‘Then you give it to me, soldier, and I will bring you back the reply. You have surrendered, after all.’
‘No. This is a truce. That’s not the same thing. I have to hand this over personally and you aren’t big enough.’ A thought hit her. ‘I demand to take this to Commander Vimes!’
The captain stared at her, and then looked closer. ‘Aren’t you one of those—’
‘Yes,’ said Polly.
‘And you locked them in chains and threw the key away?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, seeing her life start to flash past her eyes.
‘And they had to hop miles with shackles on and no clothes?’
‘Yes!’
‘And you’re just . . . women?’
‘Yes!’ said Polly, letting the ‘just’ go for now.
The captain leaned closer and spoke while trying not to move his lips. ‘Dan gug show. Ell done. Agout time soes arragunk arsetards ere aken own a eg!’ He leaned back. ‘Commander Vimes it is, then. Follow me, miss.’
Polly felt hundreds of eyes on her as the squad was let into the inner keep. There were one or two wolf whistles, because there were more soldiers in there, including quite a few trolls. Jade bent down, snatched up a rock and hurled it at one of them, hitting him between the eyes.
‘No one move!’ shouted Maladict, waving his hands urgently as a hundred men raised their weapons. ‘That was the troll version of blowing a kiss!’
And, indeed, the troll who had been hit was waving at Jade, a little unsteadily.
‘Can we knock it off with the lovey-dovey, please?’ said Polly to Jade. ‘The soft people are likely to get the wrong idea.’
‘It’s stopped the whistling, though,’ Maladict observed.
More people watched them as they climbed flight after flight of stone steps. No one could take this place, Polly could see that. Every flight was seen by another one higher up, every visitor would be sighted on before she’d even glimpsed a face.
A figure stepped out of the shadows as they reached the next floor. It was a young woman, in old-fashioned leather and mail armour, with a breastplate. She had long, very fair hair; for the first time in weeks, Polly felt a twinge of envy.
‘Thank you, captain, I’ll take over from here,’ she said, and nodded to Polly. ‘Good evening, Corporal Perks . . . if you would follow me, please?’
‘She’s a woman! And a sergeant!’ Maladict whispered.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Polly.
‘But she gave an order to that captain!’
‘Maybe she’s a political . . .’
‘And she’s obviously female!’
‘I’m not blind, Mal,’ said Polly.
‘I’m not deaf, either,’ said the woman, turning and smiling. ‘My name is Angua. If you will wait here, I’ll have some coffee sent in. There’s a bit of an argument going on in there at the moment.’
They were in a sort of anteroom, not much more than a widened area of corridor with a few benches. There were big double doors at the far end, behind which voices were being raised. Angua left.
‘Just like that?’ said Maladict. ‘What’s to stop us taking over the place?’
‘All those men with crossbows we passed on the way up?’ said Polly. Why us? she thought, looking blankly at the wall.
‘Oh, yes. Those. Yes. Er . . . Poll?’ -v
‘Yes?’
‘I’m actually Maladicta.’ She sat back. ‘There! I’ve told someone!’
‘Dat’s nice,’ said Jade.
‘Oh, good,’ said Polly. I’d be going out to give the latrines their afternoon swill about now, she thought. This has got to be better than that, right?
‘I thought I did pretty well,’ Maladicta went on. ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: vampires have a pretty good time of it whatever sex they are, right? But it’s the same everywhere. Velvet dresses, underwired nightgowns, acting crazy all the time, and don’t let’s even go near the whole “bathing in virgin’s blood” thing. You get taken a lot more seriously if they think you’re male.’
‘Right,’ said Polly. All in all, it’s been a long day. A bath would be nice.
‘I thought I did pretty well right up until the whole coffee thing. A necklace of the roast beans, that’d be the thing. I’ll be better prepared another time.’
‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Good idea. With real soap.’
‘Soap? How would soap work?’
‘What? Oh . . . sorry,’ said Polly.
‘Did you hear anything I said?’
‘Oh, that. Yes. Thank you for telling me.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘You’re you. That’s good. I’m me, whoever I am. Tonker’s Tonker. It’s all just. . . people. Look, a week ago the high spot of my day was reading the new graffiti in the men’s latrines. I think you’d agree that a lot has happened since then. I don’t think I’m going to be surprised at anything any more. The coffee-bean necklace sounds good, by the way.’ She drummed her feet on the floor impatiently. ‘Right now, I just wish they’d hurry up in there.’
They sat and listened, and then Polly became aware of a little column of smoke coming from behind a bench on the other side of the space. She walked over and peered over the back. A man was lying there, head on one arm, smoking a cigar. He nodded when he saw Polly’s face.
‘They’re going to be ages yet,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you that sergeant I saw in the old kitchen? Making faces behind Lord Rust from Ankh-Morpork?’
‘I was not making faces, miss. That’s how I always look when Lord Rust is talking. And I was a sergeant once, it’s true, but, look, no stripes.’
‘Make der faces once too often?’ said Jade.
The man laughed. He hadn’t shaved today, by the look of it. ‘Something like that, yes. Come along to my office, it’s warmer. I only came out here because people complain about the smoke. Don’t worry about that lot in there, they can wait. I’m only down the passage.’
They followed him. The door was, indeed, only a few steps away. The man pushed it open, walked across the little room beyond, and sat down in a chair. The table in front of it overflowed with papers.
‘I think we can get enough food up here to see you through the winter,’ he said, picking up a sheet of paper apparently at random. ‘Grain’s a bit short but we’ve got a handy surplus of white drumhead cabbage, keeps wonderfully, full of vitamins and minerals . . . but you might want to keep your windows open, if you follow me. Don’t stare. I know the country’s a month away from starvation.’
‘But I haven’t even shown this letter to anyone!’ Polly protested. ‘You don’t know what we—’
‘I don’t have to,’ said the man. ‘This is about food and mouths. Good grief, we don’t have to fight you. Your country is going to fall over anyway. Your fields are overgrown, most of your farmers are old men, the bulk of the grub goes to the army. And armies don’t do much for agriculture except marginally raise the fertility of the battlefield. The honour, the pride, the glory . . . none of that matters. This war stops, or Borogravia dies. Do you understand?’
Polly remembered the gale-swept fields, the old people salvaging what they could . . .
‘We’re just messengers,’ she said. ‘I can’t negotiate—’
‘You know your god’s dead?’ said the man. ‘Nothing left but a voice, according to some of our priests. The last three Abominations were against rocks, ears and accordion players. Okay, I might be with him on the last one, but . . . rocks? Hah! We can advise you if you’re going to look for a new one, by the way. Om’s very popular at the moment. Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns you can sing in the bath. You won’t get Offler the Crocodile God up here with your winters, and the Unorthodox Potato Church is probably a bit too uncomplicated for—’
Polly started to laugh. ‘Look, sir, I’m just a . . . what is your name, please?’
‘Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates.’
‘Vimes the Butcher?’ said Maladicta.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard that one,’ said Vimes, grinning. ‘Your people haven’t really mastered the fine art of propaganda. And I’m telling you because— well, have you heard of Om?’
They shook their heads.
‘No? Well, in the Old Book of Om there’s a story about some city full of wickedness, and Om decided to destroy it with holy fire, this being back in the old smiting days before he’d got religion. But Bishop Horn protested about this plan, and Om said he’d spare the city if the bishop could find one good man. Well, the bishop knocked on every door, and turned up empty-handed. It turned out, after the place had been reduced to a glass plain, that there were probably plenty of good people there and, being good, they weren’t the sort to admit it. Death by modesty, a terrible thing. And you, ladies, are the only Borogravians I know much about, apart from the military who, frankly, aren’t chatty. You don’t appear to be as insane as your country’s foreign policy. You’re the one piece of international goodwill it has. A bunch of young boys outwitting crack cavalrymen? Kicking the Prince in the fork? People at home liked that. And now it turns out that you’re girls? They’ll love that. Mr de Worde is going to have fun with that when he finds out.’