Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [30]
After a few moments of embarrassed silence, Polly said: “What’s a political?”
“Like a spy, only on your own side,” said Maladict.
“That’s right,” said Scallot. “There’s one in every battalion these days, snitching on their mates. Get promotion that way, see? Don’t want dissent in the ranks, eh? Don’t want loose talk about losing battles, right? Which is a load of bloody cludgies, ’cos the infantry grumbles all the time. Moaning is part of bein’ a soldier.” He sighed. “Anyway, there’s a bunkhouse out the back, I beats the pallyarses regular so’s there probably not too many fleas.” Once again he looked at blank faces. “That’s straw mattresses to you. Go on, help yourselves. Take what you like. I’m closing up after you’ve gone, anyway. We must be winning now you rattling lads are joining, right?”
The clouds had broken when Polly stepped out into the night, and a half moon filled the world with cold silver and black.
The inn opposite was another rubbishy alehouse for selling bad beer to soldiers. It stank of ancient slops, even before she opened the door. The sign was flaked and unrecognizable, but she could read the name: The World Turned Upside Down.
She pushed open the door. The smell got worse. There were no customers and no sign of Strappi or Jackrum, but Polly did see a servant methodically spreading the inn’s dirt evenly across the floor with a mop.
“Excuse m—” she began, and then remembered the socks, raised her voice, and tried to sound angry. “Hey, where’s the lieutenant?”
The servant looked at her and gestured up the stairs with a thumb. There was only one candle alight up there, and she knocked on the nearest door.
“Enter…”
She entered. Lieutenant Blouse was standing in the middle of the floor in his breeches and shirtsleeves, holding a saber. Polly was no expert in these matters, but she thought she recognized the stylish, flamboyant pose as the one beginners tend to use just before they’re stabbed through the heart by a more experienced fighter.
“Ah, Perks, isn’t it?” he said, lowering the blade. “Just, er, limbering up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s some laundry in the bag over there. I expect someone in the inn will do it. What’s for supper?”
“I’ll check, sir.”
“What are the men having?”
“Scubbo, sir,” said Polly. “Possibly with hor—”
“Then bring me some, will you? We are at war, after all, and I must show an example to my men,” said Blouse, sheathing the sword at the third attempt. “That would be good for morale.”
Polly glanced at the table. A book lay open on top of a pile of others. It looked like a manual of swordsmanship, and the page it was open at was page five. Beside it was a thick-lensed pair of spectacles.
“Are you a reading man, Perks?” said Blouse, closing the book.
Polly hesitated. But, then, what did Ozzer care?
“A bit, sir,” she admitted.
“I suspect I shall have to leave most of these behind,” he said. “Do take one if you want it.” He waved a hand at the books. Polly read the titles. The Craft of War. Principles of Engagement. Battle Studies. Tactical Defense.
“All a bit heavy for me, sir,” she said. “Thanks all the same.”
“Tell me, Perks,” said Blouse, “are the recruits in, er, good spirits?”
He gave her a look of apparently genuine concern. He really did have no chin, she noticed. His face just eased its way into his neck without much to disturb it on the way, but his Adam’s apple, now, that was a champion. It went up and down his neck like a ball on a spring.
Polly had been soldiering for only a couple