Jingo. Part 37

"Yes, sir. The D'regs have some very strange notions about crazy people, sir."

Vimes pulled out the battered book. The D'reg nearest to him, with a grin almost as wide and as curved as his sword, had a certain additional swagger that suggested chieftainship. A huge ancient crossbow was slung on his back.

"I say!" said Vimes. "Could we just delay things a little?" He strode toward the man, who looked very surprised, and waved the book in the air. "This is a book by General Tacticus, don't know if you've ever heard of him, quite a big name in these parts once, probably slaughtered your great-great-great-great-grandfather in fact, and I just want to take a moment to see what he has to say about this situation. You don't mind, do you?"

The man gave Vimes a puzzled look.

"This may take a moment, there's no index, but I think I saw something-"

The chieftain took a step backward and looked at the men next to him, who shrugged.

"I wonder if you could help me with this word here?" Vimes went on, reaching the man's side and holding the book under his nose. He got another puzzled grin.

What Vimes did next was known in Ankh-Morpork's alleyways as the Friendly Handshake, and consisted largely of driving his elbow into the man's stomach, then bringing his knee up to meet the man's chin on its way down, gritting his own teeth because of the pain in both knee and ankle, and then drawing his sword and holding it to the D'reg's throat before he could scramble up.

"Now, captain," said Vimes, "I'd like you to say in a loud clear voice that unless they back off a really long way, this gentleman here is going to be in some very serious legal trouble."

"Mr. Vimes, I don't think-"

"Do it!"

The D'reg looked into his eyes while Carrot hawked his way through the demand. The man was still still grinning. grinning.

Vimes couldn't risk shifting his gaze, but he sensed some puzzlement and confusion among the tribesmen.

Then, as one man, they charged.

A Klatchian fishing boat, whose captain knew which way the wind was blowing, made its way back to the harbor of Al-Khali. It seemed to the captain that, despite the favorable wind, he wasn't making quite the speed he should. He put it down to barnacles.

Vimes awoke with a noseful of camel. There are far worse awakenings, but not as many as you might think.

By turning his head, which took some effort, he ascertained that the camel was sitting down. By the sound of things, it was digesting something explosive.

Now, how had he got here...Oh, G.o.ds...

But it should should have worked...It was have worked...It was cla.s.sic cla.s.sic. You threatened to cut off the head and the body just folded up. That was how everyone reacted, wasn't it? That was practically how civilization worked...

Put it down to cultural differences, then.

On the other hand, he wasn't dead. According to Carrot, knowing the D'regs for five minutes and still being alive at the end of it meant that they really, really liked you.

On the other other other hand, he'd just given their head man a Handshake, which influenced people without making friends. other hand, he'd just given their head man a Handshake, which influenced people without making friends.

Well, no sense lying over this saddle bound hand and foot and dying of sunstroke all day. He ought to start being a leader of men again, and would do so just as soon as he could get this camel out of his mouth.

"Bingeley-bingeley beep?"

"Yes?" said Vimes, struggling with his bonds.

"Would you like to know about the appointments you missed?"

"No! I'm trying to get these d.a.m.n ropes untied!"

"Do you want me to put that on your To Do list?"

"Oh, you've woken up, sir."

It sounded like Carrot's voice and it was the sort of thing he'd say. Vimes tried to turn his head.

What he saw was mainly a white sheet, but it then became Carrot's face, upside down.

"They asked if they should untie you but I said you hadn't been getting enough rest lately," Carrot went on.

"Captain, my arms and legs have gone to sleep..." Vimes began.

"Oh, well done, sir! That's a start, at least."

"Carrot?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you to listen very carefully to the order I am about to give you."

"Certainly, sir."

"The point I'm making is that it won't be a request or a suggestion or some sort of hint."

"Understood, sir."

"I have, as you know, always encouraged my officers to think for themselves and not blindly obey me, but sometimes in any organization it is necessary for instructions to be followed to the letter and with alacrity."

"Right, sir."

"Untie me right now or you'll b.l.o.o.d.y well live to regret untying me!"

"Er, sir, I believe there is an inadvertent inconsistency in-"

"Carrot!"

"Of course, sir."

His ropes were cut. He slid down on to the sand. The camel turned its head, looked at him with its nostrils for a moment, and then looked away.

Vimes managed to sit upright while Carrot busied himself cutting the rest of his bonds.

"Captain, why are you wearing a white sheet?"

"It's a burnous burnous, sir. Very practical for desert wear. The D'regs gave them to us."

"Us?"

"The rest of us, sir."

"Everyone's okay?"

"Oh, yes."

"But they attacked-"

"Yes, sir. But they only wanted to take us prisoner, sir. One of them did accidentally cut Reg's head off, but he did help him sew it on again, so no real harm done there."

"I thought D'regs didn't take prisoners...?"

"Beats me too, sir. But they say if we try to escape they'll cut our feet off, and Reg says he hasn't got enough thread for everyone, sir."

Vimes rubbed his head. Someone had hit him so hard his helmet was dented.

"What went wrong?" he said. "I had their boss down!"

"As I understand it, sir, the D'regs think that any leader who is stupid enough to be defeated so easily isn't worth following. It's a Klatchian thing."

Vimes tried to persuade himself that there wasn't a hint of sarcasm in Carrot's voice as he went on: "They're not really very interested in leaders, sir, to tell you the truth. They look on them as a sort of ornament. You know...just someone to shout 'Charge!' sir."

"A leader has to do other things, Carrot."

"The D'regs think 'Charge!' pretty well covers all of them, sir."

Vimes managed to stand up. Strange muscles tw.a.n.ged in his legs. He tottered forward.

"Here, let me give you a hand..." said Carrot, catching him.

The sun was setting. Ragged tents cl.u.s.tered below one of the dunes, and there was the glow of firelight. Someone was laughing. It didn't sound sound like a prison. But then, thought Vimes, the desert was probably better than bars. He wouldn't even know which way to run, feet or no feet. like a prison. But then, thought Vimes, the desert was probably better than bars. He wouldn't even know which way to run, feet or no feet.

"The D'regs, like all Klatchians, are a very hospitable people," said Carrot, as if he'd memorized this. "They take hospitality very, very seriously."

Their captors were sitting round the fire. So were the watchmen. They'd also been persuaded to dress more suitably, which meant that Cheery looked like a girl in her mum's dress, apart from the iron helmet, and Reg Shoe looked like like a mummy, and Detritus was a small snow-covered mountain. a mummy, and Detritus was a small snow-covered mountain.

"He's gone very...insensible in all this heat," whispered Carrot. "And that's Constable Visit over there, arguing religion. There are six hundred and fifty-three religions on the Klatchian continent."

"He must be having fun."

"And this is Jabbar," said Carrot. Exhibit A, who looked like a slightly older version of 71-hour Ahmed, stood up and salaamed to Vimes.

"Offendi," he said.

"He's their...well, he's like an official wise man," said Carrot.

"Oh, so he's not the one who tells them to charge?" said Vimes. His head buzzed with the heat.

"No, that's the leader," said Carrot. "Whenever they have one."

"So perhaps Jabbar tells them when it's wise wise to charge?" said Vimes brightly. to charge?" said Vimes brightly.

"It's always wise to charge, offendi," said Jabbar. He bowed again. "My tent is your tent," he said.

"It is?" said Vimes.

"My wives are your wives..."

Vimes looked panicky. "They are? Really?"

"My food is your food..." Jabbar went on.

Vimes stared down at the dish by the fire. It looked like a sheep or a goat had been the main course. And the man bent down, picked up a morsel and handed it to him.

Sam Vimes looked at the mouthful. And it looked back.

"The best part," said Jabbar, and made appreciative sucking noises. He added something in Klatchian. There was some m.u.f.fled laughter from the other men around the fire.

"This looks like a sheep's eyeball," said Vimes, doubtfully.

"Yes, sir," said Carrot. "But it is unwise to-"

"You know what?" Vimes went on. "I think this is a little game called 'Let's see what offendi will swallow.' And I'm not swallowing this, my friend."

Jabbar gave him an appraising look.

The sn.i.g.g.e.ring stopped.

"Then it is true that you can see further than most," he said.

"So can this food," said Vimes. "My father told me never to eat anything that can wink back."

There was one of those little hanging-by-a-thread hanging-by-a-thread moments, which might suddenly rock one way or the other into a gale of laughter or sudden death. moments, which might suddenly rock one way or the other into a gale of laughter or sudden death.

Then Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back. The eyeball shot off his palm and into the shadows.

"Well done! Extremely good! First time it have not worked in twenty year! Now sit down and have proper rice and sheep just like mother!"

There was a certain feeling of relaxation. Vimes found himself pulled down. Bottoms shuffled aside to make room for him and a big slab of bread dripping with meat was put in front of him. Vimes prodded at it as politely as he dared, and then took the usual view that, if you can recognize at least half of it, it's probably okay to eat the rest.