Monstrous Regiment (Discworld, #31; Industrial Revolution, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

“Yeah, well, I met a sergeant who said an Igor put a man’s legs on backwards,” said Corporal Strappi. “What good’s that to a soldier, eh?” “Could advance and retreat at the thame time?”

“Thank you,” said Igor. “And I would like to give the picture a wipe, if it’th all the thame to you.” He produced a small cloth. “Wipe it?” said Strappi. “Is that allowed, Sergeant?” “What do you want to wipe it for, mister?” said Jackrum. “To remove the invithible demonth,” said Igor. “I can’t see any invis—” Strappi began and stopped. “Just let him, all right?” said Jackrum. “It’s one of their funny little ways.”

Polly sniffed at the tankard. The contents smelled like something she wouldn’t feed to pigs. She took a sip, and completely changed her opinion. She would feed it to pigs.

“Thith beer,” said Igor, on her right, “tastes of horthe pith.” Polly stood back. Even in a bar like this, that was killing talk. “Oh, you’d know, would you?” said the barman, looming over the boy. “Drunk horse piss, have you?” “Yeth,” said Igor. The barman stuck a fist in front of Igor’s face. “Now you listen to me, you lisping little—”

she had one joke: “What does a man stand up to do, a woman sit down to do, and a dog lift its leg to do?” And then, when everyone was too embarrassed to answer, she’d triumphantly shriek “Shake hands!” and fall over.

You needed time and good teeth to work your way through a slice of horse-bread, just like you needed a complete lack of imagination to eat a modern sausage.

“We have to steal our food?” said Maladict. “No, you can starve if that takes your fancy,” said the corporal. “I’ve starved a few times. There’s no future in it. Ate a man’s leg when we were snowed up in the Ibblestarn campaign but, fair’s fair, he ate mine.” He looked at their faces. “Well, it’s not on, is it, eating your own leg? You’d probably go blind.” “You swapped legs?” said Polly, horrified. “Yeah, me an’ Sergeant Hausegerda. It was his idea. Sensible man, the sergeant. That kept us alive for the week and by then the relief got through. We were certainly relieved about that. Oh, dear. Where’s my manners? How d’yer do, lads, my name’s Corporal Scallot. They call me Threeparts.” He held out his hook. “But that’s cannibalism!” said Tonker, backing away. “No it’s not, not officially, not unless you eat a whole person,” said Threeparts Scallot levelly. “Milit’ry rules.”

“Er . . . what that glass for, sir?” “It’s a monocle,” said the captain. “It helps me see you, for which I am eternally grateful. I always say that if I had two I’d make a spectacle of myself.”

“Your men speak up for you well, Captain.” “That’s because we’re not slaves, you bloody beet-eater,” growled one of the troopers. “Slaves? All my lads joined up of their own free will, turniphead.”

It took a special kind of man, she reflected, to cut his sword hand with his own sword.

It was for the other one, the little lesson that life sometimes rams home with a stick: you are not the only one watching the world, other people are also people, while you watch them they watch you, and they think about you while you think about them. The world isn’t just about you.

“I’m no donkey-walloper, as you know, Threeparts,” said Jackrum as he finished lashing the crutches behind the saddle, “but this is a hell of a good horse you’ve got here.” “Damn right, Sarge. You could feed a platoon for a week off’f it!” said the corporal.

“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!”

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 mare eyeballed and yellowtoothed her as Blouse mounted, but Polly had positioned herself carefully away from the uprights of the shelter. Thalacephalos wasn’t the sort to buck and kick. She was the sneaky kind, Polly could see, the sort that stepped on your

She moved her foot just as the hoof came down. But Thalacephalos, angry at being thwarted, turned, twisted, lowered her head, and bit Polly sharply on the rolled-up socks. “Bad horse!” said Blouse severely. “Sorry about that, Perks. I think he’s anxious to get to the fray! Oh, my word!” he added, looking down. “Are you all right, Perks?” “Well, he’s pulling a bit, sir—” said Polly, being dragged sideways. Blouse had gone white again. “But he’s bitten . . . he’s caught you by the . . . right on the . . .” The penny dropped. Polly looked down, and hastily remembered what she’d heard during numerous rule-free bar fights. “Oh . . . ooo . . . Argh . . . blimey! Right inna fruit! Aargh!” she lamented, and then, since it seemed a good idea at the time, brought both fists down heavily on the mare’s nose. The lieutenant fainted.

“Can I ask you something, Igor?” “Yeth, Ozz.” “What’re female Igors called, Igor?” Igor stumbled and kept moving. He was silent for a while, and then said: “All right, what did I do wrong?” “Sometimes you forget to lisp,” said Polly. “But mostly . . . it’s just a feeling. Little things about the way you move, maybe.” “The word you’re looking for is ‘Igorina,’” said Igorina. “We don’t lisp as much as the boys. It’s a style thing.” They continued in more silence until Polly said, “I thought it was bad enough cutting my hair—”

“You didn’t cut your hair?” “Actually, I just removed it,” said Igorina. “I put mine in my pack,” Polly went on, trying not to look at the stitches around Igorina’s head. “So did I,” said Igorina. “In a jar. It’s thtill growing.” Polly swallowed. You needed a lack of graphic imagination to talk about personal issues with an Igor.

Jade was rising over the grass. As she plodded nearer, they saw she was dragging a man by one foot. When she got closer, it became obvious that the man was dead. Living people have more head.

“Thir, thith man is dying,” said Igorina, who was kneeling by the man Sergeant Jackrum had so positively saved from choking. “He hath been poithoned!” “Hath he? By whom?” said Blouse. “Are you sure?” “The green foam coming out of hith mouth ith a definite clue, thir.” “What’s funny, Private Maladict?” said Blouse. The vampire chuckled. “Oh, sorry, sir. They say to spies, ‘if you’re caught, eat the documents,’ don’t they? A good way of making sure they don’t give away any secrets.” “But you’ve got the . . . soggy book in your hands, Private!” “Vampires can’t be poisoned that easily, sir,” said Maladict calmly. “It wath probably only fatal by mouth in any case, thir,” said Igorina. “Terrible stuff. Thtuff. He’th dead, thir. Nothing I can do.”

“What’s happening?” said Polly. “Dunno,” said Shufti. “Sarge and the rupert went off over that way with the prisoner, but no one tells us groans anything.” “It’s ‘grunts,’ I think,” said Wazzer, taking the tea.

“Asking nicely didn’t work, did it, sir? ‘Pretty please with sprinkles on top’ is not a recognized method of interrogation! You shouldn’t be here, sir! You should say, ‘Sergeant, find out what you can from the prisoner!’ and then go somewhere and wait until I tell you what I got out of him, sir!” “You did it again!” “What? What?” “You kicked him again!” “No, I didn’t!” “Sergeant, I gave you an order!” “And?” “Tea’s up!” said Polly cheerfully.

“Patrolling behind enemy lines is not spying, Sergeant. You must have done it in your time.” “More times than you could count, sir,” said Jackrum. “And I knew full well that if I got caught I was due a good kicking in the nadgers.

Maladict, emerging from the trees, gave a lazy salute. He was still wearing his blanket. “What are you doing out of uniform?” “I’m in uniform underneath, Sarge. We don’t want to be seen, right? Like this, we become part of the jungle!” “It’s a forest, Corporal! And without bloody uniforms, how the hell will we know our friends from our enemies?” Maladict lit a cigarette before he replied. “The way I see it, Sarge,” he said, “the enemy is everyone but us.”

with dumplings and herbs. It was magnificent. It was also a mystery. “I don’t recall us passing a cow, Private,” said Blouse as he handed his tin plate along for a second helping. “Er . . . no, sir.” “And yet you have acquired beef?” “Er . . . yes, sir. Er . . . when that writer man came up in his cart, well, when you were talking, er, I crept around and took a look inside . . .” “There’s a name for someone who does that sort of thing, Private,” said Blouse severely. “Yeah, it’s quartermaster, Shufti. Well done,” said Jackrum. “If that writer man gets hungry, he can always eat his words, eh, Lieutenant?” “Er . . . yes,” said Blouse carefully. “Yes. Of course. Good initiative, Private.” “Oh, I didn’t think it up, sir,” said Shufti brightly. “Sarge told me to.” Polly stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and swiveled her eyes from sergeant to lieutenant. “You teach looting, Sergeant?” said Blouse. There was a joint gasp from the squad. If this was the bar back at The Duchess, the regulars would have been hurrying out of the doors and Polly would have been helping her father get the bottles off the shelf. “Not looting, sir, not looting,” said Jackrum calmly, licking his spoon. “Under Duchess’s Regulations, Rule 611, Section 1[c], Paragraph i, sir, it would be plundering, said cart being the property of bloody Ankh-Morpork, sir, which is aiding and abetting the enemy. Plundering is allowed, sir.”

“You mean they provide aid and comfort to the enemy? Why?” “Better than starving, sir. Fact of life. It doesn’t always stop at washing, neither.” “Sergeant, there are young men here!” snapped Blouse, blushing. “They’ll have to find out about ironing and darning sooner or later, sir,” said Jackrum innocently.

“It w-was horrible, Sarge! One of them put her hand . . . on . . . on my socks!” “Something that doesn’t often happen, I’ll bet any man,” said Jackrum. “But you did a good job. Now, we’ll walk nice and quiet, and no more talking ’til I say, okay?”

“That guard was out cold!” said Polly. “Did you hit him?” “Y’see, I’m fat,” said Jackrum. “People don’t think fat men can fight. They think fat men are funny. They think wrong. Gave ’im a chop to the windpipe.”

“Well, a woman can carry a knife, can’t she?” “It’s a saber, Magda. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s a saber.” “But I’m only using it like a knife, Polly.” “It’s three feet long, Magda.” “Size isn’t important, Polly.” “No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please. That is an order.”

“Well done, sir!” said Polly. “Sorry, I want to be clear, sir,” said Tonker. “You have a date with a guard?” “Yes, and I’ll suggest we go somewhere dark and then, when I’ve got what I want, I shall break his neck,” said Blouse. “Isn’t that going a bit far on a first date?” said Tonker.

“Sir, you know you said you were going to steal a gate key off a guard and break his neck?” said Polly. “Indeed.” “Do you know how to break a man’s neck, sir?” “I read a book on martial arts, Perks,” said Blouse, a little severely. “But you haven’t actually done it, sir?” “Well, no! I was at HQ, and you are not allowed to practice on real people, Perks.” “You see, the person whose neck you want to break will have a weapon at that moment and you, sir, won’t,” said Polly. “I have tried out the basic principle on a rolled-up blanket,” said Blouse reproachfully. “It seemed to work very well.” “Was the blanket struggling and making loud gurgling noises and kicking you in the socks, sir?” “The socks?” said Blouse, puzzled. “In fact, I think your other idea would be better, sir,” said Polly hurriedly. “Yes . . . my, er . . . other idea . . . which one was that, exactly?” “The one where we escape from the washhouse via the clothes-drying area, sir, after silently disabling three guards, sir. There’s a kind of moving room down the corridor, sir, which gets winched all the way to the roof. Two guards go up there with the women, sir, and there’s another guard up on the roof. Acting together, we’d take out each unsuspecting guard, which would be more certain than you against an armed man, with all due respect, sir, and that would leave us very well positioned to go anywhere in the Keep via the rooftops, sir. Well done, sir!”

“We know how it is, ladies,” the guard went on. “Your menfolk away and all. It’s as bad for us, too. I can’t remember when I last kissed my wife.” “And I can’t remember when I last kissed his wife, either,” said the other guard.

There was a thing with a funnel and a handle and some mysterious screws.* There were a couple of rolling pins, a lettuce strainer, some ladles . . . and there were forks. Lots of small forks. Polly felt let down. It was ridiculous to expect that someone imprisoning people in some ad hoc cell would leave in all the ingredients to effect an escape but, nevertheless, she felt that some universal rule had been broken. They had nothing better than a club, really. The toasting forks might prick, the lettuce strainer might pack a punch, and the rolling pins were at least a traditional female weapon, but all you could do with the thing with a funnel and a handle and mysterious screws was baffle people.

There was some discussion about whether being fed meant you weren’t going to be executed, until someone pointed out the tradition of the Last Hearty Meal. Igorina gave it as her professional opinion that the stew was not only hearty but lungy and livery, too. But at least it was hot.

“The last Abomination from Nuggan was against jigsaw puzzles. They break the world into pieces, he says. That’s making people think, at last. The army may be crazy, but at least it’s crazy by numbers. It’s reliably insane.

But Willie never minded, not even when I made it to sergeant. And then he got killed at Sepple, right next to me.” “I’m sorry.” “You don’t have to be, you didn’t kill him,” said Jackrum evenly. “But I stepped over his body and skewered the bugger that did.

Someone had been drawing in the gents’ privy again. Polly couldn’t wash it off, so she contented herself with correcting the anatomy.