"Er... no sign of Corporal Strappi, sarge?"
"No, but I haven't turned over every stone yet - ssh!"
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 towards 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 her head and tossed it behind the bar. Now she wasn't a soldier, at least. And, as the door was shaken against the bolt, she saw something white lying in the debris. It was a terrible temptation...
The door burst open at the second blow, but the soldiers didn't immediately enter. Lying under the bar, struggling to put the petticoat on over rolled-up trousers, Polly tried to make sense of the sounds. As far as she could tell from the rustles and thuds, anyone waiting inside the doorway with ambush in mind would have been briefly and terminally sorry. She tried to count the invaders; it sounded as though there were at least three. In the tense silence, the sound of a voice speaking in normal tones came as a shock.
"We heard the bolt slide across. That means you're in here somewhere. Make it easy on yourself. We don't want to have to come and find you."
I don't want you to either, Polly thought. I'm not a soldier! Go away! And then the next thought was: What do you mean, you're not a soldier? You took the shilling and kissed the picture, didn't you? And suddenly an arm had reached under the bar and grabbed her. At least she didn't have to act.
"No! Please, sir! Don't hurt me! I just got frightened! Please!"
But inside there was a certain... sock-ness that felt ashamed, and wanted to kick out.
"Ye gods, what are you?" said the cavalryman, pulling her upright and looking at her as if she was some kind of exhibit.
"Polly, sir! Barmaid, sir! Only they cleared out and left me!"
"Keep the noise down, girl!"
Polly nodded. The last thing she needed now was for Blouse to run down the stairs with his sabre and Fencing for Beginners.
"Yes, sir," she squeaked.
"Barmaid, eh? Three pints of what you'd probably call your finest ale, then."
That at least could happen on automatic. She'd seen the mugs under the bar, and the barrels were behind her. The beer was thin and sharp but probably wouldn't dissolve a penny.
The cavalryman watched her closely as she filled the mugs. "What happened to your hair?" he said.
Polly had been ready for this. "Oh, sir, they cut it off, sir! 'cos I smiled at a Zlobenian trooper, sir!"
"Here?"
"In Drok, sir." It was a town much nearer the border. "And me mam said it was shaming to the family and I got sent here, sir!"
Her hands shook as she put the mugs on the bar, and she was hardly exaggerating. Hardly... but a bit, nevertheless. You're acting like a girl, she thought. Keep it up!
Now she could take stock of the invaders. They wore dark-blue uniforms, and big boots, and heavy cavalry helmets. One of them was standing by the shuttered windows. The other two were watching her. One had a sergeant's stripes and an expression of deep suspicion. The one who'd grabbed her was a captain. "This is terrible beer, girl," he said, sniffing the mug.
"Yes, sir, I know, sir," Polly gabbled. "They wouldn't listen to me, sir, and said you have to put a damp sheet over the barrels in this thundery weather, sir, and Molly never cleans the spigot and - "