Polly grinned. "Is that rum, sarge?"

"Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn't it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don't have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman."

"Hangman?" said Shufti.

"One drop and you're dead," said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.

"That's right, Shufti. It's rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old kettle and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?"

Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.

"Good lad. Stick to beer," he said.

"Don't the officers stop it?" said Polly.

"Officers? What do they know about anything?" said Jackrum. "An' I bought this off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?"

Polly peered into the gloom. "No, sarge."

Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it onto his face. "Ye-ouch," he hissed. "Stings like the blazes. And now to kill the tooth worms. Got to do the job properly." He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat it out, and shoved the cork back in. "Muck," he said. "Okay, let's go."

"Where are we going, sarge?" said Shufti. "You can tell us now, can't you?"

"A quiet little place where our needs will be met," said Jackrum. "It'll be around here somewhere."

"You don't half smell of drink, sarge," said Shufti. "Will they let you in if you smell drunk?"

"Yes, Shufti, lad, they will," said Jackrum, setting off again. "The reason being, my pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk. Ah... down this little valley here, that'll be our... yeah, I was right. This is the place. Tucked away, delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?"

There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab tents in this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by winter rains. If there had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.

"Shame," said Jackrum. "Okay, so we'll have to do it the hard way. Remember: just act natural and listen to what I say."

"I'm sh-shaking, sarge." Shufti muttered.

"Good, good, very natural," said Jackrum. "This is our place, I think. Nice and quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the wash..." He stopped at a, very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his swagger stick.

"The SoLid DoVes," Polly read.

"Yeah, well, these ladies weren't hired for their spelling," said Jackrum, pushing open the flap of the tent of ill repute.

Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady, lumpy and crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the trio the most calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a price on her boots.

The sergeant doffed his cap and in a jovial, rotund voice that peed brandy and crapped plum pudding said, "Good evening, madarm! Sergeant Smith's the name, yes indeed! An' me and my bold lads here have been so fortunate as to acquire the spoils of war, if you catch my drift, and nothing would do for it but they were clamouring, clamouring to go to the nearest house of good repute for to have a man made of 'em!"

Little beady eyes skewered Polly again. Shufti, ears glowing like signal beacons, was staring fixedly at the ground.

"Looks like that'd be a job and a half," said the woman shortly.

"You never spoke a truer word, madarm!" beamed Jackrum. "Two of your fair flowers apiece should do it, I reckon." There was a clink as, staggering slightly, Jackrum put several gold coins on the rickety little table.

Something about the gleam of them thawed things no end. The woman's face cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.

"Well, now, we are always honoured to entertain the Ins-and-Outs, sergeant," she said. "If you... gentlemen would like to step through to the, er, inner sanctum?"

Polly heard a very faint sound behind her, and turned. She hadn't noticed the man sitting on a chair just inside the door. He had to be a man, because trolls weren't pink; he made Eyebrow back in Pl¨¹n look like some kind of weed. He wore leather, which was what she'd heard creaking, and he had his eyes just slightly open. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. It wasn't a friendly wink.

There are times when a plan suddenly isn't going to work. When you're in the middle of it, is not the time to find this out.

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net