Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment Read Online Free PDF Page A

smelled like something she wouldn’t feed to pigs.
She took a sip, and completely changed her opinion. She would feed it to pigs. Those lads
have never tasted beer before, she told herself. It’s like dad said. Out in the country there’s
lads who’d join up for an uninhabited pair of breeches. And they’ll drink this muck and
pretend to enjoy it like men, hey up, we supped some stuff last night, eh, lads? And then next
thing—
Oh, lor’ . . . that reminded her. What’d the privy be like here? The men’s one out in the
yard back at home was bad enough. Polly sloshed two big pails of water into it every morning
     
 
  
while trying not to breathe. There was weird green moss growing on the slate floor. And The
Duchess was a good inn. It had customers who took their boots off before going to bed.
She narrowed her eyes. This stupid fool in front of her, a man making one long eyebrow do
the work of two, was serving them slops and foul vinegar just before they marched off to
war—
‘Thith beer,’ said Igor, on her right, ‘tathteth of horthe pith.’
Polly stood back. Even in a bar like this, that was killing talk.
‘Oh, you’d know, would you?’ said the barman, looming over the boy. ‘Drunk horse piss,
have you?’
‘Yeth,’ said Igor.
The barman stuck a fist in front of Igor’s face. ‘Now you listen to me, you lisping little—’
A slim black arm appeared with amazing speed and a pale hand caught the man’s wrist.
The one eyebrow contorted in sudden agony.
‘Now, it’s like this,’ said Maladict calmly. ‘We’re soldiers of the Duchess, agreed? Just say
“aargh”.’
He must have squeezed. The man groaned.
‘Thank you. And you’re serving up as beer a liquid best described as foul water,’ Maladict
went on in the same level, conversational tone. ‘I, of course, don’t drink . . . horse piss, but I
have a highly developed sense of smell, and really would prefer not to list aloud the things I
can smell in this murk, so we’ll just say “rat droppings” and leave it at that, shall we? Just
whimper. Good man.’ At the end of the bar, one of the new recruits threw up. The barman’s
fingers had gone white. Maladict nodded with satisfaction.
‘Incapacitating a soldier of her grace in wartime is a treasonable offence,’ he said. He
leaned forward. ‘Punishable, of course, by . . . death.’ Maladict pronounced the word with a
certain delight. ‘However, if there happened to be another barrel of beer around the place, you
know, good stuff, the stuff you’d keep for your friends if you had any friends, then I’m sure
we can forget this little incident. Now, I’m going to let go of your wrist. I can tell by your
eyebrow that you are a thinker, and if you’re thinking of rushing back in here with a big stick,
I’d like you to think about this instead: I’d like you to think about this black ribbon I’m
wearing. Know what it means, do you?’
The barman winced, and mumbled: ‘Temp’rance League . . .’
‘Right! Well done!’ said Maladict. ‘And one more thought for you, if you’ve got room.
I’ve only taken a pledge not to drink human blood. It doesn’t mean I can’t kick you in the
fork so hard you suddenly go deaf.’
He released his grip. The barman slowly straightened up. Under the bar he would have a
short wooden club, Polly knew. Every bar had one. Even her father had one. It was a great
help, he said, in times of worry and confusion. She saw the fingers of the usable hand twitch.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I think he means it.’
The barman relaxed. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding there, gents,’ he mumbled. ‘Got the wrong
barrel in. No offence meant.’ He shuffled off, his hand almost visibly throbbing.
‘I only thaid it wath horthe pith,’ said Igor.
     
 
  
‘He won’t cause trouble,’ said Polly to Maladict. ‘He’ll be your friend from now on. He’s
worked out he can’t beat you so he’s going to be