‘Well, blow me down,’ he said quietly, looking along the row of faces. ‘You didn’t know, did you . . . you didn’t know. Is there a . . . a man among you that knew? You thought, every one of you, that you were all alone. All alone. You poor devils. And look at you. More’n a third of the country’s High Command. You made it on your own, ladies. What could you have done if you’d acted tog—’
He stopped, and took a step towards Froc, who looked down at her cloven paperwork. ‘How many did you spot, Mildred?’
‘That will be “general”, sergeant. I’m still a general, sergeant. Or “sir” will do. And your answer is: one or two. One or two.’
‘And you promoted them, did you, if they was as good as men?’
‘Indeed not, sergeant. What do you take me for? I promoted them if they were better than men.’
Jackrum opened his arms wide, like a ringmaster introducing a new act. ‘Then what about the lads I bought with me, sir? As cracking a bunch of lads as I’ve ever seen.’ He cast a bloodshot eye around the table. ‘And I’m good at weighing up a lad, as you all know. They’d be a credit to your army, sir!’
Froc looked at her colleagues on either side. An unspoken question harvested unsaid answers.
‘Yes, well,’ she said. ‘All seems clear to us, in the light of new developments. When beardless lads dress up as gels, there’s no doubt that people will get confused. And that’s what we’ve got here, sergeant. Mere confusion. Mistaken identities. Much ado, in fact, about nothing. Clearly they are boys, and may return home right now with an honourable discharge.’
Jackrum chuckled and stuck out a palm, flexing the fingers upwards like a man bargaining. Once again, there was the communion of spirits.
‘Very well. They can, if they wish, continue in the army,’ said Froc. ‘With discretion, of course.’
‘No, sir!’
Polly stared at Jackrum, and then realized the words had, in fact, come from her own mouth.
Froc raised her eyebrows. ‘What is your name again?’ she said.
‘Corporal Perks, sir!’ said Polly, saluting.
She watched Froc’s face settle into an expression of condescending benevolence. If she uses the words ‘my dear’ I shall swear, she thought.
‘Well, my dear—’
‘Not your dear, sir or madam,’ said Polly. In the theatre of her mind The Duchess Inn burned to a cinder and her old life peeled away, black as charcoal, and she was flying, ballistic, too fast and too high and unable to stop. ‘I am a soldier, general. I signed up. I kissed the Duchess. I don’t think generals call their soldiers “my dear”, do they?’
Froc coughed. The smile remained, but had the decency to be a bit more restrained. ‘And private soldiers don’t talk like that to generals, young lady, so we’ll let that pass, shall we?’
‘Just here, in this room, I don’t know what passes and what stays, sir,’ said Polly. ‘But it seems to me that if you are still a general then I’m still a corporal, sir. I can’t speak for the others, but the reason I’m holding out, general, is that I kissed the Duchess and she knew what I was and she . . . didn’t turn away, if you understand me.’
‘Well said, Perks,’ said Jackrum.
Polly plunged on. ‘Sir, a day or two ago I’d have rescued my brother and gone off home and I’d have thought it a job well done. I just wanted to be safe. But now I see there’s no safety while there’s all this . . . this stupidity. So I think I’ve got to stay and be a part of it. Er . . . try to make it less stupid, I mean. And I want to be me, not Oliver. I kissed the Duchess. We all did. You can’t tell us we didn’t and you can’t tell us it doesn’t count, because it’s between us and her—’
‘You all kissed the Duchess,’ said a voice. It had an . . . echo.
You all kissed the Duchess . . .
‘Did you think that it meant nothing? That it was just a kiss?’
Did you think it meant nothing . . .
. . . just a kiss . . .
The whispered words washed against the walls like surf, and came back stronger, in harmonies.
Did you kiss meant nothing meant a kiss just think a kiss meant a kiss. . .»
Wazzer was standing up. The squad stood petrified as she walked unsteadily past them. Her eyes focused on Polly.
‘How good to wear a body again,’ she said. ‘And to breathe. Breathing is wonderful . . .’
How good . . .
To breathe wonderful a body again to breathe. . .
Something was in Wazzer’s face. Her features were all there, all correct, her nose was as pointed and as red, her cheekbones as hollow . . . but there were subtle changes. She held up a hand and flexed her fingers.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So . . .’ There was no echo this time, but the voice was stronger and deep. No one would ever have said that Wazzer’s voice had been attractive but this one was. She turned to Jackrum, who dropped on to his fat knees and whipped off his shako.
‘Sergeant Jackrum, I know that you know who I am. You have waded through seas of blood for me. Perhaps we should have done better things with your life, but at least your sins were soldier’s sins, and not the worst of them, at that. You are hereby promoted to sergeant major, and a better candidate for the job I have never met. You are steeped in deviousness, cunning and casual criminality, Sergeant Jackrum. You should do well.’
Jackrum, eyes cast down, raised a knuckle to his forehead. ‘. . . not worthy, your grace,’ he muttered.
‘Of course you aren’t.’ The Duchess looked around. ‘Now, where is my army . . . ah.’ There was no echo at all in the voice now, and none of Wazzer’s cowering and downcast eyes. She positioned herself directly in front of Froc, who was staring with his mouth open.
‘General Froc, you must do one final service for me.’
The general glared. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘You need to ask? As always, Jackrum thinks faster than you. You know me. I am the Duchess Annagovia.’
‘But you are—’ one of the other officers began, but Froc held up a hand again.
‘The voice . . . is familiar,’ she said, in a faraway whisper.
‘Yes. You remember the ball. I remember it, too. Forty years ago. You were the youngest captain ever. We danced, stiffly in my case. I asked you how long you had been a captain, and you said—’
‘Three days,’ breathed Froc, with her eyes shut.
‘And we ate Brandy Pillows, and a cocktail that I believe was called—’
‘Angel’s Tears,’ said Froc. ‘I kept the menu, your grace. And the dance card.’
‘Yes,’ said the Duchess. ‘You did. And when old General Scaffer led you away, he said, “That’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, my boy.” But you were . . . so dedicated that you never had children . . . my boy . . .’
. . . my boy . . . my boy . . .
‘I see heroes!’ said the Duchess, staring at the tableau of officers. ‘All of you gave up . . . much. But I demand more. Much more. Is there any amongst you who for the sake of my memory will not die in battle?’ Wazzer’s head turned and looked along the row. ‘No. I see there is not. And now I demand that you do what the ignorant might feel is the easier thing. You must refrain from dying in battle. Revenge is not redress. Revenge is a wheel, and it turns backwards. The dead are not your masters.’
‘What is it you want of me, ma’am?’ Froc managed.
‘Call in your other officers. Make what truces are necessary, for now. This body, this poor child, will lead you. I am weak, but I can move small things. Thoughts, perhaps. I will leave her . . . something, a light in the eye, a tone in the voice. Follow her. You must invade.’
‘Certainly! But how—’
‘You must invade Borogravia! In the name of sanity, you must go home. The winter is coming, the trusting animals are not fed, old men die of cold, women mourn, the country corrodes. Fight Nuggan, because he is nothing now, nothing but the poisonous echo of all your ignorance and pettiness and malicious stupidity. Find yourself a worthier god. And let . . . me . . . go! All those prayers, all those entreaties . . . to me! Too many hands clasped, that could more gainfully answer your prayers by effort and resolve! And what was I? Just a rather stupid woman when I was alive. But you believed I watched over you, and listened to you . . . and so I had to, I had to listen, knowing that there was no help . . . I wish people would not be so careless about what they believe. Go. Invade the one place you’ve never conquered. And these women will help. Be proud of them. And, lest you think to twist my meaning, lest you doubt. . . let me, as I leave, return to you this gift. Remember. A kiss.’