"Sir, did you have any trouble getting in?" said Polly. This had been nagging at her. It seemed so unfair.
"No, not at all. I just smiled and wiggled my hips and they waved me through. What about you?"
"Oh, we had a little bit," said Polly. "It was a bit hair - it was a bit awkward for a moment or two."
"What did I tell you?" said Blouse triumphantly. "It's all down to thespian ability! But you were plucky lads to try it. Come and meet Mrs Enid. A very loyal lady. The brave womenfolk of Borogravia are on our side!"
And, indeed, there was a picture of the Duchess in the alcove that served the laundry mistress for an office. Mrs Enid wasn't a particularly large woman but she had forearms like Jade, a soaking wet apron, and the most mobile mouth Polly had ever seen. Her lips and tongue drew out every word like a big shape in the air, the laundresses, in a cavern full of hissing steam, echoes, falling water and the thud of wet clothes on stone, watched lips when ears were overwhelmed. When she was listening her mouth moved all the time, too, like someone trying to dislodge a piece of nut from a tooth. She wore her sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
She listened impassively as Blouse introduced the squad. "I see," she said. "Right. You leave your lads here with me, sir. You ought to get back to the pressing room."
When Blouse had bounced and wobbled back through the steam, Mrs Enid looked them all up and down, and then straight through.
"Lads," she grunted. "Hah! That's all he knows, eh? For a woman to wear the clothes of a man is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan!"
"But we're dressed as women, Mrs Enid," said Polly meekly.
Mrs Enid's mouth moved ferociously. Then she folded her arms. It was like a barricade going up against all that was ungodly.
"It's not right," she said. "I've got a son and a husband prisoner in this place and I'm working meself to the bone for the enemy just so's I can keep an eye on 'em. They're gonna invade, y'know. It's amazing what we hear down here. So what good's rescuing your men going to do 'em when we're all under the heel of the Zlobenian hand-painted clog, eh?"
"Zlobenia will not invade," said Wazzer confidently. "The Duchess will see to it. Be not afraid."
Wazzer got given the sort of look she always got when someone heard her for the first time.
"Been praying, 'ave yer?" said Mrs Enid kindly.
"No, just listening," said Wazzer.
"Nuggan talks to you, does he?"
"No. Nuggan is dead, Mrs Enid," said Wazzer.
Polly took Wazzer's matchstick-thin arm and said: "Excuse us a moment, Mrs Enid." She hustled the girl behind a huge, water-driven clothes mangle. It heaved and clanked as a background to their conversation.
"Wazzer, this is getting..." Polly's native tongue had no word for "freaky", but if she had known about the word she would have welcomed its inclusion "...strange. You're worrying people. You can't just go around saying that a god is dead."
"Gone, then. Dwindled... I think," said Wazzer, her brow furrowing. "No longer with us..."
"We still get the Abominations."
Wazzer tried to concentrate. "No, they're not real. They're like... echoes. Dead voices in an ancient cave, bouncing back and forth, the words changing, making nonsense... like flags that were used for signals but now just flap in the wind..." Wazzer's eyes went unfocused and her voice altered, became more adult, more certain "...and they come from no god. There is no god here now."
"So where do they come from?"
"From your fear... They come from the part that hates the Other, that will not change. They come from the sum of all your pettiness and stupidity and dullness. You fear tomorrow, and you've made your fear your god. The Duchess knows this."
The water-mangle creaked onwards. Around Polly the boilers hissed, water gushed in the runnels. The air was loaded with the smells of soap and damp cloth.
"I don't believe in the Duchess, either," said Polly. "That was just trickery in the woods. Anyone'd look round. It doesn't mean I believe in her."
"That doesn't matter, Polly. She believes in you."
"Really?" Polly glanced around the steaming, dripping cave. "Is she here, then? Has she graced us with her presence?"
Wazzer had no concept of sarcasm. She nodded. "Yes."
Yes.