Schrödinger's Vampire: Chapter 7


A few days passed without further complications by way of new memories surfacing, and Polly attributed that to generous application of coffee onto vampire.

Sometimes, in the small hours of the morning, it still broke her heart; she'd never thought there'd be a time in her life when she'd miss Mal's exaggerated, blissful, stupid enthusiasm for all things caffeinated, how her eyes would light up at the sight of a freshly brewed cup no matter where they were; be it huddled together in a tent in the middle of winter, or settled down in a noisy bar full of pretty girls in the capital when they were on leave, or on a lazy Sunday morning at the Duchess. Now Polly was lucky if Mal accepted the thick, sugary espresso she brewed up with the air of someone taking a bitter, but necessary medicine. Sometimes she still didn't.

One morning, Polly'd found Mal's boots out in the courtyard by the well, hardly visible beneath an aged layer of snow, the leather cracked from the moisture and the shoelaces hopelessly knotted and frayed, soles coming loose. Polly'd dried and re-greased the boots thoroughly and replaced a few rusted nails and the laces, recovering function if not form. Mal acknowledged their reappearance in her life by putting them on without a word, possibly because even indoors a vampire in socks was just silly, but when asked couldn't explain how they'd ended up by the well.

At some points, Polly had allowed herself to hope the painful coming to terms with what had happened was done. The report had been long finished - she had confabulated something together with the objective that it had to make an ounce of sense and contained enough war crimes to entertain a room full of diplomats for hours while leaving out the more painful bits - and handed it in to Clogston, but she hadn't heard back from her.

The army was still stuck while the ruperts were negotiating the conditions of peace. But the military as such tended to oscillate between boredom and short stretches of excitement, and Polly had come to savour the boring bits. It was hard to teach the lads something resembling sword drill on a battlefield, where, at the same time, lackings in that area became most obvious.

She was in the middle of explaining one of the finer points of hands-eye coordination to Privates Mary and Smith when all of a sudden Mary dropped her sword.

"How did we win that battle again?" said Polly, exasperated.

"Handguns," said Mary, brightly, and added "sarge" only as an afterthought. The girls had clearly spent too much time with Mal, Polly thought. Or, admittedly, maybe with Polly herself.

"And do we have enough for everyone? No!" said Polly. Sword drills were the exact opposite of pep talks. "So let's get straight back to lesson No. 1: not letting go of your swords, ever, except maybe when you're hanging off a cliff but even then do try to hold on 'cos these things are expensive. You don't let go when the enemy comes charging straight at you. Especially not then. You don't let go when you get distracted by shiny shit on the wayside. You don't let go when - "

"Nah, that's the corporal," said Mary, eyes fixed on a point somewhat to Polly's left.

"I drop my sword only on purpose!" said a voice behind Polly. "Do not be alarmed," it continued, "I have merely come down to watch the follies of humans. Come on, do something entertaining; I'm very bored. It is a very boring fort."

Mary pounced. Polly stared. Mal very nearly dropped a crutch, but stylishly got a hold on it with a minimum of flailing.

"Mal!"

"I am also very glad to see you again, private," said Mal's voice, somewhat muffled. "I really missed your sense of reservation and, uh, respect for personal space."

"I missed your talent for Cripple Mr. Onion," said Mary. "Can you imagine Corporal Wenzel loses every single game? Also, when you get your medal, you're buying us a round. We had a majority vote on that. And Rosemary always said -"

Rosemary was at that moment walking over to them, holding three leashes at once that in return held rather toothy dogs on their ends.

"I always said they're not that lurid if you actually feed them once in a while, and not with prisoners either," said Rosemary, and then looked over, taking in the sight of Mal. "Or weren't we talking about dogs? Good to see you, corporal, and we decided you're buying."

Mal graced Polly with a rather confused look and the dogs with a rather more vicious one.

"I don't know nothing about no medals," said Polly. "And take those dogs away, Rosemary, you don't know if they'll listen to you."

"They're misunderstood," said Rosemary before dropping to her knees and tickle one of them behind the ears. There was a considerable amount of salivation.

"Of course there'll be a medal," said Mary, hobby military historian. "The corporal is only the second Borogravian soldier to ever survive an Uberwaldean prison, and the first one did get a medal. So he's buying. I heard it's customary with military honours."

"That is a happy thought," said Mal. "More shiny shit on the wayside? I'm in."

"Who was the first one?" said Polly, and Mary turned to her, apparently not believing her luck that she got to lecture her sergeant. "It was during the first Uberwaldean skirmish eight years ago," she said, in a hopeful attempt to add some suspense that probably wasn't there.

"Then I'll bet it was Sergeant Jackrum," said Polly. "He was everywhere anyway."

Rosemary looked up from her crouched position on the ground where she was still optimistically petting the dogs, and grinned. "What are you betting?"

"Next round on me?" said Polly. "I mean, after Mal gets the medal. Was it Jackrum? And I said, take the dogs away," she added. Even though Mal didn't give a sign that she minded them, Polly felt it was better to be over- than underprotective.

Mal shrugged. "Look at it this way, sarge," she said. "They'll eat Rosemary first, and then at least I'll save some money on drinks."

"Misunderstood," it came from the general direction of the ground. There was also some definite growling from the dogs.

"So," said Polly. "I can't stand the suspense. Jackrum?"

Mary looked around, making sure her audience was captive. It was admittedly also tiny. "Nah," she said. "Major Clogston! Of course, he was a sergeant then. He fled after a week. That's why he's leading this mission. Because he knows, man." There may even have been an ominous hand gesture.

Polly was rather more speechless then she liked to admit, even to herself. Luckily Rosemary took that moment of relieved suspense to lead the dogs back to their kennel at last, where the proceeded to haul themselves against the bars. They watched that for a while.

"Now, isn't that a bit of a surprise," said Mal at last. "Major Clogston? Chris Jam Sandwich Clogston? Probably where he learned to appreciate them if you think about it. What the hell. I'm baffled. I'm confused. I shall be shaking my head over this until next year!"

And, apparently, babble on extensively, thought Polly. She decided to take her chance and wink at Mal.

"I guess he does seem like a bit of a clerk sometimes," said Mary. "Hah, secretly he's probably the fiercest motherfucker around. Oh sugar, did I say that out loud?"

"I will pretend I didn't hear it," said Polly. "Major fancier."

"I, however, will never forget," said Mal. "Tag, you're buying."

Polly laughed. The last hours with the lads had almost felt normal, and then Mal had come down and it still felt normal. She didn't really know why she'd been so surprised that other people had missed Mal as well, and now showed it in such unsubtle ways. So maybe she had been a bit wrapped up in things. So what. Today may still become a good day, Polly thought, having lowered her standards somewhat after what had happened in the morning. Which she was definitely not thinking about.

"Can we get on with this?" Polly said, since the question of who was buying rounds had now probably been discussed to death. "Rosemary, where is your sword; Mary, yours seems to be lying on the ground; Smith, why so silent; position one, everyone, and try not to fall over until I'm back."

She took her vampire by the elbow. Mal was walking a little slower now that she'd been standing for so long. Behind them, there was excited whispering. "Hah, I knew they'd make up," said Mary, "and you're paying my round, dog fancier." Their voices drifted off.

Polly felt a little self-conscious at that moment, and Mal apparently decided to ignore the overheard remark.

"I thought I was the fiercest motherfucker around," said Mal in a stunning display of modesty.

"Nope," said Polly. "Sorry 'bout that. One hundred per cent of all green behind the ears privates agree. Major Jam Sandwich is fiercer than you."

"And who would have guessed they're handing out medals simply for remaining immortal at all times? Fancy that," said Mal.

"Wouldn't bet on it," said Polly. "I don't think they have enough metal, it all went into the guns. So I guess it's going to be an IOU or a warm handshake or nothing."

"What did we get after Nedevya?" asked Mal.

Polly racked her brain, Things had been a little chaotic then. "I think they went with nothing," she said. "Though you got a gift hamper with about ten pounds of cheap coffee from an anonymous source, if you care to remember."

Mal snorted. "Did I ever say thanks?"

The anonymous source shrugged. "It was nothing. The lads chipped in."

"So," said Mal when they'd been walking for a while. "Are you very busy right now, or do you have a minute or something?"

So much for the day being good, thought Polly. "I guess," she said. "They weren't paying much attention anyway."

"Well, they're supposed to have been on leave for months now," said Mal. "And it's not as if we're doing much anyway."

They sat down on a bench that had a view of the whole courtyard. A hundred metres away, the privates were fooling around with swords, looking clumsier than they did during the battle, as if they didn't have to prove themselves anymore now.

They might even be having some fun. Polly was convinced that was against regulations.

She wouldn't be sitting here long, Polly thought, already the winter chill was creeping into her bones. The snow, the hopeful main gate, the dogs; a trifecta of wrong. She wondered if Mal even noticed the cold. She wondered why Mal was still here.

Mal had busied herself for the moment with rolling a cigarette between her thin pale fingers. The days of pre-rolled cigarettes were over; the quartermaster only stocked tobacco now and only if you asked him nicely. Mal could ask very nicely.

"Get on with it," said Polly.

Mal lit up. The roll-up was perfect. "So I guess I'm sorry about yesterday," she said.

"Thought so," said Polly. "Me, too. Anything else?"

"What's there for you to apologise," said Mal, "kissing me back? It was my bloody stupid idea. I'll own it."

Polly let out an almost silent sigh. She'd hoped they could just safely ignore this thing that had happened, to see if it stayed or went away on its own, but no such luck.

"I should have known," she said. "Should have known you were conflicted over it. Don't kiss people who're conflicted over it. Always served me well. Look where I am now."

"You're stationed in bumfuck Uberwald," said Mal, helpfully. "And I wasn't conflicted," she added, "I was being a self-centered bastard. I don't usually apologise for being conflicted. Important distinction."

"If it helps any," said Polly, "you didn't come across as such. Bastard, I mean."

Mal muttered something under her breath that might have been "humans". "Maybe a little conflicted," she conceded for the sake of local vampire-human relations.

Polly exhaled. Silly humans and the stupid conflicts they presented to the passing vampire. They'd spent the evening the way they'd grown used to, Mal'd nursed a coffee and pretended to like it, they'd smoked all the cigarettes they'd rolled up in advance, stretched out next to each other on Mal's impossibly narrow bed and trying not to die of boredom in this fort where they weren't actually locked up.

And then Mal'd taken her hand, removed the ciggy end and kissed her fingers as if to give herself time to come to a decision, whispered a suggestion into Polly's ear and, upon her slow nod, kissed her mouth, slow, reserved, not at all what Polly had thought it would be like. Polly'd thought for a moment she'd been dreaming, and wasn't so sure if the dream made sense or not.

And then it wasn't even a dream. Then Mal had, slowly, slowly, tugged and drawn and shifted and suggested until they were almost comfortable and nobody was in any danger of falling off the edge of the bed, and Polly'd continued to very carefully kiss Mal and run her fingers through her hair and over the sharp edges of her improbably pretty wrists for long minutes, waiting for the pretense to stop working.

The pretense, though, hung around for a terrifying while, until some of Mal's nightmares caught up with them. Polly'd apologised then, too. She remembered that bit quite accurately, whispering "I'm so sorry" into the darkness and the silence again and again, until the vampire stopped shaking and articulated concisely that Polly was not responsible and could she be quiet now, some people were trying to sleep, and also could she please stay because it was cold.

"Why?" said Polly.

She'd been debating to ask that since she woke up that morning in that same bed, to stale smoke and that tense body she'd somehow curled against in her sleep, one arm thrown over her too thin waist and her hand on that inch of skin just underneath the hem of Mal's shirt, Mal's hand on it, keeping it in place and unmoving, and she knew Mal hadn't slept at all.

Mal'd been watching a speck of light on the ceiling, moving up as the sun rose, and she'd said, "Do you mind if I tell you a story?" and it turned out to be The Story of the Vampire in the Cell the Night after the Soldiers Came Back, which later turned into The Story of the Vampire who was Out in the Snow with a Handful of Angry Drunk Soldiers and They Had His Knife, So That's Where It Ended Up Huh, and then it was, briefly, The Story of The Vampire who Refused to Open His Eyes so They Cut Through His Eyelids, and then Mal stopped before it turned into The Story of The Vampire who Came To in Her Cell, Minus Boots because it had been high time for Polly to start her shift.

"Because -" began Mal, and already Polly was dreading the answer. But the vampire's voice was level, apparently there'd be no more of this difficult stuff today; no more dreams, no more sudden revelations, just the facts of the matter.

"I don't know," said Mal. "Because I felt we were all due something nice for a change. A reminder that the world isn't all pain and ill intentions." She laughed. "Something to feed to the void that my memory is becoming, excuse the pathos but it is the truth."

"Did it work?"

"Not at all," said Mal. "This was all about me. I wanted to feel better about myself. And that's probably bad enough, but all I've managed is that I feel like I reverted. Obviously without the messy bits and in an arguably polite way. I'm sorry I subjected you to this display of selfishness."

"I see," said Polly. "That's all very understandable and I'm sorry you feel that way, but I was there on my own free will and I get to decide if I regret it."

"Didn't you say you do?" said Mal.

Polly frowned. "Now I'm confused."

"Awesome," said Mal. "Well, as long as we agree it wasn't particularly clever." She was watching her hand now, the one that was holding the cigarette; turning it this way and that, then spreading her fingers. She recommenced smoking.

"This is what it looks like," she said.

Polly had been watching the privates for a while. They did rather well when they got past the messing around, she thought. Her language processing centres soldiered onward on their own for a moment, then stumbled. "Sorry," she said. "Haven't been paying attention. This is what what looks like?"

"It," said Mal.

"Ah," said Polly.

"It isn't healing so much as it's vanishing without a trace," said Mal. "Same in here. I know of things that I can't remember. Some of them just come up. None of them feel like a proper memory, y'know, that you can get out and examine and put back in the past where it belongs. There are no traces where I can look for them."

"That doesn't make any sense," said Polly.

"Yes," said Mal. "Hence: the problem I have with it." She took a long drag of her cigarette, and then another. "I want proof it happened. And then I want to forget." Her smile was bitter. "Probably why I've got this intense urge to keep telling you these things, because while I want them gone I don't want them lost."

"And I am such a convenient information dumpster," muttered Polly.

There was no answer for a long while. Mal flicked the half-smoked cigarette end on the ground, crushed it under her boot. "I'll stop," she said, and it was with such finality Polly didn't dare apologise. She knew that what Mal needed most right now was a friend she could rely on, and she also knew that being that friend stretched her too far.

"I can't do this, Mal," she said, not looking at Mal but toward the direction of the main gate. And suddenly -

"Mal," said Polly. Her hand was already closed around the hilt of her sword. May be awkward to draw sitting down. And Mal wasn't armed at all! Maybe she could hit someone over the head with a crutch.

Mal remained silent, and then Polly realised Mal was staring at the same point just behind the gates that she was.

There was a carriage. Several men wearing the characteristic black-and-red Uberwaldean officer uniform climbed off, and they were walking into their general direction.

One took a look at them and waved.

"Mal, we can leave if you like," said Polly.

"Not necessary," said Mal, finally unlocking her gaze from them and lighting up another cigarette, slow and mindful of every movement. "Just ignore them, they can't do anything out here. Not with Ankh-Morpork watching."

Polly swallowed. The four men were still advancing, and they were laughing.

"Huh," she said, looking at Mal from the side. She remembered the dogs, and Mal's lack of reaction. "All this coffee really is working."

"It's doing something, at least," said Mal, dragging a distracted hand through her hair. "Personally, I find this rather creepy."

Why can't you just be happy the pain is gone, thought Polly, and than racked her brain for an inoffensive way to say it. She tried.

"Because it took all the rest with it," said Mal. "Not just the piddly memories. The coffee love. The silly, heady, unexpected yet persistent crush on you. The thing on the bottom of my soul that carried on and kept me upright and resisting when I knew I'd die alone, that's gone, too. I feel like I can't regain any of that without regaining the pain, and you know what, it even seems like a good compromise some of the time."

Mal flicked some ash on the ground. "But the truth is, there's nothing left except maybe my ability to feel sorry for myself," she said, "and what for, I don't even remember all that well."

"Well," volunteered Polly, who didn't really know what to say. "You're also really angry with Clogston and you still smoke like a chimney. That's there as well."

Mal's mouth curled at the edges. "That's not a lot for thirty-five years."

Of course, Polly had known Mal's age, but the fact that Mal was actually younger than Clogston and had been a vampire for less than Polly's life had never stood out so prominently as now, because the vampire always emanated confidence enough for at least a few centuries, while admittedly not the accompanying wisdom. Back when Polly'd estimated her age at about two hundred years she'd even found it a little intimidating.

The Uberwaldeans passed them, close enough that she could have spit on them. One of them really stood out, she thought, with his paleness and his black cloak and his ribbon; and then, much too slowly for her taste, they crept out of earshot.

"You never told me they had a vampire," she said.

Pause, smoke, horizon. "I guess I forgot," said Mal. Apparently Polly's vampire had decided to be difficult again.

"I don't understand," said Polly. "Why would they go to all these lengths if they -"

Pause, smoke, horizon, patience. "If they what?" said Mal.

"Had a vampire," said Polly. "You know what I mean."

"Ribboners don't do that kind of thing," said Mal.

"Yeah," said Polly. "Clearly, torture is superior."

Mal turned to look at her. "In my experience, it is," she said. "As difficult as that may be to believe. Fortunately, it's practically impossible to do to a vampire who isn't playing along, especially one who grew up as a human among vampires. Very formative, those years."

"Practically?" Polly had a really unfortunate knack for extracting the weaker points of an argument.

"There's layers of will," said Mal. "And not all of them are intimidated by violence. The breakdown would have to be more thorough than I can imagine, and trust me, my horizon was really broadened in that regard." She leant back carefully, one arm stretching out on the backrest. "But most importantly," she said, "there's this pledge we all signed, you know. It isn't only about blood. It also has a few very definite bits about socially acceptable behaviour, since vampires as a species seem to find that problematic."

"Mal," said Polly, "I've known you for three years, and trust me, I know when you try to distract me via information dump. Next you'll be telling me about your most recent holidays."

"Ankh-Morpork, right after that spot of bother at Fort Kneck," said Mal. "It was the most glorious -"

"How are you so sure?" said Polly.

"A ribboner wouldn't do that," said Mal. She didn't shout; she didn't have to. "Why are you asking? You don't want to know and I can accept that, but for Nuggan's sake, stop digging. I find it rather confusing."

"I don't trust him not to," said Polly. Suddenly she realised how much she was freezing, sitting down, and wriggled her numb toes. It didn't help much.

"You could trust me," said Mal. She flicked away the sorry cigarette end and got up shakily, gathering her crutches. "Don't you have a bunch of privates to train, Pol? I swear I saw them around some time ago."

"So what if I go easy on them these days," said Polly. "Not as if anyone has any urgent business anywhere. Where are you going?"

"I'm talking to Christine," said Mal.


This is how Polly had, sometimes, dared to dream it would go.

In her dream, it was day four, and since it was her dream anyway, the weather had grown warmer. Not warm enough to melt the snow, since that made for soggy tents, but just under. There were a blue sky, and sunshine that made Polly's hair look nice, and Mal's black as the night coat that she'd left behind that warmed her thoroughly through the night.

(While it was a very fancy coat and Mal was probably going to demand it back, it wasn't actually magical; and very few people are cut out to enjoy camping in the winter. But this, after all, was Polly's dream, where anything went.)

The real day four had greeted them with a sudden sharp wind and hail, and Polly'd woken up before sunrise, curled around herself and wearing every single piece of clothing she'd brought, covered by two blankets and Mal's coat. And shivering in that nest of fabric she'd realised that after only four days she could hardly remember what it felt like, waking up with Mal wrapped around her, her head in the crook of Mal's arm and Mal's sleepy breath warm on the back of her neck. They'd most sensibly adopted that procedure in the late autumn because it raised the temperature from freezing to merely cold and Mal was insufferable when she was freezing and merely annoying when she was cold and in any case she had an irritating habit of panicking (stylishly) when Polly's lips were turning blue.

And Polly didn't really think it mattered if, in the minutes before they had to get up, she took Mal's hand and entwined their fingers till she was warm in each and every fingertip; maybe the first time she did that it marked some kind of transition in the way they acted around each other. Mostly it gave her the comfort that she craved more than anything and that Mal seemed willing to give, and that in turn made her heart hum.

But wait, she thought when she got to that bit, that was not the dream she was dreaming, just a bit of the past that had already been fading after four days. She painted dream day four in vivid colours, considered transferring it to a lazy summer day but eventually decided to keep the snow, because if she kept the dream realistic enough it may just come true. Maybe if she didn't wish for too much at once, just like you almost never got a pony for your birthdays but sometimes you got a wooden horse. For that purpose she even sacrificed the amazing frost-shielding properties of Mal's coat; after all, it didn't really matter if your lips turned blue in a dream.

So Polly'd got up that day a little stiffly, but the sun was shining, and there was Mal at the fireplace, warming her hands, and Polly said "You're a day early" (tough love from this sergeant!), and Mal looked up and said, "Morning, Pol, your hair looks nice" (the power of favourable light compelled her!), smile slightly lopsided, coffee brewing over the fire. Or wait, maybe that was too subtle for Mal, thought Polly as she was examining the dream, and rebooted the day from here.

It was harder than she'd thought keeping Mal realistic until she actually gave it some thought. Mal probably wouldn't just compliment her on her hair unprovoked. Certainly, though, she would come strutting into the camp by way of the main path and claim this was the way awesome ninja vampires did it, and who but her would be the ultimate authority on that. Certainly she would give an unforgettable impression of her antics later, at the fireplace, basking in the laughter, come make me coffee my minions, and the lads would make her coffee, and certainly Mal would compose some sort of epic acceptance speech for her upcoming medal, bits and pieces and acknowledgements floating up whenever Polly tried to talk to her. And then she would say Polly's hair looked nice that day.

Then came the bureaucracy, of course, endless hours of debriefing, debating, Clogston consulting Polly for her strategical opinions because she tended to do just that lately. Someone would come up with a whole different host of very bad ideas and Polly would fight hard to keep her lads out of the more unusual danger and it was all very frustrating but Mal was back and that saved the day as far as Polly was concerned. Also, it made her somewhat nervous.

There was bathing. This was Mal, of course there was bathing. What with having to knock a hole in the ice on the surface of the lake, it'd have to be necessarily short-lived, and Mal would complain and complain about there being no bathtub and no servants who'd heat pails of water over the fire and no bubble bath and no (as a vampire, Mal had the advantage of not actually needing air) relaxing glass of wine and no shampoo and no vinegar rinse and no cucumber face mask and (Polly supposed she had it coming simply by nodding along to the litany) no loofah and no pumice and no brush and no nail file and no hot air imp and no towels, Polly, could the world be any more cruel, but despite the complaining about the inadequate hygienic situation she'd come back with wet, quickly freezing hair, smelling of her expensive soap (she'd used up the whole rest of the bar and would have to actually welcome the gritty army soap into her life) and afterwards she was smelling mostly of smoke because she had to dry her hair at the fire, and Polly would have to insist over and over that it was barely noticeable.

And later, when Polly was out on patrol and Mal was so kind as to come along because she felt her impressions weren't doing her brave mission justice and she'd have to practise and also smoke a lot of cigarettes to make the slightly burned smell seem intentional, and then they might sit and look down at the snowy forest where even Mal wasn't seeing a damn thing and maybe, maybe Polly could then attempt a little honesty.

In her dream, she even got to say it first.