"It was only a question, sarge," said Polly reproachfully.
Around the clearing the squad waited, ears sucking up every sound. Everyone knew the answer. They waited for it to be said aloud.
"Perks, this kind of talk spreads despondency," Blouse began, but he said it as if he didn't believe it and didn't care who knew.
"No, sir. It doesn't really. It's better than being lied to," said Polly. She changed her voice, gave it that edge her mother used to use on her when she was being scolded. "It's evil to lie. No one likes a liar. Tell me the truth, please."
Some harmonic of that tone must have found a home in an old part of Blouse's brain. As Jackrum opened his mouth to roar, the lieutenant held up a hand.
"We are not winning, Perks. But we have not lost yet."
"I think we all know that, sir, but it's good to hear you say it," said Polly, giving him an encouraging smile.
That seemed to work, too. "I suppose there is no harm in at least being civil to the wretched fellow," said Blouse, as if thinking aloud. "He may give away valuable information under cunning questioning."
Polly looked at Sergeant Jackrum, who was staring upwards like a man in prayer.
"Permission to be the man to interrogate the gentleman, sir," said the sergeant.
"Permission denied, sergeant," said Blouse. "I'd like him to live and don't want to lose another lobe. However, you may take Perks back to the cart and drive it up here."
Jackrum gave him the smart salute. Polly had already learned to recognize it; it meant that Jackrum had already made plans.
"Very good, sir," he said. "Come on, Perks."
Jackrum was quiet as they walked back down over the needle-carpeted slope. Then, after a while, he said: "D'you know why them troopers found our little nook, Perks?"
"No, sarge."
"The lieutenant ordered Shufti to put the fire out immediately. It wasn't as if there was even any smoke. So Shufti goes and pours the kettle on it."
Polly gave this a few seconds' thought. "Steam, sarge?"
"Right! In a bloody great rising cloud. Not Shufti's fault. The gallopers weren't any trouble, though. Bright enough not to try to outrun half a dozen crossbows, at least. That's clever for a cavalryman."
"Well done, sarge."
"Don't talk to me as if I was a rupert, lad," said Jackrum easily.
"Sorry, sarge."
"I see you're learnin' how to steer an officer, though. You gotta make sure they gives you the right orders, see? You'll make a good sergeant, Perks."
"Don't want to, sarge."
"Yeah, right," said Jackrum. It could have meant anything.
After watching the track for a minute or two they stepped out and headed towards the cart. De Worde was sitting on a stool beside it, writing in a notebook, but he stood up hurriedly when he saw them.
"It'd be a good idea to get off the track," he said, as soon as they approached. "There are a lot of patrols, I understand."
"Zlobenian patrols, sir?" said Jackrum.
"Yes. In theory this" - he pointed to the flag that hung limply from the cart - "should keep us safe, but everyone's a bit jumpy at the moment. Aren't you Sergeant Jack Ram?"
"Jackrum, sir. And I'll thank you for not writing my name down in your little book, sir."
"Sorry, sergeant, but that's my job," said de Worde breezily. "I have to write things down."