Monstrous Regiment

by Terry Pratchett

  De Worde raised his hands again and gave her a sickly smile. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘I live in a city. I know sparrows from starlings. After that everything’s a duck as far as I’m concerned.’

  Polly glared at him.

  ‘Look, please,’ said the man. ‘You need to listen to me. You need to know things. Before it’s too late.’

  Polly lowered the bow. ‘If you want to talk to us, wait here,’ she said. ‘Corporal, we are leaving. Carborundum, pick up those troopers!’

  ‘Hold it,’ said Maladict. ‘Who’s the corporal in this squad?’

  ‘You are,’ said Polly. ‘And you’re drooling, and swaying, and your eyes look weird. So what was your point, please?’

  Maladict considered this. Polly was tired and frightened and somewhere inside this was all being transmuted into anger. Hers was not an expression you wanted to see at the far end of a crossbow. An arrow couldn’t kill a vampire, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

  ‘Right, yeah,’ he said. ‘Carborundum, pick up those troopers! We are leaving!’

  There was a bird whistle as Polly neared the hiding place. She identified this one as the sound of the Very Bad Bird Impersonator, and made a note to teach the girls some bird calls that at least sounded real. They were harder to do than most people thought.

  The squad were in the gully, armed and at least looking dangerous. There was a certain amount of relaxation when they saw Jade carrying the two bound troopers. Two more were sitting disconsolately against the cliff, hands tied behind them.

  Maladict walked smartly up to Blouse and saluted. ‘Two prisoners, el-tee, and Perks thinks there’s someone down there you ought to talk to.’ He leaned forward. ‘The newspaper man, sir.’

  ‘Then we’ll jolly well keep well away from him,’ said Blouse. ‘Eh, sergeant?’

  ‘Right, sir!’ said Jackrum. ‘Nothing but trouble, sir!’

  Polly saluted madly. ‘Please, sir! Permission to speak, sir!’

  ‘Yes, Perks?’ said Blouse.

  Polly saw there was one chance, and one only. She had to find out about Paul. Now her mind worked as fast as it had on the hill last night, when she’d gone for the man with the code book.

  ‘Sir, I don’t know if he’s worth talking to, sir, but he may be worth listening to. Even if you think he’ll only tell us lies. Because sometimes, sir, the way people tell you lies, if they tell you enough lies, well, they sort of . . . show you what shape the truth is, sir. And we don’t have to tell him the truth, sir. We could lie to him, too.’

  ‘I am not by nature an untruthful man, Perks,’ said Blouse coldly.

  ‘Glad to hear it, sir. Are we winning the war, sir?’

  ‘You stop that right now, Perks!’ Jackrum roared.

  ‘It was only a question, sarge,’ said Polly reproachfully.

  Around the clearing the squad waited, ears sucking up every sound. Everyone knew the answer. They waited for it to be said aloud.

  ‘Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency,’ Blouse began, but he said it as if he didn’t believe it and didn’t care who knew.

  ‘No, sir. It doesn’t really. It’s better than being lied to,’ said Polly. She changed her voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was being scolded. ‘It’s evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please.’

  Some harmonic of that tone must have found a home in an old part of Blouse’s brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a hand.

  ‘We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet.’

  ‘I think we all know that, sir, but it’s good to hear you say it,’ said Polly, giving him an encouraging smile.

  That seemed to work, too. ‘I suppose there is no harm in at least being civil to the wretched fellow,’ said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. ‘He may give away valuable information under cunning questioning.’

  Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man in prayer.

  ‘Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Permission denied, sergeant,’ said Blouse. ‘I’d like him to live and don’t want to lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and drive it up here.’

  Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to recognize it; it meant that Jackrum had already made plans.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ he said. ‘Come on, Perks.’

  Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted slope. Then, after a while, he said: ‘D’you know why them troopers found our little nook, Perks?’

  ‘No, sarge.’

  ‘The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. It wasn’t as if there was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it.’

  Polly gave this a few seconds’ thought. ‘Steam, sarge?’

  ‘Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti’s fault. The gallopers weren’t any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen crossbows, at least. That’s clever for a cavalryman.’

  ‘Well done, sarge.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me as if I was a rupert, lad,’ said Jackrum easily.

  ‘Sorry, sarge.’

  ‘I see you’re learnin’ how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make sure they gives you the right orders, see? You’ll make a good sergeant, Perks.’

  ‘Don’t want to, sarge.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.

  After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and headed towards the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a notebook, but he stood up hurriedly when he saw them.

  ‘It’d be a good idea to get off the track,’ he said, as soon as they approached. ‘There are a lot of patrols, I understand.’

  ‘Zlobenian patrols, sir?’ said Jackrum.

  ‘Yes. In theory this’ – he pointed to the flag that hung limply from the cart – ‘should keep us safe, but everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren’t you Sergeant Jack Ram?’

  ‘Jackrum, sir. And I’ll thank you for not writing my name down in your little book, sir.’

  ‘Sorry, sergeant, but that’s my job,’ said de Worde breezily. ‘I have to write things down.’

  ‘Well, sir, soldierin’ is my job,’ said Jackrum, climbing on to the cart and gathering up the reins. ‘But you’ll note how at this moment in time I am not killin’ you. Let’s go, eh?’

  Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was full of boxes and equipment, and while it might once have been neatly organized, that organization was now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the property of a man. Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen dozed on a perch in their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of them opened one eye and lazily went ‘Lollollop?’ which is pigeon for ‘Duh?’

  Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like – she leaned closer – ‘Capt Horace Calumney’s Patent Field Biscuits’, and ‘Dried Stew’. As she was musing that Shufti would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of those boxes, a bundle of clothes hanging from the ceiling of the rocking cart moved slightly and a face appeared.

  ‘Good mornink,’ it said, upside down.

  William de Worde turned round on the seat in front. ‘It’s only Otto, private,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Yes, I vill not bite,’ said the face cheerfully. It smiled. A vampire’s face does not look any better upside down, and a smile in these circumstances does nothing to improve matters. ‘That is guaranteed.’

  Polly lowered the crossbow. Jackrum would have been impressed by how quickly she had raised it. So was she, and embarrassed too. The socks were doing the thinking again.

  Otto very elegantly lowered himself to the bed of the cart. ‘Vhere are ve goink?’ he said, steadying himself as they bounced over a rut.

  ‘A
little place I know, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Nice and quiet.’

  ‘Good. I need to exercise the imps. Zey get fretful if zey are cooped up for too long.’ Otto pushed aside a stack of paper and revealed his large picture-making box. He lifted a small hatch.

  ‘Rise und shine, lads,’ he said. There was a chorus of high-pitched voices from inside.

  ‘I’d better just mark your card re Tiger, Mr de Worde,’ said Jackrum, as the cart rolled up an old logging track.

  ‘Tiger? Who’s Tiger?’

  ‘Oops,’ said Jackrum. ‘Sorry, that’s what we call the lieutenant, sir, on account of him being so brave. Forget I said that, will you?’

  ‘Brave, is he?’ said de Worde.

  ‘And clever, sir. Don’t let him fool you, sir. He is one of the great milit’ry minds of his generation, sir.’

  Polly’s mouth dropped open. She had suggested they lied to the man, but . . . this?

  ‘Really? Then why is he just a lieutenant?’ said the writer.

  ‘Ah, I can see there’s no fooling you, sir,’ said Jackrum, oozing knowingness. ‘Yes, it’s a puzzler, sir, why he calls himself a lieutenant. Still, I dare say he has his reasons, eh? Just like Heinrich calling himself a captain, right?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I see everything, sir, and I don’t say a word!’

  ‘All I could find out was that he did some kind of desk job at your HQ, sergeant,’ said de Worde. Polly saw him taking his notebook out, slowly and carefully.

  ‘Yes, I expect that’s what you would find out, sir,’ said Jackrum, with a huge conspiratorial wink. ‘And then, when things are at their worst, they let him out, sir. They unleash him, sir. Me, I don’t know a thing, sir.’

  ‘What does he do, explode?’ said de Worde.

  ‘Haha, nice one, sir!’ said Jackrum. ‘No, sir. What he does, sir, is assess situations, sir. I don’t understand it myself, sir, not being a big thinker, but the proof of the pudding, sir, is in the eating of same, and last night we were jumped by eight— twenty Zlobenian troopers, sir, and the lieutenant just assessed the situation in a flash and skewered five of the buggers, sir. Like a kebab, sir. Mild as milk to look at, but rouse him and he’s a whirlwind of death. Of course, you did not hear it from me, sir.’

  ‘And he’s in charge of a bunch of recruits, sergeant?’ said de Worde. ‘That doesn’t sound very likely to me.’

  ‘Recruits who captured some crack cavalrymen, sir,’ said Jackrum, looking pained. ‘That’s leadership for you. Comes the hour, comes the man, sir. I’m just a simple old soldier, sir, seen ’em come and seen ’em go. Upon my oath I am not a lying man, sir, but I look at Lieutenant Blouse in wonderment.’

  ‘He just seemed confused, to me,’ said de Worde, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘That was a bit of concussion, sir. He took a wallop that would have felled a lesser man, and still got back on to his feet. Amazing, sir!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said de Worde, making a note.

  The cart splashed across the shallow little stream and rocked into the gully. Lieutenant Blouse was sitting on a rock. He’d made an effort, but his tunic was grubby, his boots were muddy, his hand was swollen and one ear, despite Igorina’s ministrations, was still inflamed. He had his sword on his knees. Jackrum carefully brought the cart to a halt by a thicket of birch trees. All four of the enemy troopers were tied up against the cliff. Apart from them, the camp appeared to be deserted.

  ‘Where are the rest of the men, sergeant?’ whispered de Worde, as he slid down off the cart.

  ‘Oh, they’re around, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Watching you. Probably not a good idea to make any sudden move, sir.’

  No one else was visible . . . and then Maladict faded into view.

  People never really looked at things, Polly knew. They glanced. And what had been a patch of scrub was now Corporal Maladict. Polly stared. He’d cut a hole in the centre of his old blanket, and the mud and grass stains on the mildewed greyness had turned him into part of the landscape until he’d saluted. He’d also stuck leafy twigs all over his hat.

  Sergeant Jackrum goggled. Polly had never really seen proper goggling before, but the sergeant had the face to do it at championship level. She could feel him drawing breath while at the same time assembling cusswords for a right royal thundering – and then he remembered he was playing Sergeant Big Jolly Fat Man, and this was not the time to segue into Sergeant Incandescent.

  ‘Lads, eh?’ he chuckled to de Worde. ‘What will they think of next?’

  De Worde nodded nervously, pulled a wad of newspapers from under his seat, and advanced on the lieutenant.

  ‘Mr de Worde, isn’t it?’ said Blouse, standing up. ‘Perks, can we manage a cup of, er, “saloop” for Mr de Worde? There’s a good chap. Do take a rock, sir.’

  ‘Good of you to see me, lieutenant,’ said de Worde. ‘It looks as though you’ve been in the wars!’ he added, with an attempt at joviality.

  ‘No, only this one,’ said Blouse, looking puzzled.

  ‘I meant that you have been wounded, sir,’ said de Worde.

  ‘These? Oh, they’re nothing, sir. I’m afraid the one on my hand was self-inflicted. Sword drill, you know.’

  ‘You’re left-handed then, sir?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  Polly, washing out a mug, heard Jackrum say out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Should’ve seen the other two fellows, sir!’

  ‘Are you aware of the progress of the war, lieutenant?’ said de Worde.

  ‘You tell me, sir,’ said Blouse.

  ‘All your army is bottled up in the Kneck valley. Dug in, mostly, just beyond the reach of the keep’s weaponry. Your forts elsewhere along the border have been captured. The garrisons at Drerp and Glitz and Arblatt have been overwhelmed. As far as I can tell, lieutenant, your squad are the only soldiers still at large. At least,’ he added, ‘the only ones still fighting.’

  ‘And my regiment?’ said Blouse quietly.

  ‘The remnant of the Tenth took part in a brave but, frankly, suicidal attempt to retake Kneck Keep a few days ago, sir. Most of the survivors are prisoners of war, and I have to tell you that almost all your high command have been captured. They were in the keep when it was taken. There are big dungeons in that fort, sir, and they’re pretty full.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  I do, thought Polly. So Paul is either dead, wounded or captured. And it doesn’t help much by thinking of it as two chances in three that he is alive.

  De Worde threw his newspapers at the lieutenant’s feet. ‘It’s all there, sir. I didn’t make it up. It’s the truth. It will remain true whether you believe it or not. There are more than six countries ranged against you, including Genua and Mouldavia and Ankh-Morpork. There is no one on your side. You are alone. The only reason you’re not beaten yet is because you won’t admit it. I’ve seen your generals, sir! Great leaders, and your men fight like demons, but they won’t surrender!’

  ‘Borogravia doesn’t know the meaning of the word “surrender”, Mr de Worde,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Can I lend you a dictionary, sir?’ snapped de Worde, going red in the face. ‘It’s very similar to the meaning of “making some kind of peace while you’ve got a chance”, sir! It’s rather like “quitting while you’ve still got a head”, sir! Good heavens, sir, don’t you understand? The reason that there still is an army in the Kneck valley is that the allies haven’t decided what to do with it! They’re fed up with the slaughter!’

  ‘Ah, so we still fight back!’ said Blouse.

  De Worde sighed. ‘You don’t understand, sir. They are fed up with slaughtering you. They’ve got the keep now. There’s some big war engines up there. They . . . frankly, sir, some of the alliance would just as soon wipe out the remains of your army. It’d be like shooting rats in a barrel. They have you at their mercy. And yet you keep on attacking. You attack the keep! It’s on sheer rock and it’s got walls a hundred feet high. You make salients across the river. Yo
u’re bottled up and you’ve got nowhere to go and the allies could simply massacre you any time they want, and you act as though you’re just facing some kind of temporary setback. That’s what’s really happening, lieutenant! You are just a last little detail.’

  ‘Have a care, please,’ Blouse warned.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know anything about recent history? In the past thirty years you have declared war on every single one of your neighbours at least once. All countries fight, but you brawl. And then last year you invaded Zlobenia again!’

  ‘They invaded us, Mr de Worde.’

  ‘You have been misinformed, lieutenant. You invaded the Kneck province.’

  ‘That was confirmed as Borogravian by the Treaty of Lint, more than a hundred years ago.’

  ‘Signed at swordpoint, sir. And no one cares now, in any case. It’s all got beyond your stupid little royal scuffles. Because your men tore down the Grand Trunk, you see. The clacks towers. And tore up the coach road. Ankh-Morpork regards that as bandit activity.’

  ‘Have a care, I said!’ said Blouse. ‘I note you are displaying the Ankh-Morpork flag with evident pride on your wagon.’

  ‘Civis Morporkias sum, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork citizen. You could say that Ankh-Morpork shelters me under her wide and rather greasy wing, although I agree the metaphor could use some work.’

  ‘Your Ankh-Morpork soldiers aren’t in a position to protect you, however.’

  ‘Sir, you are right. You could have me killed right now,’ said de Worde simply. ‘You know that. I know that. But you won’t, for three reasons. The officers of Borogravia tend towards honour. Everyone says that. That’s why they don’t surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don’t need to, because everyone is interested in you. Suddenly, it’s all changed.’

  ‘Interested in us?’

  ‘Sir, in a sense you could help a lot right now. Apparently people back in Ankh-Morpork were amazed when . . . look, have you heard about what we call “human interest”, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  De Worde tried to explain. Blouse listened with his mouth open and, at the end, said: ‘Have I got this right? Although many people have been killed and wounded in this wretched war, it’s not been of much “interest” to your readers? But it is now, just because of us? Because of a little skirmish in a town they’ve never heard of? And because of it, we’re suddenly a “plucky little country” and people are telling your newspaper that your great city should be on our side?’