Terry Pratchett - Monstrous Regiment

“The general went on to say…” de Worde consulted his notebook, “that you are a credit to the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to comment?”

He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging argument that had just broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your country . We’re proud of you. Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to start somewhere…

“That’s very nice of him,” said Polly. “But we just want to get the job done and go home. That’s what soldiers want.” She thought for a moment, and then added: “And hot sweet tea.” To her amazement, he wrote this down.

“Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a different place if more women were soldiers?” de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she noted, so this was probably a joky kind of question.

“Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,” said Polly. And I’d like to watch her expression if you do…

“Yes, but what do you think, miss?”

“That’s corporal, please.”

“Sorry, corporal… and?”

The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things down, and then they got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words can change everything…

“Well,” said Polly, “I—”

There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other end of the courtyard, and some cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because Zlobenian officers were converging in a great hurry.

“Ah, I see the Prince is back,” said de Worde. “He’s probably not going to be happy about the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.”

“Can he do anything about it?”

De Worde shrugged. “He left some very senior officers here. It would be rather shocking if he did.”

The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or rather, she realized, the big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers trailed after him, and were brushed off. But when a white oblong was waved in front of his face by one man he grabbed it and stopped so quickly that several other officers bumped into him.

“Um,” said de Worde. “The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.”

The paper was thrown down.

“Yes, probably that was it,” said de Worde.

Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression.

It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in his notebook and cleared his throat.

“You’re going to talk to him?” said Polly. “In that mood? He’ll cut you down!”

“I have to,” said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached the doorway he took a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly, “Your highness? I wonder if I could have a word?”

Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their gazes locked.

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?”

“Dunno, sarge. I’ll go with Wa—with Alice and the army and see what happens.”

“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.”