‘O-kay,’ said Shufti, who’d been working over the fire. ‘This might do it. It smells like coffee, anyway. Well^. . . quite like coffee. Well . . . quite like coffee if coffee was made from acorns, anyway.’
She’d roasted some acorns. At least the woods had plenty of them at this time of year, and everybody knew that roasted, ground acorns could be substituted for coffee, didn’t they? Polly had agreed that it was a worth a try, but as far as she could recall no one had ever, given the choice, said ‘No, I will not touch horrible coffee any more! It’s a Long Black ground-acorn substitute for me, with extra floating gritty bits!’
She took the mug from Shufti and carried it over to the vampire. As she bent down . . . the world changed.
. . . whopwhopwhop . . .
The sky was a haze of dust, turning the sun into a blood-red disc. For a moment Polly saw them in the sky, giant fat screws spinning in the air, hovering in the air but drifting slowly towards her—
‘He’s having flashsides,’ whispered Igorina, at her elbow.
‘Flashsides?’
‘Like . . . someone else’s flashbackth. We don’t know anything about them. They could come from anywhere. A vampire at this stage is open to all sorts of influences! Give him the coffee, please!’
Maladict grabbed the mug and tried to down the contents so quickly that they spilled over his chin. They watched him swallow.
‘Tastes like mud,’ he said, putting down the mug.
‘Yes, but is it working?’
Maladict looked up and blinked his eyes. ‘Ye gods, that stuff is gruesome.’
‘Are we in a forest or a jungle? Any flying screws?’ Igorina demanded. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘You know, that’s something an Igor should never say,’ said Maladict, grimacing. ‘But . . . the . . . feelings aren’t so strong. I can suck it down! I can gut it out.’
Polly looked at Igorina, who shrugged and said, ‘That’s nice,’ and motioned to Polly to join her a little way off.
‘He, or possibly she, is right on the edge,’ she said.
‘Well, we all are,’ said Polly. ‘We’re hardly getting any sleep.’
‘You know what I mean. I’ve, er . . . taken the liberty of, er . . . being prepared.’ Wordlessly, Igorina let her jacket fall open, just for a moment. Polly saw a knife, a wooden stake and a hammer, in neatly stitched little pockets.
‘It’s not going to come to that, is it?’
‘I hope not,’ said Igorina. ‘But if it does, I’m the only one who can reliably find the heart. People always think it’s more to the left than—’
‘It’s not going to come to that,’ said Polly firmly.
The sky was red. The war was a day away.
Polly crept along just below the ridge with the tea can. It was tea that kept the army on its feet. Remember what’s real. . . well, that took some doing. Tonker and Lofty, for example. It didn’t matter which of them was on guard, the other one would be there as well. And there they were, sitting side by side on a fallen tree, staring down the slope. They were holding hands. They always held hands, when they thought they were alone. But it seemed to Polly that they didn’t hold hands like people who were, well, friends. They held hands tightly, as someone who has slipped over a cliff would hold hands with a rescuer, fearing that to let go would be to fall away.
‘Tea up!’ she quavered.
The girls turned, and she dipped a couple of mugs into the scalding tea.
‘You know,’ she said quietly, ‘no one would hate you if you ran away tonight.’
‘What do you mean, Ozz?’ said Lofty.
‘Well, what’s there in Kneck for you? You got away from the school. You could go anywhere. I bet the two of you could sneak—’
‘We’re staying,’ said Tonker severely. ‘We talked about it. Where else would we go? Anyway, supposing^ something is following us?’
‘Probably just an animal,’ said Polly, who didn’t believe it herself.
‘Animals don’t do that,’ said Tonker. ‘And I don’t think Maladict would get so excited. It’s probably more spies. Well, we’ll get them.’
‘Nobody is going to take us back,’ said Lofty.
‘Oh. Er . . . good,’ said Polly, backing away. ‘Well, must get on, no one likes cold tea, eh?’
She hurried round the hill. Whenever Lofty and Tonker were together, she felt like a trespasser.
Wazzer was on guard in a small dell, watching the land below with her usual expression of slightly worrying intensity. She turned as Polly approached.
‘Oh, Polly,’ said Wazzer. ‘Good news!’
‘Oh, good,’ said Polly weakly. ‘I like good news.’
‘She says it will be all right for us not to wear our dimity scarves,’ said Wazzer.
‘What? Oh. Good,’ said Polly.
‘But only because we are serving a Higher Purpose,’ said Wazzer. And, just as Blouse could invert commas, Wazzer could drop capital letters into a spoken sentence.
‘That’s good, then,’ said Polly.
‘You know, Polly,’ said Wazzer, ‘I think the world would be a lot better if it was run by women. There wouldn’t be any wars. Of course, the Book would consider such an idea a Dire Abomination unto Nuggan. It may be in error. I shall consult the Duchess. Bless this cup that I may drink of it,’ she added.
‘Er, yes,’ said Polly, and wondered what she should dread more: Maladict suddenly turning into a ravening monster, or Wazzer reaching the end of whatever mental journey she was taking. She’d been a kitchen maid and now she was subjecting the Book to critical analysis and talking to a religious icon. That sort of thing led to friction. The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to those who think they’ve found it.
Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar— pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it was always done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got You. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him, so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the grannies in the front row, sucking peppermints.
Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if ever she got back, she’d never do it again . . .
‘Er . . . Wazz?’ she said.
‘Yes, Polly?’
‘You’ve got a direct line to the Duchess, have you?’
‘We talk about things,’ said Wazzer dreamily.
‘You, er, couldn’t raise the question of coffee, could you?’ said Polly wretchedly.
‘The Duchess can only move very, very small things,’ said Wazzer.
‘A few beans, perhaps? Wazz, we really need some coffee! I don’t think the acorns are that much of a substitute.’
‘I will pray,’ said Wazzer.
‘Good. You do that,’ said Polly. And, strangely enough, she felt a little more hopeful. Maladict had hallucinations, but Wazzer had a certainty you could bend steel round. It was the opposite of a hallucination, somehow. It was as if she could see what was real and you couldn’t.
‘Polly?’ said Wazzer.
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t believe in the Duchess, do you? I mean the real Duchess, not your inn.’
Polly looked into the small, pinched, intense face. ‘Well, I mean, they say she’s dead, and I prayed to her when I was small, but since you ask I don’t exactly, um, believe as—’ she gabbled.
‘She is standing just behind you. Just behind your right shoulder.’
In the silence of the wood, Polly turned. ‘I can’t see her,’ she said.
‘I am happy for you,’ said Wazzer, handing her the empty mug.
‘But I didn’t see anything,’ said Polly.
‘No,’ said Wazzer. ‘But you turned round . . .’
Polly had never asked too many questions about the Girls’ Working School. She was, by definition, a Good Girl. Her father was an influential man in the community, and she worked hard, she didn’t have much to do with men and, most importantly, she was . . . well, smart. She was bright enough to do what a lot of other people did in the chronic, reason-free insanity that was everyday life in Munz. She knew what to see and what to ignore, when to obey and when to merely present the face of obedience, when to speak and when to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned the ways of the survivor. Most people did. But if you rebelled, or were merely dangerously honest, or had the wrong kind of illness, or were not wanted, or were a girl who liked boys more than the old women thought you should and, worse, were not good at counting . . . then the school was your destination.