She didn’t know much about what went on in there, but imagination rushed to fill the gap. And she wondered what happened to you in that hellish pressure cooker. If you were tough, like Tonker, it boiled you hard and gave you a shell. Lofty . . . it was hard to know. She was quiet and shy until you saw firelight reflected in her eyes, and sometimes the flames were there in the absence of any fire to reflect. But if you were Wazzer, dealt a poor hand to start with, and locked up, and starved, and beaten, and mistreated Nuggan knew how (and yes, Polly thought, Nuggan probably did know how) and pushed deeper and deeper into yourself, what would you find down there? And then you’d look up from those depths into the only smile you ever saw.
The last man on guard duty was Jackrum, because Shufti was cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun round as she approached, and Polly caught the gleam of gold as something was shoved back in his jacket.
The sergeant lowered the bow. ‘You make enough noise for an elephant, Perks,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sarge,’ said Polly, who knew she hadn’t. He took the tea mug, and turned to point downhill.
‘See that bush down there, Perks?’ he said. ‘Just to the right of that fallen log?’
Polly squinted. ‘Yes, sarge,’ she said.
‘Notice anything about it?’
Polly stared again. There must be something wrong about it, she decided, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked her. She concentrated. ‘The shadow’s wrong,’ she decided at last.
‘Good lad. The reason bein’, our chum is behind the bush. He’s been a-watching of me, and I’ve been a-watching of him. Nothing else for it. He’ll have it away on his toes as soon as he sees anyone move, and he’s too far away to drop an arrow on him.’
‘An enemy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘A friend?’
‘Cocky devil, at any rate. He doesn’t care that I know he’s there. You go on back up the hill, lad, and bring down that big bow we got off of the— There he goes!’
The shadow had vanished. Polly stared into the wood, but the long light was getting crimson and dusk was unfolding between the trees.
‘It’s a wolf,’ said Jackrum.
‘A werewolf?’ said Polly.
‘Now, what makes you think that?’
‘Because Sergeant Towering said we’d got a werewolf in the squad. I’m sure we haven’t. I mean, we’d have found out by now, wouldn’t we? But I wondered if they’d seen one.’
‘Can’t do anything about it, anyway,’ said Jackrum. ‘A silver arrow would do the job, but we’ve got none.’
‘What about our shilling, sarge?’
‘Oh, you think you can kill a werewolf with an IOU?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Then Polly added: ‘You’ve got a real shilling, sarge. Around your neck with that gold medallion.’
If you could have twisted steel round Wazzer’s conviction, you could have heated it with Jackrum’s glare.
‘What’s round my neck is no business of yours, Perks, and the only thing worse than a werewolf is me if anyone tries to take my shilling off me, understand?’
He softened as he saw Polly’s terrified expression. ‘We’ll move on after we’ve eaten,’ he said. ‘Find a better place for a rest. Somewhere easier to defend.’
‘We’re all pretty tired, sarge.’
‘So I want us all to be upright and armed if our friend comes back with his chums,’ said Jackrum.
He followed her gaze. The gold locket had slipped out of his jacket, and dangled guiltily on its chain. He deftly tucked it away.
‘She was just a . . . girl I knew,’ he said. ‘That’s all, right? It was a long time ago.’
‘I didn’t ask you, sarge,’ said Polly, backing away.
Jackrum’s shoulders settled. ‘That’s right, lad, you didn’t. And I ain’t asking you about anything, neither. But I reckon we’d better find the corporal some coffee, eh?’
‘Amen to that, sarge!’
‘And our rupert’s dreaming of laurel wreaths all round his head, Perks. We’ve got ourselves a goddamn hero here. Can’t think, can’t fight, no bloody use at all except for a famous last stand and a medal sent to his ol’ mum. And I’ve been in a few famous last stands, lad, and they’re butcher shops. That’s what Blouse’s leading you into, mark my words. What’ll you lot do then, eh? We’ve had a few scuffles, but that’s not war. Think you’ll be man enough to stand, when the metal meets the meat?’
‘You did, sarge,’ said Polly. ‘You said you were in a few last stands.’
‘Yeah, lad. But I was holding the metal.’
Polly walked back up the slope. All this, she thought, and we haven’t even got there. Sarge is thinking about the girl he left behind . . . well, that’s normal. And Tonker and Lofty only think about one another, but I suppose after you’ve been in that school . . . and as for Wazzer . . .
She wondered how she’d have survived the school. Would she have grown hard, like Tonker? Would she have just folded up inside, like the maids who came and went and worked hard and never had a name? Or perhaps she would have become like Wazzer, and found some door in her own head . . . I may be lowly, but I talk to gods.
. . . Wazzer had said ‘not your inn’. Had she ever told Wazzer about The Duchess? Surely not. Surely she . . . but, no, she had told Tonker, hadn’t she? That was it, then. All explained. Tonker must have mentioned it to Wazzer at some point. Nothing weird about it at all, even if practically no one ever had a conversation with Wazz. It was so hard. She was so intense, so coiled up. But that had to be the only explanation. Yes. She wasn’t going to let there be any other.
Polly shivered, and was aware that someone was walking beside her. She looked up and groaned.
‘You’re a hallucination, right?’
OH, YES. YOU ARE ALL IN A STATE OF HEIGHTENED SENSIBILITY CAUSED BY MENTAL CONTAGION AND LACK OF SLEEP.
‘If you’re a hallucination, how do you know that?’
I KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT. I AM SIMPLY BETTER AT ARTICULATING IT.
‘I’m not going to die, am I? I mean, right now?’
No. BUT YOU WERE TOLD THAT YOU WOULD WALK WITH DEATH EVERY DAY.
‘Oh . . . yes. Corporal Scallot said that.’
HE IS AN OLD FRIEND.YOU MIGHT SAY HE IS ON THE INSTALMENT PLAN.
‘Do you mind walking a bit more . . . invisibly?’
OF COURSE. HOW’S THIS?
‘And quietly, too?’
There was silence, which was presumably the answer. ‘And polish yourself up a bit,’ said Polly to the empty air. ‘And that robe needs a wash.’
There was no reply, but she felt better for saying it.
Shufti had cooked beef stew with dumplings and herbs. It was magnificent. It was also a mystery.
‘I don’t recall us passing a cow, private,’ said Blouse, as he handed his tin plate along for a second helping.
‘Er . . . no, sir.’
‘And yet you have acquired beef?’
‘Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . when that writer man came up in his cart, well, when you were talking, er, I crept round and took a look inside . . .’
‘There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, private,’ said Blouse severely.
‘Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,’ said Jackrum. ‘If that writer man gets hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, lieutenant?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ said Blouse carefully. ‘Yes. Of course. Good initiative, private.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,’ said Shufti brightly. ‘Sarge told me to.’
Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swivelled her eyes from sergeant to lieutenant.
‘You teach looting, sergeant?’ said Blouse. There was a joint gasp from the squad. If this was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been hurrying out of the doors and Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles off the shelf.
‘Not looting, sir, not looting,’ said Jackrum, calmly licking his spoon. ‘Under Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1 [c], Paragraph i, sir, it would be plundering, said cart being the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir, which is aiding and abetting the enemy. Plundering is allowed, sir.’
The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Blouse reached behind him and into his pack. Polly saw him draw out a small yet thick book.
‘Rule 611,’ he murmured. Blouse glanced up at the sergeant, and thumbed through the thin, shiny pages. ‘611. Pillaging, Plundering and Looting. Ah, yes. And . . . let me see . . . you are with us, Sergeant Jackrum, owing to Rule 796, I think you reminded me at the time . . .’