Terry Pratchett - Monstrous Regiment

“You came out for a smoke at the right time, didn’t you?” said Polly, slowly and carefully. “You knew we were on our way, and you made sure you’d get to us first.”

“Of course. Can’t leave this to a bunch of… oh, yes… ruperts.”

“Where is my brother, Mister Vimes?” said Polly stiffly.

“You seem very sure I know…” said Vimes, not looking her in the face.

“I’m certain you do,” said Polly.

“Why?”

“Because no one else does!”

Vimes stubbed out his cigar. “Angua was right about you,” he said. “Yes, I, er, arranged for him to be put in what I like to call ‘protective custody’. He’s fine. Angua will take you to him now, if you like. Your brother, possibility of revenge, blackmail, who knows what… I thought he might be safer if I knew exactly who held the keys.”

The end of the journey, Polly thought. But it wasn’t, not any more. She got the distinct impression that the man opposite was reading her thoughts.

“That’s what all this was about, isn’t it?” he said.

“No, sir. It’s just how it started,” said Polly.

“Well, it continues like this,” said Vimes. “This is going to be a busy day. Right now I shall take this offer of a truce into the room down the passage and present it to the very important men”—his voice went flat to say those words—“who are discussing what to do about Borogravia. You’ll get a truce, the food, and probably some other help.”

“How do you know that?” said Polly. “They haven’t discussed it!”

“Not yet. But, as I said… I used to be a sergeant. Angua!”

The door opened. Angua came in. As Vimes had said, you couldn’t tell who was a werewolf until you found out…

“And now I’d better have a shave before I go to see the very important men,” said Vimes. “People set a lot of store by shaving.”

Polly felt embarrassed walking down the steps with Sergeant Angua. How did you start a conversation? “So you’re a werewolf, then?” would be sort of idiotic. She was glad that Jade and Maladicta had been left in the waiting room.

“Yes, I am,” said Angua.

“But I didn’t say it!” Polly burst out.

“No, but I’m used to situations like this. I’ve learned to recognize the way people don’t say things. Don’t worry.”

“You followed us,” said Polly.

“Yes.”

“So you must’ve known we weren’t men.”

“Oh, yes,” said Angua. “My sense of smell is much better than my eyesight, and I’ve got sharp eyes. Humans are smelly creatures. For what it’s worth, though, I wouldn’t have told Mister Vimes if I hadn’t heard you talking to one another. Anyone could have heard you, you don’t need to be a werewolf for that. Everyone’s got secrets they don’t want known. Werewolves are a bit like vampires in that way. We’re tolerated… if we’re careful.”

“ That I can understand,” said Polly. So are we, she thought.

Angua stopped by a heavy, studded door. “He’s in here,” she said, producing a key and turning it in the lock. “I’ll go back and chat to the others. Come and find me when you’re ready…”

Polly stepped inside, heart pounding, and there was Paul. And there was a buzzard, on a perch by the open window. And on the wall, where Paul was working so intensely that his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he hadn’t even noticed the door opening, was another buzzard, flying in the heart of the sunrise.

Right now, Polly could forgive Ankh-Morpork anything. Someone had found Paul a box of coloured chalks.

The long day got longer. She had a kind of power. They all did. People gave them space, watched them. The fighting had stopped and they were the cause and no one knew exactly why.

There were lighter moments. They might have power, but General Froc gave the orders. And General Froc might give the orders, but it was permissible to suppose that it was Sergeant-major Jackrum who anticipated them.

And perhaps that was why Shufti asked Polly and Tonker to go with her, and they were ushered into a room where a couple of guards stood on either side of a sheepish young man called Johnny who had fair hair and blue eyes and a gold earring and his trousers round his knees in case Shufti wanted to check his other distinguishing feature.

He also had a black eye.

“This the one?” said Major Clogston, who was leaning against the wall eating an apple. “The general has asked me to tell you that there will be a dowry of five hundred crowns, with the army’s compliments.”

Johnny brightened up slightly when he heard that. Shufti gave him a long and careful look.

“No,” she said at last, turning away. “That’s not him.”

Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: “No one asked you to speak, private!” And, such was the nature of the day, he shut up.

“I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,” said Clogston. “We’ve got any amount of earrings, heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies—and, surprisingly, a fair number of carbuncles. But he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said Shufti, still staring at the boy. “My Johnny must have been killed.”

Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. “In that case, uh, the general did say, informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension could be arranged,” she said.

“Can she do that?” whispered Polly.

“For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,” said Clogston. “Don’t think too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical man.”

“No,” said Shufti. “I… it’s… well, no. Thank you, but no.”

“Are you sure?” said Polly.

“Positive,” said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally a defying kind of person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it ought to have been, having overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.

Clogston stepped back. “Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough, then. Take that man away, sergeant.”

“Just a moment,” said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered Johnny, stood in front of him, held out her hand and said: “Before they take you away again I want my sixpence back, you son of a bitch!”

Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There had been another little victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even square pebbles will roll.

Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made available as the women’s barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women. Men, grown men, had fallen over themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood for the fire. It was all very strange. Polly felt they were being treated as something dangerous and fragile, like, say, a huge and wonderful jar full of poison. She turned the corner into the big courtyard and there was de Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no escaping them. They were definitely people looking for someone.

The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope. “Er… so you’re women, then?” he said.

“Er, yes,” said Polly.

De Worde took out his notebook.

“This is an amazing story,” he said. “You really fought your way here and got in disguised as washerwomen?”

“Well, we were women, and we did some washing,” said Polly. “I suppose it was quite a cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised, you could say.”

“General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,” de Worde went on.

“Oh, he has got promoted, then?” said Polly.

“Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.”

“Yes, I suppose we did,” said Polly. “Yes. Very well, for women.”