Monstrous Regiment

The centre of attention, though, was the line of cavalry horses. One had been offered to Blouse, but he’d waved it away with a look of alarm, muttering something about “being loyal to his steed”, which to Polly’s eye looked like a self-propelled toast-rack with a bad attitude. But he’d probably made the right decision, at that, because they were big beasts, broad, battle-hardened and bright-eyed; sitting astride one of them would have strained the crotch in Blouse’s trousers and an attempt at reining one of them in would have pulled his arms off at the shoulder. Now each horse had a pair of boots hanging from its saddle, except for the leading horse, a truly magnificent beast upon which Corporal Scallot sat like an afterthought.

“I’m no donkey-walloper as you know, Threeparts,” said Jackrum, as he finished lashing the crutches behind the saddle, “but this is a hell of a good horse you’ve got here.”

“Damn right, sarge. You could feed a platoon for a week off’f it!” said the corporal.

“Sure you won’t come with us?” Jackrum added, standing back. “I reckon you still must’ve one or two things left for the bastards to cut off, eh?”

“Thank you, sarge, it’s a kind offer,” said Threeparts. “But fast horses are going to be at a real premium soon, and I’ll be in on the ground floor, as you might say. This lot’ll be worth three years’ pay.” He turned in the saddle and nodded at the squad. “Best of luck, lads,” he added cheerfully. “You’ll walk with Death every day, but I’ve seen ’im and he’s been known to wink. And remember: fill your boots with soup!” He urged the horses into a walk, and disappeared with his trophies into the gloom.

Jackrum watched him go, shook his head, and turned to the recruits. “All right, ladies—What’s fu

“Er, nothing, sarge, I just… thought of something…” said Tonker, almost choking.

“You ain’t paid to think of things, you’re paid to march. Do it!”

The squad marched away. The rain slackened to nothing but the wind rose a little, rattling windows, blowing through the deserted houses, opening and shutting doors like someone looking for something they could have sworn they put down here only a moment ago. That was all that moved in Plotz, except for one candle flame, down near the floor in the back room of the deserted barracks.

The candle had been tilted so that it leaned against a cotton thread fastened between the legs of a stool. This meant that when the candle burned low enough, it would burn through the thread and fall all the way to the floor and into a ragged trail of straw that led to a pile of palliasses on which had been stood two ancient cans of lamp oil.

It took about an hour in the wet, dejected night, for this to happen, and then all the windows blew out.

Tomorrow dawned on Borogravia like a great big fish. A pigeon rose over the forests, banked slightly, and headed straight for the valley of the Kneck. Even from here, the black stone bulk of the Keep was visible, rising above the sea of trees. The pigeon sped on, one spark of purpose in the fresh new morning—

–and squawked as darkness dropped from the sky, gripping it in talons of steel. Buzzard and pigeon tumbled for a moment, and then the buzzard gained a little height and flapped onwards.

The pigeon thought: 000000000! But had it been more capable of coherent thought, and known something about how birds of prey catch pigeons2, it might have wondered why it was being gripped so… kindly. It was being held, not squeezed. As it was, all it could think was: 000000000!

The buzzard reached the valley and began to circle low over the Keep. As it gyred, a tiny figure detached itself from the leather harness on its back and, with great care, inched itself around the body and down to the talons. It reached the imprisoned pigeon, knelt on it and put its arms round the bird’s neck. The buzzard skimmed low over a stone balcony, reared in the air, and let the pigeon go. Bird and tiny man rolled and bounced across the flagstones in a trail of feathers, and lay still.

Eventually a voice from somewhere under the pigeon said: “Bugger…”

Urgent footsteps ran across the stones and the pigeon was lifted off Corporal Buggy Swires. He was a gnome, and barely six inches tall. On the other hand, as the head and only member of Ankh-Morpork City Watch’s Airborne Section, he spent most of his time so high that everyone looked small.

“Are you all right, Buggy?” said Commander Vimes.

“Not too bad, sir,” said Buggy, spitting out a feather. “But it wasn’t elegant, was it? I’ll do better next time. Trouble is, pigeons are too stupid to be steered—”

“What’ve you got me?”

“The Times sent this up from their cart, sir! I tracked it all the way!”

“Well done, Buggy!”

There was a flurry of wings and the buzzard landed on the battlements.

“And, er—what is his name?” Vimes added. The buzzard gave him the mad, distant look of all birds.

“She’s Morag, sir. Trained by the pictsies. Wonderful bird.”

“Was she the one we paid a crate of whisky for?”

“Yes, sir, and worth every dram.”

The pigeon struggled in Vimes’s hand.

“You wait there, then, Buggy, and I’ll get Reg to come out with some raw rabbit,” he said, and walked into his tower.

Sergeant Angua was waiting by his desk, reading the Living Testament of Nuggan. “Is that a carrier pigeon, sir?” she said, as Vimes sat down.

“No,” said Vimes. “Hold it a minute, will you? I want to have a look inside the message capsule.”

“It does look like a carrier pigeon,” said Angua, putting down the book.

“Ah, but messages flying through the air are an Abomination Unto Nuggan,” said Vimes. “The prayers of the faithful bounce off them, apparently. No, I think I’ve found someone’s lost pet and I’m looking in this little tube here to see if I can find the owner’s name and address, because I am a kind man.”

“So you’re not actually waylaying field reports from the Times, then, sir?” said Angua, gri

“Not as such, no. I’m just such a keen reader that I want to see tomorrow’s news today. And Mr de Worde seems to have a knack of finding things out. Angua, I want to stop these stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and if that means allowing the occasional pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it.”

“Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice. I expect it’ll wipe off.”

“Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?”

When she’d gone Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the tiny writing, smiling as he did so. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the picture.

He was still staring at it when Angua returned with Reg and half a bucket of crunchy rabbit bits.

“Anything interesting, sir?” said Angua ingenuously.

“Well, yes. You could say that. All plans are changed, all bets are off. Ha! Oh, Mr de Worde, you poor fool…”

He handed her the paper. She read the story carefully.

“Good for them, sir,” she said. “Most of them look fifteen years old, and when you see the size of those dragoons, well, you’ve got to be impressed.”

“Yes, yes, you could say that, you could say that,” said Vimes, his face gleaming like a man with a joke to share. “Tell me, did de Worde interview any Zlobenian high-ups when he arrived?”

“No, sir. I understand he was turned away. They don’t really know what a reporter is, so I gather the adjutant threw him out and said he was a nuisance.”

“Dear me, the poor man,” said Vimes, still gri

Angua cleared her throat. “Well, sir, he was… largely green, shading to blue, with overtones of grllss and trail of—”

2. And allowing for the fact that all pigeons who know how birds of prey catch are dead, and therefore capable of slightly less thought than a living pigeon.