Jingo d-21 Page 3

  Lord Selachii slapped the table. “We don't have to talk to these people! My lords… gentlemen… it's up to us to show them we won't be pushed around! We must re-form the regiments!”

  “Oh, private armies?” said Vimes. “Under the command of someone whose fitness for it lies in the fact that he can afford to pay for a thousand funny hats?”

  Someone leaned forward, halfway along the table. Up to that moment Vimes had thought he was asleep, and when Lord Rust spoke it was, indeed, in a sort of yawn.

  “Whose fitness, Mister Vimes, lies in a thousand years of breeding for leadership,” he said.

  The “Mister” twisted in Vimes's chest. He knew he was a mister, would always be a mister, was probably a blueprint for mistership, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't be Sir Samuel to someone who pronounced years as “hyahs”.

  “Ah, good breeding,” he said. “No, sorry, don't have any of that, if that's what you need to get your own men killed by sheer—”

  “Gentlemen, please,” said the Patrician. He shook his head. “Let's have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war.{11} As for re-forming the regiments, well, this is of course your ancient right. The supplying of armed men in times of need is one of the duties of a gentleman. History is on your side. The precedents are clear enough, I can't go against them. I have to say I cannot afford to.”

  “You're going to let them play soldiers?” said Vimes.

  “Oh, Commander Vimes,” said Mr Burleigh, smiling. “As a military man yourself, you must—”

  Sometimes people can attract attention by shouting. They might opt for thumping a table, or even take a swing at someone else. But Vimes achieved the effect by freezing, by simply doing nothing. The chill radiated off him. Lines in his face locked like a statue.

  “I am not a military man.”

  And then Burleigh made the mistake of trying to grin disarmingly.

  “Well, commander, the helmet and armour and everything… It's really all the same in the end, isn't it?”

  “No. It's not.”

  “Gentlemen…” Lord Vetinari put his hands flat on the table, a sign that the meeting had ended. “I can only repeat that tomorrow I shall be discussing the matter with Prince Khufurah—”

  “I've heard good reports of him,” said Lord Rust. “Strict but fair. One can only admire what he's doing in some of those backward regions. A most—”

  “No, sir. You are thinking of Prince Cadram,” said Lord Vetinari “Khufurah is the younger brother. He is arriving here as his brother's special envoy.”

  “Him? That one? The man's a wastrel! A cheat! A liar! They say he takes bri—”

  “Thank you for your diplomatic input, Lord Rust,” said the Patrician. “We must deal with facts as they are. There is always a way. Our nations have many interests in common. And of course it says a lot for the seriousness with which Cadram is treating this matter that he is sending his own brother to deal with it. It's a nod towards the international community.”

  “A Klatchian bigwig is coming here?” said Vimes. “No one told me!”

  “Strange as it may seem, Sir Samuel, I am occasionally capable of governing this city for minutes at a time without seeking your advice and guidance.”

  “I meant there's a lot of anti-Klatchian feeling around—”

  “A really greasy piece of work—” Lord Rust whispered to Mr Boggis, in that special aristocratic whisper that carries to the rafters. “It's an insult to send him here!”

  “I am sure that you will see to it that the streets are safe to walk, Vimes,” said the Patrician sharply. “I know you pride yourself on that sort of thing. Officially he's here because the wizards have invited him to their big award ceremony. An honorary doctorate, that sort of thing. And one of their lunches afterwards. I do like negotiating with people after the faculty of Unseen University have entertained them to lunch. They tend not to move about much and they'll agree to practically anything if they think there's a chance of a stomach powder and a small glass of water. And now, gentlemen… if you will excuse me…”

  The lords and leaders departed in ones and twos, talking quietly as they walked out into the hall.

  The Patrician shuffled his papers into order, running a thin finger along each edge of the pile, and then looked up.

  “You appear to be casting a shadow, commander.”

  “You're not really going to allow them to re-form the regiments, are you?” said Vimes.

  “There is absolutely no law against it, Vimes. And it will keep them occupied. Every official gentleman is entitled, in fact I believe used to be required, to raise men when the city required it. And, of course, any citizen has the right to bear arms. Bear that in mind, please.”

  “Arms is one thing. Holding weapons in 'em and playing soldiers is another.” Vimes put his knuckles on the table and leaned forward.

  “You see, sir,” he said, “I can't help but think that over there in Klatch a bunch of idiots are doing the same thing. They're saying to the Seriph ‘It's time to sort out those devils in Ankh-Morpork, offendi’. And when a lot of people are running around with weapons and talking daft stuff about war, accidents happen. Have you ever been in a pub when everyone goes armed? Oh, things are a little polite at first, I'll grant you, and then some twerp drinks out of the wrong mug or picks up someone else's change by mistake and five minutes later you're picking noses out of the beer nuts—”

  The Patrician looked down at Vimes's knuckles and stared fixedly until Vimes removed them.

  “Vimes, you will be at the wizards' Convivium tomorrow. I sent you a memo about it.”

  “I never—” A vision of the piles of unread paperwork on Vimes's desk loomed treacherously in his mind. “Ah,” he said.

  “The Commander of the Watch leads the procession in full dress uniform. It's an ancient custom.”

  “Me? Walk in front of everyone?”

  “Indeed. Very… civic. As I'm sure you recall. It demonstrates the friendly alliance between the University and the civil government which, I may say, seems to consist of their promising to do anything we ask provided we promise not to ask them to do anything. Anyway, it is your duty. Tradition decrees it. And Lady Sybil has agreed to see to it that you are there with a crisp bright shining morning face.”

  Vimes took a deep breath. “You asked my wife?”

  “Certainly. She is very proud of you. She believes you are capable of great things, Vimes. She must be a great comfort to you.”

  “Well, I… I mean, I… yes…”

  “Excellent. Oh, just one other thing, Vimes. I do have the Assassins and the Thieves in agreement on this, but to cover all eventualities… I would consider it a favour if you could see to it that no one throws eggs or something at the Prince. That sort of thing always upsets people.”

  The two sides watched each other carefully. They were old enemies. They had tested strengths many a time, had tasted defeat and victory, had contested turf. But this time it would go all the way.

  Knuckles whitened. Boots scraped impatiently.

  Captain Carrot bounced the ball once or twice.

  “All right, lads, one more try, eh? And this time, no horseplay. William, what are you eating?”

  The Artful Nudger{12} scowled. No — one knew his name. Kids he'd grown up with didn't know his name. His mother, if he ever found out who she was, probably didn't know his name. But Carrot had found out somehow. If anyone else had called him “William” they'd be looking for their ear. In their mouth.

  “Chewing gum, mister.”

  “Have you brought enough for everybody?”

  “No, mister.”

  “Then put it away, there's a good chap. Now, let's— Gavin, what's that up your sleeve?”

  The one known as Scumbag Gav didn't bother to argue.

  “'s a knife, Mr Carrot.”

  “And I bet you brought enough for everybody, eh?”

  “'sright, mister.” Scumbag grinned. He was ten.

  “G
o on, put them on the heap with the others…”

  Constable Shoe looked over the wall in horror. There were about fifty youths in the wide alleyway. Average age in years, about eleven. Average age in cynicism and malevolent evil: about 163. Although Ankh-Morpork football doesn't usually have goals in the normal sense, two had been nevertheless made at each end of the alley using the time-honoured method of piling up things to mark where the posts would be.

  Two piles: one of knives, one of blunt instruments.

  In the middle of the boys, who were wearing the colours of some of the nastier street gangs, Captain Carrot was bouncing an inflated pig's bladder.

  Constable Shoe wondered if he ought to go and get help, but the man seemed quite as ease.

  “Er, captain?” he ventured.

  “Oh, hello, Reg. We were just having a friendly game of football. This is Constable Shoe, lads.”

  Fifty pairs of eyes said: We'll remember your face, copper.

  Reg edged around the wall and the eyes noted the arrow which had gone straight through his breastplate and protruded several inches from his back.

  “There's been a bit of trouble, sir,” said Reg. “I thought I'd better fetch you. It's a hostage situation…”

  “I'll come right away. OK, lads, sorry about this. Play amongst yourselves, will you? And I hope I'll see you all on Tuesday for the sing-song and sausage sizzle.”

  “Yeah, mister,” said the Artful Nudger.

  “And Corporal Angua will see if she can teach you the campfire howl.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Scumbag.

  “But what do we do before we part?” said Carrot expectantly.

  The bloods of the Skats and the Mohocks looked bashfully at one another. Usually they were nervous of nothing, it being a banishment matter to show fear in any circumstances. But when they'd variously drawn up the clan rules, no one had ever thought there'd be someone like Carrot.

  Glaring at one another with I'll-kill-you-if-you-ever-mention-this expressions, they all raised the index fingers of both hands to the level of their ears and chorused: “Wib wib wib.”

  “Wob wob wob,”{13} Carrot replied heartily. “OK Reg, let's go.”

  “How'd you do that, captain?” said Constable Shoe, as the watchmen hurried off.

  “Oh, you just raise both fingers like this,” said Carrot. “But I'd be obliged if you don't tell anyone, because it's meant to be a secret sig—”

  “But they're thugs, captain! Young killers! Villains!”

  “Oh, they're a bit cheeky, but nice enough boys underneath, when you take the time to understand—”

  “I heard they never give anyone enough time to understand! Does Mr Vimes know you're doing this?”

  “He sort of knows, yes. I said I'd like to start a club for the street kids and he said it was fine provided I took them camping on the edge of some really sheer cliff somewhere in a high wind. But he always says things like that. And I'm sure we wouldn't have him any other way. Now, where are these hostages?”

  “It's at Vortin's again, captain. But it's… sort of worse than that…”

  Behind them, the Skats and the Mohocks looked at one another warily. Then they picked up their weapons and edged away with care. It's not that we don't want to fight, their manner said. It's just that we've got better things to do right now, and so we're going to go away and find out what they are.

  Unusually for the docks, there was not a great deal of shouting and general conversation. People were too busy thinking about money.

  Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs leaned against a stack of timber and watched a man very carefully painting the name Pride of Ankh-Morpork on the prow of a ship. At some point he'd realize that he'd left out the “e”, and they were idly looking forward to this modest entertainment.

  “You ever been to sea, sarge?” said Nobby.

  “Hah, not me!” said the sergeant. “Don't go flogging the oggin, lad.”

  “I don't,” said Nobby. “I have never flogged any oggin. Never in my entire life have I flogged oggin.”

  “Right.”

  “I've always been very clean in that respect.”

  “Except you don't know what flogging the oggin means, do you?”

  “No, sarge.”

  “It means going to sea. You can't bloody trust the sea. When I was a little lad I had this book about this little kid, he turned into a mermaid,{14} sort of thing, and he lived down the bottom of the sea—”

  “—the oggin—”

  “Right, and it was all nice talking fishes and pink seashells and stuff, and then I went on my holidays to Quirm and I saw the sea, and I thought: here goes, and if our ma hadn't been quick on her feet I don't know what would have happened. I mean, the kid in the book could breathe under the sea, so how was I to know? It's all bloody lies about the sea. It's just all yuk with lobsters in it.”

  “My mum's uncle was a sailor” said Nobby. “But after the big plague he got press-ganged.{15} Bunch of farmers got him drunk, he woke up next morning tied to a plough.”

  They lounged some more.

  “Looks like we're going to be in a fight, sarge,” said Nobby, as the painter very carefully started on the final “k”.

  “Won't last long. Lots of cowards, the Klatchians,” said Colon. “The moment they taste a bit of cold steel they're legging it away over the sand.”

  Sergeant Colon had had a broad education. He'd been to the School of My Dad Always Said, the College of It Stands to Reason, and was now a postgraduate student at the University of What Some Bloke In the Pub Told Me.

  “Shouldn't be any trouble to sort out, then?” said Nobby.

  “And o'course, they're not the same colour as what we are,” said Colon. “Well… as me, anyway,” he added, in view of the various hues of Corporal Nobbs. There was probably no one alive who was the same colour as Corporal Nobbs.

  “Constable Visit's pretty brown,” said Nobby. “I never seen him run away. If there's a chance of giving someone a religious pamphlet ole Washpot's after them like a terrier.”

  “Ah, but Omnians are more like us,” said Colon. “Bit weird but, basic'ly, just the same as us underneath. No, the way you can tell a Klatchian is, you look an' see if he uses a lot of words beginning with ‘al’, right? “'Cos that's a dead giveaway. They invented all the words starting with ‘al’.{16} That's how you can tell they're Klatchian. Like al-cohol, see?”

  “They invented beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That's clever.”

  “I wouldn't call it clever,” said Sergeant Colon, realizing too late that he'd made a tactical error. “More, luck, I'd say.”

  “What else did they do?”

  “Well, there's…” Colon racked his brains. “There's al-gebra. That's like sums with letters. For… for people whose brains aren't clever enough for numbers, see?”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Right,” said Colon. “In fact,” he went on, a little more assertively now he could see a way ahead, “I heard this wizard down the University say that the Klatchians invented nothing. That was their great contribution to maffs, he said. I said ‘What?’ an' he said, they come up with zero{17}.”

  “Dun't sound that clever to me,” said Nobby. “Anyone could invent nothing. I ain't invented anything.”

  “My point exactly,” said Colon. “I told him, it was people who invented numbers like four and, and—”

  “—seven—”

  “—right, who were the geniuses. Nothing didn't need inventing. It was just there. They probably just found it.”

  “It's having all that desert,” said Nobby.

  “Right! Good point. Desert. Which, as everyone knows, is basically nothing. Nothing's a natural resource to them. It stands to reason. Whereas we're more civilized, see, and we got a lot more stuff around to count, so we invented numbers. It's like… well, they say the Klatchians invented astronomy—”

  “Al-tronomy,” said Nobby helpfully.

  “No, no�
� no, Nobby, I reckon they'd discovered esses by then, probably nicked 'em off'f us… anyway, they were bound to invent astronomy, 'cos there's bugger all else for them to look at but the sky. Anyone can look at the stars and give 'em names. 's going it a bit to call it inventing, in any case. We don't go around saying we've invented something just because we had a quick dekko at it.”

  “I heard where they've got a lot of odd gods,” said Nobby.

  “Yeah, and mad priests,” said Colon. “Foaming at the mouth, half of 'em. Believe all kinds of loony things.”

  They watched the painter in silence for a moment. Colon was dreading the question that came.

  “So how exactly are they different from ours, then?” said Nobby. “I mean, some of our priests are—”

  “I hope you ain't being unpatriotic,” said Colon severely.

  “No, of course not. I was just asking. I can see where they'd be a lot worse than ours, being foreign and everything.”

  “And of course they're all mad for fighting,” said Colon. “Vicious buggers with all those curvy swords of theirs.”

  “You mean, like they viciously attack you while cowardly running away after tasting cold steel?” said Nobby, who sometimes had a treacherously good memory for detail.

  “You can't trust 'em, like I said. And they burp hugely after meals.”

  “Well… so do you, sarge.”

  “Yes, but I don't pretend it's polite, Nobby.”

  “Well, it's certainly a good job there's you around to explain things, sarge,” said Nobby. “It's amazing the stuff you know.”

  “I surprise myself, sometimes,” said Colon modestly.

  The painter of the ship leaned back to admire his work. They heard him give a heartfelt little groan, and both of them nodded in satisfaction.

  Hostage negotiations were always tricky, Carrot had learned. It paid not to rush things. Let the other man talk when he was ready.

  So he was whiling away the time sitting behind the upturned cart they were using as a shield from the occasional random arrow and writing his letter home. The exercise was carried out with much frowning, sucking of the pencil and what Commander Vimes called a ballistic approach to spelling and punctuation.