Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [144]
“I think we can get enough food up here to see you through the winter,” he said, picking up a sheet of paper, apparently at random. “Grain’s a bit short but we’ve got a handy surplus of white drumhead cabbage, keeps wonderfully, full of vitamins and minerals…but you might want to keep your windows open, if you follow me. Don’t stare, I know the country’s a month away from starvation.”
“But I haven’t even shown this letter to anyone!” Polly protested. “You don’t know what we—”
“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 honor, 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 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 big puddle of glass, 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. And I’ll see he does.”
“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.