‘You want me to shave you,’ said Polly, her heart sinking.
‘I must set an example, Perks, but I have to say you “lads” make such an effort it puts me to shame. You all seem to have faces “as smooth as a baby’s bottom”, I must say!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Polly pulled out the shaving gear and walked over to the fire, where the kettle was permanently boiling. Most of the squad was dozing, but Maladict was sitting cross-legged by the fire, doing something to his hat.
‘Heard about the prisoner last night,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I don’t think the el-tee is going to last very long, do you?’
‘The who?’
‘The lieutenant. From what I hear, Blouse’s probably going to have a nasty accident. Jackrum thinks he’s dangerous.’
‘He’s learning, just like us.’
‘Yes, but the el-tee’s supposed to know what to do. Do you think he does?’
‘Jackrum’s stuck, too,’ said Polly, topping up the kettle with cold water. ‘I think we just keep going.’
‘If there’s anything there to get to,’ said Maladict. He held up the shako. ‘What do you think?’
The words ‘Born To Die’ had been chalked on the side of the hat, next to the packet of cigarettes.
‘Very . . . individual,’ said Polly. ‘Why do you smoke? It’s not very . . . vampire, really.’
‘Well, I’m not supposed to be very vampire,’ said Maladict, lighting up with a shaking hand. ‘It’s the sucking. I need it. I’m on edge. I’m getting the no-coffee jitters. I’m not good with woods in any case.’
‘But you’re a vam—’
‘Yeah, yeah, if this was crypts, no problem. But I keep thinking I’m surrounded by lots of pointy stakes. Truth is . . . I’m beginning to hurt. It’s like going cold bat all over again! I’m getting the voices and the sweats . . .’
‘Sssh,’ said Polly, as Shufti grunted in her sleep. ‘You can’t be,’ she hissed. ‘You said you’d been going straight for two years!’
‘Oh, bl . . . blur . . . blood?’ said Maladict. ‘Who said anything about blood? I’m talking about coffee, dammit!’
‘We’ve got plenty of tea—’ Polly began.
‘You don’t understand! This is about . . . craving. You never stop craving, you just switch it to something that doesn’t cause people to turn you into a short kebab! I need coffee!’
Why me? Polly thought. Do I have this little sign on me saying ‘Tell me your troubles’? ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, and hastily filled the shaving mug.
Polly hurried back with the water, ushered Blouse to a rock, and stirred up some foam. She sharpened the razor, taking as long as she dared. When he coughed impatiently she took up position, raised the razor, and prayed . . .
. . . but not to Nuggan. Never to Nuggan, since her mother died . . .
And then Lofty was running across the ground, trying to shout a whisper. ‘Movement!’
Blouse nearly lost another earlobe.
Out from nowhere came Jackrum, boots on but braces dangling. He grabbed Lofty by the shoulder and swung her round. ‘Where?’ he demanded.
‘There’s a track down there! Troopers! Carts! What do we do, sarge?’
‘We keep the noise down!’ muttered Jackrum. ‘Are they heading up here?’
‘No, they went right past, sarge!’
Jackrum turned and gave the rest of the squad a satisfied look. ‘O-kay. Corporal, take Carborundum and Perks and go and have a look. The rest of you, tool up and try to be brave. Eh, lieutenant?’
Blouse bemusedly dabbed foam off his face. ‘What? Oh. Yes. See to it, sergeant.’
Twenty seconds later, Polly was running after Maladict, down the slope. Here and there the bottom of the valley could be seen through the trees, and as she glanced down she saw sunlight flash off something metal. At least the trees had coated the woodland floor with a thick layer of needles, and, contrary to received opinion, most woods aren’t littered with branches that snap loudly. They reached the edge of the wood, where bushes fought one another for their place in the sun, and found a spot with a view.
There were only four troopers, in an unfamiliar uniform, riding in pairs ahead of and behind a cart. It was small, and had a canvas cover.
‘What’s in a little cart that four men have to protect?’ said Maladict. ‘It must be valuable!’
Polly pointed to the huge flag that hung limply from a pole on the wagon. ‘I think it’s the newspaper man,’ she said. ‘It’s the same cart. Same flag, too.’
‘Then it’s a good thing they’ve gone right past,’ hissed Maladict. ‘Let’s just see them out of sight and creep away like good little mice, okay?’
The party was travelling at the speed of the cart and, at this point, the two riders in the lead stopped and turned in their saddles, waiting for it to catch up. Then one of them pointed, back past the hidden watchers. There was a shout, too far away to be understood. The troopers in the rear trotted up to the cart, met with their comrades, and all four turned to look up. There was some discussion, and two riders trotted back along the road.
‘Oh, darn,’ said Polly. ‘What have they spotted?’
The horsemen went past their hiding place. A few moments later, they heard the horses enter the woods.
‘Do we run an’ get ‘em?’ said Jade.
‘Let Jackrum do that,’ said Maladict.
‘But if he does, and the men don’t come back—’ Polly began.
‘When they don’t come back,’ Maladict corrected her.
‘—then those other two will get suspicious, won’t they? One will probably stay here, the other will go to get help.’
‘Then we’ll sneak up and wait,’ said Maladict. ‘Look, they’ve dismounted. The cart’s pulled in, too. If they look as though they’re worried, we’ll move in.’
‘And do what, exactly?’ said Polly.
‘Threaten to shoot them,’ said Maladict firmly.
‘And if they don’t believe us?’
‘Then we’ll threaten to shoot them in a much louder voice,’ said Maladict. ‘Happy? And I hope to hell they’ve got some coffee!’
There are three things a soldier wants to do when there’s a respite on the road. One involves lighting a cigarette, one involves lighting a fire, and the other one involves no flames at all but does, generally, require a tree.*
* Actually a tree is not, technically, required, but seems to be insisted upon for reasons of style.
The two troopers had a fire going and a billy-can steaming when a young man jumped down from the cart, stretched his arms, looked around, yawned, and sauntered a little way into the forest. He found a convenient tree and, a moment lateV, was apparently examining the bark at eye height with studied enthusiasm.
The tip of a steel crossbow bolt pressed against the back of his neck and a voice said: ‘Raise your hands and turn around slowly!’
‘What, right now?’
‘Um . . . all right, no. You can finish what you’re doing.’
‘Actually I think that’s going to be quite impossible. Let me just, er . . . right. Okay.’ The man raised his hands again. ‘You realize I just have to shout?’
‘So?’ said Polly. ‘I just have to pull this trigger. Shall we have a race?’
The man turned round.
‘See?’ said Polly, stepping back. ‘It’s him again. De Worde. The writer man.’
‘You’re them!’ he said.
‘Dem who?’ said Jade.
‘Oh dear,’ said Maladict.
‘Look, I’d give anything to talk to you!’ said de Worde. ‘Please?’
‘You’re with the enemy!’ hissed Polly.
‘What? Them? No! They’re from Lord Rust’s regiment. From Ankh-Morpork! They’ve been sent to protect us!’
‘Troops to protect you in Borogravia?’ said Maladict. ‘Who from?’
‘You mean from whom? Er . . . well . . . you, in theory.’
Jade leaned down. ‘Efficient, aren’t dey . . .’
‘Look, I must talk to you,’ said the man urgently. ‘This is astounding! Everyone’s looking for you! Did you kill that old couple in the woods?’
Birds sang. Far off, there was the call of the female blue-capped woodpecker.
‘A patrol found the fresh graves,’ said de Worde.
High above an ice heron, a winter migrant from the Hub, gave an ugly honk as it searched for lakes.
‘I take it you didn’t, then,’ said de Worde.
‘We buried them,’ said Maladict coldly. ‘We don’t know who killed them.’
‘We did take some vegetables,’ said Polly. She remembered laughing about it. Admittedly it was only because it was that or start crying, but even so . . .
‘You’ve been living off the land?’ He’d tugged a notebook out of his pocket and was scribbling in it with a pencil.
‘We don’t have to talk to you,’ said Maladict.
‘No, no, you must! There’s so much you need to know! You’re in the . . . Ups-and-Downs, right?’