Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (16 page)

 
 
  
‘Permission to speak, sir?’ said Polly. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘We just have to hope that those put in power over us are making the right decisions,’
mumbled Blouse. ‘But I have every confidence in you and I am sure you will do your best.
Long live the Duchess! Carry on, Sergeant Jackrum.’
‘Ins-and-Outs! Form up! March!’
And they headed into the dusk and off to war.
The order of march was as last night, with Maladict going on ahead. The clouds were
holding in some heat, and were thin enough to hint at moonlight here and there. Forests by
night held no problems for Polly, and this wasn’t true wild forest in any case. Nor was it, in
truth, a march that they were doing. It was more like a high-speed creep, in ones and twos.
She’d acquired two of the horsebows, now stuck awkwardly between the straps of her
pack. They were horrible things, rather like a cross between a small crossbow and a clock.
There were mechanisms in the thick shaft, and the bow itself was barely six inches across;
somehow, if you leaned your weight on it, you could cock it with enough stored energy to
fire a nasty little metal arrow through an inch-thick plank. They were blued metal, sleek and
evil. But there is an old milit’ry saying: better me firing it at you than you firing it at me, you
bastard.
Polly eased her way along the line until she was walking alongside Igor. He nodded to her
in the gloom, and then turned his attention to walking. He needed to, because his pack was
twice the size of the rest of them. No one felt inclined to ask him what was in it; sometimes,
you thought you could hear liquid sloshing.
Igors sometimes passed through Munz, although technically they were an Abomination in
the eyes of Nuggan. It had seemed to Polly that using bits of someone who was dead to help
three or four other people stay alive was a sensible idea, but in the pulpit Father Jupe had
argued that Nuggan didn’t want people to live, he wanted them to live properly. There had
been general murmurs of agreement from the congregation, but Polly knew for a fact that
there were a couple of people sitting there with a hand or arm or leg that was a little less
tanned or a little more hairy than the other one. There were lumberjacks everywhere in the
mountains. Accidents happened, fast, sudden accidents. And, since there were not many jobs
for a one-armed lumberjack, men went off and found an Igor to do what no amount of prayer
could manage.
The Igors had a motto: What goes around, comes around. You didn’t have to pay them
back. You had to pay them forward, and that, frankly, was the bit where people got worried.
When you were dying, an Igor would mysteriously arrive on the doorstep and request that he
be allowed to take away any bits urgently needed by others on his ‘little litht’. He’d be quite
happy to wait until the priest had gone and, it was said, when the time came he’d do very neat
work. However, it happened quite often that when an Igor turned up the prospective donor
took fright and turned to Nuggan, who liked whole people. In which case the Igor would
quietly and politely leave, and never come back. He’d never come back to the whole village,
or the whole lumber camp. Nor would other Igors. What goes around comes around - or
stops.
As far as Polly could tell, Igors believed that the body was nothing more than a more
complicated kind of clothing. Oddly enough, that’s what Nugganites thought, too.
‘Glad you joined, Igor?’ said Polly, as they jogged along.

 
 
  
‘Yeth, Ozz.’
‘Could you take a look at the rupert’s hand next time we stop, please? He’s cut it badly.’
‘Yeth, Ozz.’
‘Can I ask you something, Igor?’
‘Yeth, Ozz.’
‘What’re female Igors called, Igor?’
Igor stumbled and kept moving. He was silent for a while, and then said: ‘All right, what
did I do wrong?’
‘Sometimes you forget to lisp,’ said Polly. ‘But mostly . . . it’s just a feeling. Little things
about the way you move, maybe.’
‘The word you’re looking for is “Igorina”,’ said Igorina. ‘We don’t lisp as much as the
boys.’
They continued in more silence until Polly said, ‘I thought it was bad enough cutting my
hair—’
‘The stitches?’ said Igorina. ‘I can have them out in five minuteth. They’re just for show.’
Polly hesitated. But, after all, Igors had to be trustworthy, didn’t they? ‘You didn’t cut
your hair?’
‘Actually, I just removed it,’ said Igorina.
‘I put mine in my pack,’ Polly went on, trying not to look at the stitches around Igorina’s
head.
‘So did I,’ said Igorina. ‘In a jar. It’s thtill growing.’
Polly swallowed. You needed a lack of graphic imagination to talk about personal issues
with an Igor. ‘Mine was stolen back at the barracks. I’m sure it was Strappi,’ she said.
‘Oh dear.’
‘I hate to think of him with it!’
‘Why did you bring it?’
And that was the question. She’d planned, and she’d been good at planning. She’d fooled
the rest of them, even. She’d been cool and sensible and she hadn’t felt more than a faint
pang at cutting off her hair—
—and she’d brought it with her. Why? She could have thrown it away. It wasn’t magic. It
was just hair. She could have thrown it away, just like that. Easily. But . . . but . . . ah, right,
the maids could have found it. That was it. She had to get it out of the house quickly. Right.
And then she could bury it somewhere when she was a long way away. Right.
But she hadn’t, had she . . .
She’d been very busy. Right, said the little voice in inner treachery. She had been very
busy fooling everyone but herself, right?
‘What could Strappi do?’ said Igorina. ‘Jackrum’d knock him over the moment he thaw
him. He’s a deserter, and a thief!’
‘Yes, but he could tell someone,’ said Polly.

 
 
  
‘Okay, then say it’s a lock of hair from the sweetheart you left behind you. Lots of soldiers
carry a locket or something like that. You know: “Her golden hair in ringletth fair”, like the
song says.’
‘It was all my hair! A locket? You couldn’t hold it all in your hat!’
‘Ah,’ said Igorina. ‘Then you could thay you loved her very much?’
Despite everything, Polly started to laugh, and couldn’t stop herself. She bit her sleeve and
tried to keep going, with her shoulders shaking.
Something that felt like a small tree prodded her; in the back. ‘Youse two oughta keep der
noise down,’ rumbled Jade.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ hissed Polly.
Igorina started to hum. Polly knew the song.
I’m lonesome since I crossed the hill
And o’er the moor and valley . . .
And she vowed: not that one, too. One song is enough. And I want to leave the girl behind
me, but it seems I brought her with me . . . At which point they emerged from the trees and
saw the red glow.
The rest of the squad were already gathered round, watching it. It covered quite a lot of the
horizon, and brightened and faded in places as they watched.
‘Is that hell?’ said Wazzer.
‘No, but men have made it so, I fear,’ said the lieutenant. ‘That is the Kneck valley.’
‘It’s on fire, sir?’ said Polly.
‘Bless you, that’s just the light of cooking-fires reflected off the clouds,’ said Sergeant
Jackrum. ‘Always looks bad by night, a battlefield. Not to worry, lads!’
‘What’re they cooking, elephants?’ said Maladict.
‘And what’s that?’ said Polly, pointing to a nearby hill, darker still against the night. On it,
a little light was flickering on and off, very fast.
There was a whoosh and a metallic ‘pop’ as Blouse pulled out a small telescope and
opened it up. ‘It’s a light clacks, the devils!’ he said.
‘Dere’s another one over dere,’ rumbled Jade, pointing to a hill a lot further away.
‘Twinkle, twinkle.’
Polly stared at the redness in the sky, and then at the cold little light, winking on and off.
Quiet, soft light. Harmless light. And behind it, a burning sky . . .
‘It’ll be in code,’ said Blouse. ‘Spies, I’ll be bound.’
‘A light clacks?’ said Tonker. ‘What’s that?’
‘An Abomination in the eyes of Nuggan,’ said Blouse. ‘Unfortunately, because they’d be
damn useful if we could have ‘em too, eh, sergeant?’
‘Yessir,’ said Jackrum automatically.

 
 
  
‘The only messages passing through the air should be the prayers of the faithful. Praise
Nuggan, Praise the Duchess and so on and so forth,’ said Blouse, squinting. He sighed. ‘Such
a shame. How far to that hill, would you say, sergeant?’
‘Two miles, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Worth trying to sneak up?’
‘They must know people will see them and come looking, so I expect they won’t “hang
around” for long’ mused Blouse. ‘In any case, ah, those things would be highly directional.
You’d lose it once you got down in the valley.’
‘Permission to speak, sir?’ said Polly.
‘Of course,’ said Blouse.
‘How do they get the light so bright, sir? It’s pure white!’
‘Some kind of firework thingy, I believe. Why?’
‘And they send messages with light?’
‘Yes, Perks. And your point is . . . ?’
‘And the people who get those messages send messages back the same way?’ Polly
persevered.
‘Yes, Perks, that is the whole idea.’
‘Then . . . maybe we don’t have to go all the way to that hill, sir? The light is being aimed
towards us, sir.’
They all turned. The hill they were skirting loomed above them.
‘Well done, Perks!’ Blouse whispered. ‘Let’s go, sergeant!’ He swung himself off the
horse, which automatically stepped sideways to make sure that he fell over when he landed.
‘Right you are, sir!’ said Jackrum, helping him up. ‘Maladict, you take Goom and Halter
and circle round to the left, the rest go round to the right - not you, Carborundum, no offence,
but this has got to be quiet, okay? You stay here. Perks, you come with me—’
‘I shall come too, sergeant,’ said Blouse, and only Polly saw Jackrum grimace.
‘Good idea, sir!’ said the sergeant. ‘I suggest you - I suggest Perks and I come with you.
Everyone got that? Get to the top neat and quiet and no one, no one moves until you hear my
signal—’
‘My signal,’ said Blouse firmly.
‘That’s what I meant, sir. Quick and quiet! Hit ‘em hard but I want at least one left alive!
Go!’
The two teams fanned out to right and left and disappeared. The sergeant gave them a
minute or two’s start, and then set off with unusual speed for a man of his girth, so that for a
moment Polly and the lieutenant were left standing. Behind them, a dejected Jade watched
them go.
The trees thinned out on the steep slope, but not enough for much underbrush to get a hold.
Polly found it easier to go on all fours, grabbing at tufts and saplings to steady herself. After a
while she caught a whiff of smoke, chemical and acrid.
She was sure, too, that she could hear a faint clicking noise.
A tree extended a hand and pulled her into its shadow. ‘Don’t you say a bleedin’ word,’
hissed Jackrum. ‘Where’s the rupert?’

 
 
  
‘Don’t know, sarge!’
‘Damn! You can’t let a rupert run around loose, there’s no tellin’ what he might take it into
his little head to do, now he’s got the idea he’s in charge! You’re ‘is minder! Find ‘im!’
Polly slithered back down the slope and found Blouse steadying himself against a tree,
wheezing gently.
‘Ah . . . Perks,’ he panted. ‘My asthma seems to . . . be . . . coming back . . .’
‘I’ll help you up, sir,’ said Polly, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward. ‘Could you
wheeze a little more quietly, sir?’
By degrees, dragging and pushing, she bundled the man up to Jackrum’s tree.
‘Glad you could join us, sir!’ hissed the sergeant, face contorted into an expression of
maddened affability. ‘If you’d care to wait here, Perks and me will crawl up the—’
‘I’m coming too, sergeant,’ Blouse insisted.
Jackrum hesitated. ‘Yessir,’ he said. ‘But with respect, sir, I know about skirmishing—’
‘Let’s go, sergeant,’ said Blouse, dropping flat and beginning to drag himself forward.
‘Yessir,’ muttered Jackrum darkly.
Polly eased her way forward, too. The grass here was shorter, rabbit-nibbled, with small
bushes here and there. She concentrated on keeping the noise down, and aimed for the
clicking. The smell of chemical smoke grew stronger. It hung in the air around her. And, as
she moved forward, she saw light, little specks of it. She raised her head.
There were three men a few feet away, silhouetted against the night. One of them was
holding a large pipe, about five feet long, balanced on his shoulder at one end and on a tripod
at the other. That end was aimed at the distant hill. On the other end, a foot or so behind the
man’s head, was a big square box. Light was leaking from joints in this; from a little
stovepipe chimney on the top of it, heavy smoke poured out.
‘Perks, on the count of three,’ said Jackrum, on Polly’s right. ‘One—’
‘As you were, sergeant,’ said Blouse quietly, on her left.
Polly saw Jackrum’s big florid face turn with an expression of astonishment. ‘Sir?’
‘Hold position,’ said Blouse. Above them, the clicking continued.
Milit’ry secrets, thought Polly. Spies! Enemies! And we’re just watching! It was like
seeing blood drain from an artery.
‘Sir!’ hissed Jackrum, rage smoking off him.
‘Hold position, sergeant. That is an order,’ said Blouse calmly.
Jackrum subsided, but only into the deceptive calm of a volcano waiting to explode. The
relentless chatter of the clacks went on. It seemed to go on for ever. Beside Polly, Sergeant
Jackrum seethed and fretted like a dog on a leash.
The clicking stopped. Polly heard a distant murmur of conversation.
‘Sergeant Jackrum,’ whispered Blouse, ‘you may “get them” with all speed!’
Jackrum exploded out of the grass like a partridge. ‘All right, my lads! Up boys and at
‘em!’

 
 
  
Polly’s first thought, as she leapt up and ran, was that the distance was suddenly a lot wider
than it had appeared.
All three men had turned at the sound of Jackrum’s cry. The one with the clacks tube was
already dropping it and reaching for a sword, but Jackrum was bearing down on him like a
landslide. The man made the mistake of standing his ground. There was a brief clash of
swords and then a melee, and Sergeant Jackrum was a sufficiently deadly melee all by
himself.
The second man flew past Polly but she was running for the third one. He backed away
from her, still reaching up to his mouth, then turned to run and found himself face to face
with Maladict.
‘Don’t let him swallow!’ Polly yelled.
Maladict’s arm shot up, and lifted the struggling man aloft by his throat.
It would have been a perfect operation had not the rest of the squad arrived, having put all
their effort into running and left none to spare for slowing down. There were collisions.
Maladict went down as his captive kicked him in the chest and the man tried to scramble
away, cannoning into Tonker. Polly leapt over Igorina, was almost tripped by a fallen Wazzer
and threw herself desperately towards the quarry, now on his knees. He had a dagger out and
waved it wildly in front of her while he grasped his throat with his other hand and made
choking noises. She knocked the knife away, ran behind him and slapped him on the back as
hard as she could. He fell forward. Before she could grab him a hand lifted him bodily and
Jackrum’s voice roared: ‘Can’t have the poor man chokin’ to death, Perks!’ His other hand
punched the man in the stomach with a noise like meat hitting a slab. The man’s eyes crossed
and something large and white flew out of his mouth and shot over Jackrum’s shoulder.
Jackrum dropped him and turned on Blouse. ‘Sir, I protest, sir!’ he said, quivering with
anger. ‘We lay there and watched these devils sending who knows what messages, sir! Spies,
sir! We could’ve got ‘em right there and then, sir!’
‘And then, sergeant?’ said Blouse.
‘What?’
‘Don’t you think the people they were talking to would wonder what had happened if the
messages had stopped in mid-flow?’ said the lieutenant.
‘Even so, sir—’
‘Whereas now we have their device, sergeant, and their masters don’t know we have it,’
said Blouse.
‘Yeah, well, but you said they was sending messages in code, sir, and—’
‘Er, I think we have their cipher book as well, sarge,’ said Maladict, stepping forward with
the white object in his hand. ‘That man tried to eat it, sarge. Rice paper. But he rushed his
food, you might say.’
‘And you dislodged it, sergeant, and probably saved his life. Well done!’ said Blouse.
‘But one of ‘em got away, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘He’ll soon get to—’
‘Sergeant?’