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, gods...

But it should have worked... It was classic. 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 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 hying to get these damn 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 bloody 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 onto 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, sir. Very practical for desert wear. The D'regs gave them to us.'

'Us?'

'The rest of us, sir.'

'Everyone's OK?'

'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 twanged in his legs. He tottered forward.

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

The sun was setting. Ragged tents clustered below one of the dunes, and there was the glow of firelight. Someone was laughing. It didn't sound like a prison.

But then, thought Vimes, the desert was probably better than bus, 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 a mummy, and Detritus was a small snowcovered 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 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 suckling noises. He added something in Klatchian. There was some muffled 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 sniggering 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 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 OK to eat the rest.

'So we're your prisoners, Mr Jabbar?'

'Honoured guests! My tent is–'

'But... how can I put this?... you want us to enjoy your hospitality for some time?'

'We have tradition,' said Jabbar. 'A man who is a guest in your tent, even if he is your worst enemy, you owe him hospitality for tree dace.'

'Tree dace, eh?' said Vimes.

'I learn language on...' Jabbar waved a hand vaguely, 'you know, wooden ting, a camel of the sea–'

'Boat?'

'Right! But too many water!' He slapped Vimes on the back again, so that hot fat spilled into his lap. 'Any road up, lots speaking Morporkian these dace, offendi. It is language of... merchant.' He put an inflection on the word that suggested it was the same as 'earthworm'.

'So you have to know how to say things like "Give us all your money"?' said Vimes.

'Why ask?' said Jabbar. 'We take it anyway. But now...' he spat at the fire with amazing accuracy '... they say, we got to stop, this is wrong. What harm do we do?'

'Apart from killing people and taking all their merchandise?' said Vimes.

Jabbar laughed again. 'Wali said you were a big diplomatic! But we don't kill merchants, why should we kill merchants? What is the sense? How foolish to be killing gift horse that lays the golden egg!'

'You could make money exhibiting it, certainly,' said Vimes.

'We kill merchants, we rob too much, they never come back. Dumb. We let them go, they get rich again, our sons rob them. Such is wisdom.'

'Ah... it's a sort of agriculture,' said Vimes.

'Right! But if you plant merchants, they don't grow so good.'

Vimes realized that it was getting colder as the sun went down. In fact, a lot colder. He inched closer to the fire.

'Why is he called 71–hour Ahmed?' he said.

The murmur of conversation stopped. Suddenly all eyes were on Jabbar, except the one that had ended up in the shadows.

'Not so diplomatic,' said Jabbar.

'We chase him up here, then suddenly we're ambushed by you. That seems–'

'I know nothing,' said Jabbar.

'Why won't you–?' Vimes began.

'Er, sir,' said Carrot urgently. 'That would be very unwise, sir. Look, I had a bit of a talk with Jabbar while you were... resting. It's a bit political, I'm afraid.'

'What isn't?'

'Prince Cadram is trying to unite the whole of Klatch, you see.'

'Dragging it kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat?'

'Why, yes, sir, how did–?'

'Just a lucky guess. Go on.'

'But he has been having trouble,' said Carrot.

'What kind?' said Vimes.

'Us,' said Jabbar proudly.

'None of the tribes like the idea, sir,' Carrot went on. 'They've always fought among themselves, and now most of them are fighting him. Historically, sir, Klatch isn't so much an empire as an argument.'

,He say, you must be educated. You must be learning to pay taxes. We do not wish to be educated about taxes,' said Jabbar.

'So you think you're fighting for your freedom?' said Vimes.

Jabbar hesitated, and looked at Carrot. There was a brief exchange in Klatchian. Then Carrot said: 'That's a rather difficult question for a D'reg, sir. You see, their word for "freedom" is the same as their word for "fighting".'

'They certainly make their language do a lot of work, don't they... ?'

Vimes was feeling better in the caller air. He took out a crushed and damp packet of cigars, pulled a coal out of the fire, and took a deep drag.

'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 flavour,' 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 harbour 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!'

'OK.' 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 colour.' Vetinari glanced at Nobby. 'Practically every shape and colour,' 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, sergeant?'

'What do they do to spies in Klatch, sir?'

'Er... let me see...' said Leonard. 'Oh, yes... I believe they give you to the women.'

Nobby brightened up. 'Oh well, that doesn't sound too bad––'

'Er, no, Nobby–' Colon began.

'–'cos I've seen the pictures in that book The Perfumed Allotment that Corporal Angua was reading, and–'

'–no, listen, Nobby, you've got the wrong–'

'–I mean, blimey, I didn't know you could do that with a –'

'–Nobby, listen–'

'–and then there's this bit where she–'

'Corporal Nobbs!' Colon yelled.

'Yes, sarge?'

Colon leaned forward and whispered in Nobby's ear. The corporal's expression changed, slowly.

'They really–,

'Yes, Nobby.'

'They really–'

'Yes, Nobby.'

'They don't do that at home.'

'We ain't at home, Nobby. I wish we was.'

'Although you hear stories about the Agony Aunts, sarge.'

'Gentlemen,' said Lord Vetinari. 'I am afraid Leonard is being rather fanciful. That may apply to some of the mountain tribes, but Klatch is an ancient civilization and that sort of thing is not done officially. I should imagine they'd give you a cigarette.'

'A cigarette?' said Fred.

'Yes, sergeant. And a nice sunny wall to stand in front of.'

Sergeant Colon examined this for any downside. 'A nice roll–up and a wall to lean against?' he said.

'I think they prefer you to stand up straight, sergeant.'

'Fair enough. No need to be sloppy just because you're a prisoner. Oh, well. I don't mind risking it, then.'

'Well done,' said the Patrician calmly. 'Tell me, sergeant... in your long military career, did anyone ever consider promoting you to an officer?'

'Nossir!'

'I cannot think why.'

Night poured over the desert. It came suddenly, in purple. In the clear air, the stars drilled down out of the sky, reminding any thoughtful watcher that it is in the deserts and high places that religions are generated. When men see nothing but bottomless infinity over their heads they have always had a driving and desperate urge to find someone to put in the way.

Life emerged from the burrows and fissures. Soon, the desert was filled with the buzz and click and screech of creatures which, lacking mankind's superior brainpower, did not concern themselves with finding someone to blame and instead tried to find someone to eat.

At around three in the morning Sam Vimes walked out of the tent for a smoke. The cold air hit him like a door. It was freezing. That wasn't what was supposed to happen in deserts, was it? Deserts were all hot sand and camels and... and... he struggled for a while, as a man whose geographical knowledge got severely cramped once you got off paved road... camels, yes, and dates. And possibly bananas and coconuts. But the temperature here made your breath tinkle in the air.

He waved his cigar packet theatrically at a D'reg who was lounging near the tent. The man shrugged.

The fire was just a heap of grey, but Vimes poked around in the vain hope of finding a glowing ember.

He was amazed at how angry he was. Ahmed was the key, he knew it. And now they were stuck out here in the desert, the man had gone, and they were in the hands of... quiet, likeable people, fair enough. Brigands, maybe, the dry land equivalent of pirates, but Carrot would have said they were jolly good chaps for all that. If you were content to be their guest then they were as nice as pie, or sheep's eyeball and treacle or whatever you got out here–

Something moved in the moonlight. A shadow slipped down the side of a dune.

Something howled, out in the desert night.

Tiny hairs rose, all down Vimes's back, just like they had for his distant ancestors.

The night is always old. He'd walked too often down dark streets in the secret hours and felt the night stretching away, and known in his blood that while days and kings and empires come and go, the night is always the same age, always aeons deep. Terrors unfolded in the velvet shadows and while the nature of the talons may change, the nature of the beast does not.

He stood up quietly, and reached for his sword.

It wasn't there.

They'd taken it away. They'd not even–

'A fine night,' said a voice beside him.

Jabbar was standing by his shoulder.

'Who is out there?' Vimes hissed.

'An enemy.'

'Which one?'

Teeth gleamed in the shadows.

'We will find out, offendi.'

'Why would they attack you now?'

'Maybe they think we have something they want, offendi.'

More shadows slid across the desert.

And one rose up right behind Jabbar, reached down and picked him up. A huge grey hand dragged his sword out of his belt.

'What do you want me to do with him, Mr Vimes?'

'Detritus?'

The troll saluted with the hand that still held the D'reg.

'All present and correct, sir!'

'But–' And then Vimes realized. 'It's freezing cold! Your brain's working again?'

'With rather more efficiency, sir.'

'Is this a djinn?' said Jabbar.

'I don't know, but I could certainly do with one,' said Vimes. He finally managed to locate some matches in his pocket, and lit one. 'Put him down, sergeant,' he said, puffing his cigar into life. 'Jabbar, this is Sergeant Detritus. He could break every bone in your body, including some of the small ones in the fingers which are quite hard to do–'

The darkness went shwup and something whispered past the back of his neck, just a slice of a second

before Jabbar cannoned into him and bore him to the ground.

'They shoot at the light!'

'Mwwf?'

Vimes raised his head cautiously and spat out sand and fragments of tobacco.

'Mr Vimes?'

Only Carrot could whisper like that. He associated whispering with concealment and untruth and compromised by whispering very loudly. To Vimes's horror the man came round the edge of a tent holding a tiny lamp.

'Put that damn–'

But he didn't have time to finish the sentence because, somewhere out in the night, a man screamed. It was a high–pitched scream and was suddenly cut off.

'Ah,' said Carrot, crouching down by Vimes and blowing out the lamp. 'That was Angua.'

'That was nothing like– oh. Yeah, I think I see what you mean,' Vimes said, uneasily. 'She's out there, is she?'

'I heard her earlier. She's probably enjoying herself. She doesn't really get much of a chance to let herself go in Ankh–Morpork.'

'Er... no...' Vimes had a mental picture of a werewolf letting go. But surely, Angua wouldn't–

'You two, uh... you're getting along OK, are you?' he said, trying to make out shapes in the darkness.

'Oh, fine, sir. Fine.'

So her turning into a wolf occasionally doesn't worry you? Vimes couldn't bring himself to say it.

'No... problems, then?'

'Oh, not really, sir. She buys her own dog biscuits and she's got her own flap in the door. When it's full moon I don't really get involved.'

There were shouts in the night and then a shape erupted from the darkness, streaked past Vimes, and disappeared into a tent. It didn't wait for a door. It simply hit the cloth at full speed and continued until the tent collapsed around it.

'And what is that?' said Jabbar.

'This may take some explaining,' said Vimes, picking himself up.

Carrot and Detritus were already hauling at the collapsed tent.

'We are D'regs,' said Jabbar reproachfully. 'We are supposed to fold tents silently in the night, not–'

There was enough moonlight. Angua sat up and snatched a piece of tent out of Carrot's hands.

'Thank you,' she said, wrapping it around her. 'And before anyone says anything, I just bit him on the bum. Hard. And that was not the soft option, let me tell you.'

Jabbar looked back into the desert, and then down at the sand, and then at Angua. Vimes could see him thinking, and put a fraternal arm around his shoulders.

'I'd better explain–' he began.

'There's a couple of hundred soldiers out there!' Angua snapped.

'–later.'

'They're taking up positions all round you! And they don't look nice! Has anyone got any clothes that might fit? And some decent food? And a drink! There's no water in this place!'

'They will not dare attack before dawn,' said Jabbar.

'And what will you do, sir?' said Carrot.

'At dawn we will charge!'

'Ah. Uh. I wonder if I could suggest an alternative approach?'

'Alternative? It is right to charge! Charging is what dawn is for.'

Carrot saluted Vimes. 'I've been reading your book, sir. While you were... asleep. Tacticus's got quite a lot to say about how to deal with overwhelming odds, sir.'

'Yes?'

'He says take every opportunity to turn them into underwhelming odds, sir. We could attack now.'

'But it's dark, man!'

'It's just as dark for the enemy, sir.'

'I mean it's pitch black! You wouldn't know who the hell you were fighting! Half the time you'd be shooting your own side!'

'We wouldn't, sir, because there'd only be a few of us. Sir? All we need to do is crawl out there, make a bit of noise, and then let them get on with it. Tacticus says all armies are the same size in the night, sir.'

'There might be something in that,' said Angua. 'They're crawling around in ones and twos, and they're dressed pretty much like–' She waved a hand at Jabbar.

'This is Jabbar,' said Carrot. 'He's sort of not the leader.'

Jabbar grinned nervously. 'It happens often in your country, where dogs turn into naked women?'

'Sometimes days can go past and it doesn't happen at all,' Angua snapped. 'I'd like some clothes, please. And a sword, if there's going to be fighting.'

'Um, I think Klatchians have a very particular view about women fighting–' Carrot began.

'Yes!' said Jabbar. 'We expect them to be good at it, Blue Eyes. We are D'regs!'

The Boat surfaced in the scummy dead water under a jetty. The lid opened slowly.

'Smells like home,' said Nobby.

'You can't trust the water,' said Sergeant Colon.

'But I don't trust the water at home, sarge.'

Fred Colon managed to get a foothold on the greasy wood. It was, in theory, quite a heroic enterprise. He and Nobby Nobbs, the bold warriors, were venturing forth in hostile territory. Unfortunately, he knew they were doing it because Lord Vetinari was sitting in the Boat and would raise his eyebrows in no uncertain manner if they refused.

Colon had always thought that heroes had some special kind of clockwork that made them go out and die famously for god, country and apple pie, or whatever particular delicacy their mother made. It had never occurred to him that they might do it because they'd get yelled at if they didn't.

He reached down.

'Come on up, Nobby,' he said. 'And remember we're doing this for the gods, Ankh–Morpork and–' It seemed to Colon that a foodstuff would indeed be somehow appropriate. 'And my mum's famous knuckle sandwich!'

'Our mum never made us knuckle sandwiches,' said Nobby, as he hauled himself on to the planks. 'But you'd be amazed at what she could do with a bit of cheese...'

'Yeah, all right, but that aint much of a battle cry, is it? "For the gods, Ankh–Morpork and amazing things Nobby's mum can do with cheese"? That'll strike fear in the hearts of the enemy!' said Sergeant Colon, as they crept forward.

'Oh, well, if that's what you're after, you want my mum's Distressed Pudding and custard,' said Nobby.

'Frightening, is it?'

'They wouldn't want to know about it, sarge.'

The docks of Al–Khali were like docks everywhere, because all docks everywhere are connected. Men have to put things on and off boats. There are only a limited number of ways to do this. So all docks look the same. Some are hotter, some are damper, there are always piles of vaguely forgotten–looking things.

In the distance there was the glow of the city, which seemed quite unaware of the enemy incursion.

"'Get us some clothes so that we'll blend in," ' muttered Colon. 'That's all very well to say.'

'Nah, nah, that's easy,' said Nobby. 'Everyone knows how to do that one. You lurk in an alley somewhere, right, and you wait until a couple of blokes come by and you lure them into the alley, see, and there's a couple of thumps, and then you come out wearing their clothes.'

'That works, does it?'

'Never fails, sarge,' said Nobby confidently.

The desert looked like snow in the moonlight.

Vimes found himself quite at ease with the Tacticus method of fighting. It was how coppers had always fought. A proper copper didn't line up with a lot of other coppers and rush at people. A copper lurked in the shadows, walked quietly and bided his time. In all honesty, of course, the time he bided until was the point when the criminal had already committed the crime and was carrying the loot. Otherwise, what was the point? You had to be realistic. 'We got the man what done it' carries a lot more gravitas than 'We got the man what looked as if he was going to do it,' especially when people say, 'Prove it.'

Somewhere off to the left, in the distance, someone screamed.

Vimes was a bit uneasy in this robe, though. It was like going into battle in a nightshirt.

Because he wasn't at all certain he could kill a man who wasn't actively trying to kill him. Of course, technically any armed Klatchian these days was actively trying to kill him. That was what war was about. But–

He raised his head over the top of the dune. A Klatchian warrior was looking the other way. Vimes crept–

'Bingeley–bingeley beep! This is your seven eh em alarm call, Insert Name Here! At least I hope–'

'Huh?'

'Damn!'

Vimes reacted first and punched the man on the nose. Since there was no point in waiting to see what effect this would have, he threw himself forward and the two of them rolled down the other side of the freezing dune, struggling and punching.

'–but my real–time function seems erratic at the moment–'

The Klatchian was smaller than Vimes. He was younger, too. But it was unfortunate for him that he appeared to be too young to have learned the repertoire of dirty fighting that spelled survival in Ankh–Morpork's back streets. Vimes, on the other hand, was prepared to hit anything with anything. The point was that the opponent shouldn't get up again. Everything else was decoration.

They slid to a halt at the bottom of the dune, with Vimes on top and the Klatchian groaning.

'Things To Do,' the Dis-organizer shrilled: 'Ache.'

And then... It was probably throat cutting time. Back home Vimes could have dragged him off to the cells, in the knowledge that everything would look better in the morning, but the desert had no such options.

No, he couldn't do that. Thump the bloke senseless. That was the merciful way.

'Vindaloo! Vindaloo!'

Vimes's fist stayed raised.

'What?'

'That's you, isn't it? Mr Vimes? Vindaloo!'

Vimes pulled a fold of cloth away from the figure's face.

'Are you Goriff's boy?'

'I didn't want to be here, Mr Vimes!' The words came fast, desperate.

'All right, all right, I'm not going to hurt you.

Vimes lowered his fist and stood up, pulling the boy up after him.

'Talk later,' he muttered. 'Come on!'

'No! Everyone knows what the D'regs do to their captives!'

'Well I'm their captive and they'll have to do it to both of us, OK? Keep away from the more amusing food and you'll probably be OK.'

Someone whistled in the darkness.

'Come on, lad!' hissed Vimes. 'No harm's going to come to you! Well... less than'd come if you stayed here. All right?'

This time he didn't give the boy time to argue, but dragged him along. As he headed towards the D'regs' camp, other figures slid down the dunes.

One of them had an arm missing and had a sword sticking in him.

'How did you get on, Reg?' said Vimes.

'A bit odd, sir. After the first one chopped my arm off and stabbed me, the rest of them seemed to Keep out of my way. Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen a man stabbed before.'

'Did you find your arm?'

Reg waved something in the air.

'That's another thing,' he said. 'I hit a few of them with it and they ran off screaming.'

'It's your type of unarmed combat,' said Vimes. 'It probably takes some getting used to.'

'Is that a prisoner you've got there?'

'In a way.' Vimes glanced around. 'He seems to have fainted. I can't think why.'

Reg leaned closer. 'These foreigners are a bit weird,' he said.

'Reg?'

'Yes?'

'Your eat's hanging off.'

'Is it? Wretched thing. You'd think a nail would work, wouldn't you?'

Sergeant Colon looked up at the stars. They looked down at him. At least Fred Colon had a choice.

Beside him, Corporal Nobbs gave a groan. But the attackers had left him his pants. There are some places where the boldest dare not go, and those areas of Nobby upwards of the knees and downwards of the stomach were among them.

Well, Colon thought of them as attackers. Technically, he supposed they were defenders. Aggressive defenders.

'Just run all that past me again, will you?' he said.

'We find a couple of blokes about our height and weight–'

'We did that.'

'We lure them into this alley–'

'We did that.'

'I take a swing at them with a length of wood and hit you by accident in the dark and they get angry and turn out to be thieves and nick all our clothes.'

'We weren't supposed to do that.'

'Well it worked basically,' said Nobby, managing to get to his knees. – 'We could give it another go.'

'Nobby, you're in a port in a foreign city clad only in your, and I use this word with feeling, Nobby, your unmentionables. This is not the point to start talking about luring people into alleys. There could be talk.'

'Angua always says that nakedness is the national costume everywhere, sarge.'

'She was talking about herself, Nobby,' said Colon, sidling along in the shadows. 'It's different for you.'

He peered around the other end of the alley. There was noise and chatter from the building that formed one of the walls. A couple of laden donkeys waited patiently outside.

'Nip out and grab one of those packs, right?'

'Why me, sarge?'

' 'cos you're the corporal and I'm the sergeant. And you've got more on than me.'

Grumbling under his breath, Nobby edged into the narrow street and unfastened a tether as fast as he could. The animal followed him obediently.

Sergeant Colon pulled at the pack.

'If push comes to shove we can wear the sacks,' he said. 'That'll– What's this?'

He held up something red.

'Flowerpot?' said Nobby helpfully.

'It's a fez! Some Klatchians wear 'em. Looks like we've struck lucky. Whoops, here's another one. Try it on, Nobby. And... looks like one of them nightshirts they wear... and here's another one of those, too. We're home and dry, Nobby.'

'They're a bit short, sarge.'

'Beggars can't be choosers,' said Colon, struggling into the costume. 'Go on, put your fez on.'

'It makes me look like a twit, sarge.'

'Look, I'll put mine on, all right?'

'Then we'll be fez to fez, sarge.'

Sergeant Colon gave him a severe look. 'Did you have that one prepared, Nobby?'

'No, sarge, I just made it up in my head right then.'

'Well, look, no calling me sarge. That doesn't sound Klatchian.'

'Nor does Nobby, sa– Sorry...'

'Oh, I dunno... you could be... Knobi or Nbobi... or Gnobbee... Sounds pretty Klatchian to me.'

'What's a good Klatchian name for you, then? I don't know hardly any,' said Nhobi.

Sergeant Colon didn't answer. He was peering round the corner again.

'His lordship did say we was not to hang about,' Nobby murmured.

'Yeah, but inside that tin can, well, it smells pretty lived-in, if you know what I mean. What I wouldn't give for–'

There was a bellow behind them. They turned.

There were three Klatchian soldiers. Or possibly watchmen. Nobby and Sergeant Colon didn't look much further than the swords.

The leader growled a question at them.

'What did he say?' Nobby quavered.

'Dunno!'

'Where you from?' said the leader, in Morporkian.

'What? Oh... er…'    Colon hesitated, waiting for shiny death.

'Hah, yes.' The guard lowered his sword and jerked a thumb towards the docks. 'You get back to your detachment now!'

'Right!' said Nobby.

'What your name?' one of the guards demanded.

'Nhobi,' said Nobby. This seemed to pass.

'And you, fat one?'

Colon was panicking on the spot. He sought desperately for any name that sounded Klatchian, and there was only one that presented itself and which was absolutely and authentically Klatchian.

'Al,' he said, his knees trembling.

'You get back right now or there will be trouble!'

The watchmen ran for it, dragging the donkey behind them, and didn't stop until they were on the greasy jetty, which somehow felt like home.

'What was that all about, s– Al?' said Nobby. 'All they wanted to do was push us around a bit! Typical Watch behaviour,' he added. 'Not ours, of course.'

'I suppose we had the right clothes on...'

'You didn't even tell them where we came from! And they spoke our language!'

'Well, they... I mean... anyone ought to be able to speak Morporkian,' said Colon, gradually regaining his mental balance. 'Even babies learn it. I bet it comes easy after learning somethin' as complicated as Klatchian.'

'What're we going to do with the donkey, Al?'

'Do you think it can pedal?'

'I doubt it.'

'Then leave it up here.'

'But it'll get pinched, Al.'

'Oh, these Klatchians'll pinch anything.'

'Not like us, eh, Al?'

Nobby looked at the forest of masts filling), the bay.

'Looks like even more of 'em from here,' he said. 'You could walk from boat to boat for a mile. What're they all here for?'

'Don't be daft, Nobby. It's obvious. They're to take everyone to Ankh–Morpork!'

'What for? We don't eat that much cur–'

'Invasion, Nobby! There's a war on, remember?'

They looked back at the ships. Riding lights gleamed on the water.

The bit of it that was immediately below them bubbled for a moment, and then the hull of the Boat rose a few inches above the surface. The lid unscrewed and Leonard's worried face appeared.

'Ah, there you are,' he said. 'We were getting concerned...'

They lowered themselves down into the fetid interior of the vessel.

Lord Vetinari was sitting with a pad of paper across his knees, writing carefully. He glanced up briefly.

'Report.'

Nobby fidgeted while Sergeant Colon delivered a more or less accurate account, although there was some witty repartee with the Klatchian guards that the corporal had not hitherto recalled.

Vetinari did not look up. Still writing, he said, 'Sergeant, Ur is an old country Rimward of the kingdom of Djelibeybi, whose occupants are a byword for bucolic stupidity. For some reason, I cannot think why, the guard must have assumed you were from there. And Morporkian is something of a lingua franca even in the Klatchian empire. When someone from Hersheba needs to trade with someone from Istanzia, they will undoubtedly haggle in Morporkian. This will serve us well, of course, The force that is being assembled here must mean that practically every man is a distant stranger with outlandish ways. Provided we do not act too foreign, we should pass muster. This means not asking for curry with swede and currants in it and refraining from ordering pints of Winkle's Old Peculiar, do I make myself clear?'

'Er... what is it we're going to do, sir?'

'We will reconnoitre initially.'

'Ah, right. Yes. Very important.'

'And then seek out the Klatchian high command. Thanks to Leonard I have a little... package to deliver. I hope it will end the war very quickly.'

Sergeant Colon looked blank. At some point in the last few seconds the conversation had run away with him.

'Sorry, sir... you said high command, sir.'

'Yes, sergeant.'

'Like... the top brass, or turbans or whatever.. . all surrounded by crack troops, sir. That's where you always put the best troops, around the top brass.'

'I expect this will be the case, yes. In fact, I rather hope it is.'

Sergeant Colon, once again, tried to keep up.

'Ah. Right. And we'll go and look for them, will we, sir?'

'I can hardly ask them to come to us, sergeant.'

'Right, sir. I can see that, It could get a bit crowded.'

At last, Lord Vetinari looked up.

'Is there some problem, sergeant?'

And Sergeant Colon once again knew a secret about bravery. It was arguably a kind of enhanced cowardice the knowledge that while death may await you if you advance it will be a picnic compared to the certain living hell that awaits should you retreat.

'Er... not as such, sir,' he said.

'Very well.' Vetinari pushed his paperwork aside. 'If there is more suitable clothing in your bag, I will get changed and we can take a look at Al–Khali.'

'Oh, gods...'

'Sorry, sergeant?'

'Oh, good, sir.'

'Good.' Vetinari began to pull other items out of the liberated sack. There was a set of jugglers clubs, a bag of coloured balls and finally a placard, such as might be placed to one side of the stage during an artiste's performance.

' "Culli, Gulli and Beti",' he read. "'Exotic tricks and dances". Hmm,' he added. 'It would seem there was a lady among the owners of this sack.'

The watchmen looked at the gauzy material that came out of the sack next. Nobby's eyes bulged.

'What are them?'

'I believe they are called harem pants, corporal.'

'They're very–'

'Curiously, the purpose of the clothing of the nautch girl or exotic dancer has –always been less to reveal and more to suggest the imminence of revelation,' said the Patrician.

Nobby looked down at his costume, and then at Sergeant Al–Colon in his costume, and said cheerfully, 'Well, I ain't sure it's going to suit you, sir.'

He regretted the words immediately.

'I hadn't intended that they should suit me,' said the Patrician calmly. 'Please pass me your fez, Corporal Beti.'

The subtle, deceiving dawn-before-dawn slid over the desert, and the commander of the Klatchian detachment wasn't happy about it.

The D'regs always attacked at dawn. All of them. It didn't matter how many of them there were, or how many of you there were. Anyway, the whole tribe attacked. It wasn't just the women and children, but the camels, goats, sheep and chickens too. Of course you were expecting them and bows could cut them down, but... they always appeared suddenly, as if even the desert had spat them out. Get it wrong, be too slow, and you'd be hacked, kicked, butted, pecked and viciously spat at.

His troops lay in wait. Well, if you could call them troops. He'd said they were overstretched... well, he hadn't actually said, because that sort of thing could get you into trouble in this man's army, but he'd thought it very hard. Half of them were keen kids who thought that if you went into battle shouting and waving your sword in the air the enemy just ran away. They'd never faced a D'reg chicken coming in at eye height.

As for the rest of it... in the night people had run into one another, ambushed one another by mistake and were now as jittery as peas on a drum. A man had lost his sword and swore that someone had walked away with it stuck right through him. And some kind of rock had got up and walked around hitting people. With other people.

The sun was well up now.

'It's the waiting that's the worst part,' said his sergeant, next to him.

'It might be the worst part,' said the commander. 'Or, there again, the bit where they suddenly rise out of the desert and cut you in half might be the worst part.' He stared mournfully at the treacherously empty sand. 'Or the bit where a maddened sheep tries to gnaw your nose off might be the worst part. In fact, when you think of all the things that can happen when you're surrounded by a horde of screaming D'regs, the bit where they aren't there at all is, I think you'll find, the best part.'

The sergeant wasn't trained for this sort of thing. So he said, 'They're late.'

'Good. Rather them than us.'

'Sun's right up now, sir.'

The commander looked at his shadow. It was full day, and the sand was mercifully free of his blood. The commander had been pacifying various recalcitrant parts of Klatch for long enough to wonder why, if he was pacifying people, he always seemed to be fighting them. Experience had taught him never to say things like 'I don't like it, it's too quiet.' There was no such thing as too quiet.

'They might have decamped in the night, sir,' said the sergeant.

'That doesn't sound like the D'regs. They never run away. Anyway, I can see their tents.'

'Why don't we rush 'em, sir?'

'You haven't fought D'regs before, sergeant?'

'No, sir. I've been pacifying the Mad Savatars in Uhistan, though, and they're–'

'The D'regs are worse, sergeant. They pacify right back at you.'

'I didn't say how mad the Savatars were, sir.'

'Compared to the D'regs, they were merely slightly vexed.'

The sergeant felt that his reputation was being impugned.

'How about I take a few men and investigate, sir?'

The commander glanced at the sun again. Already the air was too hot to breathe.

'Oh, very well. Let's go.'

The Klatchians advanced on the camp. There were the tents, and the ash of fires. But there were no camels and horses, merely a long scuffed trail leading off among the dunes.

Morale began to rise a little. Attacking a dangerous enemy who isn't there is one of the more attractive forms of warfare, and there was a certain amount of assertion about how lucky the D'regs were to have run away in time, and some extemporizing on the subject of what the soldiers would have done to the D'regs if they'd caught them...

'Who's that?' said the sergeant.

A figure appeared between the dunes, riding on a camel. His white robes fluttered in the breeze.

He slid down when he reached the Klatchians, and waved at them.

'Good morning, gentlemen! May I persuade you to surrender?'

'Who are you?'

'Captain Carrot, sir. If you would be kind enough to lay down your weapons no–one will get hurt.'

The commander looked up. Blobs were appearing along the tops of the dunes. They rose, and turned out to be heads.

'They're... D'regs, sir!' said the sergeant.

'No. D'regs would be charging, sergeant.'

'Oh, sorry. Shall I tell them to charge?' said Carrot. 'Is that what you'd prefer?'

The D'regs were all along the dunes now. The climbing sun glittered off metal.

'Are you telling me,' the commander began slowly, 'that you can persuade D'regs not to charge?'

'It was tricky, but I think they've got the idea,' said Carrot.

The commander considered his position. There were D'regs on either side. His troop were practically huddling together. And this red–headed, blue–eyed man was smiling at him.

'How do they feel about the merciful treatment of prisoners?' he ventured.

'I think they could get the hang of it. If I insist.'

The commander glanced at the silent D'regs again.

'Why?' he said. 'Why aren't they fighting us?' he said.

'My commander says he doesn't want unnecessary loss of life, sir,' said Carrot. 'That's Commander Vimes, sir. He's sitting on that dune up there.'

'You can persuade armed D'regs not to charge and you have a commander?'

'Yes, sir. He says this is a police action.'

The commander swallowed. 'We give in,' he said.

'What, just like that, sir?' said his sergeant. 'Without a fight?'

'Yes, sergeant. Without a fight. This man can make water run uphill and he has a commander. I love the idea of giving in without a fight. I've fought for ten years and giving in without a fight is what I've always wanted to do.'

Water dripped off the Boat's metal ceiling and blobbed on to the paper in front of Leonard of QuirmHe wiped it away. It might have been boring, waiting in a small metal can under a nondescript jetty, but Leonard had no concept of the term.

Absentmindedly, he jotted a brief sketch of an improved ventilation system.

He started to watch his own hand. Almost without his guidance, taking its instructions from somewhere else in his head, it drew a cutaway of a much larger version of the Boat. Here, here and here... there could be a bank of a hundred oars rather than pedals, each one manned – his pencil caressed the paper – by a well muscled and not overdressed young warrior. A boat that would pass unseen under other boats, take men wherever they needed to go. Here a giant saw, affixed to the roof, so that when rowed at speed it could cut the hulls of enemy ships. And here and here a tube...

He stopped and stared at his drawing for a while. Then he sighed and started to tear it up.

Vimes watched from the dune. He couldn't hear much from up here, but he didn't need to.

Angua sat down beside him. 'It's working, isn't it?' she said.

'Yes.'

'What's he going to do?'

'Oh, he'll take their weapons and let 'em go, I suppose.'

'Why do people follow him?' said Angua.

'Well, you're his girlfriend, you ought – '

'That's different. I love him because he's kind without thinking about it. He doesn't watch his own thoughts like other people do. When he does good things it's because he's decided to do them, not because he's trying to measure up to something. He's so simple. Anyway, I'm a wolf living with people, and there's a name for wolves that live with people. If he whistled, I'd come running.'

Vimes tried not to show his embarrassment.

Angua smiled. 'Don't worry, Mr Vimes. You've said it yourself. Sooner or later, we're all someone's dog.'

'It's like hypnotism,' said Vimes hurriedly. 'people follow him to see what's going to happen next. They tell themselves that they're just going along with it for a while and can stop any time they want to, but they never want to. It's damn magic.'

'No. Have you ever really watched him? I bet he'd found out everything about Jabbar by the time he'd talked to him for ten minutes. I bet he knows the name of every camel. And he'll remember it all. People don't take that much interest in other people, usually.' Her fingers idly traced a pattern in the sand. 'So he makes you feel important.'

'Politicians do that–' Vimes began.

'Not the way he does, believe me. I expect Lord Vetinari remembers facts about people–'

'Oh, you'd better believe that!'

'–but Carrot takes an interest. He doesn't even think about it. He makes space in his head for people. He takes an interest, and so people think they're interesting. They feel... better when he's around.'

Vimes glanced down. Her fingers were drawing aimlessly in the sand again. We're all changing in the desert, he thought. It's not like the city, hemming your thoughts in. You can feel your mind expand to the horizons. No wonder this is where religions start. And suddenly here I am, probably not legally, just trying to do my job. Why? Because I'm too damn stupid to stop and think before I give chase, that's why. Even Carrot knew better than to do that. I'd have just chased after Ahmed's ship without a thought, but he was bright enough to report back to me first. He did what a responsible officer ought to do, but me...

'Vetinari's terrier,' he said aloud. 'Chase first, and think about it afterwards–'

His eye caught the distant bulk of Gebra. Out there was a Klatchian army, and somewhere over there was the AnkhMorpork army, and he was a handful of people and no plan because he'd chased first and

'But I had to,' he said. 'Any copper wouldn't have let a suspect like Ahmed get '

Once again he had the feeling that the problem he was facing wasn't really a problem at all. It was something very obvious. He was the problem. He wasn't thinking right.

Come to think of it, he hadn't really thought at all.

He glanced down again at the trapped company. They had stripped down to their loincloths and were looking very sheepish, as men generally do in their underwear.

Carrot's white robe still flapped in the breeze. He hasn't been here a day, thought Vimes, and already he's wearing the desert like a pair of sandals.

'...  er... bingeley–bingeley beep?'

'Is that your demon diary?' said Angua.

Vimes rolled his eyes. 'Yes. Although it seems to be talking about someone else.'

'... er... three pee em,' the demon muttered slowly, '... day not filled in... Check Wall Defences...'

'See? It thinks I'm in Ankh–Morpork! It cost Sybil three hundred dollars and it can't even keep track of where I am.'

He flicked his cigar butt away and stood up.

'I'd better get down there,' he said. 'After all, I am the boss.'

He slithered his way down the dune and strolled towards Carrot, who salaamed to him.

'A salute would do, captain, thanks all the same.'

'Sorry, sir. I think I got a bit carried away.'

'Why've you made them strip off?'

'Makes them a bit of a laughing stock when they return, sir. A blow to their pride.' He leaned closer and whispered, 'I've let their commander keep his clothes on, though. It doesn't do to show up the officers.'

'Really?' said Vimes.

'And some want to join us, sir. There's Goriffs lad and a few others. They were just dragooned into the army yesterday. They don't even know why they're fighting. So I said they could.'

Vimes took the captain aside. 'Er... I don't remember suggesting that any of the prisoners joined us,' he said quietly.

'Well, sir... I thought, what with our army approaching, and since quite a lot of these lads are from various corners of the empire and don't like the Klatchians any more than we do, I thought that a flying column of guerrilla fighters–'

'We aren't soldiers!'

'Er, I thought we were soldiers–'

'Yes, yes, all right. In a way... but really we're coppers, like we've always been. We don't kill people unless – '

Ahmed? Everyone's slightly on edge when he's around, he worries people, he gets information from all over the place, he seems to go where he pleases, and he's always around when there's trouble– Damn damn damn...

He ran through the crowd until he reached Jabbar, who was watching Carrot with the usual puzzled smile that Carrot caused in innocent bystanders.

'Tree dace,' said Vimes. 'Three days. That's seventytwo hours!'

'Yes, offendi?' said Jabbar. It was the voice of someone who recognized dawn, noon and sunset, and just let everything in between happen whenever it liked.

'So why's he called 71–hour Ahmed? What's so special about the extra hour?'

Jabbar grinned nervously.

'Did he do something after seventy–one hours?' said Vimes.

Jabbar folded his arms. 'I will not say.'

'He told you to keep us here?'

'Yes.'

'But not to kill us.'

'Oh, I would not kill my friend Sir Sam Mule–'

'And don't give me all that eyeball rubbish,' said Vimes. 'He wanted time to get somewhere and do something, right?'

'I will not say.'

'You don't need to,' said Vimes. 'Because we are leaving. And if you kill us... well, probably you can. But 71–hour Ahmed would not like that, I expect.'

Jabbar looked like a man making a difficult decision.

'He will be coming back!' he said. 'Tomorrow! No problem!'

'I'm not waiting! And I don't think he wants me killed, Jabbar. He wants me alive. Carrot?'

Carrot hurried over. 'Yes, sir?'

Vimes was aware that Jabbar was staring at him in horror.

'We've lost Ahmed,' he said. 'Even Angua can't pick up his trail with the sand blowing all over the place. We've got no place here. We're not needed here.'

'But we are, sir!' Carrot burst out. 'We could help the desert tribes–'

'Oh, you want to stay and fight?' said Vimes. 'Against the KIatchians?'

'Against the bad Klatchians, sir.'

'Ah, well, that's the trick, isn't it? When one of them comes screaming at you waving a sword, how do you spot his moral character? Well, you can stay if you like and fight for the good name of Ankh–Morpork. It should be a pretty short fight. But I'm off. Jenkins probably hasn't got afloat again. OK, Jabbar?'

The D'reg was staring at the desert sand between his feet.

'You know where he is now, don't you?' Vimes prompted.

'Yes.'

'Tell me.'

'No. I swore to him.'

'But D'regs are oath-breakers. Everyone knows that.'

. Jabbar gave Vimes a grin. 'Oh, oaths. Stupid things. I gave him my word.'

'He won't break it, sir,' said Carrot. 'D'regs are very particular about things like that. lt's only when they swear on gods and things that they'll ever break an oath.'

'I will not tell you where he is,' said Jabbar. 'But...' he grinned again, but there was no humour in it, 'how brave are you, Mr Vimes?'

'Stop complaining, Nobby.'

'I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin' these trousers are a bit draughty, that's all I'm saying.'

'They look good on you, though.'

'And what're these tin bowls supposed to be doing?'

'They're supposed to be protecting the bits you haven't got, Nobby.'

'The way this breeze is blowing, I could do with some to protect the bits I have.'

'Just try and act ladylike, will you, Nobby?'

Which would be hard, Sergeant Colon had to admit. The lady for whom the clothes had been made had been quite tall and somewhat full–figured, whereas Nobby without his armour could have hidden behind a short stick if you attached a toast rack to it about two–thirds of the way up. He looked like a gauzy accordion with a lot of jewellery. In theory, the costume would have been quite revealing, if Corporal Nobbs was something you wished to see revealed, but there were so many billows and folds now that all one could reliably say was that he was in there somewhere. He was leading the donkey, which seemed to like him. Animals tended to like Nobby. He didn't smell wrong.

'And them boots don't work,' Sergeant Colon went on.

'Why not? You kept yours on.'

'Yeah, but I'm not supposed to be a flower of the desert, right? A moon of someone's delight shouldn't kick up sparks when she walks, am I right?'

'They belonged to my gran, I ain't leaving 'em around for anyone to nick, and I ain't mooning for anyone's delight,' said Nobby sulkily.

Lord Vetinari strode on ahead. The streets were already filling up. Al–Khali liked to get the business of the day started in the cool of dawn, before full day flamethrowered the landscape. No–one paid the newcomers any attention, although a few people did turn round to watch Corporal Nobbs. Goats and chickens ambled out of the way as they passed.

'Watch out for people trying to sell you dirty postcards, Nobby,' said Colon. 'My uncle was here once and he said some bloke tried to sell him a pack of dirty postcards for five dollars. Disgusted, he was.'

'Yeah, 'cos you can get 'em in the Shades for two dollars,' said Nobby.

'That's what he said. And they were Ankh–Morpork ones. Trying to flog us our own dirty postcards? I call that disgusting, frankly.'

'Good morning, sultan!' said a cheerful and somehow familiar voice. 'New in town, are we?'

All three of them turned to a figure that had magically appeared from the mouth of an alleyway.

'Indeed, yes,' said the Patrician.

'I could see you were! Everyone is, these days. And it is your lucky day, shah! I am here to help, right? You want something, I got it!'

Sergeant Colon had been staring at the newcomer. He said, in a faraway voice, 'Your name's going to be something like... Al–jibla or something, right?'

'Heard about me, have you?' said the trader jovially.

'Sort of, yeah,' said Colon slowly. 'You're amazingly... familiar.'

Lord Vetinari pushed him aside. 'We are strolling entertainers,' he said. 'We were hoping to get an engagement at the Prince's palace... Perhaps you could help?'

The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, causing various particles to cascade into the little bowls in his tray.

'Dunno about the palace,' he said. 'What's it you do?'

'We practise juggling, fire–eating, that sort of thing,' said Vetinari.

'Do we?' said Colon.

Al–jibla nodded at Nobby. 'What does...'

'...she...' said Lord Vetinari helpfully.

'...she do?'

'Exotic dancing,' said Vetinari, while Nobby scowled.

'Pretty exotic, I should think,' said Al–jibla.

'You'd be amazed.'

A couple of armed men had drifted over to them. Sergeant Colon's heart sank. In those bearded faces he saw himself and Nobby, who at home would always saunter over to anything on the street that looked interesting.

'You are jugglers, are you?' said one of them. 'Let's see you juggle, then.'

Lord Vetinari gave them a blank look and then glanced down at the tray around Al–jibla's neck. Among the more identifiable foodstuffs were a number of green melons.

'Very well,' he said, and picked up three of them.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.

After a few seconds he opened them again because a guard had said, 'All right, but anyone can do it with three.'

'In that case perhaps Mr Al–jibla will throw me a few more?' said the Patrician, as the balls spun through his hands.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes again.

After a short while a guard said, 'Seven is pretty good. But it's just melons.'

Colon opened his eyes.

The Klatchian guard twitched his robe aside. Half a dozen throwing knives glinted. And so did his teeth.

Lord Vetinari nodded. To Colon's growing surprise he did not seem to be watching the tumbling melons at all.

'Four melons and three knives,' he said. 'If you would care to give the knives to my charming assistant Beti...'

'Who?' said Nobby.

'Oh? Why not seven knives, then?'

'Kind sirs, that would be too simple,' said Lord Vetinari.[13] 'I am but a humble tumbler. Please let me practice my art.'

'Beti?' said Nobby, glowering under his veils.

Three fruits arced gently out of the green whirl and thumped on to Al–jibla's tray.

The guards looked carefully, and to Colon's mind nervously, at the cross–dressed figure of the cross corporal.

'She's not going to do any kind of dance, is she?' one of them ventured.

'No!' snapped Beti.

'Promise?'[14]

Nobby grabbed three of the knives and tugged them out of the man's belt.

'I'll give them to his lor – to him, shall I, Beti?' said Colon, suddenly quite sure that keeping the Patrician alive was almost certainly the only way to avoid a brief cigarette in the sunshine. He was also aware that other people were drifting over to watch the show.

'To me, please... Al,' said the Patrician, nodding.

Colon tossed him the knives, slowly and gingerly. He's going to try to stab the guards, he thought. It's a ruse. And then everyone's going to tear us apart.

Now the circling blur glinted in the sunlight. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.

'Yet somehow dull,' said the Patrician.

And his hands moved in a complex pattern that suggested that his wrists must have moved through one another at least twice.

The tangled ball of hurtling fruit and cutlery leapt into the air.

Three melons dropped to the ground, cut cleanly in two.

Three knives thudded into the dust a few inches from their owner's sandals.

And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding

The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humour was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over–ripe pith out of his cars.

The survival instinct cut in again. Stagger around backwards, it said. So he staggered around back~ wards, waving his legs in the air. Fall down heavily, it said. So he sat down, and almost squashed a chicken. Lose your dignity, it said; of all the things you've got, it's the one you can most afford to lose.

Lord Vetinari helped him up. 'Our very lives depend on your appearing to be a stupid fat idiot,' he hissed, putting Colon's fez back on his head.

'I ain't very good at acting, sir–'

'Good!'

'Yessir.'

The Patrician scooped up three melon halves and positively skipped over to a stall that a woman had just set up, snatching an egg from a basket as he went past. Sergeant Colon blinked again. This was not... real. The Patrician didn't do this sort of thing...

'Ladies and gentlemen! You see – an egg! And here we have a – melon rind! Egg, melon! Melon, egg! We put the melon over the egg!' His hands darted across the three halves, switching them at bewildering speed. 'Round and round they go, just like that! Now… where's the egg? What about you, shah?'

Al–jibla smirked.

 ' 's the one on the left,' he said. 'It always is.'

Lord Vetinari lifted the melon. The board below was eggless.

'And you, noble guardsman?'

' 's got to be the one in the middle,' said the guard.

'Yes, of course... oh dear, it isn't...'

The crowd looked at the last melon. They were street people. They knew the score. When the object can be under one of three things, and it's already turned out not to be under two of them, then the one place it was certainly not going to be was under the third. Only some kind of gullible fool would believe something like that. Of course there was going to be a trick. There always was a trick. But you watched it, in order to see a trick done well.

Lord Vetinari raised the melon nevertheless, and the crowd nodded in satisfaction. Of course it wasn't there. It'd be a pretty poor day for street entertainment if things were where they were supposed to be.

Sergeant Colon knew what was going to happen next, and he knew this because for the last minute or so something had been pecking at his head.

Aware that this was probably his moment, he raised his fez and revealed a very small fluffy chick.

'Have you got a towel? I am afraid it has just gone to the toilet on my head, sir.'

There was laughter, some applause and, to his amazement, a tinkling of coins around his feet.

'And finally,' said the Patrician, 'the beautiful Beti will do an exotic dance.'

The crowd fell silent.

Then someone at the back said, 'How much do we have to pay for her not to?'

'Right! I've just about had enough of this!' Veils flying out behind her, bangles jingling, elbows waving viciously and boots kicking up sparks, the lovely Beti strode into the crowd. 'Which of you said that?'

People shrank away from her. Armies would have retreated. And there, revealed like a jellyfish deserted by a suddenly ebbing tide, was a small man about to fry in the wrath of the ascendant Nobbs.

'I meant no offence, oh doe-eyed one–'

'Oh? Pastry–faced, am W Nobby flung out an arm in a crash of bracelets and knocked the man over. 'You've got a lot to learn about women, young man!' And then, because a Nobbs could never resist a prone target, the petite Beti drew back a steel-capped boot

'Beti!' snapped the Patrician.

'Oh, right, yeah, right,' said Nobby, with veiled contempt. 'Everyone can tell me what to do, right? Just because I happen to be the woman around here I'm just supposed to accept it all, eh?'

'No, you just ain't supposed to kick him inna fork,' hissed Colon, pulling him away. 'It don't look good.' Although he noted, the women in the crowd seemed to be disappointed by the sudden curtailment of the performance.

'And there are many strange stories we can tell you!' shouted the Patrician.

'Beti certainly could,' murmured Colon, and was kicked sharply on his ankle.

'And many strange sights we can show you!'

'Beti cert– Aargh!'

'But for now we will seek the shade of yonder caravanserai...'

'What're we doing?'

'We're going to the pub.'

The crowd began to disperse, but with occasional amused glances back at the trio.

One of the guards nodded at Colon. 'Nice show,' he said. 'Especially the bit where your lady didn't remove any veils– He darted behind his colleague as Nobby spun round like an avenging angel.

'Sergeant,' the Patrician whispered. 'It is very important that we learn the current whereabouts of Prince Cadram, do you understand? In taverns, people talk. Let us keep our ears open.'

The tavern wasn't Colon's idea of a pub. For one thing, most of it had no roof. Arched walls surrounded a courtyard. A grapevine grew out of a huge cracked urn and had been teased overhead on trellises. There was the gentle sound of tinkling water, and unlike the Mended Drum this was not because the bar backed on to the privies but because of a small fountain in the middle of the cobbles. And it was cool, much cooler than in the street, even though the vine leaves scarcely hid the sky.

'Didn't know you could juggle, sir,' Colon whispered to Lord Vetinari.

'You mean you can't, sergeant?'

'Nossir!'

'How strange. It's hardly a skill, is it? One knows

what the objects are and where they want to go. After that it's just a case of letting them occupy the correct positions in time and space.'

'You're dead good at it, sir. Practise often, do you?'

'Until today, I've never tried.' Lord Vetinari looked at Colon's astonished expression. 'After Ankh–Morpork, sergeant, a handful of flying melons present a very minor problem indeed.'

'I'm amazed, sir.'

'And in politics, sergeant, it is always important to know where the chicken is.'

Colon raised his fez. 'Is this one still on my head?'

'It seems to have gone to sleep. I wouldn't disturb it, if I were you.'

' 'ere, you, juggler... she can't come in here!'

They looked up. Someone with a face and apron that said 'barman' in seven hundred languages was standing over them, a wine jug in each hand.

'No women in here,' he went on.

'Why not?' said Nobby.

'No women asking questions, neither.'

'Why not?'

' 'cos it is written, that's why.'

'Where'm I supposed to go, then?'

The barman shrugged. 'Who knows where women go?,

'Off you go, Beti,' said the Patrician. 'And... listen for information!'

Nobby grabbed the cup of wine from Colon and gulped it down.

'I dunno,' he moaned, 'I've only been a woman ten minutes and already I hate you male bastards.'

'I dunno what's got into him, sir,' whispered Colon as Nobby stamped out. 'He ain't like this normally.. I thought Klatchian women did what they were told!'

'Does your wife do what she's told, sergeant?'

'Well, yeah, obviously, a man's got to be the master in his own house, that's what I always say–'

'So why are you, I hear, always putting up kitchen furniture?'

'Well, obviously, you've got to listen to–'

'In fact Klatchian history is full of famous examples of women who even went to war with their men,' said the Patrician.

'What? On the same side?'

'Prince Arkven's wife Tistam used to ride into the battle with her husband and, according to legend, killed ten thousand thousand men.'

'That's a lot of men.'

'Legends are prone to inflation. However, I believe there is good historical evidence that Queen Sowawondra of Sumtri had more than thirty thousand people put to death during her reign. She could be quite touchy, they say.'

'You should hear my wife if I don't put the plates away,' said Sergeant Colon gloomily.

'Now we are integrated with the local population, sergeant,' said the Patrician, 'we must find out what is happening. Although an invasion is clearly planned, I feel sure Prince Cadram will have reserved some forces in case of land attack. It would be nice to know where they are, because that's where he will be.'

'Right.'

'You think you can handle this?'

'Yessir. I know Klatchians, sir. Don't you worry about that.'

'Here's some money. Buy drinks for people. Mingle.'

'Right.'

'Not too many drinks, but as much mingling as you are capable of.'

'I'm a good mingler, sir.'

'Off you go, then.'

‘Sir?'

'Yes?'

'I'm a bit worried about... Beti, sir. Going off like that. Anything might happen to hi... her.' But he spoke with some hesitation. There wasn't much you could imagine happening to Corporal Nobbs.

'I'm sure we shall hear about it if there are any problems,' said the Patrician.

'You're right there, sir.'

Colon sidled over to a group of men who were sitting in a rough circle on the floor, talking quietly amongst themselves and eating from a large dish.

He sat down. The men on either side of him obediently shuffled along.

Now then, how did you... ah, right... anyone knew how Klatchians talked...

'Greetings, fellow brothers of the dessert,' he said. 'I don't know about you, but I could just do with a plate of sheep's eyeballs, eh? I bet you boys can't wait to be back on your camels, I know I can't. I spit upon the defiling dogs of Ankh–Morpork. Anyone had any baksheesh lately? You can call me Al.'

'Excuse me, are you the lady who is with the clowns?'

Corporal Nobbs, who had been trudging along gloomily, looked up. He was being addressed by a pleasant–faced young woman. A woman actually talking to him by choice was a novelty. Smiling while doing so was unheard of.

'Er   yeah. Right. That's me.' He swallowed…'Beti.'

'My name is Bana. Would you like to come and talk with us?'

Nobby looked past her. There were a number of women of varying ages sitting around a large well. One of them waved at him shyly.

He blinked. This was uncharted territory. He looked down at his clothes, which were already the worse for wear. His clothes always looked the worse for wear five minutes after he'd put them on.