Monstrous Regiment

sergeant unscrewed the top from a bottle of ink and dipped a nib pen in it. His hand hovered over the paperwork.
    “Name, lad?” he said.
    “Oliver, sir. Oliver Perks,” said Polly.
    “Age?”
    “Seventeen come Sunday, sir.”
    “Yeah, right,” said the sergeant. “You’re seventeen and I’m the Grand Duchess Annagovia. What’re you running away from, eh? Got a young lady in the family way?”
    “He’d have ’ad to have ’ad help,” said the corporal, grinning unpleasantly. “He squeaks like a little lad.”
    Polly realized she was starting to blush. But then, young Oliver would blush too, wouldn’t he? It was very easy to make a boy blush. Polly could do it just by staring.
    “Don’t matter anyway,” said the sergeant. “You make your mark on this here document and kiss the Duchess and you’re my little lad, you understand? My name is Sergeant Jackrum. I will be your mother and your father, and Corporal Strappi here will be just like your big brother. And life will be steak and bacon every day, and anyone who wants to drag you away’ll have to drag me away too, because I’ll be holding onto your collar. And you might well be thinking there’s no one that can drag that much, Mr. Perks.” A thick thumb jabbed at the paper. “Just there, right?”
    Polly picked up the pen and signed.
    “What’s that?” said the corporal.
    “My signature,” said Polly.
    She heard the door open behind her, and spun around. Several young men—she corrected herself, several other young men—had clattered into the bar, and were looking around warily.
    “You can read and write, too?” said the sergeant, glancing up at them and then back to her. “Yeah, I see. A nice round hand, too. Officer material, you are. Give him the shilling, Corporal. And the picture, of course.”
    “Right, Sergeant,” said Corporal Strappi, holding up a picture frame on a handle, like a looking glass. “Pucker up, Private Parts.”
    “It’s Perks, sir,” said Polly.
    “Yeah, right. Now kiss the Duchess.”
    It was not a good copy of the famous picture. The painting behind the glass was faded, and something—some kind of moss or something—was growing on the inside of the cracked glass itself. Polly let her lips brush it while holding her breath.
    “Huh,” said Strappi, and pressed something into her hand.
    “What’s this?” said Polly, looking at the small square of paper.
    “An IOU. Bit short of shillings right now,” said the sergeant, while Strappi smirked. “But the innkeeper’ll stand you a pint of ale, courtesy of Her Grace.”
    He turned and looked up the newcomers. “Well, it never rains but it pours. You boys here to join up too? My word, and we didn’t even have to bang the drum. It must be Corporal Strappi’s amazin’ charisma. Step up, don’t be shy. Who’s the next likely lad?”
    Polly looked at the next recruit with a horror that she hoped she was concealing. She hadn’t really noticed him in the gloom, because he was wearing black—not cool, styled black, but a dusty black, the kind of suit a person got buried in. By the look of it, that person had been him. There were cobwebs all over it. The boy himself had stitches across his forehead.
    “Your name, lad?” said Jackrum.
    “Igor, thur.”
    Jackrum counted the stitches.
    “You know, I had a feeling it was going to be,” he said. “And I see you’re eighteen.”

    “Awake—!”
    “Oh, gods…”
    Commander Samuel Vimes put his hands over his eyes.
    “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” said the Ankh-Morpork consul to Zlobenia. “Are you ill, Your Grace?”
    “What’s your name again, young man?” said Vimes. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been traveling for two weeks and not getting a lot of sleep and I’ve spent all day being introduced to people with difficult names. That’s bad for the brain.”
    “It’s Clarence, Your Grace. Clarence Chinny.”
    “Chinny?” said Vimes, and Clarence read everything in his expression.
    “I’m afraid so, sir,” he said.
    “Were you a good fighter at school?” said Vimes.
    “No, Your Grace, but no one could beat me over the one-hundred-yard dash.”
    Vimes laughed.
    “Well, Clarence, any national anthem that starts with ‘Awake!’ is going to lead to trouble. They didn’t teach you this in the Patrician’s Office?”
    “Er…no, Your Grace,” said Chinny.
    “Well, you’ll find out. Carry on, then.”
    “Yes, sir.” Chinny cleared his throat. “The Borogravian National