"Any previous soldierin'?" said Scallot, grinning.
"Forty years fighting every bleeder within a hundred miles of Borogravia, corporal."
"Special skills?"
"Stayin' alive, corporal, come what may."
"Then allow me to present you with one shilling and immediate acceleration to the rank of sergeant," said Scallot, handing back the coat and the shilling. "Want to Osculate the Doxie?"
"Not at my time o' life," said Jackrum, putting on his jacket again. "There," he said. "All smart, all neat, all legal. Go on, Perks, I gave you an order."
Blouse was snoring. His candle had burned down. A book was open on his blanket. Polly gently pulled it out from under his fingers. The title, almost invisible on the stained cover, was: Tacticus: The Campaigns.
"Sir?" she whispered.
Blouse opened his eyes, saw her, and then turned and frantically scrabbled by the bed.
"Here they are, sir," said Polly, handing him his spectacles.
"Ah, Perks, thank you," said the lieutenant, sitting up. "Midnight, is it?"
"A bit after, sir."
"Oh, dear! Then we must hurry! Quick, pass me my breeches! Have the men had a good night?"
"We were attacked by Zlobenian troops, sir. First Heavy Dragoons. We took them prisoner, sir. No casualties, sir."
...because they didn't expect us to fight. They wanted to take us alive! And they walked in on Carborundum and Maladict and... me.
It had been hard, very hard, to force herself to swing that cudgel. But once she had done it, it had been easy. And then she'd felt embarrassed about being caught in a petticoat, even though she had her breeches on underneath. She'd gone from boy to girl just by thinking it, and it had been so... easy.
She needed some time to consider this. She needed time to think about a lot of things. She suspected that time was going to be in short supply.
Blouse was still sitting there with his breeches half on, staring at her.
"Run that past me again one more time, will you, Perks?" he said. "You have captured some of the enemy?"
"Not just me, sir, I only got two of 'em," said Polly. "We all, er, piled in, sir."
"Heavy Dragoons?"
"Yessir."
"That's the Prince's personal regiment! They've invaded?"
"I think it was more of a patrol, sir. Seven men."
"And none of you are hurt?"
"Nosir."
"Pass me my shirt! Oh, blast!"
It was then that Polly noticed the bandage around his right hand. It was red with blood. He saw her expression.
"Bit of a self-inflicted wound, Perks," he said nervously. "'Brushing up' on my sword drill after supper. Nothing serious. Just a bit 'rusty', you know. Can't quite manage buttons. If you would be so good..."
Polly helped the lieutenant struggle into the rest of his clothes, and threw his few other possessions in a bag. It took a special kind of man, she reflected, to cut his sword hand with his own sword.