‘No,’ she said at last, turning away. That’s not him.’
Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: ‘No one asked you to speak, private!’ And, such was the nature of the day, he shut up.
‘I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,’ said Clogston. ‘We’ve got any amount of earrings, heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies – and, surprisingly, a fair number of carbuncles. But he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?’
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, still staring at the boy. ‘My Johnny must have been killed.’
Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. ‘In that case, uh, the general did say, informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension could be arranged,’ she said.
‘Can she do that?’ whispered Polly.
‘For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,’ said Clogston. ‘Don’t think too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical man.’
‘No,’ said Shufti. ‘I . . . it’s . . . well, no. Thank you, but no.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Polly.
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally a defying kind of person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it ought to have been, having overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.
Clogston stepped back. ‘Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough, then. Take that man away, sergeant.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered Johnny, stood in front of him, held out her hand and said: ‘Before they take you away again I want my sixpence back, you son of a bitch!’
Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There had been another little victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even square pebbles will roll.
*
Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made available as the women’s barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women. Men, grown men, had fallen over themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood for the fire. It was all very strange. Polly felt they were being treated as something dangerous and fragile, like, say, a huge and wonderful jar full of poison. She turned the corner into the big courtyard and there was de Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no escaping them. They were definitely people looking for someone.
The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope. ‘Er . . . so you’re women, then?’ he said.
‘Er, yes,’ said Polly.
De Worde took out his notebook.
‘This is an amazing story,’ he said. ‘You really fought your way here and got in disguised as washerwomen?’
‘Well, we were women, and we did some washing,’ said Polly. ‘I suppose it was quite a cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised, you could say.’
‘General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,’ de Worde went on.
‘Oh, he has got promoted, then?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.’
‘Yes, I suppose we did,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. Very well, for women.’
‘The general went on to say . . .’ de Worde consulted his notebook, ‘that you are a credit to the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to comment?’
He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging argument that had just broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your country. We’re proud of you. Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to start somewhere . . .
‘That’s very nice of him,’ said Polly. ‘But we just want to get the job done and go home. That’s what soldiers want.’ She thought for a moment, and then added: ‘And hot sweet tea.’ To her amazement, he wrote this down.
‘Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a different place if more women were soldiers?’ de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she noted, so this was probably a joky kind of question.
‘Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,’ said Polly. And I’d like to watch her expression if you do . . .
‘Yes, but what do you think, miss?’
‘That’s corporal, please.’
‘Sorry, corporal . . . and?’
The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things down, and then they got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words can change everything . . .
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘I—’
There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other end of the courtyard, and some cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because Zlobenian officers were converging in a great hurry.
‘Ah, I see the Prince is back,’ said de Worde. ‘He^s probably not going to be happy about the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.’
‘Can he do anything about it?’
De Worde shrugged. ‘He left some very senior officers here. It would be rather shocking if he did.’
The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or rather, she realized, the big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers trailed after him, and were brushed off. But when a white oblong was waved in front of his face by one man he grabbed it and stopped so quickly that several other officers bumped into him.
‘Um,’ said de Worde. ‘The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.’
The paper was thrown down.
‘Yes, probably that was it,’ said de Worde.
Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression.
It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in his notebook and cleared his throat.
‘You’re going to talk to him?’ said Polly. ‘In that mood? He’ll cut you down!’
‘I have to,’ said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached the doorway he took a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly, ‘Your highness? I wonder if I could have a word?’
Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their gazes locked.
The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to his sword they closed on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was some frantic whispering, in which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on the broad theme of ‘What?’ could be heard, followed by a toccata on ‘The hell you say!’
The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some dust off his spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to Polly’s horror, strolled towards her . . .
. . . with one white-gloved hand extended.
Oh no, she thought. But he’s cleverer than Vimes thinks he is, and he can control his temper. And, suddenly, I’m everyone’s mascot.
‘For the good of our great countries,’ said Heinrich, ‘it is suggested that we publicly shake the hand of friendship.’ He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.
Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently shook it.
‘Oh, ver’ good,’ said Otto, grasping his picture box. ‘I can only take zer vun, of course, because unfortunately I shall have to use flash. Just vun moment . . .’
Polly was learning that an art form which happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment. Heinrich and Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.
‘So,’ muttered the Prince, ‘the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!’
Polly kept her fixed grin. ‘Do you often menace frightened women?’ she said.
‘Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life? And you showed spirit!’
‘Everyone say chiz!’ Otto commanded. ‘Vun, two, three . . . oh, bug—’
By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. ‘Vun day I hope to find a filter zat vorks,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you, everyvun.’
‘That was for peace and goodwill between nations,’ said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting go of the Prince’s hand. She took a step back. ‘And this, your highness, is for me . . .’
Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go, and you could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch.