Monstrous Regiment

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 she. She’d taught him to blow his nose, taught him how to form letters, went and found him when crueler 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 the 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 jewelry and spinning wheels and cats 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 would be 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 out the place 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,” he said.
    “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—shsh!”
    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 toward 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