"Will you come with us, sarge?" said Shufti.
"No, lad. Me as a washerwoman? I doubt it. Don't seem to have a skirt anywhere about me, for a start. Er... just one thing, lads. How are you going to get in?"
"In the morning. When we see the women going in again," said Polly.
"Got it all planned, general? And you'll be dressed as women?"
"Er... we are women, sarge," said Polly.
"Yes, lad. Technical detail. But you kitted out the rupert with all your little knick-knacks, didn't you? What're you going to do, tell the guards you opened the wrong cupboard in the dark?"
Another embarrassed silence descended. Jackrum sighed. "This ain't proper war," he said. "Still, I said I'd look after you. You are my little lads, I said." His eyes gleamed. "And you still are, even if the world's turned upside down. I'll just have to hope, Miss Perks, that you picked up a few tricks from ol' sarge, although I reckon you can think of a few of your own. And now I'd better get you kitted up, right?"
"Perhaps we could sneak in and steal something from the villages where the servants come from?" said Tonker.
"From a bunch of poor women?" said Polly, her heart sinking. "Anyway, there'd be soldiers everywhere."
"Well, how do we get women's clothes on a battlefield?" said Lofty.
Jackrum laughed, stood up, stuck his thumbs in his belt and grinned. "I told you, lads, you don't know nuffin' about war!" he said.
...and one of the things they hadn't known was that it has edges.
Polly wasn't certain what she'd expected. Men and horses, obviously. In her mind's eye they were engaged in mortal combat, but you couldn't go on doing that all day. So there would be tents. And that was about as far as the mind's eye had seen. It hadn't seen that an army on campaign is a sort of large, portable city. It has only one employer, and it manufactures dead people, but like all cities it attracts... citizens. What was unnerving was the sound of babies crying, off in the rows of tents. She hadn't expected that. Or the mud. Or the crowds. Everywhere there were fires, and the smell of cooking. This was a siege, after all. People had settled in.
Getting down onto the plain in the dark had been easy. There was only Polly and Shufti trailing after the sergeant, who'd said that more would be too many and in any case would attract too much attention.
There were patrols, but their edge had been dulled by sheer repetitiveness. Besides, the allies weren't expecting anyone to make much effort to get into the valley, at least in small groups. And men in the dark make a noise, far more noise than a woman. They'd located a Borogravian sentry in the gloom by the noise of him trying to suck a morsel of dinner out of his teeth.
But another one had located them when they were a stone's throw from the tents. He was young, so he was still keen.
"Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe!"
The light from a cooking-fire glinted off a crossbow.
"See?" whispered Jackrum. "This is where your uniform is your friend. Aren't you glad you kept it?"
He swaggered forward, and spat tobacco between the young sentry's boots.
"My name's Jackrum," he said. "That's Sergeant Jackrum. As for the other bit... you choose."
"Sergeant Jackrum?" said the boy, his mouth staying open.
"Yes, lad."
"What, the one who killed sixteen men at the Battle of Zop?"
"There was only ten of 'em, but good lad for knowin' it."
"The Jackrum who carried General Froc through fourteen miles of enemy territory?"
"That's right."
Polly saw teeth in the gloom as the sentry grinned.
"My dad told me he fought with you at Blunderberg!"
"Ah, that was a hot battle, that was!" said Jackrum.
"No, he meant in the pub afterwards. He pinched your drink and you smacked him in the gob and he kicked you in the nadgers and you hit him in the guts and he blacked your eye and then you hit him with a table and when he came round his mates stood him beer for the evening for managing to lay nearly three punches on Sergeant Jackrum. He tells the story every year, when it's the anniversary and he's pis¨C reminiscing."
Jackrum thought for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the young man. "Joe Hubukurk, right?" he said.
The smile broadened to the point where the top of the young man's head was in danger of falling off. "He'll be smirking all day when I tell him you remember him, sarge! He says that where you piss grass don't grow!"
"Well, what can a modest man say to that, eh?" said Jackrum.
Then the young man frowned. "Funny, though, he thought you were dead, sarge," he said.
"Tell him I bet him a shilling I'm not," said Jackrum. "And your name, lad?"
"Lart, sarge. Lart Hubukurk."
"Glad you joined, are you?"
"Yes, sarge," said Lart loyally.
"We're just having a stroll, lad. Tell your dad I asked after him."
"I will, sarge!" The boy stood to attention like a one-man guard of honour. "This is a proud moment for me, sarge!"
"Does everyone know you, sarge?" whispered Polly, as they walked away.
"Aye, pretty much. On our side, anyway. I'll make so bold as to declare that most of the enemy that meets me don't know any hing much afterwards."
"I never thought it was going to be like this!" hissed Shufti.
"Like what?" said Jackrum.
"There's women and children! Shops! I can smell bread baking! It's like a... a city."
"Yeah, but what we're after isn't going to be in the main streets. Follow me, lads." Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of boxes and emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.
Here the tents were open-sided. Armourers and saddlers worked by lantern-light, shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of the way of a mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules moved aside for Jackrum. Maybe he's met them before, too, thought Polly, maybe he really does know everyone.
The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He acknowledged other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were around here, and ignored everybody else.
"You been here before, sarge?" said Shufti.
"No, lad."
"But you know where you're going?"
"Correct. I ain't been here, but I know battlefields, especially when everyone's had a chance to dig in." Jackrum sniffed the air. "Ah, right. That's the stuff. Just you two wait here."
He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant muttering and, after a moment or two, he reappeared holding a small bottle.
Polly grinned. "Is that rum, sarge?"
"Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn't it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don't have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman."
"Hangman?" said Shufti.
"One drop and you're dead," said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.
"That's right, Shufti. It's rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old kettle and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?"
Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.
"Good lad. Stick to beer," he said.
"Don't the officers stop it?" said Polly.
"Officers? What do they know about anything?" said Jackrum. "An' I bought this off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?"
Polly peered into the gloom. "No, sarge."
Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it onto his face. "Ye-ouch," he hissed. "Stings like the blazes. And now to kill the tooth worms. Got to do the job properly." He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat it out, and shoved the cork back in. "Muck," he said. "Okay, let's go."
"Where are we going, sarge?" said Shufti. "You can tell us now, can't you?"
"A quiet little place where our needs will be met," said Jackrum. "It'll be around here somewhere."
"You don't half smell of drink, sarge," said Shufti. "Will they let you in if you smell drunk?"
"Yes, Shufti, lad, they will," said Jackrum, setting off again. "The reason being, my pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk. Ah... down this little valley here, that'll be our... yeah, I was right. This is the place. Tucked away, delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?"
There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab tents in this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by winter rains. If there had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.
"Shame," said Jackrum. "Okay, so we'll have to do it the hard way. Remember: just act natural and listen to what I say."
"I'm sh-shaking, sarge." Shufti muttered.
"Good, good, very natural," said Jackrum. "This is our place, I think. Nice and quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the wash..." He stopped at a, very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his swagger stick.
"The SoLid DoVes," Polly read.
"Yeah, well, these ladies weren't hired for their spelling," said Jackrum, pushing open the flap of the tent of ill repute.
Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady, lumpy and crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the trio the most calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a price on her boots.
The sergeant doffed his cap and in a jovial, rotund voice that peed brandy and crapped plum pudding said, "Good evening, madarm! Sergeant Smith's the name, yes indeed! An' me and my bold lads here have been so fortunate as to acquire the spoils of war, if you catch my drift, and nothing would do for it but they were clamouring, clamouring to go to the nearest house of good repute for to have a man made of 'em!"
Little beady eyes skewered Polly again. Shufti, ears glowing like signal beacons, was staring fixedly at the ground.
"Looks like that'd be a job and a half," said the woman shortly.
"You never spoke a truer word, madarm!" beamed Jackrum. "Two of your fair flowers apiece should do it, I reckon." There was a clink as, staggering slightly, Jackrum put several gold coins on the rickety little table.
Something about the gleam of them thawed things no end. The woman's face cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.
"Well, now, we are always honoured to entertain the Ins-and-Outs, sergeant," she said. "If you... gentlemen would like to step through to the, er, inner sanctum?"
Polly heard a very faint sound behind her, and turned. She hadn't noticed the man sitting on a chair just inside the door. He had to be a man, because trolls weren't pink; he made Eyebrow back in Pl¨¹n look like some kind of weed. He wore leather, which was what she'd heard creaking, and he had his eyes just slightly open. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. It wasn't a friendly wink.
There are times when a plan suddenly isn't going to work. When you're in the middle of it, is not the time to find this out.
"Er, sarge," she said. The sergeant turned, saw her frantic grimace, and appeared to spot the guard for the first time.
"Oh dear, where's my manners?" he said, lurching back and fumbling in his pocket. He came up with a gold coin which he folded in the astonished man's hand. Then he turned round, tapping the side of his nose with an expression of idiot knowingness.
"A word of advice, lads," he said. "Always give the guard a tip. He keeps the riffraff out, very important. Very important man."
He stumbled back to the lady in black, and belched hugely.
"And now, madarm, if we can meet these visions of loveliness you are hiding under this here bushel?" he said.
It depended, Polly thought a few seconds later, on how and when and after drinking how much of what that you had those visions. She knew about these places. Serving behind a bar can really broaden your education. There were a number of ladies back home who were, as her mother put it, "no better than they should be", and at twelve years old Polly had got a smack for asking how good they should have been, then. They were an Abomination Unto Nuggan, but men have always found space in their religion for a little sinning here and there.
The word to describe the four ladies seated in the room beyond, if you wanted to be kind, was "tired". If you didn't want to be kind a whole range of words were just hanging in the air.
They looked up without much interest.
"This is Faith, Prudence, Grace and Comfort," said the lady of the house. "The night shift has not yet come on, I'm afraid."
"I'm sure these beauties will be a great education for my roaring boys," said the sergeant. "But... may I be so bold as to enquire about your name, madarm?"
"I'm Mrs Smother, sergeant."
"And do you have a first name, may I ask?"
"Dolores," said Mrs Smother, "to my... special friends."
"Well now, Dolores," said Jackrum, and there was another jingle of coins in his pocket, "I will come right out with it and be frank, because I can see you are a woman of the world. These frail blossoms are all very well in their way, for I know the fashion these days is for ladies with less meat on 'em than a butcher's pencil, but a gentleman such as me, who has been around the world and seen a thing or two, well, he learns the value of... maturity." He sighed. "Not to mention Hope and Patience." The coins jingled again. "Perhaps you and I might retire to some suitable boodwah, madarm, and discuss the matter over a cordial or two?"
Mrs Smother looked from the sergeant to the "lads", glanced back in the anteroom, and looked back at Jackrum with her head on one side and a thin, calculating smile on her lips.
"Ye-es," she said. "You're a fine figure of a man, Sergeant Smith. Let us take a load off your... pockets, shall we?"
She joined arm-in-arm with the sergeant, who winked roguishly at Polly and Shufti.
"We're well set, then, lads!" he chuckled. "Now, just so's you don't get carried away, when it's time to go I'll blow my whistle and you'd better have finished what you're doin', haha, and meet me sharpish. Duty calls! Remember the fine tradition of the Ins-and Outs!"
Giggling and almost tripping up, he left the room on the arm of the proprietress.
Shufti sidled hurriedly up to Polly and whispered: "Is sarge all right, Ozzer?"
"He's just had a bit too much to drink," said Polly loudly, as all four of the girls stood up.
"But he - " Shufti got a nudge in the ribs before she could say any more. One of the girls carefully laid down her knitting, took Polly's arm, flashed her well-crafted expression of interest, and said, "You're a well set-up young man, aren't you... what's your name, dear? I'm Gracie."
"Oliver," said Polly. And what the hell is the fine tradition of the Ins-and-Outs?
"Ever seen a woman with no clothes on before, Oliver?" The girls giggled.
Polly's brow wrinkled as, just for a moment, she was caught unawares. "Yes," she said. "Of course."
"Ooo, it looks like we've got ourselves a regular Don Joo-ann, girls," said Gracie, stepping back. "We may have to send out for reinforcements! Why don't you an' me and Prudence go off to a little nook I know, and your little friend will be the guest of Faith and Comfort. Comfort's very good with young men, ain't you, Comfort?"
Sergeant Jackrum had been wrong in his description of the girls. Three of them were indeed several meals short of a healthy weight, but when Comfort got up out of her large armchair you realized that it had, in fact, been quite a small armchair and had mostly been Comfort. For a large woman she had a small face, locked in a piggy-eyed scowl. There was a death's head tattoo on one arm.
"He's young," said Gracie. "He'll heal. Come along, Don Joo-ann..."
In a way, Polly was relieved. She didn't take to the girls. Oh, the profession could bring anyone down, but she'd got to know some of her town's ladies of uneasy virtue and they had an edge she couldn't find here.
"Why do you work here?" she said, as they entered a smaller, canvas-walled room. There was a rickety bed taking up most of the space.
"You know, you look a bit too young to be that sort of customer," said Gracie.
"What sort?" said Polly.
"Oh, a holy joe," said Gracie. "'What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?' and all that stuff. Feel sorry for us, do you? At least if someone cuts up rough we've got Garry outside and after he's finished with the bloke the colonel gets told and the bastard gets bunged in clink."
"Yeah," said Prudence. "From what we hear we're the safest ladies within twenty-five miles. Old Smother's not too bad. We get money to keep and we get fed and she don't beat us, which is more than can be said for husbands, and you can't wander around loose, now, can you?"
Jackrum put up with Blouse because you've got to have an officer, Polly thought. If you don't have an officer, some other officer'll take you over. And a woman by herself is missing a man, while a man by himself is his own master. Trousers. That's the secret. Trousers and a pair of socks. I never dreamed it was like this. Put on trousers and the world changes. We walk different. We act different. I see these girls and I think: idiots! Get yourself some trousers!
"Can you please get your clothes off?" she said. "I think we'd better hurry."
"One of the Ins-and-Outs, this one," said Gracie, slipping her dress off her shoulders. "Keep an eye on your cheeses, Pru!"
"Er... why does that mean we're in the Ins-and-Outs?" said Polly. She made a show of unbuttoning her jacket, wishing that she believed in anyone there to pray to so that she could pray for the whistle.
"That's 'cos you lads always have your eye on business," said Gracie.
And maybe there was someone listening, at that. The whistle blew.
Polly grabbed the dresses and ran out, oblivious of the yells behind her. She collided with Shufti outside, tripped over the groaning form of Garry, saw Sergeant Jackrum holding the tent flap open, and bulleted into the night.
"This way!" the sergeant hissed, grabbing her by the collar before she'd gone a few feet and swinging her round. "You too, Shufti! Move!"
He ran up the side of the wash like a child's balloon being blown by the wind, leaving them to scramble after him. His arms were full of clothing, which snagged and danced behind him. Up above was knee-deep scrub, treacherous in the gloom. They tripped and staggered across it until they reached heavier growth, whereupon the sergeant got hold of both of them and pushed them into the bushes. The shouts and screams were fainter now.
"Now we'll just keep quiet, like," he whispered. "There's patrols about."
"They'll be bound to find us," Polly hissed, while Shufti wheezed.
"No, they won't," said Jackrum. "First, they'll all be running towards the shoutin', because that's natur¨C there they go..." Polly heard more shouts in the distance. "And bloody fools they are, too. They're supposed to be guarding the perimeter, and they're running towards trouble in the camp. And they're running straight towards lamplight, so there goes their night eyes! If I was their sergeant they'd be due a fizzer! C'mon." He stood up, and hauled Shufti to her feet. "Feeling all right, lad?"
"It w-was horrible, sarge! One of them put her hand... on... on my socks!"
"Something that doesn't often happen, I'll bet any man," said Jackrum. "But you did a good job. Now, we'll walk nice and quiet, and no more talking 'til I say, okay?"
They plodded on for ten minutes, skirting the camp. They heard several patrols, and saw a couple of others on the hilltops as the moon rose, but it dawned on Polly that, loud though the shouting had been, it was only part of the huge patchwork of sound that rose from the camp. The patrols this far away probably hadn't heard it, or at least were commanded by the kinds of soldiers who didn't want to get put on a fizzer.
In the dark, she heard Jackrum take a deep breath. "Okay, that's far enough. Not a bad job of work, lads. You're real Ins-and-Outs now!"
"That guard was out cold," said Polly. "Did you hit him?"
"Y'see, I'm fat," said Jackrum. "People don't think fat men can fight. They think fat men are funny. They think wrong. Gave 'im a chop to the windpipe."
"Sarge!" said Shufti, horrified.
"What? What? He was coming at me with his club!" said Jackrum.
"Why was he doing that, sarge?" said Polly.
"Ooh, you cunning soldier, you," said Jackrum. "All right, I grant you that I'd just given madarm the ol' quietus, but to be fair I know when someone's just handed me a bleedin' drink full o' sleepy drops."
"You hit a woman, sarge?" said Polly.
"Yeah, and maybe when she wakes up in her corsets she'll decide that next time a poor ol' drunk fat man wanders in it mightn't be such a good idea to try to roll him for his wad," growled Jackrum. "I'd be in a ditch wi'out my drawers on and a damned great headache if she'd had her way, and if you two was daft enough to complain to an officer she'd swear black was blue that I didn't have a penny on me when I came in and was drunk and disorderly. And the colonel wouldn't care a fig, 'cos he'd reckon a sergeant daft enough to get caught like that had it coming to him. I know, you see. I look after my lads." There was a clink in the dark. "Plus a few extra dollars won't go amiss."
"Sarge, you didn't steal the cashbox, did you?" said Polly.
"Yeah. Got a good armful of her wardrobe, too."
"Good!" said Shufti fervently. "It wasn't a nice place!"
"It was mostly my money in any case," said Jackrum. "Business has been a bit slow today, by the feel of it."
"But it's immoral earnings!" said Polly, and then felt a complete fool for saying it.
"No," said Jackrum. "It was immoral earnings, now it's the proceeds of common theft. Life's a lot easier when you learns to think straight."
Polly was glad there was no mirror. The best that could be said for the squad's new clothing was that it covered them up. But this was a war. You seldom saw new clothes on anybody. Yet they felt awkward. And there was no sense in that at all. But they looked at one another in the chilly light of dawn and giggled in embarrassment. Wow, Polly thought, look at us: dressed as women.
Oddly enough, it was Igorina who really looked the part. She'd disappeared into the other tumbledown room carrying her pack. For ten minutes the squad had heard the occasional grunt or "ouch", and then she'd returned with a full head of fair, shoulder-length hair. Her face was the right shape, missing the lumps and bumps they'd come to know. And the stitches on her forehead shrank and disappeared as Polly watched in astonishment.
"Doesn't that hurt?" she said.
"It smarts a bit for a few minutes," said Igorina. "You just have to have the knack. And the special ointment, of course."
"But why's there a curved scar on your cheek now?" said Tonker. "And those stitches are staying."
Igorina looked down demurely. She'd even restyled one of the dresses into a dirndl, and looked like a fresh young maid from the beer cellar. Just to look at her was to mentally order a large pretzel.
"You've got to have something to show," she said. "Otherwise you're letting down the clan. And actually I think the stitches are rather fetching..."
"Well, okay," Tonker conceded. "But lisp a bit, will you? I know this is completely wrong, but now you look, oh, I don't know... weird, I suppose."
"Okay, line up," said Jackrum. He stood back, and gave them a look of theatrical disdain. "Well, I've never seen such a lot of scrubb¨C washerwomen in all my life," he said. "I wish you all the luck you're bleeding well gonna need. There'll be someone watching the door for you to come out, and that's all I can promise. Private Perks, you're acting, unpaid corporal on this one. I hope you've picked up one or two little lessons on our stroll. In and out, that's what you should do. No famous last stands, please. When in doubt, kick 'em in the nadgers and scarper. Mind you, if you frighten them like you frighten me, you should have no trouble."
"Are you sure you won't join us, sarge?" said Tonker, still trying not to laugh.
"No, lad. You won't get me in skirts. Everyone has their place, right? The place where they draw the line? Well, that's mine. I'm pretty steeped in sin, one way and another, but Jackrum always shows his colours. I'm an old soldier. I'll fight like a soldier does, in the ranks, on the battlefield. Besides, if I went in there simpering in petticoats I'd never hear the end of it."
"The Duchess says there is a d-different path for Sergeant Jackrum," said Wazzer.
"And I don't know if you don't frighten me worst of all, Private Goom," said Jackrum. He hitched up his equatorial belt. "You're right, though. When you're inside I shall nip down, nice and quiet, and slip into our lines. If I can't raise a little diversionary attack, my name's not Sergeant Jackrum. And since it is Sergeant Jackrum, that proves it. Hah, there's plenty of men in this man's army that owe me a favour" - he gave a little sniff - "or wouldn't say no to my face. And plenty of likely lads who'll want to tell their grandchildren they fought alongside Jackrum, too. Well, I'll give 'em their chance at real soldierin'."
"Sarge, it'll be suicide to attack the main gates!" said Polly.
Jackrum slapped his belly. "See this lot?" he said. "It's like having yer own armour. Bloke once stuck a blade in this up to the hilt and was as surprised as hell when I nutted him. Anyway, you lads'll be making so much fuss the guards will be distracted, right? You're relying on me, I'm relying on you. That's milit'ry, that is. You give me a signal, any signal. That's all I'll need."
"The Duchess says your path takes you further," said Wazzer.
"Oh yeah?" said Jackrum jovially. "And where's that, then? Somewhere with a good pub, I hope!"
"The Duchess says, um, it should lead to the town of Scritz," said Wazzer. She said it quietly while the rest of the squad were laughing, less at the comment than as a way of losing some of the tension. But Polly heard it.
Jackrum really, really was good, she thought. The fleeting expression of terror was gone in an instant. "Scritz? Nothing there," he said. "Dull town."
"There was a sword," said Wazzer.
Jackrum was ready this time. There was not a flicker of expression, just the blank face that he was so good at. And that was odd, Polly thought, because there should have been something, even if it was only puzzlement.
"Handled lots of swords in my time," he said dismissively. "Yes, Private Halter?"
"There's one thing you didn't tell us, sarge," said Tonker, lowering her hand. "Why is the regiment called the Ins-and-Outs?"
"First into battle, last out of the fray," said Jackrum automatically.
"So why are we nicknamed the Cheesemongers?"
"Yes," said Shufti. "Why, sarge? Because the way those girls were talking, it sounded like it's something we ought to know."
Jackrum made a clicking noise of exasperation. "Oh, Tonker, why the hell did you wait 'til you'd got your trousers off before asking me that? I'll feel embarrassed telling yer now!" And Polly thought: that's bait, right? You want to tell us. You want to get any conversation away from Scritz...
"Ah," said Tonker. "It's about sex, then, is it?"
"Not as such, no..."
"Well, tell me, then," said Tonker. "I'd like to know before I die. If it makes you feel any better I'll nudge people and go gnher, gnher, gnher."
Jackrum sighed. "There's a song," he said. "It starts 'Twas on a Monday morning, all in the month of May - "
"Then it is about sex," said Polly flatly. "It's a folk song, it starts with 'twas, it takes place in May, QED it's about sex. Is a milkmaid involved? I bet there is."
"There could be," Jackrum conceded.
"Going for to market? For to sell her wares?" said Polly.
"Very likely."
"O-kay. That gives us the cheese. And she meets, let's see, a soldier, a sailor, a jolly ploughboy or just possibly a man clothed all in leather, I expect? No, since it's about us, it'll be a soldier, right? And since it's one of the Ins-and-Outs... oh dear, I feel a humorous double-entendre coming on. Just one question: what item of her clothing fell down or came untied?"
"Her garter," said Jackrum. "You've heard it before, Perks."
"No, but I just know how folk songs go. We had folk singers in the lower bar for six months back hom¨C where I worked. In the end we had to get a man in with a ferret. But you remember stuff... oh, no..."
"Was there canoodling, sarge?" said Tonker, grinning.
"Kayaking, I expect," said Igorina, to general sniggering.
"No, he stole the cheese, didn't he?" sighed Polly. "As the poor girl was lying there waiting for her garter to be tied, hem hem, he damn well made off with her cheese, right?"
"Er... not damn. Not with the skirt on, Ozz," Tonker warned.
"Then it's not Ozz, either," said Polly. "Fill yer hat with bread, fill yer boots with soup! And steal the cheese, eh, sarge?"
"That's right. We've always been a very practical regiment," said Jackrum. "An army marches on its stomach, lads. On mine, o' course, it could troop the colour!"
"It was her own fault. She should have been able to tie up her own garters," said Lofty.
"Yeah. Probably wanted her cheese stolen," said Tonker.
"Wise words," said Jackrum. "Off you go, then... cheesemongers!"
The mist was still thick as they made their way down through the woods to the path by the river. Polly's skirt kept catching in brambles. It must have done so before she'd joined up, but she'd never noticed it so much. Now it was seriously hindering her. She reached up and absent-mindedly adjusted the socks, which she'd separated to use as padding elsewhere. She was too skinny, that was the trouble. The ringlets had been useful there. They said "girl". In their absence, she had to rely on a scarf and a socks change.
"All right," she whispered, as the ground levelled out. "Remember, no swearing. Giggle, don't snigger. No belching. No weapons, either. They can't be that stupid in there. Anyone brought a weapon?"
There was a shaking of heads.
"Did you bring a weapon, Tonk - Magda?"
"No, Polly."
"No item of any sort with a certain weapon-like quality?" Polly insisted.
"No, Polly," said Tonker demurely.
"Anything, perhaps, with an edge?"
"Oh, you mean this?"
"Yes, Magda."
"Well, a woman can carry a knife, can't she?"
"It's a sabre, Magda. You're trying to hide it, but it's a sabre."
"But I'm only using it like a knife, Polly."
"It's three feet long, Magda."
"Size isn't important, Polly."
"No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please. That is an order."
"Oh, all right!"
After a while, Shufti, who had appeared to be thinking deeply, said: "I can't understand why she didn't just tie up her own garter..."
"Shuft, what the hell - " Tonker began.
" - heck," Polly corrected her, "and you're talking to Betty, remember."
"What the heck are you talking about, Betty?" said Tonker, rolling her eyes.
"Well, the song, of course. And you don't have to lie down to tie a garter in any case. It'd be more difficult," said Shufti. "It's all a bit silly."
No one said anything for a while. It was, perhaps, easy to see why Shufti was on her quest.
"You're right," said Polly eventually. "It's a silly song."
"A very silly song," Tonker agreed.
They all agreed. It was a silly song.
They stepped out onto the river path. Ahead of them a small group of women were hurrying round the bend in the track. Automatically, the squad looked up. The Keep grew out of the sheer cliff; it was hard to see where the unhewn rock ended and the ancient masonry began. They could see no windows. From here, it was just a wall extending to the sky. No way in, it said. No way out. In this wall are few doors, and they close with finality.
This close to the deep, slow river, the air was bone-chillingly cold, and grew colder the higher they looked. Around the curve they could see the little rock shelf where the back door was, and the women ahead of them talking to a guard.
"This is not going to work," said Shufti under her breath. "They're showing him some papers. Anyone brought theirs? No?"
The soldier had looked up and was watching the girls, with that blank official expression of someone who was not looking for excitement or adventure in his life.
"Keep moving," murmured Polly. "If it all gets really bad, burst into tears."
"That's disgusting," said Tonker.
Their treacherous feet were taking them closer all the time. Polly kept her eyes downwards, as was proper in an unmarried woman. There would be others watching, she knew it. They'd probably be bored, they might not be expecting any trouble, but up on those walls there were eyes fixed on her.
They reached the guard. Just inside the narrow stone doorway there was another one, lounging in the shadow.
"Papers," said the guard.
"Oh, sir, I have none," said Polly. She'd been working out the speech on the way down through the wood. War, fears of invasion, people fleeing, no food... you didn't have to make things up, you just had to reassemble reality. "I had to leave - "
"Oh, right," the guard interrupted. "No papers? No problem! If you'd just step in and see my colleague? Nice of you to join us!" He stood aside and waved a hand towards the dark entrance.
Mystified, Polly stepped inside, with the others following. Behind them, the door swung shut. Inside, she saw that they were in a long passage with many slits in the walls to rooms on either side. Lamplight shone from the slits. She could see shadows beyond them. Bowmen concealed there could turn anyone trapped in here into mince.
At the end of the corridor another door swung open. It led into a small room in which there sat, at a desk, a young man in a uniform Polly didn't recognize, although it had a captain's insignia. Standing to one side was a much, much larger man in the same uniform, or possibly two uniforms stitched together. He had a sword. There was that about him: when this man held a sword, it was clearly being held, and held by him. The eye was drawn to it. Even Jade would have been impressed.
"Good morning, ladies," said the captain. "No papers, eh? Take off your scarves, please."
And that's it, thought Polly, as the bottom of her stomach dropped away. And we thought we were being clever. There was nothing for it but to obey.
"Ah. You'll tell me your hair was shaved off as a punishment for fraternizing with the enemy, eh?" said the man, barely looking up. "Except for you," he added to Igorina. "Didn't feel like fraternizing with any enemies? Something wrong with decent Zlobenian boys?"
"Er... no," said Igorina.
Now the captain gave them a bright little smile. "Gentlemen, let's not mess about, shall we? You walk wrong. We do watch, you know. You walk wrong and you stand wrong. You," he pointed to Tonker, "have got a bit of shaving soap under one ear. And you, sir, are either deformed or you've tried the old trick of sticking a pair of socks down your vest."
Crimson with embarrassment and humiliation, Polly hung her head.
"Getting in or out disguised as washerwomen," said the captain, shaking his head. "Everyone outside this stupid country knows that one, lads, but most of them make more effort than you boys. Well, for you the war is over. This place has got big, big dungeons and I don't mind telling you you're probably going to be better off in here than outside - Yeah, what do you want?"
Shufti had raised a hand. "Can I show you something?" she said. Polly didn't turn, but watched the captain's face as, beside Polly, cloth rustled. She couldn't believe it. Shufti was raising her skirt...
"Oh," said the captain, sitting back in his chair. His face went red.
There was an explosion from Tonker, but it was an explosion of tears. They came out accompanied by a long, mournful wail, as she threw herself onto the floor.
"We walked so-oo far! We lay in ditches to hide from soldiers! There's no food! We want to work! You called us boys! Why are you so-oo cruel?"
Polly knelt down and half picked her up, patting her on the back as Tonker's shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs.
"It's been very hard for all of us," she said to the red-faced captain.
"If you can take him down I can garrotte the other one with my apron string," whispered Tonker in her ear, between howls.
"Have you seen everything you wish to see?" said Polly to the blushing captain, every syllable tinkling with ice.
