|
Characters: Mal, Polly, General Froc Disclaimer: The author makes no
claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
How Polly and Mal Got Married (V.2: Maladict)
“...then there was the screaming, and then I opened the tent flap. And the next day I reported it to you, sir!” You reported it, and interrupted the general at Tea. Rather unwise. As part of the ‘it’ being reported, Lieutenant Von Borogravia discreetly eyeballed the private, general, and captain. She was not worried. Froc was looking bewildered in a slightly unsettling sort of way. There was a covered pot on the desk. It had not taken Maladict long to discover that one of the few ways of spotting any gender flexibility in the rigid upper echelons of the Borogravian Army was the said echelon’s dependence on this cure-all, and their tenancy to tetchiness without it.[1] Tetchiness and indecision. Elderhans, she knew, would not get far unless he came to grasp this particular singularité du militare.[2] Apart from this, lieutenant Maladict didn’t know all that much about private Elderhans. This was, the vampire supposed, a side-effect of the Rupertfication she had undergone the last promotion. It was uncanny, really, if not exactly surprising. Vampires of any articulate strain were half-Rupert anyway, only usually more aware. As she watched the battle that was playing out on Perks' face—the one between the captain’s urge to blanch and desire go red to the tips of her entirely human ears—Maladict felt compelled to defend herself. She was as perfectly aware as she had always been. She was simply more discerning about it. “...very well. You... leave. Now, private.” Perhaps a little attention needed to be paid to the proceedings. Mal watched Elderhans leave and then turned back to Froc and the desk. She eyed the teapot. Froc raised an eyebrow, and there was a hint of bluster as she addressed Polly. “Well, Captain Perks? What do you have to say for yourself?” This, thought the vampire, cheerfully ignoring Polly’s slightly panicked glance in her direction, should be interesting. What was the official line on spousal abuse? “Mal’s got cold feet, sir.” Mal was not inclined towards snorting, as a rule[3], but there were exceptions. She restrained herself by indulging in another meaningful glance towards the teapot, then watched Froc’s face carefully as hairline attempted to eat eyebrow. “Be that as it may,” the general managed, “Lieutenant von Borogravia’s unwillingness to propose stands in direct contradiction of you being married.” “Oh, no, sir.” Polly had always faced down the most frightening of opponents with honesty twice as terrifying. “Not that kind of cold feet. Her feet are literally cold. Deathly cold.” “Undeadly cold, even.” Mal could have resisted the joke. But the multiverse would have been sadder for it. There was a world of groans and potential in Polly’s expression. Froc, it seemed, could only continue on. “So,” she said, “the lieutenant has cold feet. But that does not fully explain why you felt it necessary—“ “—she was also tickling me, sir.” Mal sighed, deciding not to mention Zlobenian torture methods when Froc declared that this also did not count as abuse. Instead, she focused on Polly’s now obvious tension, and couldn’t decide whether alleviating it or heightening would be better. Before long, she had decided that the best thing of all would be warm water and clean uniforms. Oh, Froc was still interrogating. Might as well be sensational... “I bit her, “Mal said languidly. “Of course.” “Lieutenant, you mean to tell me that, as a Black Ribboner, you bit your superior officer?” Maladict shrugged. “She likes it.”[4] The vampire’s attention drifted once more while Polly attempted to explain things before the world dissolved into gentle lunacy. She was only partially successful. For a woman, general Froc seemed rather confused when it came to marriage as an conceptual abstraction[5]—let alone any sort of actuality. She yawned; longed for a clean uniform. A comfortable tree to hang in. The freedom to laugh and laugh and laugh again. She packaged all these impulses into a drawl as Polly looked on, one gasp short of aghast. “Produce one of your little certificates,” went the drawl, “saying we’re married, and let us go. We have much better things to be doing.” In the end, Froc had to leave the room in order to recover certificates[6], tea, and wits in general. Polly was looking rather wan. Maladict saluted, using the opportunity to fix a strand of hair. “Impressive,” she said as the two of them entered the corridor of HQ. “Good show with the senior Rupert, though the poor fellow really was gagging for a cup of tea.” Polly blinked. “Tea?” “Buckets of the stuff. It worked in our favour more than socks.” Mal was well used to the rest of the world not knowing what she was talking about. Captain Perk’s air of not-daring-to-ask was nothing new. She smirked. “Really, Poll. It’s not complicated. And you know, old girl, we should really invest in a couple of scarves or something to muffle the sound.” [1] Yet another reason for the lieutenant’s belief in her superiority to much of a human race, and particularly its military subspecies. This was arrogance, perhaps, but at least it was arrogance properly caffeinated. [2] ‘Random, irrational, but very definite fact of life’ sounds better in foreign. [3] Many fellow Black Ribboners were more prone to these inclinations. Maladict could understand why, but had decided against any such replacement addiction quite early on. No matter what happened, Mal had wanted to keep both her nostrils. [4] She did, in fact, order it. Mal, however, decided not to complicate matters further by mentioning penalties given for disobeying superior officers. Just this once. [5] Then again, most people are. [6] Certificates, plural, because it was well known by now that Lieutenant Von Borogravia’s full title considered itself far too glamorous/pretentious/plain naff to adorn anything so jejune as a single sheet of paper. |