‘Wazz, you do know that wearing men’s clothes is an Abomination, don’t you?’
‘Thank you for reminding me, Polly,’ said Wazzer, without a trace of irony. ‘But the Duchess told me that nothing I do in pursuit of my quest will be held Abominable.’
‘A quest, eh,’ said Polly, trying to sound jovial. ‘And what kind of quest is that?’
‘I am to take command of the army,’ said Wazzer.
Hairs rose on the back of Polly’s neck. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Yes, the Duchess stepped out of her picture when I was asleep and told me to go at once to Kneck,’ said Wazzer. ‘The Little Mother spoke to me, Ozz. She commanded me. She guides my steps. She led me out of vile slavery. How can that be an Abomination?’
She’s got a sword, thought Polly. And a shovel. This needs careful handling. ‘That’s nice,’ she said.
‘And . . . and I must tell you that . . . I. . . never in my life have I felt such love and camaraderie,’ Wazzer went on earnestly. ‘The last few days have been the happiest of my life. You have all shown me such kindness, such gentleness. The Little Mother guides me. She guides us all, Ozz. You believe that, too. Don’t you?’ The moonlight revealed the tracks of tears in the grime on Wazzer’s cheeks.
‘Um,’ said Polly, and sought wildly for a way to avoid lying.
She found it. ‘Er . . . you know I want to find my brother?’ she said.
‘Well, that does you credit, the Duchess knows,’ said Wazzer quickly.
‘And, well . . . I’m also doing it for The Duchess,’ said Polly, feeling wretched. ‘I think about The Duchess all the time, I must admit.’ Well, that was true. It just wasn’t honest.
‘I’m so very glad to hear that, Ozz, because I had thought you were a backslider,’ said Wazzer. ‘But you said that with such conviction. Perhaps this would be the time for us to get down on our knees and—’
‘Wazz, you’re standing in another man’s grave,’ said Polly. ‘There’s a time and place, you know? Let’s get back to the others, eh?’
The happiest days of the girl’s life had been spent tramping through forests, digging graves and trying to dodge soldiers on both sides? The trouble with Polly was that she had a mind that asked questions even when she really, really didn’t want to know the answers.
‘So . . . the Duchess is still talking to you, is she?’ she said, as they made their way among the dark trees.
‘Oh, yes. When we were in Plotz, sleeping in the barracks,’ said Wazzer. ‘She said it was all working.’
Don’t, don’t ask another question, said part of Polly’s mind, but she ignored it out of sheer horrible curiosity. Wazzer was nice – well, sort of nice, in a slightly scary way – but talking to her was like picking at a scab; you knew what was likely to be under the crust, but you picked anyway.
‘So . . . what did you use to do back in the world?’ she said.
Wazzer gave her a haunting smile. ‘I used to be beaten.’
Tea was brewing in a small hollow near the track. Several of the squad were standing guard. No one liked the idea of men in dark clothes sneaking around.
‘Mug of saloop?’ said Shufti, holding them up. A few days ago they’d have called it ‘sweet milky tea’, but even if they couldn’t walk the walk yet they were determined to talk the talk as soon as possible.
‘What’s happening?’ said Polly.
‘Dunno,’ said Shufti. ‘Sarge and the rupert went off over that way with the prisoner but no one tells us groans anything.’
‘It’s “grunts”, I think,’ said Wazzer, taking the tea.
‘I’ve done them a couple of mugs, anyway. See what you can find out, eh?’
Polly gulped her tea down, grabbed the mugs and hurried away.
On the edge of the hollow Maladict was lounging against a tree. There was this about vampires: they could never look scruffy. Instead, they were . . . what was the word . . . déshabille. It meant untidy, but with bags and bags of style. In this case Maladict’s jacket was open and he’d stuck his packet of cigarettes in the band of his shako. He saluted her with his crossbow as she went past.
‘Ozz?’ he said.
‘Yes, corp?’
‘Any coffee in their packs?’
‘Sorry, corp. Only tea.’
‘Damn!’ Maladict thumped the tree behind him. ‘Hey, you went straight for the man who was swallowing the cipher. Straight for him. How come?’
‘Just luck,’ said Polly.
‘Yeah, right. Try again. I have very good night vision.’
‘Oh, all right. Well, the one on the left started to run and the one in the middle was dropping the clacks tube and reaching for his sword, but the one on the right thought that putting something into his mouth was more important even than fighting or running away. Satisfied?’
‘You worked out all that in a couple of seconds? That was smart.’
‘Yeah, right. Now please forget it, okay? I don’t want to be noticed. I don’t particularly want to be here. I just want to find my brother. Okay?’
‘Fine. I just thought that you’d like to know someone saw you. And you’d better get that tea to ‘em before they try to kill one another.’
At least I was someone watching the enemy, Polly thought furiously as she walked away. I wasn’t someone watching another soldier. Who does he think he is? Or she is?
She heard the raised voices as she pushed through a thicket.
‘You can’t torture an unarmed man!’ That was Blouse’s voice.
‘Well, I’m not waiting for him to arm himself, sir! He knows stuff! And he’s a spy!’
‘Don’t you dare kick him in the ribs again! That is an order, sergeant!’
‘Asking nicely didn’t work, did it, sir? “Pretty please with sprinkles on top” is not a recognized method of interrogation! You shouldn’t be here, sir! You should say “Sergeant, find out what you can from the prisoner!” and then go somewhere and wait until I tell you what I got out of him, sir!’
‘You did it again!’
‘What? What?’
‘You kicked him again!’
‘No, I didn’t!’
‘Sergeant, I gave you an order!’
‘And?’
‘Tea’s up!’ said Polly cheerfully.
Both men turned. Their expression changed. If they had been birds, their feathers would have gently settled back.
‘Ah, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘Well done.’
‘Yeah . . . good lad,’ said Sergeant Jackrum.
Polly’s presence seemed to lower the temperature. The two men drank their tea and eyed one another warily.
‘You’ll have noticed, sergeant, that the men were wearing the dark-green uniform of the First Battalion the Zlobenian Fifty-ninth Bowmen. A skirmishing battalion,’ said Blouse, with cold politeness. ‘That is not the uniform of a spy, sergeant.’
‘Yessir? But they’d let their uniforms get very dirty, then. No shine on the buttons, sir.’
‘Patrolling behind enemy lines is not spying, sergeant. You must have done it in your time.’
‘More times than you could count, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘And I knew full well that if I got caught I was due a good kicking in the nadgers. But skirmishers is the worst, sir. You think you’re safe in the lines, next moment it turns out that some bastard sitting in the bushes on a hill has been working out windage and yardage and has dropped an arrow right through your mate’s head.’ He picked up a strange-looking longbow. ‘See these things they’ve got? Burleigh and Stronginthearm Number Five Recurved, made in bloody Ankh-Morpork. A real killing weapon. I say we give him a choice, sir. He can tell us what he knows, and go out easy. Or keep mum, and go out hard.’
‘No, sergeant. He is an enemy officer taken in battle and entitled to fair treatment.’
‘No, sir. He’s a sergeant, and they don’t deserve no respect at all, sir. I should know. They’re cunning and artful, if they’re any good. I wouldn’t mind if he was an officer, sir. But sergeants are clever.’
There was a grunt from the bound prisoner.
‘Loosen his gag. Perks,’ said Blouse. Instinctively, even if the instinct was only a couple of days old, Polly glanced at Jackrum. The sergeant shrugged. She pulled the rag down.
‘I’ll talk,’ said the prisoner, spitting out cotton fluff. ‘But not to that tub of lard! I’ll talk to the officer. You keep that man away from me!’
‘You’re in no position to negotiate, soldier boy!’ snarled Jackrum.
‘Sergeant,’ said the lieutenant, ‘I’m sure you have things to see to. Please do so. Send a couple of men back here. He can’t do anything against four of us.’
‘But—’
‘That was another order, sergeant,’ said Blouse. He turned to the prisoner as Jackrum stumped off. ‘What is your name, man?’