He broke the coin in two and dropped both halves on the bar top. Eyebrow swallowed. He looked as though he would have said "Are you sure?" except that this was not a question barmen addressed to people weighing over half a ton. Carborundum thought for a while, and then said: "Gimme drink."
Eyebrow nodded, disappeared briefly into the room behind the bar, and came back holding a double-handled mug. Maladict sneezed. Polly's eyes watered. It was the kind of smell you sense with your teeth. The pub might make foul beer as a matter of course, but this was eye-stinging vinegar.
Eyebrow dropped one half of the silver coin into it, and then took a copper penny out of the money drawer and held it over the fuming mug. The troll nodded. With just a hint of ceremony, like a cocktail waiter dropping the little umbrella into a Double Entendre, Eyebrow let the copper fall.
More bubbles welled up. Igor watched with interest. Carborundum picked the mug up in two fingers of each shovel-like hand, and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He stood stock still for a moment, then carefully put the mug back on the bar.
"You gentlemen might like to move back a bit," murmured Eyebrow.
"What's going to happen?" said Polly.
"It takes 'em all differently," said Eyebrow. "Looks like this one's - no, there he goes..."
With considerable style, Carborundum went over backwards. There was no sagging at the knees, no girly attempt to soften the fall. He just went from standing up, one hand out, to lying down, one hand up. He even rocked gently for some time after hitting the floor.
"Got no head for his drink," said Eyebrow. "Typical of the young bucks. Wants to play the big troll, comes in here, orders an Electrick Floorbanger, doesn't know how to handle it."
"Is he going to come round?" said Maladict.
"No, that's it until dawn, I reckon," said Eyebrow. "Brain stops working."
"Shouldn't affect him too much, then," said Corporal Strappi, stepping up. "Right, you miserable lot. You're sleeping in the shed out the back, understand? Practically waterproof, hardly any rats. We're out of here at dawn! You're in the army now!"
Polly lay in the dark, on a bed of musty straw. There was no question of anyone's getting undressed. The rain hammered on the roof and the wind blew through a crack under the door, despite Igor's attempt to stuff it with straw. There was some desultory conversation, during which Polly found that she was sharing the dank shed with "Tonker" Halter, "Shufti" Manickle, "Wazzer" Goom and "Lofty" Tewt. Maladict and Igor didn't seem to have acquired repeatable nicknames. She'd become Ozzer by general agreement.
Slightly to Polly's surprise the boy now known as Wazzer had taken a small picture of the Duchess out of his pack and had nervously hung it on an old nail. No one else said anything as he prayed to it. It was what you were supposed to do...
They said the Duchess was dead...
Polly had been washing up when she'd heard the men talking late one night, and it's a poor woman who can't eavesdrop while making a noise at the same time.
Dead, they said, but the people up at PrinceMarmadukePiotreAlbertHansJosephBernhardtWilhelmsberg weren't admitting it. That was 'cos what with there being no children, and with royalty marrying one another's cousins and grannies all the time, the ducal throne would go to Prince Heinrich of Zlobenia! There! Can you believe that? That's why we never see her, right? And there hasn't been a new picture all these years? Makes you think, eh? Oh, they say she's been in mourning 'cos of the young Duke, but that was more'n seventy years ago! They say she was buried in secret and...
At which point her father had stopped the speaker dead. There are some conversations where you don't even want people to remember you were in the same room.
Dead or alive, the Duchess watched over you.
The recruits tried to sleep.
Occasionally, someone belched or expelled wind noisily, and Polly responded with a few fake eructations of her own. That seemed to inspire greater effort on the part of the other sleepers, to the point where the roof rattled and dust fell down, before everyone subsided. Once or twice she heard people stagger out into the windy darkness, in theory for the privy, but probably, given male impatience in these matters, to aim much closer to home. Once, coasting in and out of a troubled dream, she thought she heard someone sobbing.
Taking care not to rustle too much, Polly pulled out the much-folded, much-read, much-stained last letter from her brother, and read it by the light of the solitary, guttering candle. It had been opened and heavily mangled by the censors, and bore the stamp of the Duchy. It read:
Dear all,
We are in ¡���ich is ¡��th a ¡�ig thing with knobs. On ¡��e with ¡���ich is just as well because ¡��t of. I am keeping well. The food is ¡�� ¡��'ll ¡�at the ¡��t my mate ¡�r says not to worry, it'll be all over by ¡��and we shall all have medals.
Chins up!
Paul
It was in a careful hand, the excessively clear and well-shaped writing of someone who has to think about every letter. She slowly folded it up again. Paul had wanted medals, because they were shiny. That'd been almost a year ago, when any recruiting party that came past went away with the best part of a battalion, and there had been people waving them off with flags and music. Sometimes, now, smaller parties of men came back. The lucky ones were missing only one arm or one leg. There were no flags.
She unfolded another piece of paper. It was a pamphlet. It was headed "From the Mothers of Borogravia!!" The mothers of Borogravia were very definite about wanting to send their sons off to war Against the Zlobenian Aggressor!! and used a great many exclamation marks to say so. And this was odd, because the mothers in Munz had not seemed keen on the idea of their sons going off to war, and positively tried to drag them back. Several copies of the pamphlet seemed to have reached every home, even so. It was very patriotic. That is, it talked about killing foreigners.
Polly had learned to read and write after a fashion because the inn was big and it was a business and things had to be tallied and recorded. Her mother had taught her to read, which was acceptable to Nuggan, and her father made sure that she learned how to write, which was not. A woman who could write was an Abomination Unto Nuggan, according to Father Jupe; anything she wrote would by definition be a lie.
But Polly had learned anyway, because Paul hadn't, at least to the standard needed to run an inn as busy as The Duchess. He could read if he could run his finger slowly along the lines, and he wrote letters at a snail's pace, with a lot of care and heavy breathing, like a man assembling a piece of jewellery. He was big and kind and slow and could lift beer kegs as though they were toys, but he wasn't a man at home with paperwork. Their father had hinted to Polly, very gently but very often, that Polly would need to be right behind him when the time came for him to run The Duchess. Left to himself, with no one to tell him what to do next, her brother just stood and watched birds.