De Worde threw his newspapers at the lieutenant’s feet. ‘It’s all there, sir. I didn’t make it up. It’s the truth. It will remain true whether you believe it or not. There are more than six countries ranged against you, including Genua and Mouldavia and Ankh-Morpork. There is no one on your side. You are alone. The only reason you’re not beaten yet is because you won’t admit it. I’ve seen your generals, sir! Great leaders, and your men fight like demons, but they won’t surrender!’
‘Borogravia doesn’t know the .meaning of the word “surrender”, Mr de Worde,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Can I lend you a dictionary, sir?’ snapped de Worde, going red in the face. ‘It’s very similar to the meaning of “making some kind of peace while you’ve got a chance”, sir! It’s rather like “quitting while you’ve still got a head”, sir! Good heavens, sir, don’t you understand? The reason that there still is an army in the Kneck valley is that the allies haven’t decided what to do with it! They’re fed up with the slaughter!’
‘Ah, so we still fight back!’ said Blouse.
De Worde sighed. ‘You don’t understand, sir. They are fed up with slaughtering you. They’ve got the keep now. There’s some big war engines up there. They . . . frankly, sir, some of the alliance would just as soon wipe out the remains of your army. It’d be like shooting rats in a barrel. They have you at their mercy. And yet you keep on attacking. You attack the keep! It’s on sheer rock and it’s got walls a hundred feet high. You make salients across the river. You’re bottled up and you’ve got nowhere to go and the allies could simply massacre you any time they want, and you act as though you’re just facing some kind of temporary setback. That’s what’s really happening, lieutenant! You are just a last little detail.’
‘Have a care, please,’ Blouse warned.
‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know anything about recent history? In the past thirty years you have declared war on every single one of your neighbours at least once. All countries fight, but you brawl. And then last year you invaded Zlobenia again!’
‘They invaded us, Mr de Worde.’
‘You have been misinformed, lieutenant. You invaded the Kneck province.’
‘That was confirmed as Borogravian by the Treaty of Lint, more than a hundred years ago.’
‘Signed at swordpoint, sir. And no one cares now, in any case. It’s all got beyond your stupid little royal scuffles. Because your men tore down the Grand Trunk, you see. The clacks towers. And tore up the coach road. Ankh-Morpork regards that as bandit activity.’
‘Have a care, I said!’ said Blouse. ‘I note you are displaying the Ankh-Morpork flag with evident pride on your wagon.’
‘Civis Morporkias sum, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork citizen. You could say that Ankh-Morpork shelters me under her wide and rather greasy wing, although I agree the metaphor could use some work.’
‘Your Ankh-Morpork soldiers aren’t in a position to protect you, however.’
‘Sir, you are right. You could have me killed right now,’ said de Worde simply. ‘You know that. I know that. But you won’t, for three reasons. The officers of Borogravia tend towards honour. Everyone says that. That’s why they don’t surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don’t need to, because everyone is interested in you. Suddenly, it’s all changed.’
‘Interested in us?’
‘Sir, in a sense you could help a lot right now. Apparently people back in Ankh-Morpork were amazed when . . . look, have you heard about what we call “human interest”, sir?’
‘No.’
De Worde tried to explain. Blouse listened with his mouth open and, at the end, said: ‘Have I got this right? Although many people have been killed and wounded in this wretched war, it’s not been of much “interest” to your readers? But it is now, just because of us? Because of a little skirmish in a tciwn they’ve never heard of? And because of it, we’re suddenly a “plucky little country” and people are telling your newspaper that your great city should be on our side?’
‘Yes, lieutenant. We put out a second edition last night, you see. After I’d found out that “Captain Horentz” was really Prince Heinrich. Did you know this at the time, sir?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped Blouse.
‘And you, Private, er, Perks, would you have kicked him in the . . . would you have kicked him had you known?’
Polly dropped a mug in her nervousness, and looked at Blouse.
‘You may answer, of course, Perks,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Well, yes, sir. I would have kicked him. Harder, probably. I was defending myself, sir,’ Polly said, carefully avoiding further details. You couldn’t be sure what someone like de Worde would do with them.
‘Right, good, yes,’ said de Worde. ‘Then you might be pleased with this. Our cartoonist Fizz drew this for the special edition. It was on the front page. We’ve sold a record number of copies.’ He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, which by the look of the creases had been folded many times.
It was a line drawing, with lots of shading. It showed a huge figure, with a large sword, a monstrous monocle and a moustache as wide as a coathanger, menacing a much smaller figure armed with nothing more than an instrument for lifting beets -in fact there was a beet stuck on the end of it. At least, that was clearly what had been happening right up to the point when the smaller figure, wearing a not bad attempt at an Ins-and-Outs shako and a face that looked slightly like Polly’s, had kicked the other one squarely in the groinal regions. A sort of balloon was coming out of Polly’s mouth, containing the words: ‘That for your Royal Prerogative, you Blaggard!’ The balloon issuing from the mouth of the ogre, who could only be Prince Heinrich, said: ‘Oh my Succession! That such A Small Thing could hurt so Much!’ And in the background a fat woman in a rumpled ballgown and a huge old-fashioned helmet was clasping her hands to an unbelievably large bosom, staring at the fight with a mixture of concern and admiration, and ballooning: ‘Oh my Swain! I fear our Liaison is Cut short!’
Since no one else was saying much, but was simply staring, de Worde said, rather nervously: ‘Fizz is rather, er, direct in these matters, but amazingly popular. Ahem. You see, the curious thing is that although Ankh-Morpork is probably the biggest bully around, in a subtle kind of way, we nevertheless have a soft spot for people who stand up to bullies. Especially royal ones. We tend to be on their side, provided it doesn’t cost us too much.’
Blouse cleared his throat. ‘It’s quite a good likeness of you, Perks,’ he said hoarsely.
‘I only used my knee, sir!’ Polly protested. ‘And that fat lady certainly wasn’t there!’
‘That’s Morporkia,’ said de Worde. ‘She’s a sort of representation of the city, except that in her case she’s not covered in mud and soot.’
‘And I have to add, for my part,’ said Blouse, in his talking-to-a-meeting voice, ‘that Borogravia is in fact larger than Zlobenia, although most of the country is little more than barren mountainside—’
‘That doesn’t actually matter,’ said de Worde.
‘It doesn’t?’ said Blouse.
‘No, sir. It’s just a fact. It’s not politics. In politics, sir, pictures like this are powerful. Sir, even the alliance commanders are talking about you, and the Zlobenians are angry and bewildered. If you, the heroes of the hour, could make a plea for a little common sense—’
The lieutenant took a long, deep breath. ‘This is a foolish war, Mr de Worde. But I am a soldier. I have “kissed the Duchess”, as we say. It’s an oath of loyalty. Don’t tempt me to break it. I must fight for my country. We will repel all invaders. If there are deserters, we will find them and rally them again. We know the country. While we are free, Borogravia will be ftjee. You have “had your say”. Thank you. Where is that tea, Perks?’
‘What? Oh, nearly done, sir!’ said Polly, turning back to the fire.
It had been a sudden strange fancy, but a stupid plan. Now, out here, all the drawbacks were visible. How would she have got Paul home? Would he have wanted to come? Could she have managed it? Even if he was still alive, how could she hope to get him out of a prison?
‘So you’ll be guerilla fighters, eh?’ said Mr de Worde, behind her. ‘Madmen, all of you.’
‘No, we are not irregulars,’ said Blouse. ‘We kissed the Duchess. We are soldiers.’
‘Oh, well,’ said de Worde. ‘Then I admire your spirit, at least. Ah, Otto . . .’
The vampire iconographer ambled up, and gave them a shy smile. ‘Do not be afraid. I am a Black Ribboner just like your corporal,’ he said. ‘Light is my passion now.’