Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [2]
It cost one penny to cross, or one hundred gold pieces if you had a billygoat.*
Halfway across Polly peered over the parapet and saw the cart far, far below, working its way along the narrow road just above the white water.
The afternoon’s journey was downhill all the way, through dark pines on this side of the gorge. She didn’t hurry and, toward sunset, she spotted the inn. The cart had already arrived, but by the looks of it the recruiting sergeant had not even bothered to make an effort. There was no drum banging like there had been last night, no cries of “Roll up, my young shavers! It’s a Great Life in the Ins-and-Outs!”
There was always a war. Usually they were border disputes, the national equivalent of complaining that the neighbor was letting their hedge grow too long. Sometimes they were bigger. Borogravia was a peace-loving country in the midst of treacherous, devious, warlike enemies. They had to be treacherous, devious, and warlike, otherwise we wouldn’t be fighting them, eh? There was always a war.
Polly’s father had been in the army before he took over The Duchess from Polly’s grandfather. He didn’t talk about it much. He’d brought his sword back with him, but instead of hanging it over the fireplace he used it to poke the fire.
Sometimes old friends would turn up and, when the bars were shut for the night, they’d gather around the fire and drink and sing. The young Polly found excuses to stay up and listen to the songs they sang, but that had stopped when she’d got into trouble for using one of the more interesting words in front of her mother; now she was older, and served the beer, it was presumably assumed that she knew the words or would find out what they meant soon enough. Besides, her mother had gone where bad words would no longer offend and, in theory, never got said.
The songs had been part of her childhood. She knew all the words of “The World Turned Upside Down” and “The Devil Shall Be My Sergeant” and “Johnny Has Gone For a Soldier” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and, after the drink had been flowing for a while, she’d memorized “Colonel Crapski” and “I Wish I’d Never Kissed Her.”
And then, of course, there had been “Sweet Polly Oliver.” Her father used to sing it when she was small, and fretful or sad, and she’d laughed to hear it simply because it had her name in it. She was word-perfect on the words before she’d known what most of them meant.
And now……Polly pushed open the door. The recruiting sergeant and his corporal looked up from the stained table where they were sitting, beer mugs halfway to their lips.
She took a deep breath, marched over, and made an attempt at saluting.
“What do you want, kid?” growled the corporal.
“Want to join up, sir!”
The sergeant turned to Polly and grinned, which made his scars move oddly and caused a tremor to shake all his chins. The word “fat” could not honestly be applied to him, not when the word “gross” was lumbering forward to catch your attention. He was one of those people who didn’t have a waist. He had an equator. He had gravity. If he fell over, in any direction, he would rock.
Sun and drink had burned his face red. Small dark eyes twinkled in the redness like the sparkle on the edge of a knife. Beside him, on the table, were a couple of old-fashioned cutlasses, weapons that had more in common with a meat cleaver than a sword.
“Just like that?” he said.
“Yessir!”
“Really?”
“Yessir!”
“You don’t want us to get you stinking drunk first? It’s traditional, you know.”
“Nosir!”
“I haven’t told you about the wonderful opportunities for advancement and good fortune, have I?”
“Nosir!”
“Did I mention how the spanking-red uniform will mean you’ll have to beat the girls off with a stick?”
“Don’t think so, sir!”
“Or the grub? Every meal’s a banquet when you march along with us!” The sergeant smacked