Monstrous Regiment

Oh. Good,” said Polly.
    “But only because we are serving a Higher Purpose,” said Wazzer. And, just as Blouse could invert commas, Wazzer could drop capital letters into a spoken sentence.
    “That’s good, then,” said Polly.
    “You know, Polly,” said Wazzer, “I think the world would be a lot better if it was run by women. There wouldn’t be any wars. Of course, the Book would consider such an idea a Dire Abomination Unto Nuggan. It may be in error. I shall consult the Duchess. Bless this cup that I may drink of it,” she added.
    “Er, yes,” said Polly, and wondered what she should dread more: Maladict suddenly turning into a ravening monster, or Wazzer reaching the end of whatever mental journey she was taking. She’d been a kitchen maid and now she was subjecting the Book to critical analysis and talking to a religious icon. That sort of thing led to friction. The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to the presence of those who think they’ve found it.
    Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar—pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it had always been done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got you. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him , so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the grannies in the front row, sucking on peppermints.
    Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if ever she got back, she’d never do it again…
    “Er…Wazz?” she said.
    “Yes, Polly?”
    “You’ve got a direct line to the Duchess, have you?”
    “We talk about things,” said Wazzer dreamily.
    “You, er, couldn’t raise the subject of coffee, could you?” said Polly wretchedly.
    “The Duchess can only move very, very small things,” said Wazzer.
    “A few beans, perhaps? Wazz, we really need some coffee! I don’t think the acorns are that much of a substitute!”
    “I will pray,” said Wazzer.
    “Good. You do that,” said Polly. And, strangely enough, she felt a little more hopeful. Maladict had hallucinations, but Wazzer had a certainty you could bend steel around. It was the opposite of a hallucination, somehow. It was as if she could see what was real and you couldn’t.
    “Polly?” said Wazzer.
    “Yes?”
    “You don’t believe in the Duchess, do you? I mean the real Duchess, not your inn.”
    Polly looked into the small, pinched, intense face.
    “Well, I mean, they say she’s dead, and I prayed to her when I was small, but, since you ask, I don’t exactly, um, believe as—” she gabbled.
    “She is standing just behind you. Just behind your right shoulder.”
    In the silence of the woods, Polly turned.
    “I can’t see her,” she said.
    “I am happy for you,” said Wazzer, handing her the empty mug.
    “But I didn’t see anything,” said Polly.
    “No,” said Wazzer. “But you turned around…”
    Polly had never asked too many questions about the Girls’ Working School. She was, by definition, a Good Girl. Her father was an influential man in the community, and she worked hard, she didn’t have much to do with men, and, most important, she was…well, smart. She was bright enough to do what a lot of other people did in the chronic, reason-free insanity that was everyday life in Munz. She knew what to see and what to ignore, when to obey and when to merely present the face of obedience, when to speak and when to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned the ways of the survivor. Most people did. But if you rebelled, or were merely dangerously honest, or had the wrong kind of illness, or were not wanted, or were a girl who liked the boys more than the old women thought you should and, worse, were not good at counting…then the School was your destination.
    She didn’t know much about what went on in there, but imagination rushed to fill the gap. And she