"Where's the proper armour?"

"Oh, no! There's an arrow hole in this one!"

"What dis? Nuffin fits a troll!"

A small, leathery old man was at bay behind the table, cowering under the ferocity of Maladict's glare. He wore a red uniform jacket, done up badly, with a corporal's stripes, stained and faded, on the sleeve. The left breast was covered in medals.

One arm ended in a hook. One eye was covered by a patch.

"We're going to be pikemen, the lieutenant said!" said the vampire. "That means a sword and pike per man, right? And a shield if there's an arrow storm, right? And a heavy helmet, right?"

"Wrong! You can't yell at me like that!" said the man. "See these medals? I'm a - "

A hand descended from above and lifted him over the table. Carborundum held the man close to his face and nodded.

"Yah, can see 'em, mister," he rumbled. "And...?"

The recruits had fallen silent.

Tut him down, Carborundum," said Poily. "Gently."

"Why?"

"He's got no legs."

The troll focused. Then, with exaggerated care, he lowered the old soldier to the ground. There were a couple of little tapping sounds as the two wooden peg-legs touched the planking.

"Sorry about dat," he said.

The little man steadied himself against the table and shuffled his arms round a couple of crutches.

"All right," he said gruffly. "No harm done. But watch it, another time!"

"But this is ridiculous!" said Maladict, turning to Polly and waving a hand at the heap of rags and bent metal. "You couldn't equip three men out of this mess. There's not even any decent boots!"

Polly looked along the length of the table. "We're supposed to be well equipped," she said to the one-eyed man. "We're supposed to be the finest army in the world. That's what we're told. And aren't we winning?"

The man looked at her. Inside, she stared at herself. She hadn't meant to speak out like that.

"So they say," he said, in a blank kind of way.

"And w-what do you say?" said Wazzer. He'd picked up one of the few swords. It was stained and notched.

The corporal glanced up at Carborundum, and then at Maladict.

"I'm not s-stupid, you know!" Wazzer went on, red in the face and trembling. "All this stuff is off d-dead men!"

"Well, it's a shame to waste good boots - " the man began.

"We're the last o-ones, aren't we?" said Wazzer. "The last r-recruits!"

The peg-legged corporal eyed the distant doorway, and saw no relief heading in his direction.

"We've got to stay here all night," said Maladict. "Night!" he went on, causing the old corporal to wobble on his crutches. "When who knows what evil flits through the shadows, dealing death on silent wings, seeking a hapless victim who - "

"Yeah, all right, all right, I did see your ribbon," said the corporal. "Look, I'm closing up after you've gone. I just run the stores, that's all. That's all I do, honest! I'm on one-tenth pay, me, on account of the leg situation, and I don't want trouble!"

"And this is all you've got?" said Maladict. "Don't you have a little something... put by..."

"Are you saying I'm dishonest?" said the corporal hotly.

"Let's say I'm open to the idea that you might not be," said the vampire. "C'mon, corporal, you said we're the last to go. What are you saving up? What've you got?"

The corporal sighed, and swung with surprising speed over to a door, which he unlocked. "You'd better come and look," he said. "But it's not good..."

It was worse. They found a few more breastplates, but one was sliced in half and another was one big dent. A shield was in two pieces, too. There were bent swords and crushed helmets, battered hats and torn shirts.

"I done what I can," sighed the corporal. "I hammered stuff out and washed out the clothes but it's been weeks since I had any coal for the forge and you can't do nothin' about the swords without a forge. It's been months since I got any new weapons and, let me tell you, since the dwarfs buggered off the steel we've been getting is crap anyway." He rubbed his nose. "I know you think quartermasters are a thieving bunch and I won't say we might not skim a bit off the top when things are going well, but this stuff? A beetle couldn't make a living off this." He sniffed again. "Ain't been paid in three months, neither. I guess one-tenth of nothing is not as bad as nothing, but I was never that good at philosophy."

Then he brightened-up. "Got plenty to eat, at least," he said. "If you like horse, that is. Personally I prefer rat, but there's no accounting for taste."

"I can't eat horse!" said Shufti.

"Ah, you'd be a rat man?" said the corporal, leading the way out into the big room.

"No!"

"You'll learn to be one. You'll all learn," said the little one-tenth corporal, with an evil grin. "Ever eaten scubbo? No? Nothing like a bowl of scubbo when you're hungry. You can put anything in scubbo. Pork, beef, mutton, rabbit, chicken, duck... anything. Even rats, if you've got 'em. It's food for the marching man, scubbo. Got some on the boil out there right now. You can have some of that, if you like."

The squad brightened up.

Thoundth good," said Igor. "What'th in it?"

"Boiling water," said the corporal. "It's what we call 'blind scubbo'. But there's going to be old horse in a minute unless you've got something better. Could do with some seasonings, at least. Who's looking after the rupert?"

They looked at one another.

The corporal sighed. "The officer," he explained. "They're all called Rupert or Rodney or Tristram or something. They get better grub than you do. You could try scrounging something at the inn."

"Scrounge?" said Polly.

The old man rolled his one eye.

"Yeah. Scrounge. Scrounge, nick, have a lend of, borrow, thieve, lift, acquire, purrrr-loin. That's what you'll learn, if you're gonna survive this war. Which they say we're winnin', o' course. Always remember that." He spat vaguely in the direction of the fire, possibly missing the cooking pot only by accident. "Yeah, an' all the lads I see coming back down the road walking hand in hand with Death, they probably overdid the celebrating, eh? So easy to take your hand right off if you open a bottle of cham-pag-nee the wrong way, eh? I see you've got an Igor with you, you lucky devils. Wish we'd had one when I went off to battle. I wouldn't be kept awake by woodworm if we had."

"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 had 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."

All eyes turned to the big pot bubbling on the fire.

"Horse," said Scallot. "Ain't got nothing but horse. I told you. I wouldn't lie to you, boys. Now kit yerselves up with the best yer can find. What's your name, stone man?"

"Carborundum," said the troll.

"Got a wee bit o' decent snacking anthracite saved up out the back, then, and some official red paint for you 'cos I never met a troll yet that wanted to wear a jacket. The rest of you, mark what I'm telling yer: fill up with grub. Fill yer pack with grub. Fill yer shako with grub. Fill yer boots with soup. If any of you run across a pot of mustard, you hang on to it¨C it's amazin' what mustard'll help down. And look after your mates. And keep out of the way of officers, 'cos they ain't healthy. That's what you learn in the army. The enemy dun't really want to fight you, 'cos the enemy is mostly blokes like you who want to go home with all their bits still on. But officers'll get you killed." Scallot looked round at them. "There. I've said it. And if there's a political amongst you: mister, you can go an' tell tales and to hell with you."

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 there's 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 sabre. 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 Defence.

"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 of days, but already an instinct had developed. In summary, it was this: lie to officers. "Yes, sir," she said.

"Getting everything they need?"

The aforesaid instinct weighed the chances of their getting anything more than they'd got already as a result of a complaint, and Polly said, "Yes, sir."

"Of course, it is not up to us to question our orders," said Blouse.

"Wasn't doing so, sir," said Polly, momentarily perplexed.

"Even though at times we might feel - " the lieutenant began, and started again. "Obviously warfare is a very volatile thing, and the tide of battle can change in a moment."

"Yessir," said Polly, still staring. The man had a small spot where his spectacles had rubbed on his nose.

The lieutenant seemed to have something on his mind, too. "Why did you join up, Perks?" he said, groping on the table and finding his spectacles at the third attempt. He had woollen gloves on, with the fingers cut out.

"Patriotic duty, sir!" said Polly promptly.

"You lied about your age?"

"Nosir!"

"Just patriotic duty, Perks?"

There were lies, and then there were lies. Polly shifted awkwardly. "Would quite like to find out what's happened to my brother Paul, sir," she said.

"Ah, yes." Lieutenant Blouse's face, not a picture of happiness to begin with, suddenly bore a hunted look.

"Paul Perks, sir," Polly prompted.

"I'm, er, not really in a position to know, Perks," said Blouse. "I was working as a... I was, er, in charge of, er, I was engaged in special work back at headquarters, er... obviously I don't know all the soldiers, Perks. Older brother, w - is he?"

"Yessir. Joined the Ins-and-Outs last year, sir."

"And, er, have you any younger brothers?" said the lieutenant.

"No, sir."

"Ah, well. That's something to be thankful for, at any rate," said Blouse. It was a strange thing to say. Polly's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

"Sir?" she said.

And then she felt an unpleasant sensation of movement. Something was slipping slowly down the inside of her thigh.

"Anything the matter, Perks?" said the lieutenant, catching her expression.

"Nosir! Just a... a bit of cramp, sir! All the marching, sir!" She clamped both hands around one knee and edged backwards towards the door. "I'll just go and... go and see to your supper, sir!"

"Yes, yes," said Blouse, staring at her leg. "Yes... please..."

Polly paused outside the door to pull her socks up, retucked the end of one under her belt as an anchor, and hurried down to the inn's kitchens. A look told her all she wanted to know. Food hygiene here consisted of making a half-hearted effort not to gob in the stew.

"I want onions, salt, pepper - " she began.

The maid who was stirring the soot-black pot on the soot-black stove glanced up, realized she had been addressed by a man, and hastily pushed her damp hair out of her eyes.

"It's stoo, sir," she announced.

"I don't want any. I just want the stuff," said Polly. "For the officer," she added.

The kitchen maid pointed a soot-blackened thumb to a nearby door and gave Polly what she probably thought was a saucy grin.

"I'm sure you can have anything that takes your fancy, sir," she said.

Polly glanced at the two shelves that had been dignified by the name of pantry, and grabbed a couple of large onions, one in each hand.

"May I?" she said.

"Oh, sir!" giggled the maid. "I do hope you're not one of them coarse soldiers who'd take advantage of a helpless maiden, sir!"

"No, er... no. I'm not one of them," said Polly.

"Oh." This didn't seem to be the right answer. The maid put her head on one side. "Have you had much to do with young women, sir?" she asked.

"Er... yes. Quite a lot," said Polly. "Er... lots, really."

"Really?" The maid drew closer. She smelled mostly of sweat, tinged with soot. Polly raised the onions as a kind of barrier.

"I'm sure there's things you'd like to learn," the maid purred.

"I'm sure there's something you wouldn't!" said Polly, and turned and ran.

As she made it out into the cold night air, a plaintive voice behind her called out, "I'm off at eight o'clock!"

Ten minutes later, Corporal Scallot was impressed. Polly got the feeling this did not happen often. Shufti had wedged an old breastplate beside the fire, had hammered some slabs of horse-meat until they were tender, dipped them in some flour, and was frying them. The sliced onions sizzled next to them.

"I always just boil 'em," said Scallot, watching him with interest.

"You just lose all the flavour if you do that," said Shufti.

"Hey, lad, the stuff I've ate, you wouldn't want to taste it!"

"Saute stuff first, especially the onions," Shufti went on. "Improves the flavour. Anyway, when you boil you ought to boil slow. That's what me mam always says. Roast fast, boil slow, okay? This isn't bad meat, for horse. Shame to boil it."

"Amazin'," said Scallot. "We could've done with you in Ibblestarn. The sarge was a good man but a bit, you know, tough in the leg?"

"A marinade would probably have helped," said Shufti absently, flipping over a slice of meat with a broken sword. He turned to Polly. "Was there any more stuff in the larder, Ozz? I can make up some stock for tomorrow if we can - "

"I'm not going in that kitchen again!" said Polly.

"Ah, that'd be Roundheels Molly?" said Corporal Scallot, looking up and grinning. "She's sent many a lad on his way rejoicing." He dipped a ladle in the boiling scubbo pot next to the pan. Disintegrated grey meat seethed in a few inches of water.

"That'll do for the rupert," he said, and picked up a stained bowl.

"Well, he did say he wanted to eat what the men eat," said Polly.

"Oh, that kind of officer," said Scallot uncharitably. "Yeah, some young ones try that stuff, if'n they've been readin' the wrong books. Some of 'em tries to be friends, the bastards." He spat expertly between the two pans. "Wait 'til he tries what the men eat."

"But if we're having steak and onions - "

"No thanks to the likes o' him," said the corporal, ladling the slurry into the bowl. "The Zlobenian troops get one pound of beef and a pound of flour a day minimum, plus fat pork or butter and half a pound of pease. A pint o' molasses sometimes, too. We get stale horse-bread and what we scrounge. He'll have scubbo and like it."

"No fresh vegetables, no fruit," said Shufti. "That's a very binding diet, corp."

"Yeah, well, once battle commences I reckon you'll find constipation's the last thing on your mind," said Scallot. He reached up, pushed some rags aside, and pulled down a dusty bottle from a shelf.

"Rupert's not having none o' this, neither," he said. "Got it off'f the baggage of the last officer that went through, but I'll share it with you, 'cos you's good lads." He casually knocked the top of the bottle off against the edge of the chimney. "'s only sherry, but it'll make you drunk."

"Thanks, corp," said Shufti, and took the bottle. He sloshed a lot over the sizzling meat.

"Hey, that's good drink you're wastin'!" said Scallot, making a grab for it.

"No, it'll spice up the meat a fair treat," said Shufti, trying to hang on to the bottle. "It'll - sugar!"

Half the liquid had gone on the fire as the two hands fought for it, but that wasn't what had felt like a small steel rod shooting through Polly's head. She looked round at the rest of the squad, who didn't appear to have -

Maladict winked at her and made a tiny gesture with his head towards the other end of the room, and strolled in that direction. Polly followed.

Maladict always found something to lounge against. He relaxed in the shadows, looked up at the rafters, and said: "Now, I say a man who knows how to cook is no less of a man for that. But a man who says 'sugar' when he swears? Have you ever heard a man say that? You haven't. I can tell."

So it was you who gave me the socks, thought Polly. You know about me, I can tell you do, but do you know about Lofty? And maybe Shufti was very politely brought up... but one look at Maladict's knowing smile made her decide not to try that road. Besides, the moment you looked at Shufti with the idea that maybe he was a girl, you saw that he was. No man would say "Sugar!" Three girls now...

"And I'm pretty sure about Lofty, too," said Maladict.

"What're you going to do about... them?" she said.

"Do? Why should I do anything about anyone?" said Maladict. "I'm a vampire officially pretending not to be one, right? I'm the last person who'll say anyone has to play the hand they were dealt. So good luck to... him, say I. But you might like to take him aside later on and have a word with him. You know... man to man."

Polly nodded. Was there a knowingness to that comment? "I'd better go and take the lieutenant his scubbo," she said. "And... blast it, I forgot about his laundry."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, old chap," said Maladict, and flashed a little smile. "The way things are going around here, Igor's probably a washerwoman in disguise."

Polly did the laundry, in the end. She wasn't sure that she'd be able to dodge Molly a second time, and there wasn't that much of it. Afterwards she hung it in front of the fire, which was roaring.

The horse had been surprisingly good, but not as surprising as Blouse's reaction to the scubbo. He had sat there in his evening dress uniform - wearing special clothes just to sit down and eat all by yourself was a new one on Polly - and had yummed it up and sent her back with the bowl for more. The meat had been boiled white and there was scum on the top. The squad wondered what kind of life an officer could have led that inclined him to like scubbo.

"Dun't know much about him," said Scallot, upon questioning. "He's been here two weeks, frettin' to get to the war. Brought a whole cartload of books with him, I heard. Looks like a typical rupert to me. They were all behind the door when the chins were handed out. A sergeant who went through said he's not really a soldier at all, just some wonk from headquarters that's good at sums."

"Oh, great," said Maladict, who was brewing his coffee by the fire. The little engine gurgled and hissed.

"I don't think he can see very well without his glasses," said Polly. "But he's very, er, polite."

"Not been a rupert for long, then," said Scallot. "They're more 'Hey there! You! Damn your eyes, fwah fwah fwah!' I seen your sergeant before, though, old Jackrum. Been everywhere, he has. Everyone knows old Jackrum. He was with us in the snow up at Ibblestarn."

"How many people did he eat?" said Maladict, to general laughter. The dinner had been good, and there had still been enough sherry for a glass each.

"Let's just say I heard he didn't come down much thinner than when he went up," said Scallot.

"And Corporal Strappi?" said Polly.

"Never seen him before, either," said Scallot. "Cross-grained little bugger. Political, I'd say. Why's he gone and left you here? Got a nice cushy bed in the inn, has he?"

"I hope he's not g-going to be our sergeant," said Wazzer.

"Him? Why?" said Scallot.

Polly volunteered the events of earlier in the evening. To her surprise, Scallot laughed.

"They're trying to get rid of the old bugger again, are they?" he said. "That's a laugh! Bless you, it'll take more'n a bunch of gawains and rodneys to lever Jackrum out of his own army. Why, he's been court-martialled twice. He got off both times. And d'you know he once saved General Froc's life? He's been everywhere, got the goods on everyone, knows more strings than me and I know a good few, mark my words. If he wants to march with you tomorrow he will, and no skinny little rupert'll get in his way."

"So what was a man like that doing as a recruiting officer?" said Maladict sharply.

"'cos he got his leg cut open in Zlobenia and bit the sawbones who tried to look at it when the wound went bad, cleverdick," retorted Scallot. "Cleaned it out himself with maggots and honey, then drank a pint of brandy and sewed himself up and lay on his bed with a fever for a week. But the general got him, I heard, came and visited him while he was too weak to protest and told him he was going on the drumming for a year and no argument. Not even Froc hisself would hand him his papers, not after Jackrum'd carried him on his back for fourteen miles through enemy lines - "

The door swung open and Sergeant Jackrum walked in, tucking his hands into his belt.

"Don't bother to salute, lads," he said, as they turned guiltily. "Evening, Threeparts. Nice to see nearly all of you again, you artful ol' god-dodger. Where's Corporal Strappi?"

"Haven't seen him all evening, sarge," said Maladict.

"Didn't he come in here with you?"

"No, sarge. We thought he was with you."

Not a muscle moved on Jackrum's face. "I see," he said. "Well, you heard the lieutenant. The boat leaves at midnight. We should be well down the Kneck by Wednesday's dawn. Get a few hours' sleep if you can. Tomorrow's going to be a long day, if you're lucky."

And with that, he turned and went out again. Wind howled outside, and was cut off when the door shut. We'll be well down the Kneck, Polly noted. Well done, Threeparts.

"Missing a corporal?" said Scallot. "Now there's a thing. Usually it's a recruit that goes ay-wole. Well, you heard the sergeant, boys. Time to wash up and turn in."

There was a washroom and latrine, in a rough and ready fashion. Polly found a moment when she and Shufti were in it alone. She'd racked her brains about how best to raise the subject, but as it turned out just a look was all it took.

"It was when I volunteered to do the supper, wasn't it?" Shufti mumbled, staring into the stone sink, which had moss growing in it.

"That was a clue, yes," said Polly.

"A lot of men cook, you know!" said Shufti hotly.

"Yes, but not soldiers, and not enthusiastically," said Polly. "They don't do marinades."

"Have you told anybody?" mumbled Shufti, red in the face.

"No," said Polly, which was, after all, strictly true. "Look, you were good, you had me fooled right up until 'sugar'."

"Yes, yes, I know," Shufti whispered. "I can do the belching and the walking stupidly and even the nose-picking, but I wasn't brought up to swear like you men!"

Us men, thought Polly. Oh, boy.

"We're the coarse and licentious soldiery. I'm afraid it's shit or bust," she said. "Er... why are you doing this?"

Shufti stared into the dank stone sink as if strange green slime was really interesting, and mumbled something.

"Sorry, what was that?" said Polly.

"Going to find my husband," said Shufti, only a little bit louder.

"Oh, dear. How long had you been married?" said Polly, without thinking.

"...not married yet..." said Shufti, in a voice as tall as an ant.

Polly glanced down at the plumpness of Shufti. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. She tried to sound reasonable. "Don't you think that you should - "

"Don't you tell me to go home!" said Shufti, rounding on her. "There's nothing for me back home except disgrace! I'm not going home! I'm going to the war and I'm going to find him! No one's going to tell me not to, Ozzer! No one! This has happened before, anyway! And it ended right! There's a song about it and everything!"

"Oh, that," said Polly. "Yes. I know." Folk singers should be shot. "What I was going to say was that you might find this helps the disguise..." She produced a soft cylinder of woolly socks from her pack and wordlessly handed it over. It was a dangerous thing to do, she knew, but now she was feeling a kind of responsibility to those whose sudden strange fancy hadn't been followed by a plan.

On the way back to her palliasse she caught sight of Wazzer hanging his little picture of the Duchess on a handy hook in the crumbling wall above his mattress. He looked around furtively, failed to spot Polly in the shadows of the doorway, and bobbed a very quick curtsy to the picture. A curtsy, not a bow.

Polly frowned. Four. She was barely surprised, now. And she had one pair of clean socks left. This was soon going to be a barefoot army.

Polly could tell the time by the fire. You got a feel for how long a fire burned, and the logs on this one were grey with ash over the glow beneath. It was gone eleven, she decided.

By the sound of it, no one was getting any sleep. She'd got up after an hour or two of lying on the crackling straw mattress, staring at darkness and listening to things move about underneath her; she'd have stayed on it for longer, but something in the straw seemed to want to push her leg out of the way. Besides, she didn't have any dry blankets. There were blankets in the barracks, but Threeparts had advised against them on account of their carrying, as he put it, "the Itch".

The corporal had left a candle alight. Polly had read Paul's letter again, and taken another look at the piece of printed paper rescued from the muddy road. The words were fractured and she wasn't sure about all of them, but she didn't like the sound of any of them. "Invas" had a particularly unpleasant ring to it.

And then there was the third piece of paper. She couldn't help that. It had been a complete accident. She'd done Blouse's laundry and of course you went through the pockets before you washed things, because anyone who'd ever tried to unroll a soggy, bleached sausage that'd once been a banknote didn't want to do it twice. And there had been this folded piece of paper. Admittedly, she needn't have unfolded it and, having unfolded it, needn't have read it. But there are some things that you just do.

It was a letter. Presumably Blouse had shoved it in a pocket and forgotten about it when he'd changed his shirt. She needn't read it again but, by candlelight, she did.

My Dearest Emmeline,

Fame and Fortune await! After only eight years as a 2nd Lieutenant I have now been promoted and am to have a command! Of course this will mean that there will be no officer left in the Adjutant-General's Blanket's, Bedding and Horse Fodder Department, but I have explained my new filing system to Cpl Drebb and I believe he is Sound.

You know I cannot go into matters of detail, but I believe this will be a very exciting prospect and I am anxious to be "at the Foe". I am bold enough to hope that the name of Blouse will go down in military history. In the meantime, I am brushing up my sword drill and it is definitely all "coming back" to me. Of course, the promotion brings with it no less than One Shilling extra "per Diem", plus Three Pence fodder allowance. To this end I have purchased a "charger" from Mr "Honest" Jack Slacker, a most entertaining gentleman, although I fear that his description of my steed's "prowess" may have been prone to some exaggeration. Nevertheless, I am "moving up" at last and if Fate smiles on me this will hurry forward the day when I can

And that was it, fortunately. After some thought, Polly went and carefully damped the letter, then dried it quickly over the remains of the fire and slipped it into the pocket of the washed shirt. Blouse might scold her for not removing it before washing, but she doubted it. -

A blanket-counter with a new filing system. An ensign for eight years, in a war where promotion could be rather fast. A man who put inverted commas round any word or phrase he thought of as even slightly "racy". Brushing up on his "sword drill". And so short-sighted he'd bought a horse from Jack Slacker, who went around all the horse fairs' bargain bins and sold winded old screws that dropped a leg before you'd got home.

Our leader.

They were losing the war. Everyone knew that, but nobody would say it. It was as if they felt that if the words weren't said out loud then it wasn't really happening. They were losing the war and this squad, untrained and untried, fighting in dead men's boots, could only help them lose it faster. Half of them were girls! Because of some bloody stupid song, Shufti was wandering off into a war to look for the father of her child, and that was a desperate errand for a girl even in peacetime. And Lofty was trailing after her boy, which would probably be romantic right up until five minutes into a battle. And she...

...well, yes. She'd heard the song, too. So what? Paul was her brother. She'd always kept an eye on him, even when she was small. Mother was always busy, everyone was always busy at The Duchess, so Polly had become a big sister to a brother fifteen months older than her. She'd taught him to blow his nose, taught him how to form letters, went and found him when crueller boys had got him lost in the woods. Running after Paul was a duty that had become a habit.

And then... well, it wasn't the only reason. When her father died The Duchess would be lost to her side of the family if there was no male to inherit. That was the law, plain and simple. Nugganatic law said that men could inherit "the Things of Men" such as land, buildings, money and all domestic animals except cats. Women could inherit "the Things of Women", which were mostly small items of personal jewellery and spinning wheels passed from mothers to daughters. They certainly couldn't inherit a large, famous tavern.

So The Duchess would go to Paul if he was alive, or if he was dead it was allowable for it to go to Polly's husband if she was married. And since Polly saw no prospect of that, she needed a brother. Paul could happily carry barrels around for the rest of his life; she would run The Duchess. But if she was left alone, a woman with no man, then at best all she'd get was maybe the chance to go on living there while the deeds went to cousin Vlopo, who was a drunkard.

Of course, all that wasn't the reason. Certainly not. But it was a reason, all the same. The reason was, simply, Paul. She'd always found him and brought him home.

She looked at the shako in her hands. There had been helmets, but since they all had arrow holes or gaping rips in them the squad had wordlessly gone for the softer hats. You'd die anyway, and at least you wouldn't have a headache. The shako's badge showed the regimental symbol of a flaming cheese. Maybe one day she'd find out why. Polly put it on, picked up her pack and the small bag of laundry, and stepped out into the night. The moon was gone, the clouds had come back. She was drenched by the time she'd crossed the square; the rain was coming horizontally.

She shoved open the inn door and saw, by the light of one guttering candle... chaos. Clothing was strewn across the flagstones, cupboards were hanging open. Jackrum was coming down the stairs, cutlass in one hand, lantern in the other.

"Oh, it's you, Perks," he said. "They've cleaned the place out and buggered off. Even Molly. I heard 'em go. Pushing a cart, by the sound of it. What're you doing here?"

"Batman, sarge," said Polly, shaking water off her hat.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Go and wake him up, then. He's snoring like a sawmill. I hope to hell the boat's still there."

"Why'd they bug - scarper, sarge?" said Polly and thought: Sugar! If it comes to it, I don't swear, either! But the sergeant didn't appear to notice.

He gave her what is known as an old-fashioned look; this one had dinosaurs in it. "Got wind of something, I don't doubt," he said. "Of course, we're winning the war, you know."

"Ah. Oh. And we're not going to be invaded at all, I expect," said Polly, with equally exaggerated care.

"Quite right. I detest those treacherous devils who'd have us believe that a vast army is about to sweep right across the country any day now," said Jackrum.

"Er... no sign of Corporal Strappi, sarge?"

"No, but I haven't turned over every stone yet - ssh!"

Polly froze, and strained to listen. There were hoofbeats, getting louder as they approached, and changing from thuds into the ringing sound of horseshoes on cobbles.

"Cavalry patrol," Jackrum whispered, putting the lantern down on the bar. "Six or seven horses."

"Ours?"

"I bleedin' doubt it."

The clattering slowed, and came to a stop outside.

"Keep 'em talking," said Jackrum, reaching down and sliding the door's bolt across. He turned and headed towards the rear of the inn.

"What? What about?" whispered Polly. "Sarge?"

Jackrum had vanished. Polly heard murmuring outside the door, followed by a couple of sharp knocks.

She threw off her jacket. She wrenched the shako off her head and tossed it behind the bar. Now she wasn't a soldier, at least. And, as the door was shaken against the bolt, she saw something white lying in the debris. It was a terrible temptation...

The door burst open at the second blow, but the soldiers didn't immediately enter. Lying under the bar, struggling to put the petticoat on over rolled-up trousers, Polly tried to make sense of the sounds. As far as she could tell from the rustles and thuds, anyone waiting inside the doorway with ambush in mind would have been briefly and terminally sorry. She tried to count the invaders; it sounded as though there were at least three. In the tense silence, the sound of a voice speaking in normal tones came as a shock.

"We heard the bolt slide across. That means you're in here somewhere. Make it easy on yourself. We don't want to have to come and find you."

I don't want you to either, Polly thought. I'm not a soldier! Go away! And then the next thought was: What do you mean, you're not a soldier? You took the shilling and kissed the picture, didn't you? And suddenly an arm had reached under the bar and grabbed her. At least she didn't have to act.

"No! Please, sir! Don't hurt me! I just got frightened! Please!"

But inside there was a certain... sock-ness that felt ashamed, and wanted to kick out.

"Ye gods, what are you?" said the cavalryman, pulling her upright and looking at her as if she was some kind of exhibit.

"Polly, sir! Barmaid, sir! Only they cleared out and left me!"

"Keep the noise down, girl!"

Polly nodded. The last thing she needed now was for Blouse to run down the stairs with his sabre and Fencing for Beginners.

"Yes, sir," she squeaked.

"Barmaid, eh? Three pints of what you'd probably call your finest ale, then."

That at least could happen on automatic. She'd seen the mugs under the bar, and the barrels were behind her. The beer was thin and sharp but probably wouldn't dissolve a penny.

The cavalryman watched her closely as she filled the mugs. "What happened to your hair?" he said.

Polly had been ready for this. "Oh, sir, they cut it off, sir! 'cos I smiled at a Zlobenian trooper, sir!"

"Here?"

"In Drok, sir." It was a town much nearer the border. "And me mam said it was shaming to the family and I got sent here, sir!"

Her hands shook as she put the mugs on the bar, and she was hardly exaggerating. Hardly... but a bit, nevertheless. You're acting like a girl, she thought. Keep it up!

Now she could take stock of the invaders. They wore dark-blue uniforms, and big boots, and heavy cavalry helmets. One of them was standing by the shuttered windows. The other two were watching her. One had a sergeant's stripes and an expression of deep suspicion. The one who'd grabbed her was a captain.