'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(c) 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 captain stared at him and then looked up again in terrified obedience. And there was somewhere where the light wasn't. As the fizzing green tongues waved in the wind they seemed to be edged with... blackness, perhaps, or a moving hole in space.

'That's octarine!' shouted Ahmed, as another wave sloshed over the deck. 'Only wizards can see it! There's magic in these storms! That's why the weather is so bad!'

The ship screamed in every joint as it hit the waves again.

'We're coming right out of the water!' wept Jenkins. 'We're just going from crest to crest!'

'Good! It won't be so bumpy!' shouted Vimes. 'We should pick up speed again now we've got those bedsteads over the side! Does it often rain bedsteads out here?'

'What do you think?'

'I'm not a nautical man!'

'No, rains of bedsteads are not an everyday occurrence! Nor are coal scuttles!' Jenkins added, as something black crashed off a rail and over the side. 'We just get the normal stuff, you know! Rain! Snow! Sleet! Fish!'

Another squall blew across the bounding boat and the deck was suddenly covered with flashing silver.

'Back to fish!' shouted Vimes. 'That's better, surely?'

'No! It's worse!'

'Why!'

Jenkins held up a tin.

'These are sardines!'

The ship thumped into another wave, groaned, and took flight again.

The cold green fire was everywhere. Every nail of the deck sprouted its flame, every rope and ladder had its green outline.

And the feeling crept over Vimes that it was holding the ship together. He wasn't at all sure that it was just light. It moved too purposefully. It crackled, but it didn't sting. It looked as though it was having fun

The ship landed. Water washed over Vimes.

'Captain Jenkins!'

'Yes?'

'Why're we playing with this wheel? It's not as if the rudder's in the water!'

They let go. The spokes blurred for a moment, and then stopped as the fire wrapped itself around them.

Then it rained cake.

The Watch had tried to make themselves comfortable in the hold, but there were difficulties. There wasn't any area of floor which at some point in every ten seconds wasn't an area of wall.

Nevertheless, someone was snoring.

'How can anyone sleep in this?' said Reg Shoe.

'Captain Carrot can,' said Cheery. She was hacking at something with her axe.

Carrot had wedged himself into a corner. Occasionally he mumbled something, and shifted position.

'Like a baby. Beats me how he's managing it,' said Reg Shoe. 'Of course, any minute this thing is going to fall apart.'

'Yes, but dat shouldn't worry you, should it?' said Detritus. 'On account of you bein' dead already?'

'So? I end up at the bottom of the sea knee–deep in whale droppings? And it'll be a long walk home in the dark. Not to mention the problems if a shark tries to eat me.'

'I shall fear not. According to the Testament of Mezerek, the fishermen Nonpo spent four days in the belly of a giant fish,' said Constable Visit.

The thunder seemed particularly loud in the silence.

'Washpot, are we talking miracles here?' said Reg eventually. 'Or just a very slow digestive process?'

'You would be better employed considering the state of your immortal soul than making jokes,' said Constable Visit severely.

'It's the state of my immortal body that's worrying me,' said Reg.

'I have a leaflet here which will bring you considerable–' Visit began.

'Washpot, is it big enough to be folded into a boat that'll save us all?'

Constable Visit pounced on the opening. 'Aha, yes, metaphorically it is–'

'Hasn't this ship got a lifeboat?' said Cheery hurriedly. 'I'm sure I saw one when we came on.'

'Yeah... lifeboat,' said Detritus.

'Anyone want a sardine?' said Cheery. 'I've managed to get a tin open.'

'Lifeboat,' Detritus repeated. He sounded like someone exploring an unpleasant truth. 'Like... a big, heavy thing which would've slowed us down... ?'

'Yes, I saw it, I know I did,' said Reg.

'Yeah... dere was one,' said Detritus. 'Dat was a lifeboat, was it?'

'At the very least we ought to get somewhere sheltered and drop the anchor.'

'Yeah... anchor…' mused Detritus. 'Dat's a big thing kinda hooks on, right?'

'Of course.'

'Kinda heavy thing?'

'Obviously!'

'Right. An'... er... if it was dropped a long time ago, on accounta bein' heavy, dat wouldn't do us much good now?'

'Hardly.' Reg Shoe glared through the hatchway. The sky was a dirty yellow blanket, criss–crossed with fire. Thunder boomed continuously.

'I wonder how far the barometer's sunk?' he said.

'All der way,' said Detritus gloomily. 'Trust me on dis.'

It was in the nature of a D'reg to open doors carefully. There was generally an enemy on the other side. Sooner or later.

He saw the collar lying on the floor, right by a little fountain of water trickling from the hull, and swore under his breath.

Ahmed waited just a moment, and then pushed the door back quietly. It rattled against the wall.

'I don't intend to harm you,' he said to the gloom of the bilges. 'If that was my intention, by now you'd–'

She wished she'd used the wolf. There would have been no problem with the wolf. That was the problem. She'd easily win, but then she'd be nervy and frightened. A human could stay on top of that. A wolf might not. She'd do the wrong things, panicky things, animal things.

She pushed him hard as she dropped down from above the door, somersaulted backwards, 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 caused 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 practised 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 unpractised 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 Khufarah?'

'I am. And you are... ?'

The door was kicked open. Angua leapt towards the window and flung aside the bar restraining the shutters. Water funnelled 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 pedalling 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 whose job it should have been to put the cork in, and then the patch of sea that had been empty was, somehow, a little bit emptier still.

There weren't any fish.

At a time like this Solid Jackson would have even been prepared to eat Curious Squid.

But the sea was empty. And it smelled wrong. It fizzed gently. Solid could see little bubbles breaking on the surface, which burst with a smell of sulphur and rotting eggs. He guessed that the rise of the land must have stirred up a lot of mud. It was bad enough at the bottom of a pond, all those frogs and bugs and things, and this was the sea

He tried hard to reverse that train of thought, but it kept on rising from the depths like a... like a...

Why were there no fish? Oh, there'd been the storm last night, but generally you got better fishing in these parts after a storm because it... stirred... up...

The raft rocked.

He was beginning to think it might be a good idea to go home, but that'd mean leaving the land to the Klatchians, and that'd happen over his dead body.

The treacherous internal voice said: Funnily enough, they never found Mr Hong's body. Not most of the important bits, anyway.

'I think, think, I think we'll be getting back now,' he said to his son.

'Oh, Dad,' said Les. 'Another dinner of limpets and seaweed?'

'Nothing wrong with seaweed,' said Jackson. 'It's

full of nourishing... seaweed. 's got iron in it. Good for you, iron.'

'Why don't we boil an anchor, then?'

'None of your lip, son.'

'The Klatchians have got bread,' said Les. 'They brought flour with them. And they've got firewood.' This was a sore point with Jackson. Efforts to make seaweed combust had not been successful.

'Yeah, but you wouldn't like their bread,' said Jackson. 'It's all flat and got no proper crust–'

A breeze blew the scent of baking over the water. It carried a hint of spices.

'They're baking bread! On our property!'

'Well, they say it's their–'

Jackson grabbed the piece of broken plank he used as an oar and began to scull furiously towards the shore. The fact that this only made the raft go round in circles added to his fury.

'They bloody move in right next to us and all we get is the stink of foreign food–'

Why's your mouth watering, Dad?'

'And how come they've got wood, may I ask?'

'I think the current takes the driftwood to their side of the island, Dad–'

'See? They're stealing our driftwood! Our damn driftwood! Hah! Well, we'll–'

'But I thought we agreed that the bit over there was theirs, and––'

Jackson had finally remembered how to propel a raft with one oar.

'That wasn't an agreement,' he said, creating foam as the oar thrashed back and forth, 'that was just an... an arrangement. It's not as if they created the driftwood. It just turned up. Accident of geography. It is a natural resource, right? It don't belong to anyone-'

The raft hit something which made a metallic sound. But they were still a hundred yards from the rocks.

Something else, long and bent at the end, rose up with a creaking noise. It twisted around until it pointed at Jackson.

'Excuse me,' it said, in a tinny yet polite voice, 'but this is Leshp, isn't it?'

Jackson made a sound in his throat.

'Only,' the thing went on, 'the water's a little cloudy and I thought we might have been going the wrong way for the last twenty minutes.'

'Leshp!' squeaked Jackson, in an unnaturally highpitched voice.

'Ah, good. Thank you so much. Good day to YOU.

The appendage sank slowly into the sea again. The last sounds from it, erupting on the surface in a cloud of bubbles, were,'... don't forget to put the cork in– You've forgot to put the cor––'

The bubbles stopped.

After a while Les said, 'Dad, what was––?'

'It wasn't anything!' snapped his father. 'That sort of thing doesn't happen!'

The raft shot forward. You could have waterski'd behind it.

Another important thing about the Boat, thought Sergeant Colon gloomily as they slipped back into a blue twilight, was that you couldn't bale out the bilges. It was the bilges.

He was pedalling with his feet in water and he was suffering simultaneously from claustrophobia and agoraphobia. He was afraid of everything in here and everything out there at the same time. Plus, there were unpleasantnesses out there, moving past as the Boat drifted down the wall of rock. Feelers waved. There were claws. Things scuttled into the waving weeds. Giant clams watched Sergeant Colon with their lips.

The Boat creaked.

'Sarge,' said Nobby, as they looked out at the wonders of the deep.

'Yes, Nobby?'

'You know they say every tiny part of your body is replaced every seven years?'

'A well–known fact,' said Sergeant Colon.

'Right. So... I've got a tattoo on my arm, right? Had it done eight years ago. So... how come it's still there?'

Giant seaweeds winnowed the gloom.

'Interesting point,' quavered Colon. 'Er . .

'I mean, OK, new tiny bits of skin float in, but that means it ought to be all new and pink by now.'

A fish with a nose like a saw swam past.

In the middle of all his other fears, Sergeant Colon tried to think fast.

'What happens.' he said, 'Is that all the blue skin bits are replaced by other blue skin bits. Off'f other people's tattoos.'

'So... I've got other people's tattoos now?'

'Er... yes.'

'Amazing. 'cos it still looks like mine. 's got the crossed daggers and "WUM".'

'Wum?'

'It was gonna be "Mum" but I passed out and Needle Ned didn't notice I was upside down.'

'I should've thought he'd notice that...'

'He was pissed too. C'mon, sarge, you know it's not a proper tattoo unless no–one can remember how it got there.'

Leonard and the Patrician were staring out at the submarine landscape.

'What're they looking for?' said Colon.

'Leonard keeps talking about hieroglyphs,' said Nobby. 'What're they, sarge?'

Colon hesitated, but not for long. 'A type of mollusc, corporal.'

'Cor, you know everything, sarge,' said Nobby admiringly. 'That's what hieroglyphs are, is it? So, if we go any deeper, they'll be loweroglyphs?'

There was something slightly off–putting about Nobby's grin. Sergeant Colon decided to go for broke.

'Don't be daft, Nobby. "Loweroglphys if you go lower..." Oh my me.'

'Sorry, sarge.

'Everyone knows you don't get loweroglyphs in these waters.'

A couple of Curious Squid peered at them, curiously.

Jenkins's ship was a floating wreck.

Several sails were in tatters. Rigging and other string that Vimes refused to learn the nautical names for covered the deck and trailed in the water.

Such sail as remained was moving them along in the brisk breeze.

Atop the mast the lookout cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned down.

'Land ahoy!'

'Even I can see that,' said Vimes. 'Why does he have to shout?'

'It's lucky,' said Jenkins. He squinted into the haze.

'But your friend ain't heading for Gebra. Wonder where he's going?'

Vimes stared at the pale yellow mass on the horizon, and then up at Carrot.

'We'll get her back, don't worry,' he said.

'I wasn't actually worrying, sir. Although I am very concerned,' said Carrot.

'Er... right...'Vimes waved his arms helplessly, 'Er... everyone fit and well? The men in good heart, are they?'

'It would help morale no end if you were to say a few words, sir.'

The monstrous regiment of watchmen had lined up on the deck, blinking in the sunshine. Oh, dear. Round up the unusual suspects. One dwarf, one human who was brought up as a dwarf and thinks like a manual of etiquette, one zombie, one troll, me and, oh no, one religious fanatic–

Constable Visit saluted. 'Permission to speak, sir.'

'Go ahead,' mumbled Vimes.

'I'm pleased to tell you, sir, that our mission is clearly divinely approved of, sir. I refer to the rain of sardines which sustained us in our extremity, sir.'

'We were a little hungry, I wouldn't say we were in extremi–'

'With respect, sir,' said Constable Visit firmly, 'the pattern is firmly established, sir. Yes, indeed. The Sykoolites when being pursued in the wilderness by the forces of Offlerian Mitolites, sir, were sustained by a rain of celestial biscuits, sir. Chocolate ones, sir.'

'Perfectly normal phenomenon,' muttered Constable Shoe. 'Probably swept up by the wind passing a baker's shop–'

Visit glared at him, and went on: 'And the Murmurians, when driven into the mountains by

the tribes of Miskmik, would not have survived but for a magical rain of elephants, sir–'

'Elephants?'

'Well, one elephant, sir,' Visit conceded. 'But it splashed.'

'Perfectly normal phenomenon,' said Constable Shoe. 'Probably an elephant was picked up by a freak–'

'And when they were thirsty in the desert, sir, the Four Tribes of Khanli were succoured by a sudden and supernatural rain of rain, sir.'

'A rain of rain?' said Vimes, almost mesmerized by Visit's absolute conviction.

'Perfectly normal phenomenon,' sneered Reg Shoe. 'Probably water was evaporated from the ocean, was blown through the sky, condensed around nuclei when it ran into cold air, and precipitated...' He stopped, and continued irritably, 'Anyway, I don't believe it.'

'So... which particular deity is on our case?' said Vimes, hopefully.

'I shall definitely inform you as soon as I have ascertained this, sir.'

'Er... very good, constable.'

Vimes took a step back. 'I don't pretend this is going to be easy, men,' he said. 'But our mission is to catch up with Angua and this bastard Ahmed and shake the truth out of him. Unfortunately, this means we will be following him through his own country, with which we are at war. This is bound to put a few barriers in our way. But we should not let the prospect of being tortured to death dismay us, eh?'

'Fortune favours the brave, sir,' said Carrot cheerfully.

'Good. Good. Pleased to hear it, captain. What is her position vis a vis heavily armed, well prepared and excessively manned armies?'

'Oh, no–one's ever heard of Fortune favouring them, sir.'

'According to General Tacticus, it's because they favour themselves,' said Vimes. He opened the battered book. Bits of paper and string indicated his many bookmarks. 'In fact, men, the general has this to say about ensuring against defeat when outnumbered, out–weaponed and outpositioned. It is...' he turned the page, ' "Don't Have a Battle." '

'Sounds like a clever man,' said Jenkins. He pointed to the yellow horizon.

'See all that stuff in the air?' he said. 'What do you think that is?'

'Mist?' said Vimes.

'Hah, yes. Klatchian mist! It's a sandstorm! The sand blows about all the time. Vicious stuff. If you want to sharpen your sword, just hold it up in the air.'

'Oh.'

'And it's just as well because otherwise you'd see Mount Gebra. And below it is what they call the Fist of Gebra. It's a town but there's a bloody great fort, walls thirty feet thick. 's like a big city all by itself. 's got room inside for thousands of armed men, war elephants, battle camels, everything. And if you saw that, you'd want me to turn round right now. Whats your famous general got to say about it, eh?'

'I think I saw something...' said Vimes. He flicked to another page. 'Ah, yes, he says, "After the first battle of Sto Lat, I formulated a policy which has stood me in good stead in other battles. It is this: if the enemy has an impregnable stronghold, see he stays there."

'That's a lot of help,' said Jenkins.

Vimes slipped the book into a pocket.

'So, Constable Visit, there's a god on our side, is there?'

'Certainly, sir.'

'But probably also a god on their side as well?'

'Very likely, sir. There's a god on every side.'

'Let's hope they balance out, then.'

The Klatchian ship's boat hit the water with the gentlest of splashes. This was because 71–hour Ahmed was standing by the winches with his sword at the ready, which had the effect of making the men lowering the boat take some trouble over their task.

'When we are away you may take the ship into Gebra,' he said to the captain.

The captain trembled. 'What shall I tell them, wali?'

'Tell them the truth... eventually. The commander of the garrison is a man of no breeding and will torture you a little bit. Save up the truth until you need it. That will make him happy. It will help you to say that I forced you.'

'Oh, I will. I will... tell that lie,' the captain added quickly.

Ahmed nodded, slid down the rope into the boat and set it adrift

The crew watched him row through the surf.

This wasn't a nice beach. It was a wrecking coast. Ribcages of broken ships crumbled into the sand. Bones and driftwood and bleached white seaweed mounded along the high tide line. And beyond, the dunes of the real desert rose. Even down here sand stung the eyes and gritted the teeth.

'There's sudden death on that beach,' said the first mate, looking over the rail and trying to blink his eyes clear.

'Yes,' said the captain. 'Hes just got out of the boat.' The figure on the beach pulled the other, recumbent figure out of the boat and dragged him out of reach of the waves. The mate raised his bow.

'I could kill him from here, master. Just say the word.'

'How sure are you? Because you'd better be really sure. First, if you miss him you're dead and, second, if you hit him, you're still dead. Look up there.'

On the high distant dunes, dark against the sandfilled sky, there were mounted figures. The mate dropped his bow.

'How did they know we were here?'

'Oh, they watch the sea,' said the captain. 'D'regs like a good shipwreck as much as anyone else. More, in fact. A lot more.'

As they turned away from the rail, something leapt from the hull and entered the water with barely a splash.

Detritus tried to lurk in the shade, but there was not a lot of it about. The heat came off the high desert ahead of them like a blowtorch.

'I'm gonna get fick,' he muttered.

There was a shout from the lookout.

'He says someone's climbing the dunes,' said Carrot. 'Carrying someone else, he says.'

'Er... female?'

'Look, sir, I know Angua. She's not the useless type. She doesn't stand there and scream helplessly. She makes other people do that.'

'Well... if you're sure...' Vimes turned to Jenkins. 'Don't bother to chase the ship, captain. Just keep heading for the shore.'

'I don't work like that, mister. For one thing, that' s a damn difficult shore, the wind's always against you, and there's some very nasty currents. Many an incautious sailorman has left his bones to bleach on those sands. No, we'll stand out a little way and you can lower the– well, if we had a boat any more, you could lower it... and we'll drop the anchor, oh, no, tell a he, it turned out to be too heavy, didn't it–'

'You just keep straight on,' said Vimes.

'We'll all be killed.'

'Think of it as the lesser of two evils.'

'What's the other one?'

Vimes drew his sword.

'Me.'

The Boat squeaked through the mysterious depths of the ocean. Leonard spent a lot of time looking out of the tiny windows, particularly interested in pieces of seaweed which, to Sergeant Colon, looked like pieces of seaweed.

'Do you note the fine strands of Dropley's Etoliated Bladderwrack?' said Leonard. 'That's the brown stuff. A marvellous growth which, of course, you will see as significant.'

'Could we just assume for the moment that I have neglected my seaweed studies in recent years?' said the Patrician.

'Really? Oh, the loss is entirely yours, I assure you. The point is, of course, that the Etoliated Bladderwrack is never usually found growing above thirty fathoms, and it's only ten here.'

'Ah.' The Patrician flicked through a stack of Leonard's drawings. 'And the hieroglyphs – an alphabet of signs and colours. Colours as a language… what a fascinating idea...'

'An emotional intensifier,' said Leonard. 'But of course we ourselves use something like it. Red for danger and so on. I never did succeed in translating it, though.'

'Colours as a language…' murmured Lord Vetinari.

Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. 'I know something about seaweed, sir.'

'Yes, sergeant?'

'Yessir! If it's wet, sir, it means it's going to rain.'

'Well done, sergeant,' said Lord Vetinari, without turning his head. 'I think it is quite possible that I will never forget you said that.'

Sergeant Colon beamed. He had Made A Contribution.

Nobby nudged him. 'What're we doing down here, sarge? I mean, what's it all about? Poking around, looking at weird marks on the rocks, going in and out of caves.. . and the smell... well..

'It's not me,' said Sergeant Colon.

'Smells like... sulphur...'

Little bubbles streamed past the window.

'It stunk up on the surface, too,' Nobby went on.

'Nearly finished, gentlemen,' said Lord Vetinari, putting the papers aside. 'One last little venture and then we can surface. Very well, Leonard... take us underneath.'

'Er... aren't we underneath already, sir?' said Colon.

'Only underneath the sea, sergeant.'

'Ah. Right.' Colon gave this due consideration. 'Is there anything else to be under, then, sir?'

'Yes, sergeant. Now we're going under the land.'

The beach was a lot closer now. The watchmen couldn't help noticing that the sailors were all hurrying to the blunt end of the ship and hanging on to any small, lightweight and above all buoyant objects they could find.

'This seems close enough,' said Vimes. 'Right. Stop here.'

'Stop here? How?'

'Don't ask me, I'm no sailor. Aren't there some sort of brakes?'

Jenkins stared at him. 'You – you landlubber!'

'I thought you never used the word!'

'I never met one like you before! You even think we call the bows the sharp en–'

It was, the crew agreed later, one of the strangest landings in the history of bad seamanship. The shelving of the beach must have been right and the tide as well, because the ship did not so much hit the beach as sail up it, rising out of the water as the keel de–barnacled itself on the sand. Finally the forces of wind, water, impetus and friction all met at the point marked 'fall over slowly'.

It did so, earning the title of 'world's most laughable shipwreck'.

'Well, that might have been worse,' said Vimes, when the splintering noises had died away.

He eased himself out of a tangle of canvas and adjusted his helmet with as much aplomb as he could muster.

He heard a groan from the lopsided hold.

'Is dat you, Cheery?'

'Yes, Detritus.'

'Is dis me?'

'No!'

'Sorry.'

Carrot eased his way down the sloping deck and jumped onto the damp sand. He saluted.

'All present and lightly bruised, sir. Shall we. establish a beachhead?'

'A what?'

'We have to dig in, sir.'

Vimes looked both ways along the beach, if such a sunnysounding word could be applied to the forsaken strand. It was really just a hem to the land. Nothing stirred except the heat haze and, in the distance, one or two carrion birds.

'What for?' he said.

'Establish a defensible position. It's just one of those things soldiers do, sir.'

Vimes glanced at the birds. They were approaching with a kind of sidling sideways hop, ready to move in just as soon as anyone had been dead for a few days. Then he flicked through Tacticus until the word 'beachhead' caught his eye.

'It says here "If you want your men to spend much time wielding a shovel, encourage them to become farmers,"' he said. 'So I think we'll press on. He can't have got very far. We'll be back soon.'

Jenkins waded out of the surf. He didn't look angry. He was a man who had passed through the fires of anger and was now in some strange peaceful bay beyond them. He pointed a quivering finger at his stricken ship and said 'Muh... ?'

'Pretty good shape, all things considered,' said Vimes.

'Muh?'

'I'm sure you and your salty sailors will be able to float it again.'

'Muh...'

Jenkins and his wading crew watched the regiment as it slithered and complained its way up the side of the dune. Eventually the crew went into a huddle and drew lots and the cook, who was always unlucky in games of chance, approached the captain.

'Never mind, captain,' he said, 'we can probably find some decent balks of timber in all this driftwood, and a few days' work with block and tackle should–'

'Muh.'

'Only... we'd better get started 'cos he said they won't be long...'

'They won't be back!' said the captain. 'The water they've got won't last a day up there! They haven't got the right gear! And once they're out of sight of the sea they'll get lost!'

'Good!'

It took half an hour to get to the top of the dune. The sand had been stamped down but, even as Vimes watched, the wind caught the particles and nibbled away at the prints.

'Camel tracks,' said Vimes. 'Well, camels don't go all that fast. Let's––'

'I think Detritus is having real trouble, sir,' said Carrot.

The troll was standing with his knuckles on the ground. The motor of his cooling helmet sounded harsh for a moment in the dry air, and then stopped as the sand got into the mechanism.

'Feelin' fick,' he muttered. 'My brain hurts.'

'Quick, hold your shield over his head,' said Vimes. 'Give him some shade!'

'He's never going to make it, sir,' said Carrot. 'Let's send him back down to the boat.'

'We need him! Quick, Cheery, fan him with your axe!'

At which point, the sand stood up and drew a hundred swords.

'Bingeley–bingeley beep!' said a cheerful if somewhat muffled voice. 'Eleven eh em, Get Haircut... er... that's right... isn't it?'

It wasn't large, but slabs of collapsing building had smashed together in such a way that they made a cistern that the rain had filled half full.

Solid Jackson slapped his son on the back.

'Fresh water! At last!' he said. 'Well done, lad.'

'You see, I was looking at these sort of painting things, Dad, and then–'

'Yeah, yeah, pictures of octopuses, very nice,' said Jackson. 'Hah! The ball is on the other foot now and no mistake! It's our water on our side of the island, and I'd just like to see them greasy buggers claim otherwise. Let 'em keep their damn driftwood and suck water out of fishes!'

'Yeah, Dad,' said Les. 'And we can trade them some of the water for wood and flour, right?'

His father waved a hand cautiously. 'Maybe,' he said. 'No need to rush into that, though. We're pretty close to finding a seaweed that'll bum. I mean, what're our long–term objectives here?'

'Cooking meals and keeping warm?' said Les hopefully.

'Well, initially,' said Jackson. 'That's obvious. But you know what they say, lad. "Give a man a fire and he's warm for a day, but set fire to him and he's warm for the rest of his life." See my point?'

'I don't think that's actually what the saying is–'

'I mean, we can stop here living on water and raw fish for... well, practically for ever. But that lot can't go without proper fresh water for much longer. See? So they'll have to come begging to us, right? And then we deal on our terms, eh?'

He put his arm around his son's reluctant shoulders and waved a hand at the landscape.

'I mean, I started out with nothing, son, except that old boat that your grandad left me, but–'

'–you worked and scraped–' said Les wearily. worked and scraped–'

–and you've always kept your head above water–'

'–right, I've always kept my head above water–'

'And you've always wanted to leave me something that– –Ow!'

'Stop making fun of your dad!' said Jackson. 'Otherwise I'll wallop the other ear. Look, you see this land? You see it?'

'I see it, Dad.'

'It's a land of opportunity.'

'But there's no fresh water and all the ground's full of salt, Dad, and it smells bad!'

'That's the smell of freedom, that is.'

'Smells like someone did a really big fart, Dad– Ow!'

'Sometimes the two are very similar! And it's your future Im thinking of, lad!'

Les looked at the acres of decomposing seaweed in front of him,

He was learning to be a fisherman like his father before him because that's how the family had always done it and he was too good–natured to argue, although he actually wanted to be a painter like no–one in the family had ever been before. He was noticing

things, and they worried him even though he couldn't quite say why.

But the buildings didn't look right. Here and there were definite bits of, well, architecture, like Morporkian pillars and the remains of Klatchian arches, but they'd been added to buildings that looked as though some ham–fisted people had just piled rocks on top of one another. And then in other places the slabs had been stacked on top of ancient brick walls and tiled floors. He couldn't imagine who'd done the tiling, but they did like pictures of octopussies.

The feeling was stealing over him that Morporkians and Klatchians arguing over who owned this piece of old sea bottom was extremely pointless.

'Er... I'm thinking about my future too, Dad,' he said. 'I really am.'

Far below Solid Jackson's feet, the Boat surfaced. Sergeant Colon reached automatically for the screws that held the lid shut.

'Don't open it, sergeant!' shouted Leonard, rising from his seat.

'The air's getting pretty lived–in, sir_,

'It's worse outside.'

'Worse than in here?'

'I'm almost certain.'

'But we're on the surface!'

'A surface, sergeant,' said Lord Vetinari. Beside him, Nobby uncorked the seeing device and peered through it.

'We're in a cave?' said Colon.

'Er... sarge...' said Nobby.

'Capital! Well worked out,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Yes. A cave. You could say that.'

'Er... sarge?' said Nobby again, nudging Colon. 'This isn't a cave, sarge! It's bigger than a cave, sarge!'

'What, you mean... like a cavern?'

'Bigger!'

'Bigger'n a cavern? More like a... big cavern?'

'Yeah, that'd be about right,' said Nobby, taking his eye away from the device. 'Have a look yourself, sarge.'

Sergeant Colon peered into the tube.

Instead of the darkness he was half expecting, he saw the sea's surface, bubbling like a boiling saucepan. Green and yellow flashes of lightning danced across the water, illuminating a distant wall that seemed practically a horizon...

The tube squeaked around. If this was a cave, it was at least a couple of miles across.

'How long, do you think?' said Lord Vetinari, behind him.

'Well, the rock has a large proportion of tufa and pumice, very light, and once floated up the build–up of gas starts to escape very rapidly because of the swell,' said Leonard. 'I don't know... perhaps another week... and then I think it takes a very long time for a sufficient bubble to build up again...'

'What're they saying, sarge?' said Nobby. 'This place floats?'

'A most unusual natural phenomenon,' Leonard went on. 'I'd have thought it was just a legend had I not seen it for myself...'

'Of course it's not floating,' said Sergeant Colon. 'Honestly, Nobby, how're you ever going to find out anything when you ask daft questions like that? Land's heavier than water, right? That's why you find it at the bottom of the sea.'

'Yes, but he said pumice, and my gran had a pumice

stone that worked a treat for getting tough skin off'f your feet in the tub and that'd float–'

'That sort of thing happens in bath tubs maybe,' said Colon. 'Not in real life. This is just a phenomena. It's not real. Next thing you'll be saying there's rocks up in the sky.'

'Yeah, but–'

'I am a sergeant, Nobby.'

'Yes. sarge.'

'It puts me in mind,' said Leonard, 'of those nautical stories about giant turtles that sleep on the surface, thus causing sailors to think they are an island. Of course, you don't get giant turtles that small.'

'Hey, Mr Quirm, this is an amazing boat,' said Nobby.

'Thank you.'

'I bet you could even smash up ships with it if you wanted.'

There was an embarrassed silence.

'Altogether an interesting experience,' said Lord Vetinari, making some notes. 'And now, gentlemen downward and onward, please...'

The watchmen drew their weapons.

'They're D'regs, sir,' said Carrot. 'But – this is all wrong...'

'What do you mean?'

'We're not dead yet.'

They're watching us like cats watch mice, thought Vimes. We can't run away and we can't win a fight, and they want to see what we'll do next.

'What does General Tacticus have to say about sir?' said Carrot.

There's a hundred of them, thought Vimes. And six

of us. Except that Detritus is drifting off and there's no knowing what particular commandment Visit is obeying right now and Reg's arms tend to drop off when he gets excited

'I don't know,' he said. 'Probably something on the lines of Don't Allow This to Happen.'

'Why don't you check, sir?' said Carrot, not taking his eyes off the watching D'regs.

'What?'

'I said, why don't you check, sir?'

'Right now?'

'It might be worth a try, sir.'

'That's crazy, captain.'

'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 towards 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 might take a moment, there's no index, but I think I saw something–'

The chieftain took a step backwards 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 dear 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 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 harbour of Al–Khali It seemed to the captain that, despite the favourable 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