Monstrous Regiment

“Because I know a lot about birds,” said Polly, mentally cursing. “How do you know what’s been happening to the regiment?”

“Because it’s my job to know things,” said the man. “What’s that bird up there?”

Polly glanced up. “I don’t have time for stupid games,” she said. “And that’s a—” She stopped. Something was wheeling high above, in the forbidden blue.

“You don’t know?” said de Worde.

“Yes, of course I know,” said Polly irritably. “It’s a white-necked buzzard. But I thought they never came this far into the mountains. I only ever saw one in a book—” She raised her bow again, and tried to take control. “Am I right, Mr It’s-my-job-to-know-things?”

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 wi

“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 wi

“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 cu

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 onto 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.”