Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment (24 page)

 
 
  
‘If you’re a hallucination, how do you know that?’
I KNOW IT BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT. I AM SIMPLY BETTER AT ARTICULATING
IT.
‘I’m not going to die, am I? I mean, right now?’
NO. BUT YOU WERE TOLD THAT YOU WOULD WALK WITH DEATH EVERY
DAY.
‘Oh . . . yes. Corporal Scallot said that.’
HE IS AN OLD FRIEND.YOU MIGHT SAY HE IS ON THE INSTALMENT PLAN.
‘Do you mind walking a bit more . . . invisibly?’
OF COURSE. HOW’S THIS?
‘And quietly, too?’
There was silence, which was presumably the answer. ‘And polish yourself up a bit,’ said
Polly to the empty air. ‘And that robe needs a wash.’
There was no reply, but she felt better for saying it.
Shufti had cooked beef stew with dumplings and herbs. It was magnificent. It was also a
mystery.
‘I don’t recall us passing a cow, private,’ said Blouse, as he handed his tin plate along for a
second helping.
‘Er . . . no, sir.’
‘And yet you have acquired beef?’
‘Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . when that writer man came up in his cart, well, when you were
talking, er, I crept round and took a look inside . . .’
‘There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, private,’ said Blouse severely.
‘Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,’ said Jackrum. ‘If that writer man gets
hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, lieutenant?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ said Blouse carefully. ‘Yes. Of course. Good initiative, private.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,’ said Shufti brightly. ‘Sarge told me to.’
Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swivelled her eyes from sergeant to
lieutenant.
‘You teach looting, sergeant?’ said Blouse. There was a joint gasp from the squad. If this
was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been hurrying out of the doors and
Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles off the shelf.
‘Not looting, sir, not looting,’ said Jackrum, calmly licking his spoon. ‘Under Duchess’s
Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1 [c], Paragraph i, sir, it would be plundering, said cart being
the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir, which is aiding and abetting the enemy.
Plundering is allowed, sir.’
The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Blouse reached behind him and into
his pack. Polly saw him draw out a small yet thick book.
‘Rule 611,’ he murmured. Blouse glanced up at the sergeant, and thumbed through the
thin, shiny pages. ‘611. Pillaging, Plundering and Looting. Ah, yes. And . . . let me see . . .

 
 
  
you are with us, Sergeant Jackrum, owing to Rule 796, I think you reminded me at the time . .
.’
There was another silence broken only by the riffle of the pages. There’s no Rule 796,
Polly remembered. Are they going to fight over this?
‘796, 796,’ said Blouse softly. ‘Ah . . .’ He stared at the page, and Jackrum stared at him.
Blouse closed the book with a leathery flwap. ‘Absolutely correct, sergeant!’ he said
brightly. ‘I commend you on your encyclopaedic knowledge of the regulations!’
Jackrum looked thunderous. ‘What?’
‘You were practically word perfect, sergeant!’ said Blouse. And there was a gleam in his
eye. Polly remembered Blouse looking at the captured cavalry captain. This was that same
look, the look which said: now I have the upper hand.
Jackrum’s chins wobbled.
‘You had something to add, sergeant?’ said Blouse.
‘Er, no . . . sir,’ said Jackrum, his face an open declaration of war.
‘We’ll leave at moonrise,’ said Blouse. ‘I suggest we all get some rest until then. And then
. . . may we prevail.’ He nodded to the group, and walked over to where Polly had spread his
blanket in the lee of the bushes. After a few moments there were some snores, which Polly
refused to believe. Jackrum certainly didn’t. He got up and strode out of the firelight. Polly
hurried after him.
‘Did you hear that?’ snarled the sergeant, staring out at the darkening hills. ‘The little
yoyo! What right has he got, checking up in the book o’ words?’
‘Well, you did quote chapter and verse, sarge,’ said Polly.
‘So? Officers are s’posed to believe what they’re told. And then he smiled! Did you see?
Caught me out and smiled at me! Thinks he’s got one over on me, just because he caught me
out!’
‘You did lie, sarge.’
‘I did not Perks! It’s not lying when you do it to officers! It’s presentin’ them with the
world the way they think it ought to be! You can’t let ‘em start checkin’ up for themselves.
They get the wrong ideas. I told you, he’ll be the death of all of us. Invading the bloody keep?
The man’s wrong in the head!’
‘Sarge!’ said Polly urgently.
‘Yes, what?’
‘We’re being signalled, sarge!’
On a distant hilltop, twinkling like an early evening star, a white light was flashing.
Blouse lowered his telescope. ‘They’re repeating “CQ”,’ he said. ‘And I believe those
longer pauses are when they’re aiming their tube in different directions. They’re looking for
their spies. “Seek You”, see? Private Igor?’
‘Thur?’
‘You know how that tube works, don’t you?’

 
 
  
‘Oh, yeth, thur. You jutht light a flare in the box, and then it’th just point and click.’
‘You’re not going to answer it, are you, sir?’ said Jackrum, horrified.
‘I am indeed, sergeant,’ said Blouse briskly. ‘Private Carborundum, please assemble the
tube. Manickle, please bring the lantern. I shall need to read the code book.’
‘But that’ll give away our position!’ said Jackrum.
‘No, sergeant, because although this term may be unfamiliar to you I intend to what we call
“lie”,’ said Blouse. ‘Igor, I’m sure you have some scissors, although I’d rather you didn’t
attempt to repeat the word.’
‘I have thome of the appliantheth you mention, thur,’ said Igorina stiffly.
‘Good.’ Blouse looked round. ‘It’s almost pitch dark now. Ideal. Take my blanket and cut,
oh, a three-inch circle out of it, then tie the blanket over the front of the tube.’
‘That will cut off motht of the light, thur!’
‘Indeed it will. My plan depends upon it,’ said Blouse proudly.
‘Sir, they will see the light, they’ll know we’re here,’ said Jackrum, as though repeating
things to a child.
‘I explained, sergeant. I will lie,’ said Blouse.
‘You can’t lie when—’
‘Thank you for your input, sergeant, that will be all for now,’ said Blouse. ‘Are we ready,
Igor?’
‘Jutht about, thur,’ said Igorina, tying the blanket across the end of the tube. ‘Okay, thur.
I’ll light the flare when you thay.’
Blouse unfolded the little book. ‘Ready, private?’ he said.
‘Yup,’ said Jade.
‘On the word “long” you will hold the trigger for the count of two, and then let go. On the
word “short” you will hold it down for the count of one, and likewise let go. Got that?’
‘Yup, el-tee. Could hold it down for lots, if you like,’ said Jade. ‘One, two, many, lots. I’m
good at countin’. High as you like. Jus’ say der word.’
‘Two will suffice,’ said Blouse. ‘And you, Private Goom, I want you to take my telescope
and look for long and short flashes from that light over there, understand?’
Polly saw Wazzer’s face and said quickly: ‘I’ll do that, sir!’
A small white hand was laid on her arm. In the miserly glimmer of the dark lantern,
Wazzer’s eyes glowed with the light of certainty. ‘The Duchess guides our footsteps now,’
she said, and took the telescope from the lieutenant. ‘What we are doing is her work, sir.’
‘Is it? Oh. Well . . . that’s good,’ said Blouse.
‘She will bless this instrument of far seeing that I may use it,’ said Wazzer.
‘Indeed?’ said Blouse nervously. ‘Well done. Now . . . are we ready? Send as follows . . .
long . . . long . . . short . . .’
The shutter in the tube clicked and rattled as the message flashed out across the sky. When
the troll lowered the tube, there was half a minute of darkness. And then: ‘Short . . . long . . .’
Wazzer began.

 
 
  
Blouse held the code book up to his face, his lips moving as he read by the pinpoints of
light escaping from the loins of the box. ‘W . . . R . . . U,’ he said. ‘And M. . . S . . . G . . . P . .
. R . . .’
‘That’s not a message!’ said Jackrum.
‘On the contrary, they want to know where we are, because they’re having trouble seeing
our light,’ said Blouse. ‘Send as follows . . . short . . .’
‘I protest, sir!’
Blouse lowered the book. ‘Sergeant, I am about to tell our spy that we are seven miles
further away than we really are, do you understand? And I am certain they will believe us
because I have artificially reduced the light output from our device, do you understand? And I
will tell them that their spies have encountered a very large party of recruits and deserters
heading for the mountains and are in pursuit, do you understand? I am making us invisible, do
you understand? Do you understand, Sergeant Jackrum?’
The squad held their breath.
Jackrum drew himself stiffly to attention. ‘Fully understood, sir!’ he said.
‘Very well!’
Jackrum continued at attention as the messages were exchanged, like a naughty pupil
forced to stand by the teacher’s desk.
Messages flashed across the sky, from hilltop to hilltop. Lights flickered. The clacks tube
rattled. Wazzer called out the longs and shorts. Blouse scribbled in the book. ‘S . . . P . . . P . .
. 2,’ he said aloud. ‘Hah. That’s an order to remain where we are.’
‘More flashes, sir,’ said Wazzer.
‘T . . . Y . . . E . . . 3 . . .’ said Blouse, still making notes. ‘That’s “be ready to give aid”. N .
. . V . . . A . . . S . . . N . . . That’s . . .’
‘That’s not a code, sir!’ said Polly.
‘Private, send as follows right now!’ Blouse croaked. ‘Long . . . long . . .’
The message went. They watched, while the dew fell and, overhead, the stars came out and
twinkled messages no one ever tried to read.
The clacks went silent.
‘Now we leave as soon as possible,’ said Blouse. He gave a little cough. ‘I believe the
phrase is “Let us get the heck out of here”.’
‘Close, sir,’ said Polly. ‘Quite . . . close.’
There was an old, very old Borogravian song with more Zs and Vs in it than any lowlander
could pronounce. It was called ‘Plogviehze!’ It meant ‘The Sun Has Risen! Let’s Make War!’
You needed a special kind of history to get all that in one word.
Sam Vimes sighed. The little countries here fought because of the river, because of idiot
treaties, because of royal rows, but mostly they fought because they had always fought. They
made war, in fact, because the sun came up.
This war had tied itself in a knot.

 
 
  
Downriver, the valley narrowed to a canyon before the Kneck plunged over a waterfall a
quarter of a mile high. Anyone trying to get up through the jagged mountains there would
find themselves in a world of gorges, knife-edged ridges, permanent ice and even more
permanent death. Anyone trying to cross the Kneck into Zlobenia now would be butchered on
the shore. The only way out of the valley was back along the Kneck, which would put an
army under the shadow of the keep. That had been fine when the keep was in Borogravian
hands. Now that it had been captured, they’d be passing in range of their own weapons.
. . . And such weapons! Vimes had seen catapults that would throw a stone ball three miles.
When it landed it would crack into needle-sharp shards. Or there was the other machine that
sent six-foot steel discs skimming through the air. Once they’d hit the ground and leapt up
again they were unreliable as hell, but that only made them more terrifying. Vimes had been
told that the edged disc would probably keep going for several hundred yards, no matter how
many men or horses it encountered on the way. And they were only the latest ideas. There
were plenty of conventional weapons, if by that you meant giant bows, catapults and
mangonels that hurled balls of Ephebian fire, which clung while it burned.
From up here, in his draughty tower, he could see the fires of the dug-in army all across the
plain. They couldn’t retreat, and the alliance, if that’s what you could call the petulant
hubbub, didn’t dare head up the valley into the heart of the country with that army at their
back, yet didn’t have enough men to hold the keep and corral the enemy.
And in a few weeks it would start to snow. The passes would fill up. Nothing would be
able to get through. And every day, thousands of men and horses would need feeding. Of
course, the men could, eventually, eat the horses, thus settling two feeding problems at a
stroke. After that there would have to be the good ol’ leg rota, which Vimes understood from
one of the friendlier Zlobenians was a common feature of winter warfare up here. Since he
was Captain ‘Hopalong’ Splatzer, Vimes believed him.
And then it would rain, and then the rain and the snowmelt together would turn the damn
river into a flood. But before that the alliance would have bickered itself apart and gone
home. All the Borogravians had to do, in fact, was hold their ground to score a draw.
He swore under his breath. Prince Heinrich had inherited the throne in a country where the
chief export was a kind of hand-painted wooden clog, but in ten years, he vowed, his capital
city of Rigour would be ‘the Ankh-Morpork of the mountains’! For some reason, he thought
Ankh-Morpork would be pleased about this.
He was anxious, he said, to learn the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things, the kind of
innocent ambition that could well lead an aspiring ruler to . . . well, find out the Ankh-
Morpork way of doing things. Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-
Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful
far behind and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.
Vimes leafed through the papers on his desk, and looked up when he heard a shrill, harsh
cry outside. A buzzard came in a long, shallow swoop through the open window and alighted
on a makeshift perch at the far end of the room. Vimes strolled over as the little figure on the
bird’s back raised his flying goggles.
‘How’s it going, Buggy?’ he said.
‘They’re getting suspicious, Mister Vimes. And Sergeant Angua says it’s getting a bit risky
now they’re so close.’
‘Tell her to come on in, then.’

 
 
  
‘Right, sir. And they still need coffee.’
‘Oh, damn! Haven’t they found any?’
‘No, sir, and it’s getting tricky with the vampire.’
‘Well, if they’re suspicious now then they’ll be certain if we drop a flask of coffee on
them!’
‘Sergeant Angua says we’ll probably get away with it, sir. She didn’t say why.’ The gnome
looked expectantly at Vimes. So did his buzzard. ‘They’ve come a long way, sir. For a bunch
of girls. Well . . . mostly girls.’
Vimes reached out absent-mindedly to pet the bird.
‘Don’t, sir! She’ll have your thumb off!’ Buggy yelled.
There was a knock on the door, and Reg came in with a tray of raw meat. ‘Saw Buggy
overhead, so I thought I’d nip down to the kitchens, sir.’
‘Well done, Reg. Don’t they ask why you want raw meat?’
‘Yes, sir. I tell them you eat it, sir.’
Vimes paused before answering. Reg meant well, after all.
‘Well, it probably can’t do my reputation any harm,’ he said. ‘By the way, what was going
down in the crypt?’
‘Oh, they’re not what I’d call proper zombies, sir,’ said Reg, selecting a piece of meat and
dangling it in front of Morag. ‘More like dead men walking.’
‘Er . . . yes?’ said Vimes.
‘I mean there’s no real thinking going on,’ the zombie continued, picking up another lump
of raw rabbit. ‘No embracing the opportunities of a life beyond the grave, sir. They’re just a
lot of old memories on legs. That sort of thing gives zombies a bad name, Mister Vimes. It
makes me so angry!’ Morag tried to snap at another lump of bloody rabbit fur that Reg,
oblivious for the moment, was waving aimlessly.
‘Er . . . Reg?’ said Buggy.
‘How hard can it be, sir, to move with the times? Now take me, for example. One day I
woke up dead. Did I—’
‘Reg!’ Vimes warned, as Morag’s head bobbed back and forth. ‘—take it lying down? No!
And I didn’t—’ ‘Reg, be careful! She’s just had two of your fingers off!’ ‘What? Oh.’ Reg
held up a denuded hand and stared at it. ‘Oh, now, will you look at that?’ He peered down at
the floor, with a hope that was quickly dashed. ‘Blast. Any chance we can make her throw
up?’
‘Only by sticking your fingers down her throat, Reg. Sorry. Buggy, do the best you can,
please. And you, Reg, go back downstairs and see if they’ve got any coffee, will you?’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Shufti.
‘It’s big,’ said Tonker.
Blouse said nothing.