Monstrous Regiment

Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if ever she got back, she’d never do it again…

“Er… Wazz?” she said.

“Yes, Polly?”

“You’ve got a direct line to the Duchess, have you?”

“We talk about things,” said Wazzer dreamily.

“You, er, couldn’t raise the question of coffee, could you?” said Polly wretchedly.

“The Duchess can only move very, very small things,” said Wazzer.

“A few beans, perhaps? Wazz, we really need some coffee! I don’t think the acorns are that much of a substitute.”

“I will pray,” said Wazzer.

“Good. You do that,” said Polly. And, strangely enough, she felt a little more hopeful. Maladict had hallucinations, but Wazzer had a certainty you could bend steel round. It was the opposite of a hallucination, somehow. It was as if she could see what was real and you couldn’t.

“Polly?” said Wazzer.

“Yes?”

“You don’t believe in the Duchess, do you? I mean the real Duchess, not your i

Polly looked into the small, pinched, intense face. “Well, I mean, they say she’s dead, and I prayed to her when I was small, but since you ask I don’t exactly, um, believe as—” she gabbled.

“She is standing just behind you. Just behind your right shoulder.”

In the silence of the wood, Polly turned. “I can’t see her,” she said.

“I am happy for you,” said Wazzer, handing her the empty mug.

“But I didn’t see anything,” said Polly.

“No,” said Wazzer. “But you turned round…”

Polly had never asked too many questions about the Girls’ Working School. She was, by definition, a Good Girl. Her father was an influential man in the community, and she worked hard, she didn’t have much to do with men and, most importantly, she was… well, smart. She was bright enough to do what a lot of other people did in the chronic, reason-free insanity that was everyday life in Munz. She knew what to see and what to ignore, when to obey and when to merely present the face of obedience, when to speak and when to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned the ways of the survivor. Most people did. But if you rebelled, or were merely dangerously honest, or had the wrong kind of illness, or were not wanted, or were a girl who liked boys more than the old women thought you should and, worse, were not good at counting… then the School was your destination.

She didn’t know much about what went on in there, but imagination rushed to fill the gap. And she wondered what happened to you in that hellish pressure cooker. If you were tough, like Tonker, it boiled you hard and gave you a shell. Lofty… it was hard to know. She was quiet and shy until you saw firelight reflected in her eyes, and sometimes the flames were there in the absence of any fire to reflect. But if you were Wazzer, dealt a poor hand to start with, and locked up, and starved, and beaten, and mistreated Nuggan knew how (and yes, Polly thought, Nuggan probably did know how) and pushed deeper and deeper into yourself, what would you find down there? And then you’d look up from those depths into the only smile you ever saw.

The last man on guard duty was Jackrum, because Shufti was cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun round as she approached, and Polly caught the gleam of gold as something was shoved back in his jacket.

The sergeant lowered the bow.

“You make enough noise for an elephant, Perks,” he said.

“Sorry, sarge,” said Polly, who knew she hadn’t. He took the tea mug, and turned to point downhill.

“See that bush down there, Perks?” he said. “Just to the right of that fallen log?”

Polly squinted.

“Yes, sarge,” she said.

“Notice anything about it?”

Polly stared again. There must be something wrong about it, she decided, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked her. She concentrated.

“The shadow’s wrong,” she decided at last.

“Good lad. The reason bein’, our chum is behind the bush. He’s been a-watching of me, and I’ve been a-watching of him. Nothing else for it. He’ll have it away on his toes as soon as he sees anyone move, and he’s too far away to drop an arrow on him.”

“An enemy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A friend?”

“Cocky devil, at any rate. He doesn’t care that I know he’s there. You go on back up the hill, lad, and bring down that big bow we got off of the– There he goes!”

The shadow had vanished. Polly stared into the wood, but the long light was getting crimson, and dusk was unfolding between the trees.

“It’s a wolf,” said Jackrum.

“A werewolf?” said Polly.

“Now, what makes you think that?”

“Because Sergeant Towering said we’d got a werewolf in the squad. I’m sure we haven’t. I mean, we’d have found out by now, wouldn’t we? But I wondered if they’d seen one.”

“Can’t do anything about it, anyway,” said Jackrum. “A silver arrow would do the job, but we’ve got none.”

“What about our shilling, sarge?”

“Oh, you think you can kill a werewolf with an IOU?”

“Oh, yeah.” Then Polly added: “You’ve got a real shilling, sarge. Around your neck with that gold medallion.”

If you could have twisted steel round Wazzer’s conviction, you could have heated it with Jackrum’s glare.

“What’s round my neck is no business of yours, Perks, and the only thing worse than a werewolf is me if anyone tries to take my shilling off me, understand?”

He softened as he saw Polly’s terrified expression. “We’ll move on after we’ve eaten,” he said. “Find a better place for a rest. Somewhere easier to defend.”

“We’re all pretty tired, sarge.”

“So I want us all to be upright and armed if our friend comes back with his chums,” said Jackrum.

He followed her gaze. The gold locket had slipped out of his jacket, and dangled guiltily on its chain. He deftly tucked it away.

“She was just a… girl I knew,” he said. “That’s all, right? It was a long time ago.”

“I didn’t ask you, sarge,” said Polly, backing away.

Jackrum’s shoulders settled. “That’s right, lad, you didn’t. And I ain’t asking you about anything, neither. But I reckon we’d better find the corporal some coffee, eh?”

“Amen to that, sarge!”

“And our rupert’s dreaming of laurel wreaths all round his head, Perks. We’ve got ourselves a goddamn hero here. Can’t think, can’t fight, no bloody use at all except for a famous last stand and a medal sent to his ol’ mum. And I’ve been in a few famous last stands, lad, and they’re butcher shops. That’s what Blouse’s leading you into, mark my words. What’ll you lot do then, eh? We’ve had a few scuffles, but that’s not war. Think you’ll be man enough to stand, when the metal meets the meat?”

“You did, sarge,” said Polly. “You said you were in a few last stands.”

“Yeah, lad. But I was holding the metal.”

Polly walked back up the slope. All this, she thought, and we haven’t even got there. Sarge is thinking about the girl he left behind… well, that’s normal. And Tonker and Lofty only think about one another, but I suppose after you’ve been in that school… and as for Wazzer…

Polly wondered how she would have survived the School. Would she have grown hard, like Tonker? Would she have just folded up inside, like the maids who came and went and worked hard and never had a name? Or perhaps she would have become like Wazzer, and found some door in her own head… I may be lowly, but I talk to gods.

…Wazzer had said “not your i

That was it, then. All explained. Tonker must have mentioned it to Wazzer at some point. Nothing weird about it at all, even if practically no one ever had a conversation with Wazz. It was so hard. She was so intense, so coiled up. But that had to be the only explanation. Yes.