‘Certainly, captain,’ said the woman, curtsying demurely. Polly still stared.
‘Off you go . . . ladies,’ said the captain. ‘And if you’re hard workers Mrs Enid will I am sure give you a pass so’s we don’t have this trouble again . . . er . . .’
Shufti put both hands on his desk, leaned towards him and said ‘Boo’. His chair hit the wall.
‘I may not be clever,’ she said to Polly. ‘But I’m not stupid.’
But Polly was still staring at Lieutenant Blouse. He’d curtsied surprisingly well.
The soldier escorted them along a tunnel which opened on to a ledge overlooking what was either a cave or a room; it was at that level in the keep where there was not much difference. This wasn’t a laundry, but clearly some hot, damp afterlife for those who required punishment with extra scrubbing. Steam rolled across the ceiling, condensed, and dripped on to a floor that was already running with water. And it went on for ever, washtub after washtub. Women moved like ghosts through the drifting, tumbling clouds of fog.
‘There you go, ladies,’ he said, and slapped Blouse on the rump. ‘See you tonight, then, Daphne?’
‘Oh, yes!’ trilled Blouse.
‘Five o’clock, then,’ said the soldier, and ambled off down the corridor.
‘Daphne?’ said Polly, when the man had gone.
‘My “nom de guerre”,’ said Blouse. ‘I still haven’t found a way out of the lower areas but the guards all have keys and I shall have his key in my hand by half past five. Pardon?’
‘I think Tonker – sorry, Magda – just bit her tongue,’ said Polly.
‘Her? Oh, yes. Well done for staying in character, er . . .’
‘Polly,’ said Polly.
‘Good choice of name,’ said Blouse, leading the way down some steps. ‘It’s a good common, maidservanty sort of name.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Polly gravely.
‘Er . . . Sergeant Jackrum not with you, then?’ said the lieutenant, with a trace of nervousness.
‘No, sir. He said he was going to lead a charge on the main gates, sir, if we sent him a signal. I hope he doesn’t try without one.’
‘Good heavens, the man’s mad,’ said Blouse. ‘Splendid effort from the lads, though. Well done. You’d definitely pass for women to the casual observer.’
‘Coming from you, Daphne, that is a big compliment,’ said Polly, thinking: gosh, I’m really good at keeping a straight face.
‘But you didn’t need to come after me,’ said Blouse. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get a signal to you, but Mrs Enid allowed me to stay overnight, you see. The guards don’t do so many checks at night so I made use of my time to look for ways into the upper keep. All gated or really heavily guarded, I’m afraid. However, Private Hauptfidel has taken rather a shine to me . . .’
‘Well done, sir!’ said Polly.
‘Sorry, I want to be clear, sir,’ said Tonker. ‘You have a date with a guard.’
‘Yes, and I’ll suggest we go somewhere dark and then when I’ve got what I want I shall break his neck,’ said Blouse.
‘Isn’t that going a bit far on a first date?’ said Tonker.
‘Sir, did you have any trouble getting in?’ said Polly. This had been nagging at her. It seemed so unfair.
‘No, not at all. I just smiled and wiggled my hips and they waved me through. What about you?’
‘Oh, we had a little bit,’ said Polly. ‘It was a bit hair— it was a bit awkward for a moment or two.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Blouse triumphantly. ‘It’s all down to thespian ability! But you were plucky lads to try it. Come and meet Mrs Enid. A very loyal lady. The brave womenfolk of Borogravia are on our side!’
And, indeed, there was a picture of the Duchess in the alcove that served the laundry mistress for an office. Mrs Enid wasn’t a particularly large woman but she had forearms like Jade, a soaking wet apron, and the most mobile mouth Polly had ever seen. Her lips and tongue drew out every word like a big shape in the air; the laundresses, in a cavern full of hissing steam, echoes, falling water and the thud of wet clothes on stone, watched lips when ears were overwhelmed. When she was listening her mouth moved all the time, too, like someone trying to dislodge a piece of nut from a tooth. She wore her sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
She listened impassively as Blouse introduced the squad. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Right. You leave your lads here with me, sir. You ought to get back to the pressing room.’
When Blouse had bounced and wobbled back through the steam, Mrs Enid looked them all up and down, and then straight through.
‘Lads,’ she grunted. ‘Hah! That’s all he knows, eh? For a woman to wear the clothes of a man is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan!’
‘But we’re dressed as women, Mrs Enid,’ said Polly meekly.
Mrs Enid’s mouth moved ferociously. Then she folded her arms. It was like a barricade going up against all that was ungodly.
‘It’s not right,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a son and a husband prisoner in this place and I’m working meself to the bone for the enemy just so’s I can keep an eye on ‘em. They’re gonna invade, y’know. It’s amazing what we hear down here. So what good’s rescuing your men going to do ‘em when we’re all under the heel of the Zlobenian hand-painted clog, eh?’
‘Zlobenia will not invade,’ said Wazzer confidently. ‘The Duchess will see to it. Be not afraid.’
Wazzer got given the sort of look she always got when someone heard her for the first time.
‘Been praying, ‘ave yer?’ said Mrs Enid kindly.
‘No, just listening,’ said Wazzer.
‘Nuggan talks to you, does he?’
‘No. Nuggan is dead, Mrs Enid,’ said Wazzer.
Polly took Wazzer’s matchstick-thin arm and said: ‘Excuse us a moment, Mrs Enid.’ She hustled the girl behind a huge, water-driven clothes mangle. It heaved and clanked as a background to their conversation.
‘Wazzer, this is getting . . .’ Polly’s native tongue had no word for ‘freaky’, but if she had known about the word she would have welcomed its inclusion ‘. . . strange. You’re worrying people. You can’t just go around saying that a god is dead.’
‘Gone, then. Dwindled . . . I think,’ said Wazzer, her brow
furrowing. ‘No longer with us . . .’
‘We still get the Abominations.’
Wazzer tried to concentrate. ‘No, they’re not real. They’re like . . . echoes. Dead voices in an ancient cave, bouncing back and forth, the words changing, making nonsense . . . like flags that were used for signals but now just flap in the wind . . I Wazzer’s eyes went unfocused and her voice altered, became more adult, more certain ‘. . . and they come from no god. There is no god here now.’
‘So where do they come from?’
‘From your fear . . . They come from the part that hates the Other, that will not change. They come from the sum of all your pettiness and stupidity and dullness. You fear tomorrow, and you’ve made your fear your god. The Duchess knows this.’
The water-mangle creaked onwards. Around Polly the boilers hissed, water gushed in the runnels. The air was loaded with the smells of soap and damp cloth.
‘I don’t believe in the Duchess, either,’ said Polly. ‘That was just trickery in the woods. Anyone’d look round. It doesn’t mean I believe in her.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Polly. She believes in you.’
‘Really?’ Polly glanced around the steaming, dripping cave. ‘Is she here, then? Has she graced us with her presence?’
Wazzer had no concept of sarcasm. She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Yes.
Polly looked behind her.
‘Did you just say yes?’ she demanded.
‘Yes,’ said Wazzer.
Yes.
Polly relaxed. ‘Oh, it’s an echo. This is a cave, after all. Uh . . .’
. . . which doesn’t explain why my voice doesn’t come bouncing back . . .
‘Wazz . . . I mean, Alice?’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, Polly?’ said Wazzer.
‘I think it would be a really good idea if you don’t talk too much about this to the others,’ she said. ‘People don’t mind believing in, you know, gods and so on, but they get very nervous if you tell them they’re showing up. Er . . . she’s not going to show up, is she?’
‘The person you don’t believe in?’ said Wazzer, showing a flash of spirit.
‘I’m . . . not saying she doesn’t exist,’ said Polly weakly. ‘I just don’t believe in her, that’s all.’
‘She’s very weak,’ said Wazzer. ‘I hear her crying in the night.’
Polly sought for further information in the pinched-up face, hoping that in some way Wazzer was making fun of her. But nothing but puzzled innocence looked back.