‘I don’t have to,’ said the man. ‘This is about food and mouths. Good grief, we don’t have to fight you. Your country is going to fall over anyway. Your fields are overgrown, most of your farmers are old men, the bulk of the grub goes to the army. And armies don’t do much for agriculture except marginally raise the fertility of the battlefield. The honour, the pride, the glory . . . none of that matters. This war stops, or Borogravia dies. Do you understand?’
Polly remembered the gale-swept fields, the old people salvaging what they could . . .
‘We’re just messengers,’ she said. ‘I can’t negotiate—’
‘You know your god’s dead?’ said the man. ‘Nothing left but a voice, according to some of our priests. The last three Abominations were against rocks, ears and accordion players. Okay, I might be with him on the last one, but . . . rocks? Hah! We can advise you if you’re going to look for a new one, by the way. Om’s very popular at the moment. Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns you can sing in the bath. You won’t get Offler the Crocodile God up here with your winters, and the Unorthodox Potato Church is probably a bit too uncomplicated for—’
Polly started to laugh. ‘Look, sir, I’m just a . . . what is your name, please?’
‘Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates.’
‘Vimes the Butcher?’ said Maladicta.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard that one,’ said Vimes, grinning. ‘Your people haven’t really mastered the fine art of propaganda. And I’m telling you because— well, have you heard of Om?’
They shook their heads.
‘No? Well, in the Old Book of Om there’s a story about some city full of wickedness, and Om decided to destroy it with holy fire, this being back in the old smiting days before he’d got religion. But Bishop Horn protested about this plan, and Om said he’d spare the city if the bishop could find one good man. Well, the bishop knocked on every door, and turned up empty-handed. It turned out, after the place had been reduced to a glass plain, that there were probably plenty of good people there and, being good, they weren’t the sort to admit it. Death by modesty, a terrible thing. And you, ladies, are the only Borogravians I know much about, apart from the military who, frankly, aren’t chatty. You don’t appear to be as insane as your country’s foreign policy. You’re the one piece of international goodwill it has. A bunch of young boys outwitting crack cavalrymen? Kicking the Prince in the fork? People at home liked that. And now it turns out that you’re girls? They’ll love that. Mr de Worde is going to have fun with that when he finds out.’
‘But we don’t have any power! We can’t negotiate a—’
‘What does Borogravia want? Not the country. I mean the people.’
Polly opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it again and thought about the answer. ‘To be left alone,’ she said. ‘By everybody. For a while, anyway. We can change things.’
‘You’ll accept the food?’
‘We are a proud country.’
‘What are you proud of?’
It came swiftly, like a blow, and Polly realized how wars happened. You took that shock that had run through her, and let it boil.
. . . it may be corrupt, benighted and stupid, but it’s ours . . .
Vimes was watching her face. ‘From this desk here,’ he said, ‘the only thing your country has to be proud of right now is you women.’
Polly stayed silent. She was still trying to cope with the anger. It made it worse to know that he was right. We have our pride. And that’s what we’re proud of. We’re proud of being proud . . .
‘Very well, then, will you buy some food?’ said Vimes, watching her carefully. ‘On credit? I suppose you still have someone in your country who knows about the kind of international affairs that don’t involve edged weapons?’
‘People would accept that, yes,’ said Polly hoarsely.
‘Good. I’ll send a clacks back tonight.’
‘And why would you be so generous, Mr Ankh-Morpork?’
‘Because I’m from a wonderfully warm-hearted city, corporal . . . hah, no, I can’t say that and keep a straight face,’ said Vimes. ‘Do you want to know the truth? Most people in Ankh-Morpork hadn’t even heard of your country until the clacks went down. There’s dozens of little countries round here selling one another hand-painted clogs or beer made from turnips. Then they knew you as the bloody mad idiots who fight everyone. Now they know you as . . . well, people who do just what they’d do. And tomorrow they’ll laugh. And there’re other people, people who sit and think about the future every day, who believe it’s worth a little to be friends with a country like that.’
‘Why?’ said Maladicta suspiciously.
‘Because Ankh-Morpork is a friend to all freedom-loving people everywhere!’ said Vimes. ‘Gods, it must be the way I tell ’em. Ze chzy Brogocia proztfik!’ He saw their blank expressions. ‘Sorry, I’ve been away from home too long. And frankly, I’d rather be back there.’
‘But why did you say you were a cherry pancake?’ said Polly.
‘Didn’t I say I am a citizen of Borogravia?’
‘No. Brogocia is the cherry pancake, Borogvia is the country.’
‘Well, I made the effort, at least. Look, we’d rather Prince Heinrich wasn’t ruler of two countries. That’d make one quite big country, much bigger than the other ones round here. So it’d probably get bigger still. He wants to be like Ankh-Morpork, you see. But what he means is he wants power, and influence. He doesn’t want to earn them, he doesn’t want to grow into them or learn the hard way how to use them. He just wants them.’
‘That’s playing politics!’ said Maladicta.
‘No. It’s just telling the truth. Make peace with him, by all means. Just leave the road and the towers alone. You’ll get the food anyway, at whatever price. Mr de Worde’s article will see to that.’
‘You sent the coffee,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, yes. That was Corporal Buggy Swires, my eye in the sky. He’s a gnome.’
‘And you set a werewolf on us?’
‘Well, set is a bit strong. Angua followed you, just to be on the safe side. She’s a werewolf, yes.’
‘The girl we met? She didn’t look like one!’
‘Well, they don’t, usually,’ said Vimes. ‘Right up until the moment when they do, if you see what I mean. And she was following you because I was looking for anything that’d stop thousands of people dying. And that’s not politics either,’ said Vimes. He stood up. ‘And now, ladies, I have to go and present your document to the alliance leaders.’
‘You came out for a smoke at the right time, didn’t you?’ said Polly, slowly and carefully. ‘You knew we were on our way, and you made sure you’d get to us first.’
‘Of course. Can’t leave this to a bunch of . . . oh, yes . . . ruperts.’
‘Where is my brother, Mister Vimes?’ said Polly stiffly.
‘You seem very sure I know . . .’ said Vimes, not looking her in the face.
‘I’m certain you do,’ said Polly.
‘Why?’
‘Because no one else does!’
Vimes stubbed out his cigar. ‘Angua was right about you,’ he said. ‘Yes, I, er, arranged for him to be put in what I like to call “protective custody”. He’s fine. Angua will take you to him now, if you like. Your brother, possibility of revenge, blackmail, who knows what . . . I thought he might be safer if I knew exactly who held the keys.’
The end of the journey, Polly thought. But it wasn’t, not any more. She got the distinct impression that the man opposite was reading her thoughts.
‘That’s what all this was about, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘No, sir. It’s just how it started,’ said Polly.
‘Well, it continues like this,’ said Vimes. ‘This is going to be a busy day. Right now I shall take this offer of a truce into the room down the passage and present it to the very important men’ – his voice went flat to sa
y those words – ‘who are discussing what to do about Borogravia. You’ll get a truce, the food, and probably some other help.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Polly. ‘They haven’t discussed it!’
‘Not yet. But, as I said . . . I used to be a sergeant. Angua!’
The door opened. Angua came in. As Vimes had said, you couldn’t tell who was a werewolf until you found out . . .
‘And now I’d better have a shave before I go to see the very important men,’ said Vimes. ‘People set a lot of store by shaving.’
Polly felt embarrassed walking down the steps with Sergeant Angua. How did you start a conversation? ‘So you’re a werewolf, then?’ would be sort of idiotic. She was glad that Jade and Maladicta had been left in the waiting room.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Angua.
‘But I didn’t say it!’ Polly burst out.
‘No, but I’m used to situations like this. I’ve learned to recognize the way people don’t say things. Don’t worry.’
‘You followed us,’ said Polly.
‘Yes.’
‘So you must’ve known we weren’t men.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angua. ‘My sense of smell is much better than my eyesight, and I’ve got sharp eyes. Humans are smelly creatures. For what it’s worth, though, I wouldn’t have told Mister Vimes if I hadn’t heard you talking to one another. Anyone could have heard you, you don’t need to be a werewolf for that. Everyone’s got secrets they don’t want known. Werewolves are a bit like vampires in that way. We’re tolerated . . . if we’re careful.’
‘That I can understand,’ said Polly. So are we, she thought.
Angua stopped by a heavy, studded door. ‘He’s in here,’ she said, producing a key and turning it in the lock. ‘I’ll go back and chat to the others. Come and find me when you’re ready . . .’
Polly stepped inside, heart pounding, and there was Paul. And there was a buzzard, on a perch by the open window. And on the wall, where Paul was working so intensely that his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he hadn’t even noticed the door opening, was another buzzard, flying in the heart of the sunrise.
Right now, Polly could forgive Ankh-Morpork anything. Someone had found Paul a box of coloured chalks.
The long day got longer. She had a kind of power. They all did. People gave them space, watched them. The fighting had stopped and they were the cause and no one knew exactly why.
There were lighter moments. They might have power, but General Froc gave the orders. And General Froc might give the orders, but it was permissible to suppose that it was Sergeant-major Jackrum who anticipated them.
And perhaps that was why Shufti asked Polly and Tonker to go with her, and they were ushered into a room where a couple of guards stood on either side of a sheepish young man called Johnny who had fair hair and blue eyes and a gold earring and his trousers round his knees in case Shufti wanted to check his other distinguishing feature.
He also had a black eye.
‘This the one?’ said Major Clogston, who was leaning against the wall eating an apple. ‘The general has asked me to tell you that there will be a dowry of five hundred crowns, with the army’s compliments.’
Johnny brightened up slightly when he heard that. Shufti gave him a long and careful look.
‘No,’ she said at last, turning away. ‘That’s not him.’
Johnny opened his mouth, and Polly snapped: ‘No one asked you to speak, private!’ And, such was the nature of the day, he shut up.
‘I’m afraid he’s the only candidate,’ said Clogston. ‘We’ve got any amount of earrings, heads of fair hair, blue eyes and Johnnies – and, surprisingly, a fair number of carbuncles. But he’s the only one with everything. Are you sure?’
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, still staring at the boy. ‘My Johnny must have been killed.’
Clogston walked over and lowered her voice. ‘In that case, uh, the general did say, informally, that a marriage certificate, a ring and a widow’s pension could be arranged,’ she said.
‘Can she do that?’ whispered Polly.
‘For one of you? Today? You’ll be amazed what can be done,’ said Clogston. ‘Don’t think too badly of her. She means well. She’s a very practical man.’
‘No,’ said Shufti. ‘I . . . it’s . . . well, no. Thank you, but no.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Polly.
‘Positive,’ said Shufti, looking defiant. Since she was not naturally a defying kind of person it was not quite the look that she thought it was and it ought to have been, having overtones of haemorrhoid sufferer, but the effort was there.
Clogston stepped back. ‘Well, if you’re certain, private? Fair enough, then. Take that man away, sergeant.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Shufti. She walked over to the bewildered Johnny, stood in front of him, held out her hand and said: ‘Before they take you away again I want my sixpence back, you son of a bitch!’
Polly held out her hand to Clogston, who shook it and smiled. There had been another little victory, of sorts. If the landslide is big enough, even square pebbles will roll.
Polly headed back to the rather larger cell that had been made available as the women’s barracks, or at least the barracks for the official women. Men, grown men, had fallen over themselves to put cushions in there, and bring in wood for the fire. It was all very strange. Polly felt they were being treated as something dangerous and fragile, like, say, a huge and wonderful jar full of poison. She turned the corner into the big courtyard and there was de Worde with Mr Chriek. There was no escaping them. They were definitely people looking for someone.
The man gave her a look in which reproach was mingled with hope. ‘Er . . . so you’re women, then?’ he said.
‘Er, yes,’ said Polly.
De Worde took out his notebook.
‘This is an amazing story,’ he said. ‘You really fought your way here and got in disguised as washerwomen?’
‘Well, we were women, and we did some washing,’ said Polly. ‘I suppose it was quite a cunning disguise, really. We got in by not being disguised, you could say.’
‘General Froc and Captain Blouse say they’re very proud of you,’ de Worde went on.
‘Oh, he has got promoted, then?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, and Froc said you did wonderfully well, for women.’
‘Yes, I suppose we did,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. Very well, for women.’
‘The general went on to say . . .’ de Worde consulted his notebook, ‘that you are a credit to the women of your country. I wonder if you’d care to comment?’
He looked innocent, so possibly he didn’t understand the raging argument that had just broken out in Polly’s head. A credit to the women of your country. We’re proud of you. Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and dismissed you with a sweetie. On the other hand, you had to start somewhere . . .
‘That’s very nice of him,’ said Polly. ‘But we just want to get the job done and go home. That’s what soldiers want.’ She thought for a moment, and then added: ‘And hot sweet tea.’ To her amazement, he wrote this down.
‘Just one last question, miss: do you think the world would be a different place if more women were soldiers?’ de Worde asked. He was smiling again, she noted, so this was probably a joky kind of question.
‘Oh, I think you’d have to ask General Froc that,’ said Polly. And I’d like to watch her expression if you do . . .
‘Yes, but what do you think, miss?’
‘That’s corporal, please.’
‘Sorry, corporal . . . and?’
The pencil was hovering. Around it, the world turned. It wrote things down, and then they got everywhere. The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon. Just a few words can change everything . . .
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘I—’
There was a sudden bustling around the gates at the other e
nd of the courtyard, and some cavalry officers arrived. They must have been expected, because Zlobenian officers were converging in a great hurry.
‘Ah, I see the Prince is back,’ said de Worde. ‘He’s probably not going to be happy about the truce. They sent some gallopers out to meet him.’
‘Can he do anything about it?’
De Worde shrugged. ‘He left some very senior officers here. It would be rather shocking if he did.’
The tall figure had dismounted, and was striding towards Polly, or rather, she realized, the big doorway next to her. Frantic clerks and officers trailed after him, and were brushed off. But when a white oblong was waved in front of his face by one man he grabbed it and stopped so quickly that several other officers bumped into him.
‘Um,’ said de Worde. ‘The edition with the cartoon, I expect. Um.’
The paper was thrown down.
‘Yes, probably that was it,’ said de Worde.
Heinrich advanced. Now Polly could make out his expression. It was thunderous. Beside her, de Worde turned over to a fresh page in his notebook and cleared his throat.
‘You’re going to talk to him?’ said Polly. ‘In that mood? He’ll cut you down!’
‘I have to,’ said de Worde. And, as the Prince and his retinue reached the doorway he took a step forward and said, in a voice that cracked slightly, ‘Your highness? I wonder if I could have a word?’
Heinrich turned to scowl at him, and saw Polly. For a moment, their gazes locked.
The Prince’s adjutants knew their master. As the man’s hand flew to his sword they closed on him in a mob, completely surrounding him, and there was some frantic whispering, in which some rather louder injections from Heinrich on the broad theme of ‘What?’ could be heard, followed by a toccata on ‘The hell you say!’
The crowd parted again. The Prince slowly and carefully brushed some dust off his spotless jacket, glanced only briefly at Otto and de Worde and, to Polly’s horror, strolled towards her . . .
. . . with one white-gloved hand extended.
Oh no, she thought. But he’s cleverer than Vimes thinks he is, and he can control his temper. And, suddenly, I’m everyone’s mascot.