"A patrol found the fresh graves," said de Worde.
High above an ice heron, a winter migrant from the Hub, gave an ugly honk as it searched for lakes.
"I take it you didn't, then," said de Worde.
"We buried them," said Maladict coldly. "We don't know who killed them."
"We did take some vegetables," said Polly. She remembered laughing about it. Admittedly it was only because it was that or start crying, but even so...
"You've been living off the land?" He'd tugged a notebook out of his pocket and was scribbling in it with a pencil.
"We don't have to talk to you," said Maladict.
"No, no, you must! There's so much you need to know! You're in the... Ups-and-Downs, right?"
"Ins-and-Outs," said Polly.
"And you - " the man began.
"I've had enough of this," said Maladict, and marched away from the tree and into the clearing. The two cavalry men looked up from their fire, and there was a moment of immobility before one reached for his sword.
Maladict swung the bow quickly from one to the other, its point hypnotizing them like a swinging watch. "I've got only one shot but there's two of you," he said. "Who shall I shoot? You choose. Now, listen very carefully: where's your coffee? You've got coffee, haven't you? C'mon, everyone's got coffee! Spill the beans!"
They stared at the crossbow and slowly shook their heads.
"What about you, writer man?" snarled Maladict. "Where're you hiding the coffee?"
"We only have cocoa," said the writer, raising his hands quickly as Maladict turned on him. "You're welcome to - "
Maladict dropped his crossbow, which fired straight up into the air7. and sat down with his head in his hands. "We're all gonna die," he said. The troopers shifted as though to stand up, and Jade raised her sapling.
"Don't even fink about it," she said.
Polly turned to the writer man. "You want us to talk to you, sir? Then you talk to us. Is this about... Prince Heinrich's... socks?"
Maladict stood up in one mad movement. "I say we grease the lot of them and go home!" he said, to no one in particular. "One, Two, Three! What We Are Fighting For!"
"Socks?" said the writer, looking nervously at the vampire. "What've socks got to do with it?"
"I just gave you an order, Polly," said Maladict.
"What is it you think we don't know?" Polly insisted, glaring at de Worde.
"Well, to start with you're just about all that's left of the Ins-and-Outs - "
"That's not true!"
"Oh, there's prisoners and wounded, I think. But why should I lie to you? Why did he call you Polly?"
"Because I know a lot about birds," said Polly, mentally cursing. "How do you know what's been happening to the regiment?"
"Because it's my job to know things," said the man. "What's that bird up there?"
Polly glanced up. "I don't have time for stupid games," she said. "And that's a - " She stopped. Something was wheeling high above, in the forbidden blue.
"You don't know?" said de Worde.
"Yes, of course I know," said Polly irritably. "It's a white-necked buzzard. But I thought they never came this far into the mountains. I only ever saw one in a book - " She raised her bow again, and tried to take control. "Am I right, Mr It's-my-job-to-know-things?"
De Worde raised his hands again and gave her a sickly smile. "Probably," he said. "I live in a city. I know sparrows from starlings. After that everything's a duck as far as I'm concerned."
Polly glared at him.
"Look, please," said the man. "You need to listen to me. You need to know things. Before it's too late."
Polly lowered the bow. "If you want to talk to us, wait here," she said. "Corporal, we are leaving. Carborundum, pick up those troopers!"
"Hold it," said Maladict. "Who's the corporal in this squad?"
"You are," said Polly. "And you're drooling, and swaying, and your eyes look weird. So what was your point, please?"
Maladict considered this. Polly was tired and frightened and somewhere inside this was all being transmuted into anger. Hers was not an expression you wanted to see at the far end of a crossbow. An arrow couldn't kill a vampire, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.
"Right, yeah," he said. "Carborundum, pick up those troopers! We are leaving!"
There was a bird whistle as Polly neared the hiding place. She identified this one as the sound of the Very Bad Bird Impersonator, and made a note to teach the girls some bird calls that at least sounded real. They were harder to do than most people thought.
The squad were in the gully, armed and at least looking dangerous. There was a certain amount of relaxation when they saw Jade carrying the two bound troopers. Two more were sitting disconsolately against the cliff, hands tied behind them.
Maladict walked smartly up to Blouse and saluted. "Two prisoners, el-tee, and Perks thinks there's someone down there you ought to talk to." He leaned forward. "The newspaper man, sir."
"Then we'll jolly well keep well away from him," said Blouse. "Eh, sergeant?"
"Right, sir!" said Jackrum. "Nothing but trouble, sir!"
Polly saluted madly. "Please, sir! Permission to speak, sir!"
"Yes, Perks?" said Blouse.
Polly saw there was one chance, and one only. She had to find out about Paul. Now her mind worked as fast as it had on the hill last night, when she'd gone for the man with the code book.
"Sir, I don't know if he's worth talking to, sir, but he may be worth listening to. Even if you think he'll only tell us lies. Because sometimes, sir, the way people tell you lies, if they tell you enough lies, well, they sort of... show you what shape the truth is, sir. And we don't have to tell him the truth, sir. We could lie to him, too."
"I am not by nature an untruthful man, Perks," said Blouse coldly.
"Glad to hear it, sir. Are we winning the war, sir?"
"You stop that right now, Perks!" Jackrum roared.
"It was only a question, sarge," said Polly reproachfully.
Around the clearing the squad waited, ears sucking up every sound. Everyone knew the answer. They waited for it to be said aloud.
"Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency," Blouse began, but he said it as if he didn't believe it and didn't care who knew.
"No, sir. It doesn't really. It's better than being lied to," said Polly. She changed her voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was being scolded. "It's evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please."
Some harmonic of that tone must have found a home in an old part of Blouse's brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a hand.
"We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet."
"I think we all know that, sir, but it's good to hear you say it," said Polly, giving him an encouraging smile.
That seemed to work, too. "I suppose there is no harm in at least being civil to the wretched fellow," said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. "He may give away valuable information under cunning questioning."
Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man in prayer.
"Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir," said the sergeant.
"Permission denied, sergeant," said Blouse. "I'd like him to live and don't want to lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and drive it up here."
Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to recognize it; it meant that Jackrum had already made plans.
"Very good, sir," he said. "Come on, Perks."
Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted slope. Then, after a while, he said: "D'you know why them troopers found our little nook, Perks?"
"No, sarge."
"The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. It wasn't as if there was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it."
Polly gave this a few seconds' thought. "Steam, sarge?"
"Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti's fault. The gallopers weren't any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen crossbows, at least. That's clever for a cavalryman."
"Well done, sarge."
"Don't talk to me as if I was a rupert, lad," said Jackrum easily.
"Sorry, sarge."
"I see you're learnin' how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make sure they gives you the right orders, see? You'll make a good sergeant, Perks."
"Don't want to, sarge."
"Yeah, right," said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.
After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and headed towards the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a notebook, but he stood up hurriedly when he saw them.
"It'd be a good idea to get off the track," he said, as soon as they approached. "There are a lot of patrols, I understand."
"Zlobenian patrols, sir?" said Jackrum.
"Yes. In theory this" - he pointed to the flag that hung limply from the cart - "should keep us safe, but everyone's a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren't you Sergeant Jack Ram?"
"Jackrum, sir. And I'll thank you for not writing my name down in your little book, sir."
"Sorry, sergeant, but that's my job," said de Worde breezily. "I have to write things down."
"Well, sir, soldierin' is my job," said Jackrum, climbing onto the cart and gathering up the reins. "But you'll note how at this moment in time I am not killin' you. Let's go, eh?"
Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was full of boxes and equipment, and while it might once have been neatly organized, that organization was now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the property of a man. Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen dozed on a perch in their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of them opened one eye and lazily went "Lollollop?" which is pigeon for "Duh?"
Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like - she leaned closer - "Capt Horace Calumney's Patent Field Biscuits", and "Dried Stew". As she was musing that Shufti would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of those boxes, a bundle of clothes hanging from the ceiling of the rocking cart moved slightly and a face appeared.
"Good mornink," it said, upside down.
William de Worde turned round on the seat in front. "It's only Otto, private," he said. "Don't be afraid."
"Yes, I vill not bite," said the face cheerfully. It smiled. A vampire's face does not look any better upside down, and a smile in these circumstances does nothing to improve matters. "That is guaranteed."
Polly lowered the crossbow. Jackrum would have been impressed by how quickly she had raised it. So was she, and embarrassed too. The socks were doing the thinking again.
Otto very elegantly lowered himself to the bed of the cart.
"Vere are ve goink?" he said, steadying himself as they bounced over a rut.
"A little place I know, sir," said Jackrum. "Nice and quiet."
"Goot. I need to exercise the imps. Zey get fretful if zey are cooped up for too long." Otto pushed aside a stack of paper and revealed his large picture-making box. He lifted a small hatch.
"Rise und shine, lads," he said. There was a chorus of high-pitched voices from inside.
"I'd better just give you the heads up re Tiger, Mr de Worde," said Jackrum, as the cart rolled up an old logging track.
"Tiger? Who's Tiger?"
"Oops," said Jackrum. "Sorry, that's what we call the lieutenant, sir, on account of him being so brave. Forget I said that, will you?"
"Brave, is he?" said de Worde.
"And clever, sir. Don't let him fool you, sir. He is one of the great milit'ry minds of his generation, sir."
Polly's mouth dropped open. She had suggested they lied to the man, but... this?
"Really? Then why is he just a lieutenant?" said the writer.
"Ah, I can see there's no fooling you, sir," said Jackrum, oozing knowingness. "Yes, it's a puzzler, sir, why he calls himself a lieutenant. Still, I dare say he has his reasons, eh? Just like Heinrich calling himself a captain, right?" He tapped the side of his nose. "I see everything, sir, and I don't say a word!"
"All I could find out was that he did some kind of desk job at your HQ, sergeant," said de Worde. Polly saw him taking his notebook out, slowly and carefully.
"Yes, I expect that's what you would find out, sir," said Jackrum, with a huge conspiratorial wink. "And then, when things are at their worst, they let him out, sir. They unleash him, sir. Me, I don't know a thing, sir."
"What does he do, explode?" said de Worde.
"Haha, nice one, sir!" said Jackrum. "No, sir. What he does, sir, is assess situations, sir. I don't understand it myself, sir, not being a big thinker, but the proof of the pudding, sir, is in the eating of same, and last night we were jumped by eight - twenty Zlobenian troopers, sir, and the lieutenant just assessed the situation in a flash and skewered five of the buggers, sir. Like a kebab, sir. Mild as milk to look at, but rouse him and he's a whirlwind of death. Of course, you did not hear it from me, sir."
"And he's in charge of a bunch of recruits, sergeant?" said de Worde. "That doesn't sound very likely to me."
"Recruits who captured some crack cavalrymen, sir," said Jackrum, looking pained. "That's leadership for you. Comes the hour, comes the man, sir. I'm just a simple old soldier, sir, seen 'em come and seen 'em go. Upon my oath I am not a lying man, sir, but I look at Lieutenant Blouse in wonderment."
"He just seemed confused, to me," said de Worde, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
"That was a bit of concussion, sir. He took a wallop that would have felled a lesser man, and still got back onto his feet. Amazing, sir!"
"Hmm," said de Worde, making a note.
The cart splashed across the shallow little stream and rocked into the gully. Lieutenant Blouse was sitting on a rock. He'd made an effort, but his tunic was grubby, his boots were muddy, his hand was swollen and one ear, despite Igorina's ministrations, was still inflamed. He had his sword on his knees. Jackrum carefully brought the cart to a halt by a thicket of birch trees. All four of the enemy troopers were tied up against the cliff. Apart from them, the camp appeared to be deserted.
"Where are the rest of the men, sergeant?" whispered de Worde, as he slid down off the cart.
"Oh, they're around, sir," said Jackrum. "Watching you. Probably not a good idea to make any sudden move, sir."
No one else was visible... and then Maladict faded into view.
People never really looked at things, Polly knew. They glanced. And what had been a patch of scrub was now Corporal Maladict. Polly stared. He'd cut a hole in the centre of his old blanket, and the mud and grass stains on the mildewed greyness had turned him into part of the landscape until he'd saluted. He'd also stuck leafy twigs all over his hat.
Sergeant Jackrum goggled. Polly had never really seen proper goggling before, but the sergeant had the face to do it at championship level. She could feel him drawing breath while at the same time assembling cusswords for a right royal thundering - and then he remembered he was playing Sergeant Big Jolly Fat Man, and this was not the time to segue into Sergeant Incandescent.
"Lads, eh?" he chuckled to de Worde. "What will they think of next?"
De Worde nodded nervously, pulled a wad of newspapers from under his seat, and advanced on the lieutenant.
"Mr de Worde, isn't it?" said Blouse, standing up. "Perks, can we manage a cup of, er, 'saloop' for Mr de Worde? There's a good chap. Do take a rock, sir."
"Good of you to see me, lieutenant," said de Worde. "It looks as though you've been in the wars!" he added, with an attempt at joviality.
"No, only this one," said Blouse, looking puzzled.
"I meant that you have been wounded, sir," said de Worde.
"These? Oh, they're nothing, sir. I'm afraid the one on my hand was self-inflicted. Sword drill, you know."
"You're left-handed then, sir?"
"Oh, no."
Polly, washing out a mug, heard Jackrum say out of the corner of his mouth: "Should've seen the other two fellows, sir!"
"Are you aware of the progress of the war, lieutenant?" said de Worde.
"You tell me, sir," said Blouse.
"All your army is bottled up in the Kneck valley. Dug in, mostly, just beyond the reach of the Keep's weaponry. Your forts elsewhere along the border have been captured. The garrisons at Drerp and Glitz and Arblatt have been overwhelmed. As far as I can tell, lieutenant, your squad are the only soldiers still at large. At least," he added, "the only ones still fighting."
"And my regiment?" said Blouse quietly.
"The remnant of the Tenth took part in a brave but, frankly, suicidal attempt to retake Kneck Keep a few days ago, sir. Most of the survivors are prisoners of war, and I have to tell you that almost all your high command have been captured. They were in the Keep when it was taken. There are big dungeons in that fort, sir, and they're pretty full."
"Why should I believe you?"
I do, thought Polly. So Paul is either dead, wounded or captured. And it doesn't help much by thinking of it as two chances in three that he is alive.
De Worde threw his newspapers at the lieutenant's feet. "It's all there, sir. I didn't make it up. It's the truth. It will remain true whether you believe it or not. There are more than six countries ranged against you, including Genua and Mouldavia and Ankh-Morpork. There is no one on your side. You are alone. The only reason you're not beaten yet is because you won't admit it. I've seen your generals, sir! Great leaders, and your men fight like demons, but they won't surrender!"
"Borogravia doesn't know the meaning of the word 'surrender', Mr de Worde," said the lieutenant.
"May I loan you a dictionary, sir?" snapped de Worde, going red in the face. "It's very similar to the meaning of 'making some kind of peace while you've got a chance', sir! It's rather like 'quitting while you've still got a head', sir! Good heavens, sir, don't you understand? The reason that there still is an army in the Kneck valley is that the allies haven't decided what to do with it! They're fed up with the slaughter!"
"Ah, so we still fight back!" said Blouse.
De Worde sighed. "You don't understand, sir. They are fed up with slaughtering you. They've got the Keep now. There's some big war engines up there. They... frankly, sir, some of the Alliance would just as soon wipe out the remains of your army. It'd be like shooting rats in a barrel. They have you at their mercy. And yet you keep on attacking. You attack the Keep! It's on sheer rock and it's got walls a hundred feet high. You make salients across the river. You're bottled up and you've got nowhere to go and the allies could simply massacre you any time they want, and you act as though you're just facing some kind of temporary setback. That's what's really happening, lieutenant! You are just a last little detail."
"Have a care, please," Blouse warned.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you know anything about recent history? In the past thirty years you have declared war on every single one of your neighbours at least once. All countries fight, but you brawl. And then last year you invaded Zlobenia again!"
"They invaded us, Mr de Worde."
"You have been misinformed, lieutenant. You invaded the Kneck province."
"That was confirmed as Borogravian by the Treaty of Lint, more than a hundred years ago."
"Signed at swordpoint, sir. And no one cares now, in any case. It's all got beyond your stupid little royal scuffles. Because your men tore down the Grand Trunk, you see. The clacks towers. And tore up the coach road. Ankh-Morpork regards that as bandit activity."
"Have a care, I said!" said Blouse. "I note you are displaying the Ankh-Morpork flag with evident pride on your wagon."
"Civis Morporkias sum, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork citizen. You could say that Ankh-Morpork shelters me under her wide and rather greasy wing, although I agree the metaphor could use some work."
"Your Ankh-Morpork soldiers aren't in a position to protect you, however."
"Sir, you are right. You could have me killed right now," said de Worde simply. "You know that. I know that. But you won't, for three reasons. The officers of Borogravia tend towards honour. Everyone says that. That's why they don't surrender. And I bleed most distressingly. And you don't need to, because everyone is interested in you. Suddenly, it's all changed."
"Interested in us?"
"Sir, in a sense you could help a lot right now. Apparently people back in Ankh-Morpork were amazed when... look, have you heard about what we call 'human interest', sir?"
"No."
De Worde tried to explain. Blouse listened with his mouth open and, at the end, said: "Have I got this right? Although many people have been killed and wounded in this wretched war, it's not been of much 'interest' to your readers? But it is now, just because of us? Because of a little skirmish in a town they've never heard of? And because of it, we're suddenly a 'plucky little country' and people are telling your newspaper that your great city should be on our side?"
"Yes, lieutenant. We put out a second edition last night, you see. After I'd found out that 'Captain Horentz' was really Prince Heinrich. Did you know this at the time, sir?"
"Of course not!" snapped Blouse.
"And you, Private, er, Perks, would you have kicked him in the... would you have kicked him had you known?"
Polly dropped a mug in her nervousness, and looked at Blouse.
"You may answer, of course, Perks," said the lieutenant.
"Well, yes, sir. I would have kicked him. Harder, probably. I was defending myself, sir," Polly said, carefully avoiding further details. You couldn't be sure what someone like de Worde would do with them.
"Right, good, yes," said de Worde. "Then you might be pleased with this. Our cartoonist Fizz drew this for the special edition. It was on the front page. We've sold a record number of copies." He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, which by the look of the creases had been folded many times.
It was a line drawing, with lots of shading. It showed a huge figure, with a large sword, a monstrous monocle and a moustache as wide as a coathanger, menacing a much smaller figure armed with nothing more than an instrument for lifting beets - in fact there was a beet stuck on the end of it. At least, that was clearly what had been happening right up to the point when the smaller figure, wearing a not bad attempt at an Ins-and-Outs shako and a face that looked slightly like Polly's, had kicked the other one squarely in the groinal regions. A sort of balloon was coming out of Polly's mouth, containing the words: "That for your Royal Prerogative, you Blaggard!" The balloon issuing from the mouth of the ogre, who could only be Prince Heinrich, said: "Oh my Succession! That such A Small Thing could hurt so Much!" And in the background a fat woman in a rumpled ballgown and a huge old-fashioned helmet was clasping her hands to an unbelievably large bosom, staring at the fight with a mixture of concern and admiration, and ballooning: "Oh my Swain! I fear our Liaison is Cut short!"
Since no one else was saying much, but was simply staring, de Worde said, rather nervously: "Fizz is rather, er, direct in these matters, but amazingly popular. Ahem. You see, the curious thing is that although Ankh-Morpork is probably the biggest bully around, in a subtle kind of way, we nevertheless have a soft spot for people who stand up to bullies. Especially royal ones. We tend to be on their side, provided it doesn't cost us too much."
Blouse cleared his throat. "It's quite a good likeness of you, Perks," he said hoarsely.
"I only used my knee, sir!" Polly protested. "And that fat lady certainly wasn't there!"
"That's Morporkia," said de Worde. "She's a sort of representation of the city, except that in her case she's not covered in mud and soot."
"And I have to add, for my part," said Blouse, in his talking-to-a-meeting voice, "that Borogravia is in fact larger than Zlobenia, although most of the country is little more than barren mountainside - "
"That doesn't actually matter," said de Worde.
"It doesn't?" said Blouse.
"No, sir. It's just a fact. It's not politics. In politics, sir, pictures like this are powerful. Sir, even the Alliance commanders are talking about you, and the Zlobenians are angry and bewildered. If you, the heroes of the hour, could make a plea for a little common sense - "
The lieutenant took a long, deep breath.
"This is a foolish war, Mr de Worde. But I am a soldier. I have 'kissed the Duchess', as we say. It's an oath of loyalty. Don't tempt me to break it. I must fight for my country. We will repel all invaders. If there are deserters, we will find them and rally them again. We know the country. While we are free, Borogravia will be free. You have 'had your say'. Thank you. Where is that tea, Perks?"
"What? Oh, nearly done, sir!" said Polly, turning back to the fire.
It had been a sudden strange fancy, but a stupid plan. Now, out here, all the drawbacks were visible. How would she have got Paul home? Would he have wanted to come? Could she have managed it? Even if he was still alive, how could she hope to get him out of a prison?
"So you'll be guerilla fighters, eh?" said Mr de Worde, behind her. "Madmen, all of you."
"No, we are not irregulars," said Blouse. "We kissed the Duchess. We are soldiers."
"Oh, well," said de Worde. "Then I admire your spirit, at least. Ah, Otto..."
The vampire iconographer ambled up, and gave them a shy smile.
"Do not be afraid, I am a Black Ribboner, just like your corporal," he said. "Light is mine passion now."
"Oh? Er... well done," said Blouse.
"Take the pictures, Otto," said de Worde. "These gentlemen have a war to fight."
"Out of interest, Mr de Worde," Blouse interrupted, "how did you get the pictures back to your city so quickly? Magic, I assume?"
"What?" De Worde looked momentarily off balance. "Oh no, sir. Wizards are expensive and Commander Vimes has said that there is going to be no first use of magic in this war. We send things by pigeon to our office in the Keep and then by clacks from the nearest trunk tower."
"Oh, really?" said Blouse, showing rather more animation than Polly had seen up until now. "Using numbers to indicate a scale of grey shades, perhaps?"
"Mein Gotts!" said Otto.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact we do," said de Worde. "I'm very impressed that you - "
"I have seen the clacks towers on the far bank of the Kneck," said Blouse, his eyes lighting up. "Very clever idea, using big shuttered boxes rather than the old-fashioned semaphore arms. And would I be right in my surmise that the box on the top, which opens its shutters once a second, is a kind of system, er, clock that makes certain the whole clacks line keeps in step? Oh, good. I thought so. One beat a second is probably the limit of the mechanisms, so no doubt all your efforts now are concentrated on maximizing the information content per shutter operation? Yes, I imagined that would be the case. As for sending pictures, well, sooner or later all things are numbers, yes? Of course, you would use each of the two columns of four boxes to send a grey code, but it must be very slow. Have you considered a squeezing algorithm?"
De Worde and Chriek exchanged a glance. "Are you sure you haven't been talking to anyone about this, sir?" said the writer.
"Oh, it's all very elementary," said Blouse, smiling happily. "I had thought about it in the context of military maps which are, of course, mostly white space. So I wondered if it would be possible to indicate a required shade on one column and, on the other side, indicate how far along that rank that shade would persist. And a delightful bonus here is that if your map is simply in black and white, then you have even more - "
"You haven't seen inside a clacks tower, have you?" said de Worde.
"Alas, no," said Blouse. "This is simply 'thinking aloud' based on the de facto existence of your picture. I believe I can see a number of other little mathematical, ahem, tricks to make the passage of information even swifter, but I am sure these have already occurred to you. Of course, a fairly minor modification could potentially double the information burden of the whole system at a stroke. And that is without using coloured filters at night, which I'm sure even with the overhead of extra mechanical effort would surely increase throughput by - I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"
The two men both wore a glazed expression. De Worde shook himself. "Oh... er, no. Nothing," he said. "Er... you seem to have got the grasp of things quite... quickly."
"Oh, it was perfectly straightforward once I started thinking about it," said Blouse. "It was exactly the same when I had to redesign the department's filing system, you see. People build something that works. Then circumstances change, and they have to tinker with it to make it continue to work, and they are so busy tinkering that they cannot see that a much better idea would be to build a whole new system to deal with the new circumstances. But to an outsider, the idea is obvious."
"In politics as well as, er, filing systems and clackses, do you think?" said de Worde.
Blouse's brow wrinkled. "I'm sorry, I don't think I follow..." he said.
"Would you agree that sometimes a country's system is so out of date that it's only the outsiders that can see the need for wholesale change?" said de Worde. He smiled. Lieutenant Blouse did not.
"Just a point to ponder, maybe," said de Worde. "Er... since you wish to tell the world of your defiance, would you object if my colleague takes your picture?"
Blouse shrugged. "If it gives you any satisfaction," he said. "It's an Abomination, of course, but these days it's hard to find something that isn't. You must tell the world, Mr de Worde, that Borogravia won't lie down. We will not give in. We will fight on. Write that down in your little notebook, please. While we can stand, we will kick!"
"Yes, but once again may I implore you to - "
"Mr de Worde, you have I am sure heard the saying that the pen is mightier than the sword?"
De Worde preened a little. "Of course, and I - "
"Do you want to test it? Take your picture, sir, and then my men will escort you back to your road."
Otto Chriek stood up and bowed to Blouse. He unslung his picture box.
"This vill only take vun minute," he said.
It never does. Polly watched in horrified fascination as Otto took picture after picture of Lieutenant Blouse in a variety of what the lieutenant thought were heroic poses. It is a terrible thing to see a man trying to jut out a chin he does not, in fact, have.
"Very impressive," said de Worde. "I just hope you live to see it in my paper, sir."
"I shall look forward to it with the keenest anticipation," said Blouse. "And now, Perks, please go along with the sergeant and put these two gentlemen back on their way."
Otto sidled up to Polly as they walked back to the cart. "I need to tell you somezing about your vampire," he said.
"Oh, yes?"
"You are a friend of his?" said Otto.
"Yes," said Polly. "Is something wrong?"
"Zere is a problem..."
"He's got twitchy because he has run out of coffee?"
"Alas, if only it vas that simple." Otto looked awkward. "You have to understand that ven a vampire forgoes... the b-vord, there is a process that ve call transference? Ve force ourselves to desire something else? For me this vas not painful. I crave the perfection of light and shade. Pictures are my life! But your friend chose... coffee. And now he has none."
"Oh. I see."
"I vunder if you do. It probably seemed so sensible to him. It is a human craving, and no one minds if you say, as it might be, 'I am dying for a cup of coffee', or 'I'd kill for a cup of coffee'. But without coffee, he vill, I am afraid... revert. You understand, this is very difficult for me to talk about..." Otto trailed off.
"By revert you mean...?"
"First vill come mild delusions, I think. A psychic susceptibility to all kinds of influences from who knows vhere, and vampires can hallucinate so stronkly zat zey can be contagious. I zink zat is happening already. He vill become... erratic. This may last for several days. And then his conditioning vill break and he vill be, vunce again, a true vampire. No more Mr Nice Coffee Drinker Guy."
"Can't I do anything to help him?"
Otto reverentially laid his picture box in the back of the cart, and turned to her. "You can find him some coffee, or... you can keep a vooden stake and a big knife ready. You vould be doink him a favour, believe me."
"I can't do that!"
Otto shrugged. "Find someone who vill."
"He is amazing!" said de Worde, as the cart rocked back down through the trees. "I know the clacks is against your religion, but he seems to understand all about it."
"Like I said, sir, he assesses stuff," said Jackrum, beaming. "Mind like a razor."
"He was talking about clacks algorithms that the companies are only just now investigating," said de Worde. "That department he was talking about - "
"Ah, I can see nothing gets past you, sir," said Jackrum. "Very hush-hush. Can't talk about it."
"To be frank, sergeant, I'd always assumed that Borogravia was, well... backward."
Jackrum's smile was waxy and bright. "If we seem to be a long way back, sir, it's only so's we can get a good run-up."
"You know, sergeant, it's a great shame to see a mind like that wasted," said de Worde, as the cart lurched in a rut. "This is not an age of heroes and famous last stands and death-or-glory charges. Do your men a favour and try to tell him that, will you?"
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," said Jackrum. "Here is your road, sir. Where will you be heading now?"
"To the Kneck valley, sergeant. This is a good story, sergeant. Thank you. Allow me to shake you by the hand."
"Glad to hear you think that, sir," said Jackrum, extending his hand. Polly heard the faint clink of coins in their passage from palm to palm. De Worde took the reins.
"But I must tell you, sergeant, that we'll probably send off our stuff by pigeon within the hour," he said. "We will have to say you have prisoners."
"Don't worry about that, sir," said Jackrum. "By the time their mates come out here to rescue those gallopers, we'll be halfway back to the mountains. Our mountains."
They parted. Jackrum watched them out of sight, and turned to Polly.
"Him with his airs and graces," he said. "Did you see that? He insulted me by giving me a tip!" He glanced at his palm. "Hmm, five Morpork dollars? Well, at least he's a man who knows how to insult you handsomely," he added, and the coins disappeared into his jacket with remarkable speed.
"I think he wants to help us, sarge," said Polly.
Jackrum ignored that. "I hate bloody Ankh-Morpork," he said. "Who're they to tell us what to do? Who cares what they think?"
"Do you think we can really join up with deserters, sarge?"
"Nope. They deserted once, what's to stop 'em a second time? They spat on the Duchess when they deserted, they can't kiss and make up now. You get one kiss, that's all."
"But Lieutenant Blouse - "
"The rupert should stick to sums. He thinks he's a soldier. Never walked on a battlefield in his life. All that rubbish he gave your man was death-or-glory stuff. And I'll tell you, Perks, I've seen Death more often than I care to remember, but I've never clapped eyes on Glory. I'm all for sending the fools to look for us where we ain't, though."
"He's not my man, sarge," said Polly.
"Yeah, well, you're at home with the writin' and readin'," grumbled Jackrum. "You can't trust the people who do that stuff. They mess around with the world, and it turns out everything you know is wrong."
They reached the gully again. The squad had come back from their various hiding places, and most were clustered around one of the newspapers. For the first time, Polly saw The Picture.
It was actually quite good, especially of Shufti and Wazzer. She was mostly hidden by the bulk of Jackrum. But you could see the sullen cavalrymen behind them, and their expressions were a picture in themselves.
"It's a good one of Tonker," said Igorina, who didn't lisp so much when there were no officers to hear.
"Do you think having a picture like this is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan?" said Shufti nervously.
"Probably," said Polly absent-mindedly. "Most things are." She ran her eye down the text next to the picture. It was full of phrases like "plucky farm boys" and "humiliation of some of Zlobenia's best troops" and "sting in the tail". She could see why it had caused trouble.
She rustled through the other pages. They were crammed with strange stories about places she'd never heard of, and pictures of people she didn't recognize. But one page was a mass of grey text, under a line of much bigger printing which read:
Why This Mad State Must Be Stopped
Bewildered, her eye picked up phrases from the sea of letters: "disgraceful invasions of neighbouring states", "deluded worshippers of a mad god", "a strutting bully", "outrage after outrage", "flying in the face of international opinion"...
