Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [105]
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’s 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 a 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 s-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 outside 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 clamoring, clamoring 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 it thawed things no end. The woman’s face cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.
“Well, now, we are always honored 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 Plün 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 around, tapping the side of his nose with an expression of idiot knowingness.
“A word of advice, lads,” he said. “Always