Jingo - Terry Pratchett [94]
“So…Prince Charming’s got a lot of troubles at home, has he? Does Vetinari know this?”
“Does a camel shit in the desert, sir?”
“You’re really getting the hang of Klatch, aren’t you?” said Vimes.
Jabbar rumbled something. There was more laughter.
“Er…Jabbar says a camel certainly does shit in the desert, sir, otherwise you wouldn’t have anything to light your cigar with, sir.”
Once again, there was one of those moments when Vimes felt that he was under close scrutiny. Be diplomatic, Vetinari had told him.
He took another deep draw. “Improves the flavor,” he said. “Remind me to take some home.”
In Jabbar’s eyes, the judges held up at least a couple of grudging eights.
“A man on a horse came and said we must fight the foreign dogs—”
“That’s us, sir,” said Carrot helpfully.
“—because you have stolen an island that is under the sea. But what is that to us? We know no harm of you foreign devils, but the men who oil their beards in Al-Khali we do not like. So we send him back.”
“All of him?” said Vimes.
“We are not barbaric. He was clearly a madman. But we kept his horse.”
“And 71-hour Ahmed told you to keep us, didn’t he?” said Vimes.
“No one orders the D’regs! It is our pleasure to keep you here!”
“And when will it be your pleasure to let us go? When Ahmed tells you?”
Jabbar stared at the fire. “I will not speak of him. He is devious and cunning and not to be trusted.”
“But you are D’regs, too.”
“Yes!” Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back again. “We know what we are talking about!”
The Klatchian fishing boat was a mile or two out of harbor when it seemed to its captain that it was suddenly riding better in the water. Perhaps the barnacles have dropped off, he thought.
When his boat was lost in the evening mists a length of bent pipe rose slowly out of the swell and squeaked around until it faced the coast.
A distant tinny voice said: “Oh, no…”
And another tinny voice said: “What’s up, sarge?”
“Take a look through this!”
“Okay.” There was a pause.
Then the second tinny voice said: “Oh, bugger…”
What was riding at anchor before the city of Al-Khali wasn’t a fleet. It was a fleet of fleets. The masts looked like a floating forest.
Down below, Lord Vetinari took his turn to peer through the pipe.
“So many ships,” he said. “In such a short time, too. How very well organized. Very well organized. One might almost say…astonishingly well organized. As they say, ‘If you would seek war, prepare for war.’”
“I believe, my lord, the saying is ‘If you would seek peace, prepare for war,’” Leonard ventured.
Vetinari put his head on one side and his lips moved as he repeated the phrase to himself. Finally he said, “No, no. I just don’t see that one at all.”
He ducked back into his seat.
“Let us proceed with care,” he said. “We can go ashore under cover of darkness.”
“Er…can we maybe go ashore under cover of cover?” said Sergeant Colon.
“In fact these extra ships will make our plan that much easier,” said the Patrician, ignoring him.
“Our plan?” said Colon.
“People within the Klatchian hegemony come in every shape and color.” Vetinari glanced at Nobby. “Practically every shape and color,” he added. “So our appearance on the streets should not cause undue comment.” He glanced at Nobby again. “To any great extent.”
“But we’re wearing our uniforms, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “It’s not like we can say we’re on our way to a fancy-dress party.”
“Well, I’m not taking mine off,” said Nobby firmly. “I’m not running around in my drawers. Not in a port. Sailors are at sea a long time. You hear stories.”
“That’d be worse,” said the sergeant, without wasting time calculating how long any sailor would need to be at sea before the vision of Nobby Nobbs would present itself as anything other than a target, “’cos if we’re not in uniform, we’ll be spies—and you know what happens to spies.”
“Are you going to tell me, sarge?”
“Excuse me, your lordship?” Sergeant Colon raised his voice. The Patrician looked up from a conversation with Leonard.
“Yes,