Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [73]
“Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency,” Blouse began, but he said it as if he didn’t believe it and didn’t care who knew.
“No, sir. It doesn’t really. It’s better than being lied to,” said Polly. She changed her voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was being scolded. “It’s evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please.”
Some harmonic of that must had found a home in an old part of Blouse’s brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a hand.
“We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet.”
“I think we all know that, sir, but it’s good to hear you say it,” said Polly, giving him an encouraging smile.
That seemed to work, too. “I suppose there is no harm in at least being civil to the wretched fellow,” said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. “He may give away valuable information under cunning questioning.”
Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man in prayer.
“Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Permission denied, Sergeant,” said Blouse. “I’d like him to live and don’t want to lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and drive it up here.”
Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to recognize it; it meant that Jackrum had already made plans.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “Come on, Perks.”
Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted slope. Then, after a while, he said: “D’you know why them troopers found our little nook, Perks?”
“No, Sarge.”
“The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. There wasn’t as if there was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it.”
Polly gave this a few seconds’ thought.
“Steam, Sarge?”
“Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti’s fault. The gallopers weren’t any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen crossbows, at least. That’s clever, for a cavalryman.”
“Well done, Sarge.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I was rupert, lad,” said Jackrum easily.
“Sorry, Sarge.”
“I see you’re learnin’ how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make sure they gives you the right orders, see? You’ll make a good sergeant, Perks.”
“Don’t want to, Sarge.”
“Yeah, right,” said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.
After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and headed toward the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a notebook, but he stood up hurriedly when he saw them.
“It’d be a good idea to get off the track,” he said as soon as they approached. “There are a lot of patrols, I understand.”
“Zlobenian patrols, sir?” said Jackrum.
“Yes. In theory, this—” he pointed to the flag that hung limply from the cart—“should keep us safe, but everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren’t you Sergeant Jack Ram?”
“Jackrum, sir. And I’ll thank you for not writing my name down in your little book, sir.”
“Sorry, Sergeant, but that’s my job,” said de Worde breezily. “I have to write things down.”
“Well, sir, soldierin’ is my job,” said Jackrum, climbing onto the cart and gathering up the reins. “But you’ll note how at this moment in time I am not killin’ you. Let’s go, eh?”
Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was full of boxes and equipment, and while it may once have been neatly organized, that organization was now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the property of a man. Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen dozed on a perch in their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of them opened one eye and lazily went “Lollollop?” which is pigeon for “Duh?”
Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like—she leaned closer—“Capt. Horace Calumney’s Patent Field Biscuits,” and “Dried Stew.” As she was musing that Shufti would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of these boxes, a bundle of