Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [52]
“But whose side’s he on, sir?” he said.
“Sergeant, I am sure you are not a stupid man,” said Blouse as, behind him, foam poured over the edge of the bowl and flopped onto the floor. “There are desperate deserters abroad. Our borders appear to be sufficiently unguarded that enemy cavalry operate forty miles inside ‘our fair country.’ And High Command appears to be so desperate, yes, desperate, Sergeant, that even half a dozen untrained and, frankly, very young men must go to the front.”
The foam had a life of its own now. Polly hesitated.
“Hot towel first, please, Perks,” said Blouse.
“Yessir. Sorry, sir. Forgot, sir,” said Polly, panic rising. She had a vague recollection of walking past the barber shop in Munz. Hot towel on face. Right.
She grabbed a small towel, tipped boiling water onto it, wrung it out, and dropped it on the lieutenant’s face. He did not actually scream, as such.
“Aaaaagh something else worries me, Sergeant.”
“Yessir?”
“The cavalry must have apprehended Corporal Strappi. I cannot see how else they found out about our men.”
“Good thinking, sir,” said the sergeant, watching Polly apply the lather across Blouse’s mouth and nose.
“I do hope they didn’t pff torture the poor man,” said the lieutenant. Jackrum was silent on that issue, but meaningfully so. Polly wished he wouldn’t keep glancing at her.
“But why would a deserter pff head straight for the pff front?” said Blouse.
“Makes sense, sir, for an old soldier. Especially a political.”
“Really?”
“Trust me on that, sir,” said Jackrum. Behind Blouse, Polly brushed the razor up and down the red stone. It was already as slick as ice.
“But our boys, Sergeant, are not old ‘soldiers.’ It takes pff two weeks to turn a recruit into a ‘fighting man,’” said the lieutenant.
“They’re promising material, sir. I could do it in a couple of days, sir,” said Jackrum. “Perks?”
Polly nearly sliced her thumb off. “Yes, Sarge,” she quavered.
“Do you think you could kill a man today?”
Polly glanced at the razor. The edge glowed.
“I’m sorry to say I think I could, sir!”
“There you have it, sir,” said Jackrum with a lopsided grin. “There’s something about these lads, sir. They’re quick.” He walked behind Blouse, took the razor from Polly’s grateful hand without a word, and said: “There’s a few matters we ought to discuss, sir, private like. I think Perks here ought to get some rest.”
“Of course, Sergeant. ‘Pas devant les soldat jeune,’ eh?”
“And them too, sir,” said Jackrum. “You’re dismissed, Perks.”
Polly walked away, her right hand still trembling. Behind her, she heard Blouse sigh and say: “These are tricky times, Sergeant. Command has never been so burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times the commander must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the hawk and see every detail.”
“Yessir,” said Jackrum, gliding the razor down a cheek. “And if he acts like a common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon.”
“Er…well said, Sergeant.”
The charcoal-burner and his wife were buried to the accompaniment of, to Polly’s lack of surprise, a small prayer from Wazzer. It asked the Duchess to intercede with the god Nuggan to give eternal rest and similar items to the departed. Polly had heard it many times before; she’d wondered how the process worked.
She’d never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her mother was dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god like that was not worth a prayer.
But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes screwed up and hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled with such belief that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed, and, finally, after the ringing “amen,” amazed that the world appeared no different than before. For a minute or two, it had been a better place…
There was a cat in the hut. It cowered under the crude bed and spat at anyone who came close.
“All the