Terry Pratchett. Jingo
страница №7
...ointments,' said the demon.'They exist, as it were, in appointment phase space.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'Look,' said the demon patiently, 'You can have an appointment at any
time, right? So therefore any appointment exists in potentia-'
'Where's that?'
'Any particular appointment simply collapses the waveform,' said the
demon. 'I merely select the most likely one from the projected matrix.'
'You're just making this up,' said Vimes. 'If you were right, then any
second now-'
Someone knocked at the door. It was a polite, tentative tap.
Vimes didn't take his eyes off the smirking demon.
'Is that you, Corporal Littlebottom?' he said.
'Yes, sir. Sergeant Colon has sent a pigeon. I thought you ought to see
it, sir.'
'Come in!'
A small roll of thin paper was placed on his desk. He read:
Have volunteered for a mission of Vital
Importance. Nobby is here also. There will be
statchoos of us when this day's work is over.
PS Someone I can't tell you who says this note
will self-destruct in five seconds, he is sorry he
hasn't got good chemicles to do it better-
The paper began to crinkle around the edges and then vanished in a
small puff of acrid smoke.
Vimes stared at the little pile of ash that remained.
'I suppose it's a mercy they didn't blow up the pigeon, sir,' said
Cheery.
'What the hell are they up to? Well, I can't chase around after them.
Thanks, Cheery.'
The dwarf saluted and departed.
'Co-incidence,' said Vimes.
'All right, then,' said the demon. 'Bingeley-bingeley beep! Three
fifteen pee em, Emergency Meeting with Captain Carrot.'
It was a cylinder, tapering to a point at both ends. At one end the
taper was quite complex, the cylinder narrowing in a succession of smaller
and smaller rings, overlapping one another until they ended in a large
fishtail. Oiled leather could be seen gleaming in the gaps between the
metal.
At the other end, extending from the cylinder for all the world like
the horn of a unicorn, was a very long and pointed screw thread.
The whole thing was mounted on a crude trolley, which was in turn
riding on a pair of iron rails that disappeared into the black water at the
far end of the boathouse.
'Looks like a giant fish to me,' said Colon. 'Made of tin.'
'With an 'orn,' said Nobby.
'It'll never float,' said Colon. 'I can see where you've gone wrong
there. Everyone knows metal sinks.'
'Not entirely true,' said Leonard, diplomatically. 'In any case, this
boat is designed to sink.'
'What?'
'Propulsion was a major headache, I'm afraid,' said Leonard, climbing
up a stepladder. 'I thought of paddles and oars, and even some kind of
screw, and then I thought: dolphins, that's the ticket! They move extremely
fast with barely an effort. That's out at sea, of course, we only get the
shovel-nosed dolphin in our estuary here. The linkage rods are a bit
complicated but I used to be able to get quite a turn of speed. The
pedalling can be somewhat tiresome, but with three of us we should be able
to get up to some quite satisfactory accelerations. It's amazing what you
can do when you imitate nature, I just wish my flying exp- Oh... where did
you go... ?'
It would be difficult to establish what part of satisfactorily
accelerating nature the watchmen were trying to imitate, but it was a part
which tended to get stuck in doors a lot.
They stopped struggling and began to back into the room.
'Ah, sergeant,' said Lord Vetinari, entering in front of them. 'And
Corporal Nobbs, too. Leonard has explained everything to you?'
'You can't ask us to go in that thing, sir! It'll be suicide!' said
Colon.
The Patrician brought his hands together in front of his lips in the
manner of someone praying, and sucked air thoughtfully.
'No. No, I think you are wrong,' he said at last, as if reaching a
conclusion on some complex metaphysical conundrum. 'I think that, in all
probability, going into that thing would be a valiant and possibly rewarding
deed. I would venture to suggest that, in fact, it is not going that would
be suicidal. But I would appreciate your views.'
Lord Vetinari was not a heavily built man and, these days, he walked
with the aid of an ebony cane. No-one could remember seeing him handle a
weapon, and a flash of unaccustomed insight told Sergeant Colon that this
was not in fact a comforting thought at all. They said he's been educated at
the Assassins' School, but no-one remembered what weapons he'd learned. He'd
studied languages. And suddenly, with him in front of you, this didn't seem
like the soft option.
Sergeant Colon saluted, always a useful thing to do in an emergency
such as this, and shouted: 'Corporal Nobbs, why aren't you in the... the
metal sinking fish thing?'
'Sarge?'
'Let's see you get up them steps, lad... hup hup hup.. .'
Nobby scrambled up the ladder and disappeared. Colon saluted again. You
could usually tell his nervousness by the smartness of his salute. You could
have cut bread with this one.
'Ready to go, sah!' he shouted.
'Well done, sergeant,' said Vetinari. 'You're displaying exactly those
special qualities I'm looking for-'
' 'ere, sarge,' came a metallic voice from the belly of the fish,
'there's all chains and cogwheels in here. What's this do?' The big auger in
front of the thing started to squeak round.
Leonard appeared from behind the fish.
'I think we should all get in,' he said. 'I've lit the candle that'll
bum down and sever the string that'll release the weight thatll pull the
blocks out.'
'Er... what is this thing called?' said Colon, as he followed the
Patrician up the ladder.
'Well, because it is submersed in a marine environment I've always
called it the Going-Under-The-Water-Safely Device,' said Leonard, behind
him.[10] 'But usually I just think of it as the Boat.'
He reached behind him and shut the lid.
After a moment any listener in the boathouse would have heard a
complicated clonk as bolts slid into place.
The candle burned down and severed the string that released the weight
that pulled the blocks out and, slowly at first, the Boat slid down the
rails and into the dark water which, after a second or two, closed over it
with a gloop.
No-one took any notice of Angua as she trotted up the gangplank. The
important thing, she knew, was to look at home. No-one bothered a large dog
that looked as though it knew where it was going.
People were milling about on deck in the manner peculiar to non-sailors
on board ship, not sure of what they should be doing or where they should
refrain from doing it. Some of the more stoic ones had made little camps,
defining with bundles and pieces of cloth tiny areas of private property.
They reminded Angua of the bi-coloured drainpipes and microscopically
delineated household boundaries in Money Trap Lane, showing yet another way
of drawing a line in the sand. This is Mine, and that is Yours. Trespass on
Mine, and you'll get Yours.
There were a couple of guards standing on either side of the door to
the cabins. They hadn't been told to stop dogs.
Scents led down below. She could smell the other dogs and a strong
odour of cloves.
At the end of the narrow passage a door was ajar. She forced it open
with her nose and looked around.
The dogs were lying on a rug on one side of a large cabin. Other dogs
might have barked, but these just turned their beautiful heads towards her,
sighted down the length of their noses and examined her carefully.
A narrow bed beyond them was half concealed by silk hangings. 71-hour
Ahmed was bending over it, but he turned when she entered.
He glanced towards the dogs and gave her a
puzzled look. Then, to her amazement, he sat down on the deck in front
of her.
'And who do you belong to?' he said in perfect Morporkian.
Angua wagged her tail. There was someone in the bed, she could smell
them, but they wouldn't be a problem. Jaw muscles strong enough to sever
someone's neck help you to feel relaxed in most situations.
Ahmed patted her on the head. Very few people have ever done that to a
werewolf without having to get people to cut up their meals for them in
future, but Angua had learned self-control.
Then he stood up and went to the door. She heard him say something to
someone outside, and then he came back into the room and smiled at her.
'I go, I come back...'
He opened a small cupboard and took out a jewelled dog collar. 'You
shall have a collar. Oh, and here is some food,' he added, as a servant
brought in some bowls. ' "Knickknack, paddywack, give a dog a bone" is a
rhyme I hear your Ankh-Morpork children sing, but a paddywack is a ball of
gristle suitable only for animal food and who knows what part of the animal
is its knick-knack...'
The plate was put in front of Angua. The other dogs stirred, but Ahmed
snapped a word at them and they settled back again.
The food was... dog food. In Ankh-Morpork terms, it meant something
that you wouldn't even put in a sausage, and there are very few things that
a man with a big enough mincer cannot put in a sausage.
The little central human part of her was revolted, but the werewolf
drooled at the sight of every glistening tube and wobbly fat bit
It was on a silver plate.
She looked up. Ahmed was watching her carefully. Of course, the royal
dogs were treated like kings, all those diamond collars... It didn't have to
mean he knew--
'Not hungry?' he said. 'Your mouth says you are.'
Something snapped around her neck as she spun around to bite. Her teeth
closed on a mouthful of greasy cloth but that wasn't as important as the
pain.
'His Highness has always liked fine collars on his dogs,' said 71-hour
Ahmed, through the red mist. 'Rubies, emeralds... and diamonds, Miss Angua.'
His face came down level with hers. 'Set in silver.'
':A crucial factor, I have always found, is NOT the size of the forces.
It is the positioning and commitment of reserves, the bringing of power to a
point...'
Vimes tried to concentrate on Tacticus. But there were two
distractions. One was that the grinning face of 71-hour Ahmed looked out at
him from every line. The other was his watch, which he had propped up
against the Disorganizer. It was powered by actual clockwork and was much
more reliable. And it never needed feeding. It ticked quietly. As far as it
was concerned, he could forget his appointments. He liked it.
The second hand was just curving towards the top of the minute when he
heard someone coming up the stairs.
'Come in, captain,' said Vimes. There was a snigger from the box.
Carrot's face was pinker than normal.
'Something's happened to Angua,' said Vimes.
The high colour drained from Carrot's face. 'How did you know that?'
Vimes firmly dosed the lid on the sniggering demon. 'Let's call it
intuition, shall we? I'm right, am l?'
' Yes, sir! She went aboard a Klatchian boat and now it's sailing! She
hasn't come off!'
'What the hell did she go on board for?'
'We were after Ahmed! And he looked as if he was taking someone with
him, sir. Someone ill, sir!'
'He's left? But the diplomats are still-'
Vimes stopped. There was, if you didn't know Carrot, something wrong
with the situation. There were people who, when their girlfriend was
spirited away on a foreign ship, would have dived into the Ankh, or at least
run briskly along the crust, leapt aboard and dealt out merry hell on a
democratic basis. Of course, at a time like this that would be a dumb thing
to do. The sensible approach would be to let people know, but even so-
But Carrot really did believe that personal wasn't the same as
important. Of course, Vimes believed the same thing. You had to hope that
when push came to shove you'd act the right way. But there was something
slightly creepy about someone who didnt just believe it, but lived their
life by it. It was as unnerving as meeting a really poor priest.
Obviously, it was a consideration that if someone had captured Angua
you knew that the rescue you were going to probably wouldn't be hers.
But...
The gods alone knew what would happen if he left now. The city had gone
war mad. Big things were happening. At a time like this, every cell in his
body was telling him that the Commander of the Watch had Responsibilities..
.
He drummed his fingers on the desk. In times like this, it was vital to
make the right decision. That was what he was paid for. Responsibility...
He ought to stay here, and do the best he could.
But... history was full of the bones of good men who'd followed bad
orders in the hope that they could soften the blow. Oh, yes, there were
worse things they could do, but most of them began right where they started
following bad orders.
His eyes went from Carrot to the Dis-organizer and then to the
tottering mounds of paperwork on his desk.
Blow that! He was a thief-taker! He'd always be a thieftaker! Why lie?
'Damned if I'll let Ahmed get back to Klatch!' he said, standing up.
'Fast boat, was it?'
'Yes, but it looked pretty heavy in the water.'
'Then maybe we can catch it up before it goes very far--'
As he hurried forward he had, just for a second, the strange sensation
that he was two people. And this was because, for the merest fraction of a
second, he was two people. They were both called Samuel Vimes.
To history, choices are merely directions. The Trousers of Time opened
up and Vimes began to hurtle down one leg of them.
And, somewhere else, the Vimes who made a different choice began to
drop into a different future.
They both darted back to grab their Dis-organizers. By the most
outrageous of freak chances, quite uniquely, in this split second of
decision, they each got the wrong one.
And sometimes the avalanche depends on one snowflake. Sometimes a
pebble is allowed to find out what might have happened - if only it had
bounced the other way.
The wizards of Ankh-Morpork had been very firm on the subject of
printing. It's not happening here, they said. Supposing, they said, someone
printed a book on magic and then broke up the type again and used it for a
book on, say, cookery? The metal would remember. Spells aren't just words.
They have extra dimensions of existence. We'd be up to here in talking
souffles. Besides, someone might print thousands of the damn things, many of
which could well be read by unsuitable people.
The Engravers' Guild was also against printing. There was something
pure, they said, about an engraved page of text. It was there, whole,
unsullied. Their members could do very fine work at very reasonable rates.
Allowing unskilled people to bash lumps of type together showed a disrespect
for words and no good would come of it.
The only attempt ever to set up a printing press in Ankh- Morpork had
ended in a mysterious fire and the death by suicide of the luckless printer.
Everyone knew it was suicide because he'd left a note. The fact that this
had been engraved on the head of a pin was considered an irrelevant detail.
And the Patrician was against printing because if people knew too much
it would only bother them.
So people relied on work of mouth, which worked very well because the
mouths were so close together. A lot of them were just below the noses of
the members of the Beggars' Guild,[11] citizens generally regarded as
reasonably reliable and well informed. Some of them were highly thought of
for their sports coverage.
Lord Rust looked thoughtfully at Crumbling Michael, a Grade II
Mutterer.
'And what happened next?'
Crumbling Michael scratched his wrist. He'd recently got his extra
grade because he'd finally managed to catch a disfiguring but harmless skin
disease.
'Mr Carrot was in there about two minutes, m'lord. Then they all come
runnin' out, right, an' they-'
'Who were they?' said Rust. He fought off an urge to scratch his own
arm.
'There was Carrot an' Vimes anna dwarf an' a zombie an' all of them,
m'lord. They ran all the way to the docks, m'lord, and Vimes saw Captain
Jenkins and he said-'
'Ah, Captain Jenkins! This is your lucky day!'
The captain looked up from the rope he was coiling. Noone likes being
told it's their lucky day. That sort of thing does not bode well. When
someone tells you it's your lucky day, something bad is about to happen.
'It is?' he said.
'Yes, because you have an unrivalled opportunity to aid the war
effort!'
'I have?'
'And also to demonstrate your patriotism,' Carrot added.
'I do?'
'We need to borrow your boat,' said Vimes.
'Bugger off!'
'I'm choosing to believe that was a salty nautical
expression meaning "Why, certainly,` said Vimes. 'Captain Carrot?'
'Sir.'
'You and Detritus go and look behind that false partition in the hold,'
said Vimes.
'Right, sir,' said Carrot, walking towards the ladder.
'There's no false partition in the hold!' snapped Jenkins. 'And I know
the law, and you can't-'
There was a crash of timber from below.
'If that wasn't a false partition, our Carrot's gone and knocked a hole
in the side,' said Vimes calmly, watching the captain.
'Er...'
'I know the law too,' said Vimes. He drew his sword. 'See this?' he
said, holding it up. 'This is military law. And military law is a sword .
Not a two-edged sword. There's only one edge, and it's pointing at you.
Found anything, Carrot?'
Carrot appeared over the edge of the hold. There was a crossbow in his
hand.
'I do declare,' said Vimes, 'but that looks to me like a Burleigh and
Stronginthearm. "Viper" Mk 3, which kills people but leaves buildings
standing.'
'There's crates and crates of stuff,' said Carrot.
' 's no law-' Jenkins began, but he sounded as if the bottom was
dropping out of his world.
'You know, I think there probably is some law against selling weapons
to the enemy in times of war,' said Vimes. 'Of course, there might not be.
Tell you what,' he added brightly, 'why don't we all go along to Sator
Square? It's full of people around this time, all very keen on the war and
cheering our brave lads... Why don't we go along and put it to them? You
told me I ought to listen to the voice of the people. Odd thing, ain't it...
you meet people one at a time, they
seem decent, they got brains that work, and then they get together and
you hear the voice of the people. And it snarls.'
'That's mob rule!'
'Oh, no, surely not,' said Vimes. 'Call it democratic justice.'
'One man, one rock,' Detritus volunteered.
Jenkins looked like a man afraid the world was about to drop out of his
bottom. He glared at Vimes and then at Carrot, and saw no help there.
'Of course, you'd have nothing to fear from us,' said Vimes. 'Although
you might trip on your way down the stairs to the cells.'
'There's no stairs down to your cells!'
'Stairs can be arranged.'
'Please, Mr Jenkins,' said Carrot, the good cop.
'I wasn't... taking... the weapons to... KIatch,' Jenkins said slowly,
as if he was reading the words very painfully off some interior script. 'I
had... in fact... bought them to... donate them... to:'
'Yes? Yes?' said Vimes.
'... our... brave lads,' said Jenkins.
'Well done!' said Carrot.
'And you'd be happy to... ?' Vimes prompted.
'And... I'd be happy to... lend my boat to the war effort,' said
Jenkins, sweating.
'A true patriot,' said Vimes.
Jenkins writhed.
'Who told you there was a false panel in the hold?' he demanded. 'It
was a guess, right?'
'Right,' said Vimes.
'Aha! I knew you were only guessing!'
'Patriotic and clever,' said Vimes. 'Now... how do you make this thing
go fast?'
Lord Rust tapped his fingers on the table.
'What did he take the boat for?'
'Dunno, m'lord,' said Cumbling Michael, scratching his head.
'Damn! Did anyone else see them?'
'Oh, there weren't many people around, m'lord.'
'That's a small mercy, at least.'
'Just me and Foul Ole Ron and the Duck Man and Blind Hugh and Ringo
Eyebrows and No Way Jose and Sidney Lopsides and that bastard Stoolie and
Whistling Dick and a few others, m'lord.'
Rust sank back in his chair and put a pale hand over his face. In
Ankh-Morpork the night had a thousand eyes and so did the day, and it also
had five hundred mouths and nine hundred and ninety-nine ears.[12]
'The Klatchians must know, then,' he said. 'A detachment of
Ankh-Morpork soldiery has taken ship for Klatch. An invasion force.'
'Oh, you could hardly call it-' Lieutenant Hornett began.
'The Klatchians will call it that. Besides, the trod Detritus is with
them,' said Rust.
Hornett looked glum. Detritus was an invasion force all by himself.
'What ships have we commandeered?' said Rust.
'There's more than twenty now, if you include the Indestructible, the
Indolence and the . .' Lieutenant Hornett looked at his list again, and the
Prid of Ankh-Morpork, sir.'
'The Prid?'
'I'm afraid so, sir.'
'We should be able to take more than a thousand men and two hundred
horses, then.'
'Why not let Vimes go?' said Lord Selachii. 'Let the Klatchians deal
with him, and good riddance.'
'And give them a victory over Ankh-Morpork forces? That's how they will
see it. Damn the man. He forces our hand. But still, perhaps it is for the
best. We should embark.'
'Are we entirely ready, sir?' said Lieutenant Hornett, with the special
inflection that means 'We are not entirely ready, sir.'
'We had better be. Glory awaits, gentlemen. In the words of General
Tacticus, let us take history by the scrotum. Of course, he was not a very
honourable fighter.'
White sunlight etched dark shadows in Prince Cadram's palace. He too
had a map of Klatch, made of tiny coloured tiles set into the floor. He sat
looking at it pensively.
'Just one boat?' he said.
General Ashal, his chief adviser, nodded. And added: 'Our scryers can't
get a very dear picture over that distance, but we do believe one of the men
to be Vimes. You recall the name, sire.'
'Ah. the useful Commander Vimes.' The Prince smiled.
'Indeed. And since then there has been a lot of activity all along the
docks. We have to take the view that the expeditionary force is setting
out.'
'I thought we had at least a week, Ashal.'
'It is certainly puzzling. They cannot possibly be prepared, sire.
Something must have happened.'
Cadram sighed. 'Oh, well, let us follow where fate points the way.
Where will they attack?'
'Gebra, sire. I'm sure of it.'
'Our most heavily fortified city? Surely not. Only an idiot would do
that.'
'I have studied Lord Rust in some depth, sire. Remember that he doesn't
expect us to fight, so the size of our forces really doesn't worry him.' The
general smiled. It was a neat, thin little smile. 'And of course in
attacking us he is piling infamy upon infamy. The other coastal states will
take note.'
'A change of plan, then,' said Cadram. 'Ankh-Morpork can wait.'
'A wise move, sire. As always.'
'Any news of my poor brother?'
'Alas no, sire.'
'Our agents must search harder. The world is watching, Ashal.'
'Correct, sire.'
'Sarge?'
'Yes, Nobby?'
'Tell me again about our special qualities.'
'Shut up and keep pedalling, Nobby.'
'Right, sarge.'
It was quite dark in the Boat. A candle swung from a bracket over
Leonard of Quirm's bowed head as he sat steering with two levers. Around
Nobby, pulleys rattled and little chains clicked. It was like being inside a
sewing machine. A damp one, too. Condensation dropped off the ceiling in a
steady stream.
They had been pedalling for ten minutes. Leonard had spent most of the
time talking excitedly. Nobby got the impression he didn't get out much. He
talked about everything.
There were the tanks of air, for example. Nobby was happy to accept
that you could squeeze air up really
small, and that was what was in the groaning, creaking steel-bound
casks strapped to the walls. It was what happened to the air afterwards that
came as a surprise.
'Bubbles!' said Leonard. 'Dolphins again, you see? They don't swim
through the water, they fly through a cloud of bubbles. Which is much
easier, of course. I add a little soap, which seems to improve matters.'
'He thinks dolphins fly, sarge,' whispered Nobby.
'Just keep pedalling.'
Sergeant Colon risked a glance behind him.
Lord Vetinari was sitting on an upturned box amidst the clicking
chains, with several of Leonard's sketches open on his knees.
'Carry on, sergeant,' said the Patrician.
'Right, sir.'
The Boat was moving faster now they were away from the city. There was
even a brackish light filtering through the little glass windows.
'Mr Leonard,' said Nobby.
'Yes?'
'Where're we going?'
'His lordship wishes to go to Leshp.'
'Yes, I thought it'd be something like that,' said Nobby. 'I thought:
"Where don't I want to go?" And the answer just popped into my head, just
like that. Only I don't think we'll get there, the reason bein', in about
another five minutes my knees are going to fall off. ..'
'Oh, my word, you won't have to pedal all the way,' said Leonard. 'What
did you think the big auger on the nose is for?'
'That?' said Nobby. 'I thought that was for drillin' into the bottom of
enemy ships-'
'What?' Leonard spun around in his seat, a look of horror on his face.
'Sink ships? Sink ships? With people on them?'
'Well... yes...'
'Corporal Nobbs, I think you are a very misguided young... man,' said
Leonard stiffly. 'Use the Boat to sink ships? That would be terrible! In any
case, no sailor would dream of doing such a dishonourable thing!'
'Sorry..
'The auger, I would have you know, is for attaching us to passing ships
in the manner of the remora, the sucker-fish which attaches itself to
sharks. A few turns is all that is necessary for a firm attachment.'
'So... you couldn't bore all the way through the hull, then?'
'Only if you were a very careless and extremely thoughtless young man!'
The ocean waves may not be ploughable, but the crust of the river Ankh
downstream from the city was known to sprout small bushes in the summertime.
The Milka moved slowly, leaving a furrow behind it.
'Can't you go faster?' said Vimes.
'Why, certainly,' said Jenkins nastily. 'Where would you like us to put
the extra mast?'
'The ship's just a dot,' said Carrot. 'Why aren't we gaining on them?'
'It's a bigger ship so it has got what we technically call more sails,'
said Jenkins. 'And they're fast hulls on those Klatchian boats. And we've
got a full hold-'
He stopped, but it was too late.
'Captain Carrot?' said Vimes.
'Sir?'
'Throw everything overboard,' said Vimes.
'Not the crossbows! They cost more than a hundred dollars ea-'
Jenkins stopped. Vimes's expression said, very clearly, that there were
a whole lot of things that could be thrown off the boat, and it would be a
good idea not to be among them.
'Go and pull some ropes, Mr Jenkins,' he said.
He watched the captain stamp off. A few moments later there was a
splash. Vimes looked over the side and saw a crate bob for a moment and then
sink. And he felt happy. Thief-taker, Rust had called him. The man had meant
it as an insult, but it'd do. Theft was the only crime, whether the loot was
gold, innocence, land or life. And for the thieftaker, there was the
chase...
There were several more splashes. Vimes fancied the ship surged
forward.
... the chase. Because the chase was simpler than the capture. Once
you'd caught someone it got complicated, but the chase was pure and free.
Much better than prodding at clues and peering at notebooks. He flees, I
chase. Simple.
Vetinari's terrier, eh?
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!' said his pocket.
'Don't tell me,' said Vimes. 'It's something like "Five pee em, At
Sea," yes?'
'Er... no,' said the Dis-organizer. 'Says here "Violent Row With Lord
Rust", Insert Name Here.'
'Aren't you supposed to tell me what I'm going to do?' said Vimes,
opening the box.
'Er... what you should be doing,' said the demon, looking very worried.
'What you should be doing. I don't understand it... er... something seems to
be wrong...'
Angua stopped trying to rub the collar off against a bulkhead. It
wasn't working, and the silver pressing against her skin seemed to freeze
her and burn her at the same time.
Apart from that - and a silver collar on a werewolf was a fairly major
that - she'd been treated well. They'd left a plate of food, a wooden plate,
and she'd let her wolf side eat it while the human side shut its eyes and
held its nose. There was a bowl of water, quite fresh by Ankh-Morpork
standards. She could see the bottom of the bowl, at least.
It was so hard to think in wolf shape. It was like trying to unlock a
door while drunk. It was possible, but you had to concentrate every step of
the way.
There was a sound.
Her ears pricked up.
Something tapped once or twice under the hull. She hoped it was a reef.
That meant... land, possibly... with any luck she could swim ashore...
Something clinked. She'd forgotten about the chain. It was hardly
necessary. She felt as weak as a kitten.
There was a rhythmic noise, like something chewing at the wood.
A tiny metal point splintered through the wall just in front of her
nose, and rose an inch.
And someone spoke. It sounded far off and distorted, and perhaps only a
werewolf would have heard it, but words were happening, somewhere under her
paws.
'--can stop pedalling now, Corporal Nobbs.'
'I am knackered, sarge. Is there anything to eat?'
'There's some more of that garlic sausage. Or there's the cheese. Or
cold beans.'
'We're in a tin with no air and we're supposed to eat cheese? I ain't
even going to comment on the beans.'
'I'm very sorry gentlemen. Things were rather rushed and I had to take
food which would keep.'
'It's just that it's getting a bit... crowded, if you get my meaning.'
'I will pay out the rope as soon as it's dark and we can surface and
take on air.'
'Just so long as we get rid of the air we've got, that's all I'm
saying...'
Angua's brows wrinkled as she tried to make sense of this. The voices
were familiar. Even muffled as they were, she recognized the tones. The
vague feeling that fought its way through the mists of animal intellect was:
friends.
The tiny little unchangeable centre of her thought: good grief, next
thing I'll be licking hands.
She laid her head down near the point again.
'-way to do it, young man. There you go again! Sink ships? I can't
imagine how anyone could think of such a thing!'
Names. Some of those voices had... names.
Thinking was getting harder. That was the silver at work. But if she
stopped, she might forget how to start again.
She stared at the point of metal. The point of metal with sharp edges.
The tiny human part of her mind raged at the wolf brain, trying to get
it to understand what it needed to do.
It was after midnight.
The lookout man knelt on the deck in front of 71-hour Ahmed and
trembled.
'I know what I saw, wali,' he moaned. 'And the others saw it too!
Something rose up behind the ship and began chasing us! A monster!'
Ahmed looked at the captain, who shrugged. 'Who knows what lies on the
floor of the sea, wali?'
'Its breath!' moaned the seaman. 'There was a great roar of breath like
the stink of a thousand privies! And then it spoke!'
'Really?' said Ahmed. 'This is not usual. What did it say?'
'I did not understand!' The man's face screwed up as he tried to
assemble the unfamiliar syllables. 'It sounded like...' he swallowed, and
went on, `Ye gods, that was better out than in, sarge!"'
Ahmed stared at him. 'And what did that mean to you?' he said.
'I do not know, wali!'
'You have not spent much time in Ankh-Morpork?'
'No, wali!'
'Then return to your post.'
The man stumbled out.
'We have lost speed, wali,' said the captain.
'Perhaps the sea monster is clutching at our keel?'
'It pleases you to joke, lord. But who knows what has been disturbed by
the rising of the new land?'
'I shall have to see for myself,' said 71-hour Ahmed.
He walked alone to the stem of the ship. Dark waters sucked and
splashed and left a phosphorescent glow edging the wake.
He watched for a long time. People bad at watching didn't last long in
the desert, where a shadow in the moonlight could be just a shadow or it
could be someone anxious to help you on your way to Paradise. The D'regs
came across many shadows of the latter persuasion.
D'reg wasn't their name for themselves, although they tended to adopt
it now out of pride. The word meant enemy. Everyone's. And if anyone else
wasn't around, then one another's.
If he concentrated, he might believe that there was a darker shape
about a hundred yards behind the ship, very low in the water. Waves were
breaking where waves shouldn't be. It looked as though the ship was being
followed by a reef.
Well, well...
71-hour Ahmed was not superstitious. He was superstitious, which put
him in a minority among humans. He didn't believe in the things everyone
believed in but which nevertheless weren't true. He believed instead in the
things that were true in which no-one else believed. There are many such
substitions, ranging from 'It'll get better if you don't pick at it' all the
way up to 'Sometimes things just happen.'
Currently he was disinclined to believe in sea monsters, especially
ones that spoke in the language of AnkhMorpork, but he did believe that
there were a lot of things in the world that he didn't know about.
In the far distance he could see the lights of a ship. It didn't seem
to be gaining on them.
This was much more worrying.
In the darkness 71-hour Ahmed reached over his shoulder and grasped the
handle of his sword.
Above him, the mainsail creaked in the wind.
Sergeant Colon knew he was facing one of the most dangerous moments in
his career.
There was nothing for it. He was out of options.
'Er... if I add this A and this O and this I and this D,' he said, the
sweat pouring down his pink cheeks, 'then I can use that V to make "avoid".
Er... and that gets me, er, a... what d'you call these blue squares, Len?'
'A "Three Times Ye Value of Thee Letter" score,' said Leonard of Quirm.
'Well done, sergeant,' said Lord Vetinari. 'I do believe that puts you
in the lead.'
'Er... I do believe it does, sir,' squeaked Sergeant Colon.
'However, I find that you have left me the use of my U, N and A, B, L,
E,' the Patrician went on, 'which incidentally lands me on this Three Times
the Whole Worde square and, I rather suspect, wins me the game.'
Sergeant Colon sagged with relief.
'A capital game, Leonard,' said Vetinari. 'What did you say it was
called?'
'I call it the "Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up
Game", my lord.'
'Ah. Yes. Obviously. Well done.'
'Huh, an' I got three points,' mumbled Nobby' 'They was perfectly good
words that you wouldn't let me have, too.'
'I'm sure the gentlemen don't want to know those words,' said Colon
severely.
'I'd have got ten points for that X.'
Leonard looked up. 'Strange. We seem to have stopped moving...'
He reached up and opened the hatch. Damp night air poured in, and there
was the sound of voices, quite close, echoing loudly as voices do when heard
across water.
'Heathen Klatchian talk,' said Colon. 'What are they gabblin' about?'
"'What nephew of a camel cut the rigging?"' said Lord Vetinari, without
looking up. `Not just the ropes, look at this sail - here, give me a
hand..." '
'I didn't know you spoke Klatchian, my lord.'
'Not a word,' said Lord Vetinari.
'But you-'
'I did not,' said Vetinari calmly.
'Ah... right...'
'Where are we, Leonard?'
'Well, er, my star charts are all out of date, of course, but if you
would care to wait until the sun rises, and I've invented a device for
ascertaining position by reference to the sun, and devised a satisfactorily
accurate watch-'
'Where are we now, Leonard?'
'Er... in the middle of the Circle Sea, I suspect.'
'The middle?'
'Pretty close, I should say. Look, if I can measure the wind speed-'
'Then Leshp should be in this vicinity?'
'Oh, yes, I should-'
'Good. Unhitch us from his apparently stricken ship while we still have
the cover of darkness and in the morning I wish to see this troublesome
land. In the meantime, I suggest that everyone gets some sleep.'
Sergeant Colon did not get a lot of sleep. This was partly because he
was woken up several times by sawing and banging coming from the front of
the Boat, and partly because water kept dripping on his head, but mainly
because the lull in activity was causing him to consider his position.
Sometimes when he woke up he saw the Patrician hunched over Leonard's
drawings, a gaunt silhouette in the light of the candle - reading, making
notes...
He was in the immediate company of a man even the Assassins' Guild was
frightened of, another man
who would stay up all night in order to invent an alarm clock to wake
him up in the morning, and a man who had never knowingly changed his
underwear.
And he was at sea.
He tried to look on the bright side. What was the main reason why he
hated boats? The fact that they sank, right? But this one had the sinking
built in right from the start And you didn't have to watch the waves going
up and down, because they were already above you.
All this was logical. It just wasn't very comforting.
When he awoke at one point there were faint voices coming from the
other end of the vessel.
'--don't quite understand, my lord. Why them?'
'They do what they're told, they tend to believe the last thing they
heard, they're not bright enough to ask questions, and they have that
certain unshakable loyalty available to those unencumbered by too much
intelligence.'
'I suppose so, my lord.'
'Such men are valuable, believe me.'
Sergeant Colon turned over and tried to make himself comfortable. Clad
I'm not like those poor bastards, he thought as he drifted off to sleep on
the bosom of the deep. I'm a man with special qualities.
Vimes shook his head. The stem light of the Klatchian ship was barely
visible in the gloom.
'Are we gaining on them?' he said.
Captain Jenkins nodded. 'We might be. There's a lot of sea between us.'
'And has all excess weight been thrown overboard?'
'Yes! What do you want me to do, shave my beard off?'
Carrot's face appeared over the edge of the hold, 'All the lads are
bedded down, sir.'
'Right.'
'I'll turn in for a few hours too, sir, if it's all right with you.'
'Sorry, captain?'
'I'll get my head down, sir.'
'But. .. but-' Vimes waved vaguely at the darkening horizon, I we're in
hot pursuit of your girlfriend! Among other things,' he added.
'Yes, sir.'
'So aren't you... you mean you can... you want to... captain, you
intend to go and have a bit of a nap?'
'To be fresh for when we catch up with them. Yes, sir. If I spend the
whole night staring out there worrying then I'll probably be a bit useless
When we catch up with them, sir.'
It made sense. It really did make sense. Of course it made sense. Vimes
could see the sense all over it. Carrot had actually sat down and thought
sensibly about things.
'You'll be able to get to sleep, will you?' he said weakly.
'Oh, yes. I owe it to Angua.'
'Oh. Well... goodnight, then.'
Carrot disappeared into the hold again.
'Good heavens,' said Jenkins. 'Is he real?'
'Yes,' said Vimes.
'I mean... would you go and bang your ear if he was chasing your lady
in that ship?'
Vimes said nothing.
Jenkins sniggered. 'Mind you, if it was Lady Sybil, she'd be a bit
lower on the waterline-'
'You just watch the... the sea. Don't run into any damn whales or
anything,' said Vimes, and strode up to the sharp end.
Carrot, he thought. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't believe it...
'They're slowing, Mr Vimes!' Jenkins called out.
'What?'
'I reckon they're slowing down, I said!'
'Good.'
'So what're you going to do when we catch them?'
'Er. ..'Vimes hadnt given this a lot of thought. But he recalled a very
bad woodcut he'd once seen in a book about pirates.
'We'll swing across on to them with our cutlasses in our teeth?' he
said.
'Really?' said Jenkins. 'That's good. I haven't seen that done in
years. Only ever seen it done once, in fact.'
'Oh, yes?'
'Yes, this lad'd seen the idea in a book and he swung across into the
other ship's rigging with his cutlass clenched, as you say, between his
teeth.'
'Yes?'
'Topless Harry, we wrote on his coffin.'
'Oh.'
'I don't know if you've ever seen a soft-boiled egg after you've picked
up your knife and sli-'
'All right, I see the point. What do you suggest?'
'Grapnels. You can't beat grapnels. Catch 'em on the other ship and
just pull 'em towards you.'
'And you've got grapnels?'
'Oh, yes. Saw some only today, in fact.'
'Good. Then-'
'As I recall,' Jenkins went on relentlessly, 'it was when your Sergeant
Detritus was chucking stuff over the side and he said, "What shall we do
with dese
bendy, hooky things, sir?" and someone, can't recall his name just at
this minute, said, "They're dead weight, throw them over."'
'Why didn't you say something?'
'Oh, well, I didn't like to,' said Jenkins. 'You were doing so well.'
'Don't mess me about, captain. Otherwise I'll clap you in irons.'
'No, you ain't going to do that, and I'll tell you why. First, 'cos
when Captain Carrot said, "These chains, sir, what shall I do with them?"
you said-'
'Now, you listen to-'
'-and, second, I don't reckon you know anything about ships, oh deary
me. We don't clap people in irons, we put them in chains. Do you know how to
splice the mainbrace? 'Cos I don't. All that yohoho stuff's for landlubbers,
or it would be if we ever used words like landlubber. Do you know the
difference between port and starboard? I don't. I've never even drunk
starboard. Shiver my timber!'
'Isn't it "shiver my timbers"?'
'I've been ill.' Captain Jenkins spun the wheel. 'Also, this is a
frisky wind and me and my crew know how to pull the strings that make the
big square canvas things work properly. If your men tried it you'd soon find
out how far it is to land.'
'How far is it to land?'
'About thirty fathoms, hereabouts.'
The light was noticeably nearer.
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!'
'Good grief, what now?' said Vimes.
'Eight pee em. Er... Narrowly Escape Assassination by Klatchian Spy?'
Vimes went cold. 'Where?' he said, looking around wildly.
'Corner of Brewer Street and Broadway,' said the little sing-song
voice.
'But I'm not there!'
'What's the point of having appointments, then? What's the point of my
making an effort? You told me you wanted to know what you ought to-'
'Listen, you don't have an appointment for being assassinated!'
The demon went silent for a moment, and then said:
'You mean it should be on your To Do list?' Its voice was trembling.
'You mean like: "To Do: Die"?'
'Look, it's no good taking it out on me just because you're not on the
right time line!'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'Aha, I knew you didn't read the manual! Chapter xvii-2© makes it
very clear that sticking to one reality is vitally important, otherwise the
Uncertainty Principle says-'
'Forget I asked, all right?'
Vimes glared at Jenkins and at the distant ship.
'We'll do this my way, wherever the hell we are,' he said. He strode to
the hold and pulled aside a hatchway. 'Detritus?'
The Klatchian sailors struggled with the canvas while their captain
screamed at them.
71-hour Ahmed didn't scream. He just stood with his sword in his hand,
watching.
The captain hurried over to him, trembling with fear and holding a
length of rope.
'See, wali?' he said. 'Someone cut it!'
'Who would do that?' said 71-hour Ahmed quietly.
'I do not know, but when I find him-'
'The dogs are almost on us,' said Ahmed. 'You and your men will work
faster.'
'Who could have done such a thing?' said the captain. 'You were here,
how could they-?'
His gaze flickered from the cut rope to the sword.
'Was there something you wished to say?' said Ahmed.
The captain hadn't got where he was by being stupid. He spun round.
'Get that sail up right now, you festering sons of bitches!' he
screamed.
'Good,' said 71-hour Ahmed.
Detritus's crossbow was originally a three-man, siege weapon, but he
had removed the windlass as an unnecessary encumbrance. He cocked it by
hand. Usually the mere sight of the troll pulling the string back with one
finger was enough to make the strongwilled surrender.
He looked doubtfully at the distant light.
'It a million-to-one chance,' he said. 'Got to be closer'n this.'
'Just hit it below the waterline so they can't cut the rope" said
Vimes.
'Right. Right.'
'What's the problem, sergeant?'
'We headin' for Klatch, right?'
'Well, in that direction, yes.'
'Only... I'm gonna be really stoopid in Klatch, 'cos a der heat,
right?'
'I hope we're going to stop them before we get there, Detritus.'
'I ain't keen on bein' stoopid. I know people say, that troll Detritus,
he ficker than a, than a-'
'-brick sandwich-' said Vimes, staring at the light.
'Right. Only I hearin' it get really, really hot in der desert...'
The troll looked so mournful that Vimes felt moved to give him a
cheerful slap on the back.
'Then let's stop them now, eh?' he said, shaking his hand hurriedly to
stop the stinging.
The other ship was so close they could see the sailors working
feverishly on the deck. The mainsail billowed in the lamplight.
Detritus raised the bow.
A ball of blue-green light glowed on the tip of the arrow. The troll
stared at it.
Then green fire ran down the masts and, when it hit the deck, burst
into dozens of green balls that rolled, cracking and spitting, over the
planks.
'Dey're usin' magic?' said Detritus. A green flame spluttered-over his
helmet.
'What is this, Jenkins?' said Vimes.
'It ain't magic, it's worse'n magic,' said the captain, hurrying
forward. 'All right, lads, get those sails down right now!'
'You leave them where they are!' shouted Vimes.
'You know what this is?'
'It dun't even feel warm,' said Detritus, poking the flame on the
crossbow.
'Don't touch it! Don't touch it! That's St Ungulant's Fire, that is! It
means we're going to die in a dreadful storm!'
Vimes looked up. Clouds were racing across--No, they were pouring into
the sky in great twisting billows, like ink streaming into water. Blue light
flashed somewhere inside them. The ship lurched.
'Look, we got to lose some sail!' shouted Jenkins. 'That's the only
way-'
'No-one touches anything!' shouted Vimes. Green fire skimmed along the
tops of the waves now. 'Detritus, arrest any man who touches anything!'
'Right.'
'We want to go fast, after all,' Vimes said, above the hissing and the
distant crackle of thunder.
Jenkins gawped at him as the ship lunged beneath them.
'You're mad! Have you any idea what happens to a ship that tries to-
You haven't got any idea, have you? This ain't normal weather! You have to
ride it out careful! You can't try to run ahead of it!'
Something slippery landed on Detritus's head and bounced onto the deck,
where it tried to slither away.
'And now it's raining fish!' Jenkins moaned.
The clouds formed a yellow haze, lit almost constantly by the
lightning. And it was warm. That was the strangest thing. The wind howled
like a sack full of cats and the waves were turning into walls on either
side of the ship, but the air felt like an oven.
'Look, even the Klatchians are reducing sail!' shouted Jenkins, in a
shower of shrimp.
'Good. We'll catch them up.'
'Mad! Ouch!'
Something hard rebounded from his hat, hit the rail and rolled to a
stop by Vimes's feet.
It was a brass knob.
'Oh, no,' moaned Jenkins, putting his arms over his head. 'Now it's
bloody bedsteads again!'
The captain of the Klatchian ship was not an argumentative man when he
was anywhere near 71-hour
Ahmed. He just looked at the straining sails and calculated his chances
of Paradise.
'Perhaps the dog who cut the sail loose did us a favour!' he shouted,
above the roar of the wind.
Ahmed said nothing. He kept looking back. The occasional burst of
electric storm light showed the ship behind, aflame with green light.
Then he looked at the cold fire streaming behind their own masts.
'Can you see that light on the edge of the flames?' he said.
'My lord?'
'Can you, man?'
'Er... no...'
'Of course you can't! But can you see where the light isn't?'
The cap...
