‘When you say she knows a lot. . .’ Polly began uncertainly.
‘I mean every place she worked at burned down,’ said Tonker.
They rolled the empty barrels to the middle of the room and filled them with water from the pump. Under Lofty’s monosyllabic direction and the rope from the well, they hauled three leaking, dusty flour sacks up as high as possible, so that they twisted gently over the space between the barrels and the door.
‘Ah,’ said Polly, standing back. ‘I think I understand. A flour mill on the other side of town blew up two years ago.’
‘Yes,’ said Tonker. ‘That was Tilda.’
‘What?’
‘They’d been beating her. And worse. And the thing about Tilda is, she just watches and thinks and somewhere in there it all comes together. Then it explodes.’
‘But two people died!’
‘The man and his wife. Yes. But I heard that other girls sent there never came back at all. Shall I tell you that Tilda was pregnant when they brought her back to the Grey House after the fire? She had it, and they took it away, and we don’t know what happened to it. And then she got beaten again because she was an Abomination unto Nuggan. Does that make you feel better?’ said Tonker, tying the rope to a table leg. ‘There’s just us, Polly. Just her and me. No inheritance, no nice home to go back to, no relatives that we know of. The Grey House breaks us all, somehow. Wazzer talks to the Duchess, I don’t have . . . middle gears, and Tilda frightens me when she gets her hands on a box of matches. You should see her face then, though. It lights up. Of course,’ Tonker smiled in her dangerous way, ‘so do other things. Better get everyone into the storeroom while we light the candle.’
‘Shouldn’t Tilda do that?’
v ‘She will. But we’ll have to drag her away, otherwise she’ll stay and watch.’
This had started like a game. She hadn’t thought of it like a game, but it was a game called Let Polly keep The Duchess. And now . . . it didn’t matter. She’d made all kinds of plans, but she was beyond plans now. They’d done bloody well, for girls . . .
A final barrel of water had been placed, after some discussion, in front of the storeroom’s door. Polly looked over the top of it at Blouse and the rest of the squad.
‘Okay, everybody, we’re . . . er . . . about to do it,’ she said. ‘Are we sure about this, Tonker?’
‘Yep.’
‘And we won’t get hurt?’
Tonker sighed. ‘The dusty flour will explode. That’s simple. The blast coming this way will hit the barrels full of water which’ll probably last just long enough to see it rebound. The worst that should happen to us is that we get wet. That’s what Tilda thinks. Would you argue? And in the other direction, there’s only the door.’
‘How does she work this out?’
‘She doesn’t. She just sees how it should go.’ Tonker handed Polly the end of a rope. ‘This goes over the beam and down to the dish lid. Can you hold it, lieutenant? But don’t pull it until we say. I really mean that. C’mon, Polly.’
In the space between the barrels and the door, Lofty was lighting a candle. She did it slowly, as if it was a sacrament or some ancient ceremony every part of which held enormous and complex meaning. She lit a match, and held it carefully until the flame caught. She waved it back and forth on the base of the candle, which she thrust firmly on to the flagstones so that the hot wax stuck it into position. Then she applied the match to the candle wick and knelt there, watching the flame.
‘Okay,’ said Tonker. ‘I’m just going to pick her up, and you just carefully lower the lid over the candle, right? C’mon, Tilda.’
She raised the girl carefully to her feet, whispering to her all the time, and then nodded to Polly, who lowered the lid with a carefulness that amounted to reverence.
Lofty walked as though asleep. Tonker stopped by the leg of the heavy kitchen table, to which she’d attached the other end of the rope holding the flour bags.
‘Okay so far,’ she said. ‘Now, when I pull the knot we each grab an arm and we run, Polly, understand? We run. Ready? Got her?’ She hauled on the rope. ‘Run!’
The flour sacks dropped, streaming white dust as they fell, and exploded in front of the door. Flour rose like a fog. They raced for the storeroom and fell in a heap past the barrel as Tonker screamed, ‘Okay, lieutenant!’ Blouse pulled the rope that raised the lid and let the candle flame reach—
The word was not whoomph. The experience was whoomph. It had a quality that overwhelmed every sense. It shook the world like a sheet, painted it white and then, surprisingly, filled it with the smell of toast. And then it was over, in a second, leaving nothing but distant screams and the rumble of collapsing masonry.
Polly uncurled, and looked up into Blouse’s face. ‘I think we grab things and run now, sir,’ she said. ‘And screaming would help.’
‘I think I can manage the screaming,’ muttered Shufti. ‘This is not a very nurturing experience.’
Blouse gripped his ladle. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be our famous last stand,’ he said.
‘In fact, sir,’ said Polly, ‘I think it’s going to be our first. Permission to yell in a bloodcurdling way, sir?’
‘Permission granted, Perks!’
*
The floor was awash with water and bits – quite small bits – of barrel. Half the chimney had collapsed into the fireplace and the soot was blazing fiercely. Polly wondered if, down in the valley, it’d look like a signal.
The door had gone. So had a lot of wall around it. Beyond—
Smoke and dust filled the air. In it, men lay groaning, or picked their way aimlessly across the rubble. When the squad arrived they did not simply fail to put up a fight, they failed to understand. Or hear. The women lowered their weapons. Polly spotted the sergeant, who was sitting and hitting the side of his head with the flat of his hand.
‘Give me the keys!’ she demanded.
He tried to focus. ‘What?’
‘The keys!’
‘I’ll have a brown one, please.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘What?’
Polly reached down and snatched the key ring from the unresisting man’s belt, fighting down an instinct to apologize. She threw it to Blouse. ‘Will you do the honours, sir? I think we’ll be having a lot of visitors really soon.’ She turned to the squad. ‘The rest of you, get their weapons off them!’
‘Some of these men are badly hurt, Polly,’ said Igorina, kneeling down. ‘There’s one here with multiple.’
‘Multiple what?’ said Polly, watching the steps.
‘Just. . . multiple. Multiple everything. But I know I can save his arm, because I’ve just found it over there. I think he must’ve been holding his sword and—’
‘Just do what you can, okay?’ said Polly.
‘Hey, they’re enemies,’ said Tonker, picking up a sword.
‘Thith ith an Igor thing,’ said Igorina, taking off her pack. ‘I’m thorry, you wouldn’t underthtand.’
‘I’m beginning not to.’ Tonker joined Polly in her watch on the stairs. Around them, men groaned and stone creaked. ‘I wonder how much damage we did? There’s a lot of dust up there . . .’
‘There’ll be a lot of people here soon,’ said Polly, more calmly than she felt. Because this is going to be it, she thought. This time there’s going to be no turkey to save us. This is where I find out if I’m the meat or the metal . . .
She could hear Blouse unlocking doors, and the shouts from those within. ‘Lieutenant Blouse, Tenth Infantry!’ he was saying. ‘This is a rescue, broadly speaking. Sorry about the mess.’
Probably his inner Daphne had added that last bit, Polly thought. And then the corridor was full of released men, and someone said, ‘What are these women doing here! For god’s sake, give me that sword, girl!’
And, right now, she wasn’t inclined to argue.
Men take over. It is probably because of socks.
The squad retired to the kitchen, where Igorina was at work. She worked fast, efficiently and, on the whole, with very little blood. Her large pack was open beside her. The jars inside were blue, green and red; some of them smoked when she opened them, or gave off strange lights. Her fingers moved in a blur. It was fascinating to watch her working. At least, it was if you hadn’t just eaten.
‘Squad, this is Major Erick von Moldvitz! He asked to meet you.’
They turned at the sound of Blouse’s voice. He’d brought a newcomer. The major was young, but much more heavily built than the lieutenant. He had a scar across his face.