Monstrous Regiment

The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to his sword they closed on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was some frantic whispering, in which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on the broad theme of “What?” could be heard, followed by a toccata on “The hell you say!”

The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some dust off his spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to Polly’s horror, strolled towards her…

…with one white-gloved hand extended.

Oh no, she thought. But he’s cleverer than Vimes thinks he is, and he can control his temper. And, suddenly, I’m everyone’s mascot.

“For the good of our great countries,” said Heinrich, “it is suggested that we publicly shake the hand of friendship.” He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.

Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently shook it.

“Oh, ver’ good,” said Otto, grasping his picture box. “I can only take zer vun, of course, because unfortunately I shall have to use flash. Just vun moment…”

Polly was learning that an art form which happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment. Heinrich and Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.

“So,” muttered the Prince, “the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!”

Polly kept her fixed grin. “Do you often menace frightened women?” she said.

“Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life? And you showed spirit!”

“Everyone say chiz!” Otto commanded. “Vun, two, three… oh, bug—”

By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. “Vun day I hope to find a filter zat vorks,” he muttered. “Thank you, everyvun.”

“That was for peace and goodwill between nations,” said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting go of the Prince’s hand. She took a step back. “And this, your highness, is for me…”

Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go, and you could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch.

She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in the ham-and-eggs.

And now, there was one other little thing.

The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through the high windows of the Keep’s biggest kitchen. He was sitting alone at a long table by the fire, in full uniform, and he was eating a slab of thick bread plastered with pork dripping. A mug of beer was not far from his other hand. He looked up as she approached, and nodded companionably towards another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro. “Pork drippin’ with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,” he said. “That’s the ticket. You can keep your cuisine. Want a slice?” He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing attendance on him.

“Not right now, sarge.”

“Sure?” said Jackrum. “There’s an old sayin’: kissing don’t last, cooking do. I hope that it’s one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.”

Polly sat down. “Kissing is lasting so far,” she said.

“Shufti get sorted out?” said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.

“To her own satisfaction, sarge.”

“Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?”

“Du

“Best of luck. Look after ’em, Perks, ’cos I ain’t coming,” said Jackrum.

“Sarge?” said Polly, shocked.

“Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I dare say he will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.”

“You’re sure, sarge?”

“Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ ‘my country right or wrong’ thing has had its day. Time to put my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping? It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style, in dripping.”

Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while Jackrum engulfed it.

“Fu

“What’s that, Perks?”

“Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns out you’re really part of someone else’s story. Wazz—Alice will be the one they remember. We just had to get her here.”

Jackrum said nothing but, as Polly would have predicted, pulled his crumpled bag of chewing tobacco out of his pocket. She slipped a hand in her own pocket and pulled out a small packet. Pockets, she thought. We’ve got to hang on to pockets. A soldier needs pockets.

“Try this, sarge,” she said. “Go on, open it.”

It was a small, soft leather pouch, with a drawstring. Jackrum held it up so that it twisted this way and that.

“Well, Perks, upon my oath I am not a swearing man—” he began.

“No, you’re not. I’ve noticed,” said Polly. “But that grubby old paper was getting on my nerves. Why didn’t you ever get a proper pouch made for yourself? One of the saddlers here sewed that up for me in half an hour.”

“Well, that’s life, isn’t it?” said Jackrum. “Every day you think ‘ye gods, it’s about time I had a new bag’, but then it all gets so busy you end up using the old one. Thank you, Perks.”

“Oh, I thought, ‘What can I give the man who has everything?’ and that was all I could afford,” said Polly. “But you don’t have everything, sarge. Sarge? You don’t, do you?”

She sensed him freeze over.

“You stop right there, Perks,” he said, lowering his voice.

“I just thought you might like to show someone that locket of yours, sarge,” said Polly cheerfully. “The one round your neck. And don’t glare at me, sarge. Oh, yeah, I could walk away and I’d never be sure, really sure, and maybe you’d never show it to anyone else, ever, or tell them the story, and one day we’ll both be dead and… well, what a waste, eh?”

Jackrum glared.

“Upon your oath, you are not a dishonest man,” said Polly. “Good one, sarge. You told people every day.”

Around them, beyond the dome, the kitchen buzzed with the busyness of women. Women always seemed to be doing things with their hands—holding babies, or pans, or plates, or wool, or a brush, or a needle. Even when they were talking, busyness was happening.

“No one would believe yer,” said Jackrum, at last.

“Who would I want to tell?” said Polly. “And you’re right. No one would believe me. I’d believe you, though.”

Jackrum stared into his fresh mug of beer, as if trying to see the future in the foam. He seemed to reach a decision, pulled the gold chain out of his noisome vest, unfastened the locket, and gently snapped it open.

“There you go,” he said, passing it across. “Much good may it do you.”

There was a miniature painting in each side of the locket: a dark-haired girl, and a blond young man in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.

“Good one of you,” said Polly.

“Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,” said Jackrum.

“No, honestly,” said Polly. “I look at the picture, and look at you… I can see that face in her face. Paler, of course. Not so… full. And who was the boy?”