Terry Pratchett. Jingo
страница №6
... actual distance of Fred's vantage point. 'Yourdistinguished military career has obviously given you many pleasant
memories.'
'The ladies liked the uniform,' said Fred Colon, with the unspoken
rider that sometimes a growing lad needed all the help he could get. 'An'
it... weelll...'
'Yes, sarge?'
Colon looked awkward, as if the bunched underwear of the past was
tangling itself in the crotch of recollection.
'It was... more easier, sir. Than being a copper, I mean. I mean,
you're a soldier, right, and the other buggers is the enemy. You march into
some big field somewhere and all form up into them oblongs, and then a bloke
with the feathery helmet gives the order, and you all forms up into big
arrows-'
'Good gods, do people really do that? I thought it was just how they
drew the battle plans!'
'Well, the old duke, sir, he did it by the book... anyway, it's just a
case of watching your back and walloping any bloke in the wrong uniform.
But...' Fred Colon's face screwed up in agonized thought, I well, when
you're a copper, well, you dunno the good guys from the bad guys without a
map, miss, and that's a fact.'
'But... there's military law, isn't there?'
'Well, yes... but when it's pissing with rain and you're up to your
tonk- your waist in dead horses and someone gives you an order, that ain't
the time to look up the book of rules, miss. Anyway, most of it's about when
you're allowed to get shot, sir.'
'Oh, Im sure there's more to it than that, sergeant.'
'Oh, prob'ly, sir,' Colon conceded diplomatically.
'I'm sure there's lots of stuff about not killing enemy soldiers who've
surrendered, for instance.'
'Oh, yerss, there's that, captain. Doesn't say you can't duff 'em up a
bit, of course. Give 'em a little something to remember you by.'
'Not torture?' said Angua.
'Oh, no, miss. But...' Memory Lane for Colon had turned into a bad road
through a dark valley '... well, when your best mate's got an arrow in his
eye an' there's blokes and horses screamin' all round you and you're scared
shi--you're really scared, an' you come across one of the enemy... well, for
some reason or other you've got this kinda urge to give him a bit of a...
nudge, sort of thing. Just... you know... like, maybe in twenty years' time
his leg'll twinge a bit on frosty days and he'll remember what he done,
that's all.
He rummaged in a pocket and produced a very small book, which he held
up for inspection.
'This belonged to my great-grandad,' he said. 'He was in the scrap we
had against Pseudopolis and my great-gran gave him this book of prayers for
soldiers, ,cos you need all the prayers you can get, believe you me, and he
stuck it in the top pocket of his jerkin, 'cos he couldn't afford armour,
and next day in battle whoosh, this arrow came out of nowhere, wham,
straight into this book and it went all the way through to the last page
before stopping, look. You can see the hole.'
'Pretty miraculous,' Carrot agreed.
'Yeah, it was, I s'pose,' said the sergeant. He looked ruefully at the
battered volume. 'Shame about the other seventeen arrows, really.'
The drumming died away. The remnant of the Watch tried to avoid one
another's gaze.
Then an imperious voice said, 'Why aren't you in uniform, young man?'
Nobby turned. He was being addressed by an elderly lady with a certain
turkey-like cast of feature and a capital punishment expression.
'Me? Got one, missus,' said Nobby, pointing to his battered helmet.
'A proper uniform,' snapped the woman, handing him a white feather.
'What will you be doing when the Klatchians are ravishing us in our beds?'
She glared at the rest of the guards and swept on. Angua saw several
others like her passing along the crowds of spectators. Here and there was a
flash of white.
'I'll be thinking: those Klatchians are jolly brave,' said Carrot. 'I'm
afraid, Nobby, that the white feather is to shame you into joining up.'
'Oh, that's all right, then,' said Nobby, a man for whom shame held no
shame. 'What am I supposed to do with it?'
'That reminds me... did I tell you what I scud to Lord Rust?' said
Sergeant Colon, nervously.
'Seventeen times so far,' said Angua, watching the women with the
feathers. She added, apparently to herself, ' "Come back with your shield or
on it." '
'I wonder if I can get the lady to give me any more?' said Nobby.
'What was that?' said Carrot.
'These feathers,' said Nobby. 'They look like real goose. I've got a
use for a lot more of these-'
'I meant what was it that Angua said?' said Carrot.
'What? Oh... it's just something women used to say when they sent their
men off to war. Come back with your shield, or on it.'
'On your shield?' said Nobby. 'You mean like... sledging, sort of
thing?'
'Like dead,' said Angua. 'It meant come back a winner or not at all.'
'Well, I always came back with my shield,' said Nobby. 'No problem
there.'
'Nobby,' sighed Colon, 'you used to come back with your shield,
everyone else's shield, a sack of teeth and fifteen pairs of still-warm
boots. On a cart.'
'We-ell, no point in going to war unless you're on the winning side,'
said Nobby, sticking the white feather in his helmet.
'Nobby, you was always on the winning side, the reason bein', you used
to lurk aroun' the edges to see who was winning and then pull the right
uniform off'f some poor dead sod. I used to hear where the generals kept an
eye on what you were wearin' so they'd know how the battle was going.'
'Lots of soldiers have served in lots of regiments,' said Nobby.
'Right, what you say is true. Only not usually during the same battle,'
said Sergeant Colon.
They trooped back into the Watch House. Most of the shift had taken the
day off. After all, who was in charge? What were they supposed to be doing
today? The only ones left were those who never thought of themselves as off
duty, and the new recruits who hadn't had their keen edge blunted.
'I'm sure Mr Vimes'll think of something,' said Carrot. 'Look, I'd
better take the Goriffs back to their shop. Mr Goriff says he's going to
pack up and leave. A lot of Klatchians are leaving. You can't blame them,
either.'
Dreams rising with him like bubbles, Vimes surfaced from the black
fathoms of sleep.
Normally, these days, he treasured the moment of waking. It was when
solutions presented themselves. He assumed bits of his brain came out at
night and worked on the problems of the previous day, handing him the result
just as he opened his eyes.
All that arrived now were memories. He winced. Another memory turned
up. He groaned. The sound of his badge bouncing on the table replayed
itself. He swore.
He swung his legs off the covers and groped for the bedside table.
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!'
'Oh, no... All right, what's the time?'
'One o'clock pee em! Hello, Insert Name Here!'
Vimes looked blearily at the Dis-organizer. One day, he knew, he really
would have to try to understand the manual for the damn thing. Either that
or drop it off a cliff.[9]
'What-' he began, and then groaned again. The twanging sound made by
the unwound turban as it
One of the universal rules of happiness is: always be wary of any
helpful item that weighs less than its operating manual.
took his weight had just come back to haunt him.
'Sam?' The bedroom door was pushed open and Sybil came in carrying a
cup.
'Yes, dear?'
'How do you feel?'
'I've got bruises on my brui-' Another memory crawled up from the pit
of guilt. 'Oh, good grief, did I really call him a long streak of-?'
'Yes,' said his wife. 'Fred Colon came round this morning and told me
all about it. And a very good description, I'd say. I went out with Ronnie
Rust once. Bit of a cold fish.'
Another recollection burst like a ball of marsh gas in Vimes's head.
'Did Fred tell you where he said Rust could put his badge?'
'Yes. Three times. It seems to be weighing on his mind. Anyway, knowing
Ronnie, he'd have to use a hammer.'
Vimes had long ago got used to the fact that the aristocracy all seemed
to know one another by their first name.
'And did Fred tell you anything else?' he said timidly.
'Yes. About the shop and the fire and everything. I'm proud of you.'
She gave him a kiss.
'What do I do now?' he said.
'Drink your tea and have a wash and a shave.'
'I ought to go down to the Watch House and
'A shave! There's hot water in the jug.'
When she had left he hauled himself upright and tottered into his
bathroom. There was, indeed, a jug of hot water on the marble washstand.
He looked at the face in the mirror. Unfortunately, it was his. Perhaps
if he shaved it first... ? And then he could wash the bits that were left.
Fragments of the night before kept on respectfully drawing themselves
to his attention. lt was a shame about that guard, but sometimes you just
coudln't stand and argue
He shouldn't have done that with his badge. It wasn't like the old
days. He had responsibilities. He should've stayed on and made things just a
little less
'No. That never worked.
He managed to get the lather on his face. The Riot Act! Good grief...
He stopped his razor thoughtfully. Rust's milky eyes stared out of his
memory. Bastard! Men like that thought, they really thought, that the Watch
was a kind of sheepdog, to nip at the heels of the flock, bark when spoken
to and never, ever, bite the shepherd...
Oh yes. Vimes knew in his bones who the enemy was.
Except
No badge, no Watch, no job...
Another memory arrived, late.
Lather still dripping down his shirt, he pulled Vetinari's sealed
letter out of his pocket and slit it open with the razor.
There was a blank sheet of paper inside. Hie turned it over, and there
was nothing on the other side either. Mystified, he glanced at the envelope.
Sir Samuel Vimes, Knight.
Nice of him to be so precise about it, Vimes thought. What was the
point of a message with no message? Some people might absentmindedly have
slipped the wrong piece of paper in an envelope, but Vetinari wouldn't. What
was the point of sending him a note telling him he was a knight, for gods'
sake, he knew that embarrassing fact well enough-
Another little memory burst open as silently as a mouse passing wind in
a hurricane.
Who'd said it? Any gentleman
Vimes stared. Well, he was a gentleman, wasn't he? It was official.
And then he didn't shout, and he didn't run out of the room. He
finished shaving, had a wash and put on a change of underwear, very calmly.
Downstairs, Sybil had cooked him a meal. She wasn't a very good cook.
This was fine by Vimes, because he wasn't a very good eater. After a
lifetime of street meals his stomach wasn't set up right. What it craved was
little crunchy brown bits, the food group of the gods, and Sybil reliably
always left the pan too long on the dragon.
She eyed him carefully as he chewed his fried egg and stared into the
middle distance. Her manner was that of someone with a portable safety net
watching a man on the high wire.
After a while, while she watched him crack open a sausage, he said, 'Do
we have any books on chivalry, dear?'
'Hundreds, Sam.'
'Is there any one which tells you what... you know, what it's all
about? I mean, what you have to do if you're a knight, say? Responsibilities
and so on?'
'Most of them, I should think.'
'Good. I think I shall do a little reading.' Vimes hit the bacon with
his fork. It shattered very satisfactorily.
Afterwards, he went into the library. Twenty minutes later, he came
back out for a pencil and some paper.
Ten minutes after that, Lady Sybil took him a cup of coffee. He was
hidden behind a pile of books, and apparently deep in Life of Chivalrie. She
crept out and went into her own study, where she settled down to update her
dragon-breeding records.
It was an hour later when she heard him step out into the hall.
He was humming under his breath, tunelessly, with the faraway look of
preoccupation that means that some Big Thought has required the shutting
down of all non-essential processes. He was also re-radiating the field of
angered innocence that was, to her, part of his essential Vimesness.
'Are you going out, Sam?'
'Yes. I'm just going to kick some arse, dear.'
'Oh, good. Just be sure you wrap up well, then.'
The Goriff family trudged along silently beside Carrot.
'I'm sorry about your shop, Mr Goriff,' he said.
Goriff shifted the load he was carrying. 'We can start other shops,' he
said.
'We']] certainly keep an eye on it,' said Carrot. 'And
when all this is over, you can come back.'
'Thank you.'
His son said something in Klatchian. There was a brief family arguent.
'I appreciate your strength of feeling,' said Carrot, going red,
'although I must say I think your language was a little strong.'
'My son is sorry,' said Goriff automatically. 'He did not remember that
you speak Kl-'
'No, I'm not! Why should we run away?' said the boy. 'We live here!
I've never seen Klatch!'
'Oh, well, that will be something to look forward to,' said Carrot. 'I
hear it has many fine--'
'Are you stupid?' said Janil. He shook himself free of his father's
grasp and confronted Carrot. 'I don't care! I don't want all this stuff
about the moon rising over the Mountains of the Sun! I get that at home all
the time! I live here!'
'Now, you really ought to listen to your parents-'
'Why? My dad works all the time and now he's being pushed out! What
good's that? We ought to stay here and defend what's ours!'
'Ah, well, you shouldn't take the law into your own hands--'
'Why not?'
'It's our job--'
'But you're not doing it!'
There was a rattle of Klatchian from Mr Goriff.
'He says I've got to apologize,' said Janil sullenly. 'I'm sorry.'
'So am I,' said Carrot.
The boy's father gave him that complicated shrug used by adults in a
situation involving adolescents.
'You'll be back, I know it,' said Carrot.
'We shall see.'
They went down the quay towards a waiting boat. It was a Klatchian
ship. People lined the rails, people who were getting out with what they
could carry before they could only get out with what they wore. The watchmen
found themselves under hostile scrutiny.
'Surely Rust isn't already forcing Klatchians out of their homes?' said
Angua.
'We can tell which way the wind is blowing,' said Goriff calmly.
Carrot sniffed the salt air. 'It's blowing from Klatch,' he said.
'For you, perhaps,' said Goriff.
A whip cracked behind them and they stood aside as several coaches
rumbled by. A blind at the window
was pulled aside momentarily. Carrot caught a brief glimpse of a face,
all gold teeth and black beard, before the cloth twitched back.
'That's him, isn't it?'
There was a faint grunt from Angua. She had her eyes closed, as she
always did when she was letting her nose do the seeing.. .
'Cloves,' she murmured, and then grabbed Carrot's arm.
'Don't run after it! There's armed men on that ship! What will they
think when they see a soldier running towards them?'
'I'm not a soldier!'
'How long do you think they'll spend working out the difference?'
The coach pushed through the press of people on the dock. The crowd
surged back around it.
'There's boxes being unloaded - I can't quite see . . said Carrot,
shading his eyes. 'Look, I'm sure they'll understand if-'
71-hour Ahmed stepped out on to the dock and looked back towards the
watchmen. There was a momentary sparkle as he grinned. They saw his hand
reach over his shoulder and come back holding the curved sword.
'I can't just let him get away,' said Carrot. 'He's a suspect! Look,
he's laughing at us!'
'With diplomatic impunity,' said Angua. 'But there's a lot of armed men
down there.'
'My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure,' said
Carrot.
'Really? Well, there's eleven of them.'
71-hour Ahmed threw his sword in the air. It spun a couple of times,
making a whum-whum noise, and then his hand shot out and caught it by the
handle as it fell.
'That's what Mr Vimes was doing,' said Carrot, through gritted teeth.
'Now he's taunting us-'
'You will be killed if you go on the ship,' said Goriff behind him. 'I
know that man.'
'You do? How?'
'He is feared in the whole of Klatch. That is 71-hour Ahmed!'
'Yes, why is-'
'You haven't heard of him? And he is a D'reg!' Mrs Goriff pulled at her
husband's arm.
'D'reg?' said Angua.
'A warlike desert tribe,' said Carrot. 'Very fierce. Honourable,
though. They say that if a D'reg is your friend he's your friend for the
rest of your life.'
'And if he's not your friend?'
'That's about five seconds.'
He drew his sword. 'Nevertheless,' he added, 'we can't let--'
'I have said too much. We must go,' said Goriff. The family picked up
their bundles.
'Look, there might be another way to find out about him,' said Angua.
She pointed at the carriage.
A couple of lean, long-haired and extremely graceful dogs had been let
out and were straining at their leashes as they led the way up the
gangplank.
'Klatchistan hunting dogs,' she said. 'The Klatchian nobility are very
keen on them, I understand.'
'They look a bit like-' Carrot began, and then the penny dropped. 'No,
I can't let you go on there by yourself,' he said. 'Something would go
wrong.'
'I stand a much better chance than you would, believe me,' said Angua
quickly. 'They won't be leaving until the tide changes, in any case.'
'It's too dangerous.'
'Well, they are supposed to be our enemies.'
'I meant for you!'
'Why?' said Angua. 'I've never heard of werewolves in Klatch, so they
probably don't know how to deal with us.'
She undid the little leather collar that held her badge and handed it
to Carrot.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'If the worst comes to the worst, I'll dive
overboard.'
'Into the river?'
'Even the river Ankh can't kill a werewolf.' Angua glanced at the
turgid water. 'Probably, anyway.'
Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs had gone on patrol. They weren't sure
why they were patrolling, and what they were supposed to do if they saw a
crime, although many years of training had enabled them not to see some
quite large crimes. But they were creatures of habit. They were watchmen, so
they patrolled. They didn't patrol with a purpose. They patrolled, as it
were, in pure essence. Nobby's progress wasn't helped by the large,
leatherbound book in his arms.
'A war'd do this place good,' said Sergeant Colon, after a while. 'Put
some backbone in people. Everything's gone all to pot these days.'
'Not like when we were kids, sarge.
'Not like when we were kids indeed, Nobby.'
'People trusted one another in them days, didn't they, sarge?'
'People trusted one another, Nobby.'
'Yes, sarge. I know. And people didn't have to lock their doors, did
they?'
'That's right, Nobby. And people were always ready
to help. They were always in and out of one another's houses.'
'sright, sarge,' said Nobby vehemently. 'I know no-one ever locked
their houses down our street.'
'That's what I'm talking about. That's my point.'
'It was 'cos the bastards even used to steal the locks.'
Colon considered the truth of this.
'Yes, but at least it was each other's stuff they were nicking, Nobby.
It's not like they was foreigners.'
'Right.'
They strolled on for a while, each entangled in his own thoughts.
'Sarge?'
'Yes, Nobby?'
'Where's Nubilia?'
'Nubilia?'
'It's got to be a place, I reckon. Pretty warm there, I think?'
'Ah, Nubilia,' said Colon. He invented desperately. 'Right. Yes. It's
one of them Klatchian places. Yeah. Got lots of sand. And mountains. Exports
dates. Why'd you want to know?'
'Oh... no reason.'
'Nobby?'
'Yes, sarge?'
'Why are you carrying that huge book?'
'Hah, clever idea, sarge. I saw what you said about that book of your
great-grandad, so if there's any fighting I got this one off'f Washpot. It's
The Book of Om. Five inches thick.'
'It's a bit big for a pocket, Nobby. It's a bit big for a cart, to be
honest.'
'I thought I could make sort of braces to carry it. I
reckon even a longbow could only get an arrow as far as the Apocrypha.'
A familiar creak made them look up.
A Klatchian's head was swinging in the breeze.
'Fancy a pint?' said Sergeant Colon. 'Big Anjie brews up some that's a
treat.'
'Better not, sarge. Mr Vimes is in a bit of a mood.'
Colon sighed. 'You're right.'
Nobby looked up at the head again- It was wooden. It had been repainted
many times over the centuries. The Klatchian was smiling very happily for
someone who'd never have to buy a shirt ever again.
'The Klatchian's Head. My grandad said his granddad remembered when it
was still the real one,' Colon said. 'Of course, it was about the size of a
walnut by then.'
'Bit... nasty, sticking up a bloke's head for a pub sign,' said Nobby.
'No, Nobby. Spoils of war, right? Some bloke came back from one of the
wars with a souvenir, stuck it on a pole and opened a pub. The Klatchian's
Head. Teach ,em not to do it again.'
'I used to get into enough trouble just for nicking boots,' said Nobby.
'More robust times, Nobby.'
'You ever met a Klatchian, sarge?' said Nobby, as they began to pace
the length of the quiet street. 'I mean one of the wild ones.'
'Well, no... but you know what? They're allowed three wives! That's
criminal, that is.'
'Yeah, 'cos here's me and I ain't got one,' said Nobby.
'And they eat funny grub. Curry and that.'
Nobby gave this some thought. 'Like... we do, when we're on late duty.'
'Weelll, yerss - but they don't do it properly-'
'You mean runny ear-wax yellow with peas and currants in, like your mum
used to do?'
'Right! You poke around as much as you like in a Klatchian curry and
you won't find a single piece of swede.'
'And I heard where they eat sheep's eyeballs, too,' said Nobby,
international gastra-gnome.
'Right again.'
'Not decent ordinary stuff like lambs' fry or sweetbreads, then?'
'That's... right.'
Colon felt that he was being got at in some say.
'Look, Nobby, when alls said and done they ain't the right colour, and
there's an end to it.'
'Good job you found out, Fred!' said Nobby, so cheerfully that Sergeant
Colon was almost sure that he meant it.
'Well, it's obvious,' he conceded.
'Er... what is the right colour?' said Nobby.
'White, of course!'
'Not brick-red, then? 'Cos you-'
'Are you winding me up, Corporal Nobbs?'
"Course not, sarge. So... what colour am I?'
That caused Sergeant Colon to think. You could have found, somewhere on
Corporal Nobbs, a shade appropriate to every climate on the disc and a few
found only in specialist medical books.
'White's... white's a state of, you know... mind,' he said. 'It's
like... doing an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, that sort of
thing. And washing regular.'
'Not lazing around, sort of thing.'
'Right.'
'Or... like... working all hours like Goriff does.'
'Nobby-'
'And you never see those kids of his with dirty clo-'
'Nobby, you're just trying to get me going, right?' You know we're
better'n Klatchians. Otherwise, what's the point? Anyway, if we're going to
fight 'em, you could get locked up for going around talking treachery.'
'Are you going to fight them, Fred?'
Fred Colon scratched his chin. 'Well, as a hexperienced milit'ry man, I
suppose I'll have to.. .'
'What' re you going to do? Join a regiment and go to the front?'
'We-ell... my fore-tay lies in training, so I reckon I'd better stay
here and train up the new recruits.'
'Here at the back, you might say.'
'We all have to do our bit, Nobby. If it was down to me I'd be out
there like a shot to give Johnny Klatchian a taste of cold steel.'
'Their razor-sharp swords wouldn't worry you, then?'
'I should laugh at them with scorn, Nobby.'
'But s'posing the Klatchians attack here? Then you'll be at the front
and the front will be at the back.'
'I'll sort of try for a posting in the middle. .
'The middle of the front or--'
'Gentlemen?'
They looked round to find that they had been followed by a man of
medium height but with an extraordinary head. It wasn't that he had gone
bald. He had quite a lot of hair, which was long and curly and reached
almost to his shoulders, and his beard was large enough to conceal a small
chicken. But his head had simply risen through his hair, like a kind of
intrusive dome.
He gave them a friendly smile.
'Am I by any change addressing the heroic Sergeant Colon and the-' The
man looked at Nobby. Expressions of amazement, dread, interest and charity
passed across his otherwise sunny countenance like storm-driven clouds. 'And
the Corporal Nobbs?' he finished.
'That is us, citizen,' said Colon.
'Ah, good. I was very specifically told to find you. It's quite
amazing, you know. No-one had even broken into the boathouse, although I
must say I did design the locks rather well. And all I've had to do is
replace the leatherwork around the joints and grease it up... oh, do excuse
me, I've got rather ahead of myself. Now... there was a message I had to
give you... what was it now?... Something about your hands...'He reached
down into the large canvas bag by his feet and pulled out a long tube, which
he handed to Nobby.
'I do apologize about this,' he said, producing a smaller tube and
handing it to Colon. 'I had to do things in such a hurry, there really was
no time to finish it off properly, and frankly the materials are not very
good-'
Colon looked at his tube. It was pointed at one end.
'This is a firework rocket,' he said. 'Look, it's s got "A riot of
coloured balls and stars" on it...'
'Yes, I do so apologize,' said the man, lifting a complex little
arrangement of wood and metal out of the bag. 'May I have the tube back,
corporal?' He took it and screwed the arrangement on to one end. 'Thank
you... yes, I'm afraid that without my lathe and, indeed, my forge, I really
have had to make do with what I could find lying around... Could I have the
rocket back, please? Thank you.'
'They don't go properly without a stick,' said Nobby.
'Oh, in fact they do,' said the man. 'Just not very accurately.'
He raised the tube to shoulder height and peered into a small wire
grid.
'That seems about right,' he said.
'And they don't go along,' said Nobby. 'They just go up.
'A common misconception,' said Leonard of Quirm, turning to face them.
Colon could see the tip of the rocket in the depths of the tube, and
had a sudden image of stars and balls.
'Now, apparently you two have to step into this alley here and come
with me,' said Leonard. 'I'm very sorry about this, but his lordship has
explained to me at great length how the needs of society as a whole may have
to overrule the rights of a particular individual. Oh, and I've just
remembered. You have to put your hands up.'
Sand had been spilled across the big table in the Rats Chamber.
Lord Rust felt a sensation akin to pleasure as he surveyed it. There
were the little square boxes for the towns and cities, and cut-out palm
trees to indicate the known oasisies. And, although he was uneasy about the
word 'oasisies', Lord Rust looked at it and saw that it was good. Especially
since it was a map of Klatch and everyone knew that Klatch was sand anyway,
which made it rather satisfying in an existential sort of way, although this
sand here had been commandeered from the heap behind Chalky the troll's
wholesale pottery and bore the occasional
cigarette end and trace of feline incontinence that would probably not
be found in the real desert, or certainly not to scale.
'Here would be a good landing area,' he said, pointing with his stick.
His equerry tried to look helpful. 'The EI Kinte peninsula,' he said.
'That's the closest point to us, sir.'
'Exactly! We can be across the straits in jig time.'
'Very good, sir,' said Leiutenant Hornett, 'but... you don't think the
enemy might be expecting us there? It being such an obvious landing site?'
'Not obvious at all to the trained military thinker, sir! They won't be
expecting us there precisely because it is so obvious, d'y'see?'
'You mean... they'll think only a complete idiot would land there,
sir?'
'Correct! And they know we're not complete idiots, sir, and therefore
that will be the last place they will be expecting us, d'y'see? They'll be
expecting us somewhere like' - his stick stabbed into the sand -'here.'
Hornett looked closely. In the street outside, someone started to bang
a drum.
'Oh, you mean Eritor,' he said. 'Where I believe there is a concealed
landing area, and two days' forced march through good cover would have us at
the heart of the empire, sir.'
'Exactly!'
'Whereas landing at M Mints means three days over sand dunes and past
the fortified city of Zebra...'
'Precisely. Wide-open spaces! And that is where we can practise the art
of warfare.' Lord Rust raised his voice above the drumming. 'That's how you
settle these things. One decisive battle. Us on one side, the Klatchians on
the other. THAT IS HOW THESE THINGS ARE D-'
He threw down his pointer. 'Who the devil is making that infernal
noise?'
The equerry walked across to the window. 'It's someone else recruiting,
sir,' he said.
'But we're all here!'
The equerry hesitated, as the bearers of bad tidings to short-tempered
men often do.
'It's Vimes, sir...'
'Recruiting for the Watch?'
'Er... no, my lord. For a regiment. Er... the banner says "Sir Samuel
Vimes's First of Foot", my lord-'
'The arrogance of the man. Go and- No, I'll go myself!'
There was a crowd in the street. In the centre there rose the bulk of
Constable Dorfl, and a key thing about the golem was that if he was banging
a drum then no-one was going to ask him to stop. No-one except possibly Lord
Rust, who strode up and snatched the drumsticks out of his hands.
'Yerss, it are species of your choice's life in der First of Foot!'
shouted Sergeant Detritus, unaware of the events going on behind him. 'You
learnin' a trade! You learnin' self-respek! Also you get spiffy uniform plus
all der boots you can eat -here, dat's my banner!'
'What's the meaning of this?' said Rust, flinging the homemade banner
on to the ground. 'Vimes can't do this!'
A figure detached itself from the wall, where it had been watching the
show.
'You know, I rather think I can,' said Vimes. He handed Rust a piece of
paper. 'It's all here, my lord. With references citing the highest
authorities, in case you are in any doubt.'
'Citing the-?'
'On the role of a knight, my lord. In fact the duties of a knight,
funnily enough. A lot of it is pretty damn stupid stuff, riding around the
place on one of those bloody great horses with curtains round it and so on,
but one of them says in time of need a knight has to raise and maintain
you'll laugh when I tell you this a body of armed soldiers! No-one could
have been more surprised than me, I don't mind telling you! Seems there's
nothing for it but I have to go out and get some chaps together. Of course,
most of the watch have joined, well, you know how it is, disciplined lads,
anxious to do their bit, so that saved me a bit of effort. Except for Nobby
Nobbs, 'cos he says if he leaves it till Thursday he's going to have enough
white feathers for a mattress.'
Rust's expression would have preserved meat for a year.
'This is a nonsense,' he said. 'And you, Vimes, certainly are no
knight. Only a king can make-'
'There's a good few lordships in this city created by the Patricians,'
said Vimes. 'Your friend Lord Downey, for one. You were saying?'
'Then if you persist in playing games I will say that before a knight
is created he must spend a night's vigil watching his armour-'
'Practically every night of my life,' said Vimes. 'A man doesn't keep
an eye on his armour round here, that man's got no armour in the morning.'
'In prayer,' said Rust sharply.
'That's me,' said Vimes. 'Not a night has gone by without me thinking,
"Ye gods, I hope I get through this alive." '
'-and he must have proved himself on the field of combat. Against other
trained men, Vimes. Not vermin and thugs.'
Vimes started to undo the strap of his helmet.
'Well, this isn't the best of moments, my lord, but if someone'll hold
your coat I can spare you five minutes...'
In Vimes's eyes Rust recognized the fiery gleam of burning boats.
'I know what you're doing, Vimes, and I am not going to rise to it,' he
said, taking a step back. 'In any case, you have had no formal training in
arms.'
'That's true,' said Vimes. 'You've got me there, right enough. No-one
ever trained me in arms. I was lucky there.' He leaned closer and lowered
his voice so that the watching crowd wouldn't hear. 'Y'see, I know what
"training in arms" means, Ronald. There hasn't been a real war in ages. So
it's all prancing around wearing padded waistcoats and waving swords with
knobs on the end so no-one'll really get hurt, isn't it? But down in the
Shades no-one's had any training in arms either. Wouldn't know an epee from
a sabre. No, what they're good at is a broken bottle in one hand and a
length of four-by-two in the other and when you face 'em, Ronnie, you know
you aren't going off for a laugh and a jolly drink afterwards, 'cos they
want you dead. They want to kill you, you see, Ron? And by the time you've
swung your nice shiny broadsword they've carved their name and address on
your stomach. And that's where I got my training in arms. Well... fists and
knees and teeth and elbows, mostly.'
'You, sir, are no gentleman,' said Rust.
'I knew there was something about me that I liked.'
'Can you not even see that you can't enrol... dwarfs and trolls in an
Ankh-Morpork regiment?'
'It just says "armed soldiers", and dwarfs come with their own axes. A
great saving. Besides, if you've ever seen them really fight, then you
must've been on the same side.'
'Vimes-'
'It's Sir Samuel, my lord.'
Rust seemed to think for a moment.
'Very well, then,' he said. 'Then you and your... regiment come under
my command-'
'Strangely, no,' said Vimes swiftly. 'Under the command of the King or
his duly appointed representative, it says in Scavone's Chivalric Law and
Usage. And, of course, there has been no duly appointed representative ever
since some complete bastard cut off the last king's head. Oh, assorted beds
appeared to have been ruling the city, but according to the chivalric
tradition-'
Rust stopped to think again. He had the look of a lawnmower just after
the grass has organized a workers' collective. There was a definite
suggestion that, deep inside, he knew this was not really happening. It
could not be happening because this sort of thing did not happen. Any
contradictory evidence could be safely ignored. However, it might be
necessary to find some motions to go through.
'I think you'll find that, legally, your position-' he began, and his
eyes bulged for a moment as Vimes interrupted him cheerfully.
'Oh, there might be a few problems, I grant you. But if you ask Mr
Slant he'll say "This is a very interesting case", which as you know is
lawyer-talk for "One thousand dollars a day plus expenses and it'll take
months." So I'll leave you go get on with it, shall P Cot such a lot of
things to do, you know. I think the swatches for the new uniforms should be
in my office about now, it's so important to look right on the battlefield,
isn't it?'
Rust gave Vimes another look, and then strode away.
Detritus stamped to attention beside Vimes and his salute clanged
smartly off his helmet.
'What we doin' now, sir?'
'We can pack up now, I think. All the lads have joined up?'
'Yessir!'
'You told them it wasn't compulsory?'
'Yessir! I said, "It ain't compuls'ry, you just gotta," sir.'
'Detritus, I wanted volunteers.'
' 'sright, sir. They volunteered all right, I saw to that.'
Vimes sighed as he walked back to his office. But they were probably
safe. He was pretty sure he was legally sound and if he knew anything about
Rust, the man would respect the letter of the law. Such men did, in a chilly
way. Besides, thirty men in the Watch simply didn't figure in the great
scheme of things. Rust could ignore them.
Suddenly there's a war brewing, Vimes thought, and they all come back.
Civil order is turned upside down, because that's the rules. And people like
Rust are at the top of the heap again. You have these aristocrats lazing
around for years, and suddenly the old armour's out and the sword is being
taken down from over the fireplace. They think there's going to be a war and
all they can think about is that wars can be won or lost...
Someone's behind this. Someone wants to see a war. Someone paid to have
Ossie and Snowy killed. Someone wanted the Prince dead. I've got to remember
that. This isn't a war. This is a crime.
And then he realized he was wondering if the attack on Goriffs shop had
been organized by the same people, and whether those same people had set
fire to the embassy.
And then he realized why he was thinking like this.
It was because he wanted there to be conspirators. It was much better
to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by
privilege and power, plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort
of image, because if you didn't then you might have to face the fact that
bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog
and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and
doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to
blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If
it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was Us, what did that
make Me? After all, Im one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of
myself as one of Them. No-one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them.
We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things.
Around about this time, in his former life, Vimes would be taking the
cap off a bottle, and wouldn't be too bothered about the bottle's contents
so long as they crinkled paint
'Ook?'
'Oh, hello. What can I do for - oh, yes, I asked about books on
Klatch... Is that all?'
The librarian shyly held out a small, battered green book. Vimes had
been expecting something bigger, but he took it anyway. It paid to look at
any book the orang-utan gave you. He matched you up to books. Vimes supposed
it was a knack, in the same way that an undertaker was very good at judging
heights.
On the spine, in very faded gold lettering, were the words 'VENI VIDI
VICI: A Soldier's Life by Gen. A. Tacticus'.
Nobby and Sergeant Colon edged along the alley.
'I know who he is!' Fred hissed. 'That's Leonard of Quirm, that is! He
went missing five years ago!'
'So he's called Leonard and he's from Quirm, so what?' said Nobby.
'He's a raving genius!'
'He's a loony.'
'Yeah, well, they say there's a thin line between genius and
madness...'
'He's fallen off it, then.'
The voice behind them said, 'Oh, dear, this won't do at all, will it...
? I can't deny it, you were quite right, the accuracy would be quite
unacceptable at any reasonable range. Could you bear to stop a moment,
please?'
They turned. Leonard was already dismantling the tube.
'If you could just hang on to this bit, corporal... and, sergeant, if
you would be so good as to hold this piece steady... some sort of fins
should do it, Im sure I had a suitable piece of wood somewhere
Leonard began to pat his pockets.
The watchmen realized that the man holding them up had paused to
redesign his weapon and had given it to them to hold while he looked for a
screwdriver. This was a thing that did not often happen.
Nobby silently took the rocket from Colon and pushed it into the tube.
'What's this bit here, mister?' he said.
Leonard glanced up briefly in between patting his pockets.
'Oh, that is the trigger,' he said. 'Which, as you can see, rubs
against the flint and-'
'Good.'
There was a short burst of flame and rather more black smoke.
'Oh, dear,' said Leonard.
The watchmen turned, like men dreading what they were about to see. The
rocket had shot the length of the alley and through the window of a house.
'Ah... putting "This Way Up" on the projectile would be an important
safety point to bear in mind for the new design.' said Leonard. 'Now,
where's that notebook... ?'
'I think we'd better leave,' said Colon, moving backwards. 'Very fast.'
Inside the house there was an explosion of stars and balls to delight
young and old but not the troll who had just opened the door.
'Ah, really?' said Leonard. 'Well, if speed is required, I have this
very interesting design for a two-wheeled-'
Acting on an unspoken agreement, the watchmen each put a hand under a
shoulder, lifted him off the ground, and ran for it.
'Oh, dear,' said Leonard, as he was dragged backwards.
The watchmen dived into a side alley, and then jinked and dodged along
several others with quiet professionalism. Finally they leaned Leonard
against a wall and peered round the end of the alley.
'All clear,' said Nobby. 'They went the other way.'
'Right,' said Colon. 'Now, what was you doing? I mean, you might be a
genius like I heard, Mister da Quirm, but when it comes to threatening
people you're as clever as an inflatable dartboard.'
'I appear to have been a bit of a juggins, don't I?' Leonard agreed.
'But I do implore you to come with me. I'm afraid I thought that as warriors
you would be more inclined to understand force '
'Well, yes, we're warriors,' said Sergeant Colon. 'But-'
' 'ere, have you got another one of these rockets?' said Nobby, hefting
the tube onto his shoulder again. He had the special gleam in his eye that a
small man gets when he's laid his hands on a big, big weapon.
'I may have,' said Leonard, and the gleam in his eye was the mad
twinkle of the naturally innocent when they think they're being cunning.
'Why don't we go and see? You see, I was told to fetch you by any means
necessary.
'Bribery sounds good,' said Nobby. He put his eye to the tube's sights
and started making 'whoosh' noises.
'Who told you to fetch us?' said Colon.
'Lord Vetinari.'
'The Patrician wants us?'
'Yes. He said you have special qualities and must come at once.'
'To the palace? I heard he'd done a runner.'
'Oh, no. To the, er... to the, er... docks...'
'Special qualities, eh?' said Colon.
'Er, sarge...' Nobby began.
'Now then, Nobby,' said Colon importantly. 'It's about time we were
given some recognition, you know that. Hexperienced officers are the
backbone of the force. Seems to me,' he went on, 'seems to me that this is a
case of cometh the time, cometh the man.'
'When's he cometh?'
'I'm talking about us. Men with special qualities.'
Nobby nodded, but with a certain amount of reluctance. In many ways he
was a much clearer thinker than his superior officer, and he was worrying
about 'special qualities'. Being picked for something because of your
'special qualities' was tantamount to being volunteered. Anyway, what was so
special about special qualities'? Limpets had special qualities.
'Will we go undercover again?' said Colon.
Leonard blinked. 'There... yes, I think I can say there is a strong
under element involved. Yes, indeed.'
'Sarge-'
'You just be quiet, corporal.' Colon pulled Nobby closer. 'Undercover
means not getting stabbed and shot at, right?' he whispered. 'And what's the
most important thing a professional soldier wants not to happen to him?'
'Not getting stabbed and shot,' said Nobby automatically.
'Right! So let's be going, Mr Quirm! The call has come!'
'Well done!' said Leonard. 'Tell me, sergeant, are you of a nautical
persuasion?'
Colon saluted again. 'Nossir! Happily married man, sir!'
'I meant, have you ploughed the ocean waves at all?'
Colon gave him a cunning look.
'Ah, you can't catch me with that one, sir,' he said. 'Everyone knows
the horses sink.'
Leonard paused for a moment and retuned his brain to Radio Colon.
'Have you, in the past, floated around, on the sea, in a boat, at all?'
'Me, sir? Not me, sir. It's the sight of the waves going up and down,
sir.'
'Really?' said Leonard. 'Well, happily, that will not be a problem.'
All right, start again...
Assembling facts, that's what it was about...
The world watched. Someone wanted the Watch to say that the
assassination had been inspired by Klatch. Who?
Someone had also beheaded Snowy Slopes where he stood and left him
deader than six buckets of fish bait.
A vision of 71-hour Ahmed's big curved sword presented itself for his
attention. So...
... let's assume that Ahmed was Khufurah's servant or bodyguard, and
he'd found out...
No, how could that work? Who'd tell him?
Well, maybe he'd found out somehow, and that meant that he might also
know who'd paid the man...
Vimes sat back. It was still a mystery but he'd solve it, he knew he
would. He'd assemble the facts, analyse them, look at them from every angle
with an open mind, and find out exactly how Lord Rust had organized it.
Rank bad hat! He didn't have to sit still for something like that,
especially from a man who rhymed 'house' with 'mice'.
His eye was caught by the ancient book. General Tacticus? Every kid
knew about him. Ankh-Morpork had ruled a huge empire and a lot of it had
been in Klatch, thanks to him. Except there wasn't any thanks for him,
strangely enough. Vimes had never quite known why, but the city seemed to be
rather ashamed of the general.
One reason, of course, was that he'd ended up fighting Ankh-Mopork The
city of Genua had run out of royalty, inbreeding having progressed to the
point where the sole remaining example consisted mostly of
teeth, and senior courtiers had written to Ankh-Morpork asking for
help.
There'd been a lot of that sort of thing, Vimes had been surprised to
learn. The little kingdoms of the Sto Plains were for ever scrounging spare
royalty off one another. The King had sent Tacticus out of sheer
exasperation. It's hard to run a proper empire when you're constantly
getting blood-stained letters on the lines of: Dear sire, I beg to inform
you that we have conquered Betrek, Smale and Ushistan. Please send AM$20,000
back pay. The man never knew when to stop. So he was hastily made a duke and
packed off to Genua, whereupon his first action was to consider what was
that city's greatest military threat and then, having identified it, to
declare war on Ankh- Morpork.
But what else had anyone expected? He'd done his duty. He'd brought
back heaps of spoils, lots of captives and, almost uniquely among
Ankh-Morpork's military leaders, most of his men. Vimes suspected that this
last fact was one reason why history didn't approve. There was a suggestion
that this was, in some way, not playing fair.
'Veni, vidi, vici.' That was what the man was supposed to have said
when he'd conquered... where? Pseudopolis, wasn't it? Or Al-Khali? Or Quirm?
Maybe Sto Lat? That was in the old days when you attacked anyone else's city
on principle, and went back and did them over again if they looked like
getting up. And in those days, you didn't care if the world watched. You
wanted them to watch, and learn. 'Veni, vidi, vici.' I came, I saw, I
conquered.
As a comment it always struck Vimes as a bit too pat. It wasn't the
sort of thing you came up with on the spur of the moment, was it? It sounded
as if he had worked it out. He'd probably spent long evenings in his tent,
looking up in the dictionary short words beginning with V and trying them
out... Veni, vermini, vomui, I came, I got ratted, I threw up? Visi, veneri,
vamoosi, I visited, I caught an embarrassing disease, I ran away? It must
have been a big relief to come up with three short acceptable words. He
probably made them up first, and then went off to see somewhere and conquer
it.
He opened the book at random.
'It is always useful to face an enemy who is prepared to die for his
country,' he read. 'This means that both you and he have exactly the same
aim in mind.'
'Hah!'
'Bingeley-bingeley b-'
Vimes's hand slammed down on the box.
'Yes? What is it?'
'Three oh five pee em. Interview with Cpl Littlebottom re Missing Sgt:
Colon,' said the demon sulkily.
'I never arranged anything like- Who told you-? Are you telling me that
I've got an appointment and I don't know about it?'
'That's right.'
'So how do you know about it?'
'You told me to know about it. Last night,' said the demon.
'You can tell me about appointments I don't know about?' said Vimes.
'They're still appointments sine qua app...
