Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [46]
“Thank you, Sarge, it is a kind offer,” said Threeparts. “But fast horses are going to be at a real premium soon, and I’ll be in on the ground floor, as you might say. This lot’ll be worth three years’ pay.” He turned in the saddle and nodded at the squad.
“Best of luck, lads,” he added cheerfully. “You’ll walk with Death every day, but I’ve seen ’im and he’s been known to wink. And remember: fill your boots with soup!”
He urged the horses into a walk, and disappeared with his trophies into the gloom.
Jackrum watched him go, shook his head, and turned to the recruits.
“All right, ladies—what’s funny, Private Halter?”
“Er, nothing, Sarge, I just…thought of something…” said Tonker, almost choking.
“You ain’t paid to think of things, you’re paid to march. Do it!”
The squad marched away. The rain slackened to nothing, but the wind rose a little, rattling windows, blowing through the deserted houses, opening and shutting doors like someone looking for something they could have sworn they put down here only a moment ago. That was all that moved in Plotz, except for one candle flame, down near the floor in the back room of the deserted barracks.
The candle had been tilted so that it leaned against a cotton thread fastened between the legs of a stool. This meant that when the candle burned low enough, it would burn through the thread and fall all the way to the floor and into a ragged trail of straw that led to a pile of palliasses on which had been stood two ancient cans of lamp oil.
It took about an hour, in the wet, dejected night for this to happen, and then all the windows blew out.
Tomorrow dawned on Borogravia like a great big fish.
A pigeon rose over the forests, banked slightly, and headed straight for the valley of the Kneck.
Even from here, the black stone bulk of the Keep was visible, rising above the sea of trees. The pigeon sped on, one spark of purpose in the fresh new morning—
—and squawked as darkness dropped from the sky, gripping it in talons of steel. Buzzard and pigeon tumbled for a moment, and then the buzzard gained a little height and flapped onwards.
The pigeon thought: 000000000. But had it been more capable of coherent thought, and knew something about how birds of prey catch pigeons,* it might have wondered why it was being gripped so…kindly. It was being held, not squeezed. As it was, all it could think was: 0000000!
The buzzard reached the valley and began to circle low over the Keep. As it gyred, a tiny figure detached itself from the leather harness on its back and, with great care, inched itself around the body and down to the talons. It reached the imprisoned pigeon, knelt on it and put its arms round the bird’s neck.
The buzzard skimmed low over a stone balcony, reared in the air, and let the pigeon go.
Bird and tiny man rolled and bounced across the flagstone in a trail of feathers, and lay still.
Eventually a voice from somewhere under the pigeon said: “Bugger…”
Urgent footsteps ran across the stones and the pigeon was lifted off Corporal Buggy Swires. He was a gnome, and barely six inches tall. On the other hand, as the head and only member of Ankh-Morpork City Watch’s Airborne Section, he spent most of his time so high that everyone looked small.
“Are you all right, Buggy?” said Commander Vimes.
“Not too bad, sir,” said Buggy, spitting out a feather. “But it wasn’t elegant, was it? I’ll do better next time. Trouble is, pigeons are too stupid to be steered—”
“What’ve you got me?”
“The Times sent this up from their cart, sir! I tracked it all the way!”
“Well done, Buggy!”
There was a flurry of wings and the buzzard landed on the battlements.
“And, er—what is his name?” Vimes added. The buzzard gave him the mad, distant look of all birds.
“She’s Morag, sir. Trained by the pictsies. Wonderful bird.”
“Was she the one we paid a crate of whiskey for?”
“Yes, sir, and worth every dram.”
The pigeon struggled in Vimes’s hand.
“You wait