‘I’m not going to be sent home like a package,’ said Igorina. ‘Anyway, that man has an objectionable bone structure.’
‘Well, Private Goom can’t join us right now,’ sighed Blouse. ‘So that leaves you, Polly.’
‘Why are they doing this?’ said Polly. ‘Why do they want us out of the way? Why aren’t they just leaving us locked up? This place must be full of cells.’
‘Ah, perhaps they are sensible of the frailties of your sex,’ said Blouse, and then fried in their stares. ‘I didn’t say I was,’ he added quickly.
‘They could just kill us,’ said Tonker. ‘Well, they could,’ she added. ‘Why not? Who’d care? I don’t think we count as prisoners of war.’
‘But they haven’t,’ said Polly. ‘And they’re not even threatening us. They’re being very careful. I think they’re frightened of us.’
‘Oh, yeah, right,’ said Tonker. ‘Maybe they think we’re going to chase them and give them a big wet sloppy kiss?’
‘Good, then we’re agreed that we’re not going to accept,’ said Blouse. ‘Damn right . . . oh, I do apologize . . .’
‘We all know the words, sir,’ said Polly. ‘I suggest we see how much we frighten them, sir.’
The officers were waiting with unconcealed impatience, but Rust managed a brief smile when he stepped back into the kitchen. ‘Well, lieutenant?’ he said.
‘We have given your offer due consideration, sir,’ said Blouse, ‘and our reply is: stick it up your . . .’ He leaned down to Polly, who whispered urgently. ‘Who? Oh, yes, right. Your jumper, sir. Stick it, in fact, up your jumper. Named after Colonel Henri Jumper, I believe. A useful woollen garment akin to a lightweight sweater, sir, which if I recall correctly was named after Regimental Sergeant-Major Sweat. That, sir, is where you may stick it.’
Rust received this calmly, and Polly wondered whether it was because he hadn’t understood it. The scruffy man once more leaning against the wall had understood it, though, since he was grinning.
‘I see,’ said Rust. ‘And that is the answer from all of you? Then you leave us no choice. Good evening to you.’
His attempt to stride out was hindered by the other officers, who had less sense of the dramatic moment. The door slammed behind them, but not before the last man out turned very briefly and made a hand gesture. You would have missed it if you weren’t watching him – but Polly was watching.
‘That seemed to go well,’ said Blouse, turning away.
‘I hope we’re not going to get into trouble for that,’ said Shufti.
‘Compared to what?’ said Tonker.
‘The last man out stuck his thumb up and winked,’ said Polly. ‘Did you notice him? He wasn’t even wearing an officer’s uniform.’
‘Probably wanted a date,’ said Tonker.
‘In Ankh-Morpork that means “jolly good”,’ said Blouse. ‘In Klatch, I think, it means “I hope your donkey explodes”. I spotted the man. Looked like a guard sergeant to me.’
‘Didn’t have stripes,’ said Polly. ‘Why’d he want to say jolly good to us?’
‘Or hate our donkey so much?’ said Shufti. ‘How’s Wazzer?’
‘Sleeping,’ said Igorina. yI think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t think she’s dead.’
‘You don’t think she is?’ said Polly.
‘Yes,’ said Igorina. ‘It’s like that. I wish I could keep her warmer.’
‘I thought you said she was burning up?’
‘She was. Now she’s freezing cold.’
Lieutenant Blouse strode over to the door, grabbed its handle and, to the surprise of all, pulled it open. Four swords were levelled at him.
‘We have a sick man here!’ he snapped to the astonished guards. ‘We need blankets and firewood! Get them now!’ He slammed the door. ‘It might work,’ he said.
‘That door doesn’t have a lock,’ said Tonker. ‘Useful fact, Polly.’
Polly sighed. ‘Right now, I just want something to eat. This is a kitchen, after all. There could be food here.’
‘This is a kitchen,’ said Tonker. ‘There could be cleavers!’
But it is always upsetting to find that the enemy is as bright as you. There was a well, but a web of bars across the top allowed for the passage of nothing bigger than a bucket. And someone with no sense of the narrative of adventure had removed from the room anything with an edge and, for some reason, anything that could be eaten.
‘Unless we want to dine on candles,’ said Shufti, pulling a bundle of them out of a creaking cupboard. ‘ ‘s tallow, after all. i bet old Scallot’d make candle scubbo.’
Polly checked the chimney, which smelled as though there had not been a fire in it for a long time. It was big and wide, but six feet up a heavy grille was hung with sooty cobwebs. It looked rusted and ancient, and could probably be shifted by twenty minutes’ work with a crowbar, but there’s never a crowbar when you want one.
There were some couple of sacks of ancient, dry and dusty flour in the storeroom. It smelled bad. There was a thing with a funnel and a handle and some mysterious screws.* There were a couple of rolling pins, a lettuce strainer, some ladles . . . and there were forks. Lots of toasting forks. Polly felt let down. It was ridiculous to expect that someone imprisoning people in some ad hoc cell would leave in all the ingredients to effect an escape but, nevertheless, she felt that some universal rule had been broken. They had nothing better than a club, really. The toasting forks might prick, the lettuce strainer might pack a punch, and the rolling pins were at least a traditional female weapon, but all you could do with the thing with a funnel and a handle and mysterious screws was baffle people.
* Every long-established kitchen has one of these, and no one ever remembers why. It is generally for something that no one does any more and, even when it was done, it wasn’t done with any real enthusiasm, such as celery basting, walnut shredding or, in the worst case, edible dormouse stuffing.
The door opened. Armed men came in to act as protection for a couple of women, carrying blankets and firewood. They scurried in with their eyes cast down, deposited their burdens, and almost ran out. Polly strode over to the guard who seemed to be in charge, and he backed away. A huge key ring jingled on his belt.
‘You knock next time, all right?’ she said.
He grinned nervously. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘They said we weren’t to talk to you . . .’
‘Really?’
The jailer glanced around. ‘But we reckon you’re doing bloody well, for girls,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘So that means you won’t shoot at us when we break out?’ said Polly sweetly.
The grin faded. ‘Don’t try it,’ said the jailer.
‘What a big bunch of keys you have there, sir,’ said Tonker, and the man’s hand flew to his belt.
‘You just stay in here,’ he said. ‘Things are bad enough already. You stay here!’
He slammed the door. A moment later they heard something heavy being pushed up against it.
‘Well, now we have a fire, at least,’ said Blouse.
‘Er . . .’ This was from Lofty. She volunteered a word so seldom that the rest turned to look at her, and she stopped in embarrassment.
‘Yes, Lofty?’ said Polly.
‘Er . . . I know how to get the door open,’ muttered Lofty. ‘So it stays open, I mean.’
Had it been anyone else, someone would have laughed. But words from Lofty had obviously been turned over for some time before utterance.
‘Er . . . good,’ said Blouse. ‘Well done.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Lofty.
‘Good.’
‘It will work.’
‘Just what we need, then!’ said Blouse, lik^e a man trying against all the odds to keep cheerful.
Lofty looked up at the big sooty beams that ran across the room. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘But there’ll still be guards outside,’ said Polly.
‘No,’ said Lofty. ‘There won’t.’
‘There won’t?’
‘They’ll have gone away.’ Lofty stopped, with the air of one who’d said everything that needed to be said.
Tonker walked over and took her arm. ‘We’ll just have a little chat, shall we?’ she said, and led the girl to the other side of the room. There was some whispered conversation. Lofty spent most of it staring at the floor, and then Tonker came back.
‘We will need the bags of flour from the storeroom, and the rope from the well,’ she said. ‘And one of those . . . what are those big round things that cover dishes? With a knob on?’
‘Dish covers?’ said Shufti.
‘And a candle,’ Tonker went on. ‘And a lot of barrels. And a lot of water.’
‘And what will all this do?’ said Blouse.
‘Make a big bang,’ said Tonker. ‘Tilda knows a lot about fire, believe me.’