Monstrous Regiment (Discworld 31)

"I said, are you listening, Goom?"

"Yes, corporal!"

"Really? And what did you hear, may I ask?" said Strappi, in a voice of treacle and acid.

"Nothing, corporal. She's not speaking."

Strappi took a deep, delighted breath of evil air.

"You are a useless, worthless pile of - "

There was a sound. It was a small, nondescript sound, one that you heard every day, a noise that did its job but never expected to be, for example, whistled or part of an interesting sonata. It was simply the sound of stone scraping on metal.

On the other side of the fire, Jackrum lowered his cutlass. He had a sharpening stone in his other hand. He returned their group stare.

"What? Oh. Just maintaining the edge," he said innocently. "Sorry if I interrupted your flow there, corporal. Carry on."

A basic animal survival instinct came to the corporal's aid. He left the trembling Wazzer alone, and turned back to Shufti.

"Yes, yes, we attacked Lipz, too - " said Strappi.

"Was that before the Zlobenians did?" said Maladict.

"Will you listen?" Strappi demanded. "We valiantly attacked Lipz to reclaim what is Borogravian territory! And then the treacherous swede-eaters stole it back - "

Polly tuned out a little at this point, now that there was no immediate prospect of seeing Strappi decapitated. She knew about Lipz. Half the old men who came and drank with her father had attacked the place. But no one had expected them to want to do it. Someone had just shouted "attack!"

The trouble was the Kneck River. It wandered across the wide, rich, silty plain like a piece of dropped string, but sometimes a flash flood or even a big fallen tree would cause it to crack like a whip, throwing coils of river round areas of land miles from its previous bed. And the river was the international border...

She surfaced to hear: " - but this time everyone's on their side, the bastards! And you know why? It's 'cos of Ankh-Morpork! Because we stopped the mail coaches going over our country and tore down their clacks towers, which are an Abomination Unto Nuggan. Ankh-Morpork is a godless city - "

"I thought it had more than three hundred places of worship?" said Maladict.

Strappi stared at him in a rage that was incoherent until he managed to touch bottom again.

"Ankh-Morpork is a godawful city," he said. "Poisonous, just like its river. Barely fit for humans now. They let everything in - zombies, werewolves, dwarfs, vampires, trolls - " He remembered his audience, faltered and recovered: " - which in some cases can be a good thing, of course. But it is a foul, lewd, lawless, overcrowded mess of a place, which is why Prince Heinrich loves it so much! He's been taken over by it, bought by cheap toys, because that's the way Ankh-Morpork plays it, men. They buy you, they will you stop interrupting! What's the good of me trying to teach you stuff if you're going to keep on asking questions?" ;Now, it's like this," said Maladict calmly. "We're soldiers of the Duchess, agreed? Just say 'aargh'."

He must have squeezed. The man groaned.

"Thank you. And you're serving up as beer a liquid best described as foul water," Maladict went on in the same level, conversational tone. "I, of course, don't drink... horse piss, but I have a highly developed sense of smell, and really would prefer not to list aloud the things I can smell in this murk, so we'll just say 'rat droppings' and leave it at that, shall we? Just whimper. Good man." At the end of the bar, one of the new recruits threw up. The barman's fingers had gone white. Maladict nodded with satisfaction.

"Incapacitating a soldier of her grace in wartime is a treasonable offence," he said. He leaned forward. "Punishable, of course, by... death." Maladict pronounced the word with a certain delight. "However, if there happened to be another barrel of beer around the place, you know, good stuff, the stuff you'd keep for your friends if you had any friends, then I'm sure we can forget this little incident. Now, I'm going to let go of your wrist. I can tell by your eyebrow that you are a thinker, and if you're thinking of rushing back in here with a big stick, I'd like you to think about this instead: I'd like you to think about this black ribbon I'm wearing. Know what it means, do you?"

The barman winced, and mumbled: "Temp'rance League..."

"Right! Well done!" said Maladict. "And one more thought for you, if you've got room. I've only taken a pledge not to drink human blood. It doesn't mean I can't kick you in the fork so hard you suddenly go deaf."

He released his grip. The barman slowly straightened up. Under the bar he would have a short wooden club, Polly knew. Every bar had one. Even her father had one. It was a great help, he said, in times of worry and confusion. She saw the fingers of the usable hand twitch.

"Don't," she said. "I think he means it."

The barman relaxed. "Bit of a misunderstanding there, gents," he mumbled. "Got the wrong barrel in. No offence meant." He shuffled off, his hand almost visibly throbbing.

"I only thaid it wath horthe pith," said Igor.

"He won't cause trouble," said Polly to Maladict. "He'll be your friend from now on. He's worked out he can't beat you so he's going to be your best mate."

Maladict subjected her to a thoughtful stare. "I know that," he said. "How do you?"