Jingo - Terry Pratchett [83]
She pushed him hard as she dropped down from above the door, somersaulted backward, slammed the door and turned the key.
The sword came through the planking like a hot knife through runny lard.
There was a gasp beside her. She spun round and saw two men holding a net. They would have thrown it over the wolf. What they hadn’t been expecting was a naked woman. The sudden appearance of a naked woman always causes a rethink of anyone’s immediate plans.
She kicked them both hard and ran in the opposite direction, opened the first door at random and slammed it behind her.
It was the cabin with the dogs in it. They sprang to their feet, opened their mouths—and slunk down again. A werewolf can have considerable power over other animals, whatever shape she’s in, although it is largely the power to make them cringe and try to look inedible.
She hurried past them and pulled at one of the hangings over the bunk.
The man in the bunk opened his eyes. He was a Klatchian, but pale with weakness and pain. There were dark rings under his eyes.
“Ah,” he said, “it would appear that I have died and gone to Paradise. Are you a houri?”
“I don’t have to take that kind of language, thank you,” said Angua, ripping the silk in two with a practiced hand.
She was aware that she had a slight advantage over male werewolves in that naked women caused fewer complaints, although the downside was that they got some pressing invitations. Some kind of covering was essential, for modesty and the prevention of inconvenient bouncing, which was why fashioning impromptu clothes out of anything to hand was a lesser-known werewolf skill.
Angua stopped. Of course, to the unpracticed eye all Klatchians looked alike, but then to a werewolf all humans looked alike: they looked appetizing. She’d learned to discern.
“Are you Prince Khufurah?”
“I am. And you are…?”
The door was kicked open. Angua leapt toward the window and flung aside the bar restraining the shutters. Water funneled into the cabin, drenching her, but she managed to scramble up and out.
“Just passing through?” the Prince murmured.
71-hour Ahmed strode to the window and looked out. Green-blue waves edged with fire fought outside as the ship heaved. No one could stay afloat in a sea like that.
He turned and looked along the hull to where Angua was clinging to a trailing line.
She saw him wink at her. Then he turned away and she heard him say, “She must have drowned. Back to your posts!”
Presently, up on the deck, a hatch closed.
The sun rose in a cloudless sky.
A watcher, if such had been out here, would have noticed a slight difference in the way the swells were moving on this tiny patch of sea.
They might even have wondered about the piece of bent piping which turned with a faint squeaking noise.
Had they been able to place an ear to it, they would have heard the following:
“—idea while I was dozing off. Piece of pipe, two angled mirrors—the solution to all our steering and air problems!”
“Fascinating. A Seeing-Things-Pipe-You-Can-Breathe-Down.”
“My goodness, how did you know it was called that, my lord?”
“A lucky guess.”
“’ere, someone’s re-designed my pedaling seat, it’s comfortable—”
“Ah, yes, corporal, I took some measurements while you were asleep and rebuilt it for a better anatomical configu—”
“You took measurements?”
“Oh, yes, I—”
“What, of my…saddlery regions?”
“Oh, please don’t be concerned, anatomy is something of a passion with me—”
“Is it? Is it? Well, you can stop being passionate about mine for a start—”
“Here, I can see an island of some sort!”
The pipe squeaked around.
“Ah, Leshp. And I see people. To your pedals, gentlemen. Let us explore the ocean’s bottom…”
“I expect we shall, with him steering—”
“Shut up, Nobby.”
The pipe slid down into the waves. There was a little flurry of bubbles and a damp argument about