Polly's father had been in the army before he took over The Duchess from Polly's grandfather. He didn't talk about it much. He'd brought his sword back with him, but instead of hanging it over the fireplace he used it to poke the fire. Sometimes old friends would turn up and, when the bars were shut for the night, they'd gather round the fire and drink and sing. The young Polly found excuses to stay up and listen to the songs they sang, but that had stopped when she'd got into trouble for using one of the more interesting words in front of her mother; now she was older, and served the beer, it was presumably assumed that she knew the words or would find out what they meant soon enough. Besides, her mother had gone where bad words would no longer offend and, in theory, never got said.
The songs had been part of her childhood. She knew all the words of "The World Turned Upside Down" and "The Devil Shall Be My Sergeant" and "Johnny Has Gone For A Soldier" and "The Girl I Left Behind Me" and, after the drink had been flowing for a while, she'd memorized "Colonel Crapski" and "I Wish I'd Never Kissed Her".
And then, of course, there had been "Sweet Polly Oliver". Her father used to sing it when she was small and fretful or sad, and she'd laughed to hear it simply because it had her name in it. She was word perfect on the words before she'd known what most of them meant. And now...
...Polly pushed open the door. The recruiting sergeant and his corporal looked up from the stained table where they were sitting, beer mugs halfway to their lips. She took a deep breath, marched over, and made an attempt at saluting.
"What do you want, kid?" growled the corporal.
"Want to join up, sir!"
The sergeant turned to Polly and grinned, which made his scars move oddly and caused a tremor to shake all his chins. The word "fat" could not honestly be applied to him, not when the word "gross" was lumbering forward to catch your attention. He was one of those people who didn't have a waist. He had an equator. He had gravity. If he fell over, in any direction, he would rock. Sun and drink had burned his face red. Small dark eyes twinkled in the redness like the sparkle on the edge of a knife. Beside him, on the table, were a couple of old-fashioned cutlasses, weapons that had more in common with a meat cleaver than a sword.
"Just like that?" he said.
"Yessir!"
"Really?"
"Yessir!"
"You don't want us to get you stinking drunk first? It's traditional, you know."
"Nosir!"
"I haven't told you about the wonderful opportunities for advancement and good fortune, have I?"
"Nosir!"
"Did I mention how the spanking red uniform will mean you'll have to beat the girls off with a stick?"
"Don't think so, sir!"
"Or the grub? Every meal's a banquet when you march along with us!" The sergeant smacked his belly, which caused tremors in outlying regions. "I'm the living proof!"
"Yes, sir. No, sir. I just want to join up to fight for my country and the honour of the Duchess, sir!"
"You do?" said the corporal incredulously, but the sergeant appeared not to hear this. He looked Polly up and down, and Polly got the definite impression that the man was neither as drunk nor as stupid as he looked.
"Upon my oath, Corporal Strappi, it seems that what we've got ourselves here is nothin' less than a good, old-fashioned patriot," he said, his eyes searching Polly's face. "Well, you've come to the right place, my lad!" He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him with an air of bustle. "You know who we are?"
"The Tenth Foot, sir. Light infantry, sir. Known as the 'Ins-and-Outs', sir," said Polly, relief bubbling through her. She'd clearly passed some sort of test.
"Right, lad. The jolly old Cheesemongers. Finest regiment there is, in the finest army in the world. Keen to join, then, are yer?"
"Keen as mustard, sir!" said Polly, aware of the corporal's suspicious eyes on her.
"Good lad!"
The sergeant unscrewed the top from a bottle of ink and dipped a nib pen in it. His hand hovered over the paperwork. "Name, lad?" he said.
"Oliver, sir. Oliver Perks," said Polly.
"Age?"
"Seventeen come Sunday, sir."
"Yeah, right," said the sergeant. "You're seventeen and I'm the Grand Duchess Annagovia. What're you running away from, eh? Got a young lady in the family way?"