,’ said the sergeant, with more satisfaction than was necessary. There was another yell. The captain nodded to the man by the door, who slipped out. Polly pulled the shako out from under the bar and put it on.
‘One of them gave you his cap, did he?’ said the sergeant, and his teeth were nowhere near as good as the officer’s. ‘Well, I like a girl who’ll smile at a soldier—’
The cudgel hit him along the head. It was old blackthorn, and he went down like a tree. The captain backed away as Polly came out from behind the bar with the club readied again. But he hadn’t drawn his sword, and he was laughing.
‘Now, girl, if you want—’ He caught her arm as she swung, dragged her towards him in a tight grip, still laughing, and folded up almost silently as her knee connected with his sock drawer. Thank you, Gummy. As he sagged she stepped back and brought the cudgel down on his helmet, making it ring.
She was shaking. She felt sick. Her stomach was a small, red-hot lump. What else could she have done? Was she supposed to think We have met the enemy and he is nice? Anyway, he wasn’t. He was smug.
She tugged a sabre from a scabbard and crept out into the night. It was still raining, and waist-deep mist was drifting up from the river. Half a dozen or so horses were outside, but not tied up. A trooper was waiting with them. Faintly, against the rustle of the rain, she heard him making soothing noises to comfort one of them. She wished she hadn’t heard that. Well, she’d taken the shilling. Polly gripped the cudgel.
She’d gone a step when the mist between her and the man fountained up slowly as something rose out of it. The horses shifted uneasily. The man turned, a shadow moved, the man fell. . .
‘Oil’ whispered Polly.
The shadow turned. ‘Ozzer? It’s me, Maladict,’ it said. ‘Sarge sent me to see if you needed help.’
‘Bloody Jackrum left me surrounded by armed men!’ Polly hissed.
‘And?’
‘Well, I . . . knocked two of them out,’ she said, feeling as she said it that this rather spoilt her case as a victim. ‘One went over the road, though.’
‘I think we got that one,’ said Maladict. ‘Well, I say “got” . . . Tonker nearly gutted him. There’s a girl with what I’d call unresolved issues.’ He turned round. ‘Let’s see . . . seven horses, seven men. Yep.’
‘Tonker?’ said Polly.
‘Oh, yes. Hadn’t you spotted her? She went mad when the man charged at Lofty. Now, let’s have a look at your gentlemen, shall we?’ said Maladict, heading for the inn door.
‘But Lofty and Tonker . . .’ Polly began, running to keep up. ‘I mean, the way they act, they . . . I thought she was his girl . . . but I thought Tonker . . . I mean, I know Lofty is a gi—’
Even in the dark, Maladict’s teeth gleamed as he smiled. ‘The world’s certainly unfolding itself for you, eh? Ozzer? Every day, something new. Cross-dressing now, I see.’
‘What?’
‘You are wearing a petticoat, Ozzer,’ said Maladict, stepping into the bar. Polly looked down guiltily and started to tug it off, and then thought: hang on a moment. . .
The sergeant had managed to pull himself up against the bar, where he was being sick. The captain was groaning on the floor.
‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ said the vampire. ‘Please pay attention. I am a reformed vampire, which is to say, I am a bundle of suppressed instincts held together with spit and coffee. It would be wrong to say that violent, tearing carnage does not come easily to me. It’s not tearing your throats out that doesn’t come easily to me. Please don’t make it any harder.’
The sergeant pushed himself away from the bar top and took a muzzy swing at Maladict. Almost absent-mindedly, Maladict leaned away from it and then returned a roundhouse blow that knocked him over.
‘The captain looks bad,’ he said. ‘What did he try to do to poor little you?’
‘Patronize me,’ said Polly, glaring at Maladict.
‘Ah,’ said the vampire.
Maladict knocked softly on the barracks door. It opened a fraction, and then all the way. Carborundum lowered his club. Wordlessly, Polly and Maladict dragged the two cavalrymen inside. Sergeant Jackrum was sitting on a stool by the fire, drinking a mug of beer.
‘Well done, lads,’ he said. Tut ‘em with the others.’ He waved the mug vaguely towards the far wall, where four of the soldiers were hunched sullenly under the gaze of Tonker. They had been manacled together. The last soldier was lying on a table, with Igor at work on him with a needle and thread.