"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 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 was always 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 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 question 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 round. 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 wood, 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 round..."
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 importantly, 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 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 wondered what happened to you in that hellish pressure cooker. If you were tough, like Tonker, it boiled you hard and gave you a shell. Lofty... it was hard to know. She was quiet and shy until you saw firelight reflected in her eyes, and sometimes the flames were there in the absence of any fire to reflect. But if you were Wazzer, dealt a poor hand to start with, and locked up, and starved, and beaten, and mistreated Nuggan knew how (and yes, Polly thought, Nuggan probably did know how) and pushed deeper and deeper into yourself, what would you find down there? And then you'd look up from those depths into the only smile you ever saw.
The last man on guard duty was Jackrum, because Shufti was cooking. He was sitting on a mossy rock, crossbow in one hand, staring at something in his hand. He spun round as she approached, and Polly caught the gleam of gold as something was shoved back in his jacket.
The sergeant lowered the bow.
"You make enough noise for an elephant, Perks," he said.
"Sorry, sarge," said Polly, who knew she hadn't. He took the tea mug, and turned to point downhill.
"See that bush down there, Perks?" he said. "Just to the right of that fallen log?"
Polly squinted.
"Yes, sarge," she said.