Monstrous Regiment

“I meant describe him to me on the assumption that I’m not a werewolf who sees with his nose,” said Vimes.

“Oh, yes,” said Angua. “Sorry, sir. Six foot two, a hundred and eighty pounds, fair hair, green-blue eyes, sabre scar on his left cheek, wears a monocle in his right eye, waxed moustache—”

“Good, well observed. And now look at ‘Captain Horentz’ in the picture, will you?”

She looked again, and said, very quietly: “Oh dear. They didn’t know?”

“He wasn’t going to tell them, was he? Would they have seen a picture?”

Angua shrugged. “I doubt it, sir. I mean, where would they see it? There’s never been a newspaper here until the Times carts turned up last week.”

“Some woodcut, maybe?”

“No, they’re an Abomination, unless they’re of the Duchess.”

“So they really didn’t know. And de Worde has never seen him,” said Vimes. “But you saw him when we arrived the other day. What did you think of him? Just between ourselves.”

“An arrogant son-of-a-bitch, sir, and I know what I’m talking about. The kind of man who thinks he knows what a woman likes and it’s himself. All very friendly right up until they say no.”

“Stupid?”

“I don’t think so. But not as clever as he thinks he is.”

“Right, ’cos he didn’t tell our writer friend his real name. Did you read the bit at the end?”

Angua read, at the end of the text: “Perry, the captain threatened and harangued me after the recruits had gone. Alas, I had no time to fish for the manacle key in the privy. Please let the Prince know where they are soonest. WDW.”

“Looks like William didn’t take to him, either,” she said. “I wonder why the Prince was out with a scouting party?”

“You said he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch,” said Vimes. “Maybe he just wanted to pop across and see if his auntie was still breathing…”

His voice trailed off. Angua looked at Vimes’s face, which was staring through her. She knew her boss. He thought war was simply another crime, like murder. He didn’t much like people with titles, and regarded being a duke as a job description rather than a lever to greatness. He had an odd sense of humour. And he had a sense for what she thought of as harbingers, those little straws in the wind that said there was a storm coming.

“In the nuddy,” he chuckled. “Could have slit their throats. Didn’t. They took their boots away and left them to hop home in the nood.” The squad, it seemed, had found a friend.

She waited.

“I feel sorry for the Borogravians,” he said.

“Me too, sir,” said Angua.

“Oh? Why?”

“Their religion’s gone bad on them. Have you seen the latest Abominations? They Abominate the smell of beets and people with red hair. In rather shaky writing, sir. And root vegetables are a staple here. Three years ago it was Abominable to grow root crops on ground which had grown grain or peas.”

Vimes looked blank, and she remembered that he was a city boy.

“It means no real crop rotation, sir,” she explained. “The ground sours. Diseases build up. You were right when you said they were going mad. These… commandments are dumb, and any farmer can see that. I imagine people go along with them as best they can, but sooner or later you either have to break them and feel guilty, or keep them and suffer. For no reason, sir. I’ve had a look around. They’re very religious here, but their god’s let them down. No wonder they mostly pray to their royal family.”

She watched him stare at the piece of pigeon post for a while. Then he said: “How far is it to Plotz?”

“About fifty miles,” said Angua, adding, “As the wolf runs, maybe six hours.”

“Good. Buggy’ll keep an eye on you. Little Henry is going to hop home, or meet one of his patrols, or an enemy patrol… whatever. But the midden is going to hit the windmill when everyone sees that picture. I bet de Worde would have let him out if he’d been nice and polite. That’ll teach him to meddle with the awesome power of a fair and free press, haha.” He sat upright and rubbed his hands together like a man who meant business. “Now, let’s get that pigeon on its way again before it gets missed, eh? Get Reg to lurch along to where the Times people are staying and tell them their pigeon flew in the wrong window. Again.”

That was a good time, Polly remembered.

They didn’t go down to the river docks. They could see there was no boat there. They hadn’t turned up and the boatman had left without them. Instead, they crossed the bridge and headed up into the forests, with Blouse leading the way on his ancient horse. Maladict went on ahead and… Jade brought up the rear. You didn’t need a light at night when a vampire led the way, and a troll at the rear would certainly discourage hangers-on.

No one mentioned the boat. No one spoke at all. The thing was… the thing was, Polly realized, that they were no longer marching alone. They shared the Secret. That was a huge relief, and right now they didn’t need to talk about it. Nevertheless, it was probably a good idea to keep up a regular output of farts, belches, nose-pickings and groin-scratchings, just in case.

Polly didn’t know whether to be proud that they’d taken her for a boy. I mean, she thought, I’d worked hard to get it right, I mastered the walk, except I suppose what I really did was mistress the walk, haha, I invented the fake shaving routine and the others didn’t even think of that, I haven’t cleaned my fingernails for days and I pride myself I can belch with the best of them. So, I mean, I was trying. It was just slightly a

After a few hours of this, when true dawn was breaking, they smelled smoke. There was a faint pall of it amongst the trees. Lieutenant Blouse raised a hand for them to halt, and Jackrum joined him in whispered conversation.

Polly stepped forward. “Permission to whisper too, sarge? I think I know what this is.”

Jackrum and Blouse stared at her. Then the sergeant said: “All right, Perks. Go and find out if you’re right, then.”

That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to Polly, but she’d left herself open. Jackrum relented when he saw her expression, nodded to Maladict, and said, “Go with him, corporal.”

They left the squad behind and walked forward carefully, over the beds of new-fallen leaves. The smoke was heavy and fragrant and, above all, reminiscent. Polly headed to where thicker undergrowth was taking advantage of the extra light of a clearing, and pushed through into an airy thicket of hazel trees. The smoke was denser here, and barely moving.

The thicket ended. A few yards away, in a wide patch of cleared ground, a mound like a small volcano was spewing flame and smoke into the air.

“Charcoal oven,” whispered Polly. “Just clay plastered on a stack of hazel. Should sit there smouldering for days. The wind probably caught it last night and the fire’s broken out. Won’t make good charcoal now, it’s burning too fast.”

They edged round it, keeping to the bushes. Other clay domes were dotted about the clearing, with faint wisps of steam and smoke coming from their tops. There were a couple of ovens in the process of being built, the fresh clay stacked alongside some bundles of hazel sticks. There was a hut, and the domes, and nothing else but silence, apart from the crackle of the runaway fire.

“The charcoal-burner is dead, or nearly dead,” said Polly.

“He’s dead,” said Maladict. “There’s a smell of death here.”

“You can smell it above the smoke?”

“Sure,” said Maladict. “Some things we’re good at smelling. But how did you know?”

“They watch the burns like hawks,” said Polly, staring at the hut. “He wouldn’t let it go out of control like that if he was alive. Is he in the hut?”

“They are in the hut,” said Maladict flatly. He set off across the smoky ground.

Polly ran after him. “Man and woman?” she said. “Their wives often live out with—”