'Oh, don't worry,' said the girl. 'We know how it is. But you looked so alone. And perhaps you can help us...

They were among the group now._ There were women of every legitimate shape and size, and so far none of them had said 'Yuk,' an experience hitherto unchronicled in Nobby's personal history. In a detached, light–headed way, Corporal Nobbs felt that he was entering Paradise, and it was only an unfortunate detail that he'd come to via the wrong door.

'We are trying to comfort Netal,' said the girl. 'Her betrothed won't marry her tomorrow.'

'The swine,' said Nobby.

One of the girls, eyes red with crying, looked up sharply.

'He wanted to,' she sobbed. 'But he's been taken off to fight in Gebra! All over some island no–one's heard of! And all my family are here!'

'Who took him off?' said Nobby.

'He took himself off,' snapped an older woman. Clothing differences aside, there was something

hauntingly familiar about her, and Nobby realized that if you cut her in half the words 'mother–in–law' would be all the way through.

'Oh, Mrs Atbar,' said Netal, 'he said it was his duty. Anyway, all the boys have had to go.'

'Men!' said Nobby, rolling his eyes.

'I expect you'd know a lot about the pleasures of men, then,' said Mother–in–Law sourly.

'Mother!'

'Who, me?' said Nobby, forgetting himself for a moment. 'Oh, yeah. Lots.'

'You do?'

'Why not? Beer's favourite,' said Nobby. 'But you can't beat a good cigar, as long as it's free.'

'Hah!' Mother–in–Law picked up a basket of washing and stamped away, followed by most of the older women. The others laughed. Even the disappointed Netal smiled.

'I think that's not what she meant,' said Bana. To a chorus of giggles, she leaned down and whispered in Nobby's ear.

His expression did not change but it did seem to solidify.

'Oh, that,' he said.

There were some worlds of experience which Nobby had only contemplated on a map, but he knew what she was talking about. Of course he'd patrolled certain parts of the Shades in his time – the ones where young ladies tended to hang around without very much to do, and probably catching cold too – but those areas of police work that in other places might be of interest to a Vice Squad now tended to be looked after by the Guild of Seamstresses themselves. People who neglected to obey the... no, not the law as such, call them the unwritten rules... as laid down by Mrs Palm and her committee of very experienced ladies[15] attracted the attention of the Agony Aunts, Dotsie and Sadie, and might or might not be seen again. Even Mr Vimes approved of the arrangement. It didn't cause paperwork,

'Oh, yeah,' said Nobby, still staring at some inner screen.

Of course, he knew what...

'Oh, that,' he mumbled. 'Well, I've seen a thing or two,' he added. Largely on postcards, he had to admit.

'It must be wonderful to have so much freedom,' said Bana.

'Er.. .'

Netal burst out crying again. Her friends fluttered around her.

'I don't see why the men have to go off like this,' said Bana. 'My betrothed has gone too.'

There was a cackle from a very old woman sitting by the well. 'I can tell you why, dears. Because it's better than growing melons all day. It's better than women.'

'Men think war is better than women?'

'It's always fresh, it's always young, and you can make a good fight last all day.'

'But they get killed!'

'Better to die in battle than in bed, they say' She cracked a toothless grin. 'But there are good ways for a man to die in bed, eh, Beti?'

Nobby hoped the glow of his ears wasn't singeing his veil. Suddenly, he felt he'd caught up with his future. Ten damn pence worth of it hit him in the face.

' 'scuse me,' he said. 'Are any of you Nubilians?'

'What are Nubilians?' said Bana.

'It's a country round here,' said Nobby. He added hopefully, 'Isn't it?'

Not a single face suggested that this was so.

Nobby sighed. His hand reached up to his ear for a cigarette end, but it came down again empty.

'I'll tell you this, girls,' he said. 'I wish I'd settled for the tendollar version. Don't you just sometimes want to sit down and cry?'

'You look even sadder than Netal,' said Bana. 'Isn't there some way we can cheer you up?'

Nobby stared at her for a moment, and then started to sob.

Everyone was staring at Colon, their food halfway to their lips.

‘Did I just hear him say that, Faifal? What do I want to be on a camel for? I’m a plumber!’

‘He’s the clown with the juggler. I think. The poor man is several palms short of an oasis.’

‘ I mean the bloody things spit and they’re a bugger to get up the stairs with your toolbox–‘

‘Now, come on it’s not his fault, let’s show a little charity.’ The speaker cleared his throat. 'Good morning, friend,' he said. 'May we invite you to share our couscous?'

Sergeant Colon peered at the bowl, and then dipped in a finger and tasted it.

'Hey, this is semolina! You've got semolina! It's just ordinary semol–' He stopped, and coughed. 'Yeah, right. Thanks. Got any strawberry jam?'

The host looked at his friends. They shrugged.

'We know not of this "strawberry hjam" of which you speak,' he said carefully, We prefer it with lamb.' He offered Colon a long wooden skewer.

'Oh, you gotta have strawberry jam,' said Colon, carried away. 'When we were kids we'd stir it in and... and...' He looked at their faces, 'O' course, that was back in Ur,' he said.

The men nodded at one another. Suddenly it was all dear.

Colon belched loudly.

From the looks he got from everyone else, he was the only one who'd heard of this common Klatchian custom.

'So,' he said, 'where's the army these days? Approximately?'

'Why do you ask, o full–of–gas one?'

'Oh, we thought we could make a bit of cash entertaining the troops,' said Colon. He was immensely proud of this idea. 'You know... a smile, a song, a lack of exotic dancing. But that means we got to know where they are, see?'

‘Excuse me, fat one, but can you understand what I am saying?’

'Yes,  it's very tasty,' Colon hazarded.

‘Ah. I thought so. So he’s a spy. But whose?’

‘Really? Who would be so stupid as to use a joke like this as a spy?’

‘Ankh-Morpork?’

‘Oh, come on! He’s pretending to be an Anhk-Morpork spy, perhaps. But they’re cunning over there–‘

‘You think. A people who make curry out of something called curry powder and you think they’re clever?’

‘I reckon he’s from Muntab. They’re always watching us.’

‘And pretending to be from Ankh-Morpork?’

‘Well, if you were trying to look like a joke Morporkian pretending to be Klatchian wouldn’t you look like that?’

‘But why’d he pretend to be from there?’

‘Ah… politics.’

‘Let’s call the watch, then.’

‘Are you mad? We’ve been talking to him! They will be… inquisitive.’

‘Good point. I know…’

Faifal gave Colon a big grin.

'I did hear the entire army has marched away to En al Sams la Laisa, 'he said. 'But don't tell anyone.

'Have they?' Colon glanced at the other men. They were watching him with curiously deadpan expressions.

'Sounds like a massive place, with a name like that,' he said.

'Oh, huge,' said his neighbour. One of the other men made a noise that you might think was a suppressed chuckle.

'It's a long way, is it?'

'No, very close. You're practically on top of it,' said Faifal. He nudged a colleague, whose shoulders were shaking.

'Oh, right. Big army, is it?'

'Could easily be very big, yes.'

'Fine. Fine,' said Colon. 'Er... anyone got a pencil? I could've sworn I had one when–'

There was a noise outside the tavern. It was the sound of many women laughing, which is always a disquieting noise to men.[16] Customers peered suspiciously through the vines.

Colon and the rest of the crowd looked around an urn at the group by the well. An old lady was rolling on the ground, laughing, and various younger ones were leaning against one another for support.

He heard one of them say, 'What did he say again?'

'He said, "That's funny, it's never done that when I've tried it!"'

'Yeah, that's true!' cackled the old woman. 'It never does!'

' "That's funny, it's never done that when I've tried if',' Nobby repeated.

Colon groaned. That was the voice and tone of Corporal Nobbs in storytelling mode, when wood could scorch at ten yards.

' 'scuse me,' he muttered, and forced his way through the press to the gateway.

'Have you heard the one about the ki... the sultan who was afraid his wife... one of his wives... would be unfaithful to him while he was away?'

'We haven't heard any stories like these, Beti!' Bana gasped.

'Really? Oh, I've got a thousand and one of 'em. Well, anyway, he went and saw the wise old blacksmith, right, and he said–'

'You can't go round telling stories like that, cor– Beti,' Colon panted as he lumbered to a halt.

Nobby realized that a change had come over the group. Now he was surrounded by women who were in the presence of a man. A known man, he corrected himself.

Several of them were blushing. They hadn't blushed before.

'Why not?' said Beti nastily.

'You'll offend people,' said Colon uncertainly.

'Er, we are not offended, sir,' said Bana, in a small humble voice. 'We think Beti's stories are very... instructive. Especially. the one about the man who went into the tavern with the very small musician.'

'And that was pretty hard to translate,' said Nobby, 'because they don't really know what a piano is in Klatch. But it turns out there's this kind of stringed–'

'And it was very interesting about the man with his arms and legs in plaster,' said Netal.

'Yeah, and they laughed even though they don't have the same kind of doorbells here,' said Nobby. 'Here, you don't have to go–'

But the group around the well was dispersing. Water jugs were being picked up and carried away. A kind of preoccupied busyness came over the women.

Bana nodded at Beti. 'Er... thank you. It's been very... interesting. But we must go. It was so kind of you to talk to us.'

'Er, no, don't go...'

A faint suggestion of perfume hung in the air.

Beti glared at Colon. 'Sometimes I really want to give you a right ding alongside the lughole,' she growled. 'My first bloody chance in years and you––'

She stopped. There was a crowd of puzzled yet disapproving faces behind Colon.

And things might have ended otherwise had it not been for the braying of the donkey, from above.

The stolen donkey, easily pulling away from Nobby's inexpert tether, had wandered off in search of food. She vaguely associated this with the doorway to her stable and therefore with doorways in general, and so had wandered through the nearest open one.

There had been some narrow spiral stairs inside, but her stall was pretty narrow and steps didn't worry a donkey that was used to the streets of Al-Khali.

It was only a disappointment when the steps came to an end and there was still no hay.

'Oh no,' said someone behind Colon. 'There's a donkey up the minaret again.'

There were groans all round.

'What's wrong with that? What goes up must come down,' said Colon.

'You don't know?' said one of his dining companions. 'You don't have minarets in Tar?'

'Er–' said Colon.

'We have plenty of donkeys,' said Lord Vetinari. There was general laughter, most of it directed at Colon.

One of the men pointed to the dim interior of the minaret.

'Look. .. see?'

'A very narrow, winding staircase,' said the Patrician. 'So... ?'

'There's nowhere to turn at the top, right? Oh, any fool can get a donkey up a minaret. But have you ever tried getting an animal to go backwards down a narrow staircase in the dark? Can't be done.'

'There's something about a rising staircase,' said someone else. 'It attracts donkeys. They think there's something at the top.'

'We had to push the last one off, didn't we.?' said one of the guards.

'Right. It splashed,' said his comrade in arms.

'No one is pushing Valerie off'f anything,' snarled Beti. 'Any one of you tries anything like that and, s'welp me, you'll feel the wrong end of–' He

stopped, and a wide horrible grin appeared behind the veil. 'I mean, I'll give you a great big soppy kiss.'

Several men at the back of the crowd took to their heels.

'There's no need to get nasty,' said the guard.

'I mean it!' said Beti, advancing.

The cowering guard cringed. 'Can't you do anything with her, sirs?'

'Us?' said Lord Vetinari. ' 'fraid not. Oh dear... it's going to be like that business in Djelibeybi all over again, A].'

'Oh dear,' said Colon, mugging loyally. The crowd, or at least that part that thought itself sufficiently far away from Beti, started to grin. This was street theatre.

'I don't know if they ever got that man down off the flagpole,' Vetinari went on.

'Oh, most of 'im, they did,' said Colon.

'Tell you what, tell you what,' said the guard hurriedly, 'suppose we get a rope round it–'

'––her–' Beti growled.

'Her, right, and then –'

'You'd need at least three men up there and there ain't no room!'

'Sir, I've got an idea,' whispered one of the guards.

'I should make it quick,' said Colon. "cos there's no stopping Beti once she gets going.'

The guards held a whispered argument.

‘We’d get into trouble if we do that! You know all that stuff we were told about the war effort! That’s why they were all confiscated!’

‘No one will miss it for five minutes!’

‘Yeah, but you want to tell the prince we lost one?’

‘All right, but do you want to explain to her?’

They both looked at Beti. ’And they’re easy to steer, after all,’' one whispered.

'Valerie?' said Sergeant Colon.

'There is a problem?' Beti demanded.

'No! No. It's a fine name for a donkey, N– Beti.'

'No-one is to do anything,' said one of the guards. 'We will return.'

'What was all that about?' said Colon, watching them go.

'Oh, they've probably gone to get a carpet,' said someone.

'Very nice, but I don't see how that'd help,' said Bets.

'A flying one.'

'Oh, right,' said Colon. 'They've got one of those up at the University–,

'Ur has a university?'

'Oh, indeed,' said the Patrician. 'How do you think Al learned what a donkey looks like?'

Once again, laughter dispelled doubt. Colon grinned uncertainly.

'I'm really getting good at this stupid idiot stuff, aren't I?' he said. 'It just sort of happens!'

'Marvellous,' said Lord Vetinari.

There was another angry braying from far above.

'Trouble is, they're all locked up because of the war effort,' said someone behind them.

A piece of mud brick shattered on the ground nearby.

'The way it's thrashing around up there, it's going to fall off anyway.'

'Perhaps I should persuade her to come down,' said the Patrician.

'Can't be done, offendi. You can't get past on the stairs, you can't turn it round, and it won't come down backwards.'

'I shall consider the situation,' said the Patrician.

He ambled back into the tavern for a moment, and returned. They saw him enter the door and they heard him climbing the staircase.

'Should be good,' said a man behind Colon.

After a while the braying stopped.

'Can't turn round, see. Far too narrow,' said the elevateddonkey expert. 'Can't turn round, won't go backwards. Well–known fact.'

'There's always a know–all, right, Beti?' said Colon.

'Yeah. Always.'

The tower was full of silence. Several members of the crowd found their attention drawn to it.

'I mean, if you could get three or four men up the stairs, which you can't, you could sort of move it a leg at a time, if you didn't mind being kicked and bitten to death...'

'All right, all right, back away from the tower, will you?'

The guards were back. One of them was carrying a rolled-up carpet.

'All right, all right, give us room–'

'I can hear hooves,' said someone.

'Oh, yeah, like our friend in the fez is getting the donkey down the stairs?'

'Hang on, I can hear them too,' said Colon.

Now all eyes stared at the door.

Lord Vetinari emerged, holding a length of rope.

The voice behind Colon said, 'All right, it's just a bit of rope. He was probably banging a couple of coconut shells together.'

'You mean, ones that he found in the minaret?'

'He had them with him, obviously.'

'You mean, he carries coconut shells around?'

'You can't turn a donkey round in– all right, that's a fake donkey head...'

'It's moving its ears!'

'On a string, on a string – all right, it's a donkey, OK, but it's not the same donkey. It's one he had in a hidden pocket... well, no need to look at me like that. I've seen them do it with doves...'

Then even the unbeliever fell silent.

'Donkey, minaret,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Minaret, donkey.'

'Just like that?' said a guard. 'How did you do it? It was a trick, right?'

'Of course it was a trick,' said Lord Vetinari.

'I knew it was just a trick.'

'That's right, it was just a trick,' said Lord Vetinari.

'So... how did you do it, then?'

'You mean you can't spot it?'

The crowd craned to see.

'Er... you had an inflatable donkey––'

'Can you think of any reason why I should go around with an inflatable donkey?'

'Well, you–'

'One that you wouldn't mind explaining to your own dear mother?'

'If you're going to put it like that–'

 ' 's easy,' said Al–jibla. 'There's a secret compartment in the minaret. Must be.'

'No, you've got it all wrong, it's just an illusion of a donkey... Well, all right, it's a good illusion.. .'

By now half the people were around the donkey and the others were clustered in the doorway of the minaret, looking for secret panels.

'I think, Al and Beti, this is where we walk away,' said Lord Vetinari, behind Colon. 'Just down this little alley here. And when we turn that corner, we run.'

'What've we got to run for?' said Beti.

'Because I've just picked up the magic carpet.'

Vimes was already lost. Oh, there was the sun, but that was just a direction. He could feel it on the side of his face.

And the camel rocked from side to side. There was no real way of judging distance, except by haemorrhoids.

I'm blindfolded on the back of a camel ridden by a D'reg, who everyone says are the most untrustworthy people in the world. But I'm almost positive he's not going to kill me.

'So,' he said, as he rocked gently from side to side, 'you may as well tell me. Why 71–hour Ahmed?'

'He killed a man,' said Jabbar.

'And D'regs object to a little thing like that?'

'In the man's own tent! When he had been his guest for nearly tree dace! If he had but waited an hour–'

'Oh, I see. Definitely bad manners. Had the man done anything to deserve it?'

'Nothing! Although...'

'Yes?'

'The man had killed El-Ysa.' The D'reg's tone suggested that this wasn't much of a mitigating circumstance, but that it ought to be mentioned out of completeness.

'Who was she?'

'El-Ysa was a village. He poisoned a well. There had been a dispute over religion,' he added. 'One thing led to another... but even so, to break the tradition of hospitality... '

'Yes, I can see that's a terrible thing. Almost... impolite.'

'The hour was important. Some things should not be done.'

'You're right there, at least.'

By mid–afternoon Jabbar let him take off the blindfold. Wind–carved heaps of black rock stood out of the sand. Vimes thought it was the most desolate place he'd ever seen.

'They say once it was green,' said Jabbar. 'A well watered land.'

'What happened?'

'The wind changed.'

At sunset they reached a wadi between more windscoured rocks, and it was only the length of the shadows, deepening the shallow indentations, that began to give them back an ancient shape.

'They're buildings, aren't they?' said Vimes.

'There was a city here, a long time ago. Did you not know?'

'Why should I know?'

'Your people built it. It was called Tacticum. After a warrior of yours.'

Vimes looked at the crumbled walls and fallen pillars.

'He had a city named after him...' he said to noone in particular.

Jabbar nudged him. 'Ahmed is watching you,' he said.

'I can't see him anywhere.'

'Of course. Get down. And I hope we meet again in whatever is your paradise.'

'Right, right...'

Jabbar turned the camel round. It left much faster than it had arrived.

Vimes sat on a rock for a while. There was no sound but the hissing of the wind in the rocks and the cry of some bird, far away.

He thought he could hear his own heart beating.

'Bingeley... bingeley... beep...' The Disorganizer sounded worried and uncertain.

Vimes sighed. 'Yes? Appointment with 71–hour Ahmed, eh?'

'Er... no...' said the demon. 'Er... Klatchian fleet sighted... er. ..'

'Ships of the desert, eh?'

'Er... beep... error code 746, divergent temporal instability...'

Vimes shook the box. 'Something wrong with you?' he demanded. 'You're still giving me someone else's appointments, you idiot box!'

'Er... the appointments are correct for Commander Samuel Vimes. .

'That's me!'

'Which one of you?' said the demon.

'What?'

'... beep...'

It refused to say more. Vimes considered throwing it away, but Sybil would be hurt if she found out. He thrust it back into his pocket and tried to concentrate on the scenery again.

His seat might have been part of a pillar once. Vimes saw other pieces some way away, and then realized that a heap of apparent rubble was a fallen wall. He followed this, his footsteps echoing off the Cliffs, and realized that he was walking between old buildings, or where buildings had been. Here was the wreck of some stairs, there the stump of a pillar.

One was a little higher than the others. He pulled himself up and found, on its flat top, two huge feet. A statue must have stood here. It probably stood, if Vimes knew anything about statues, in some kind of noble attitude. Now it had gone, and there were just feet, broken off at the ankles. They weren't exceptionally noble.

As he lowered himself again he saw, protected because this side was out of the wind, some lettering carved deeply into the plinth. He tried to make it out in the fading light:

'AB HOC POSSUM VIDERE DOMUM TUUM'

Well...'domum tuum' was 'your house', wasn't it? …and 'videre' was 'I see'...

'What?' he said aloud. "'I can see your house from up here?" What kind of a noble sentiment is that?'

'I believe it was meant to be a boast and a threat, Sir Samuel,' said 71–hour Ahmed. 'Somewhat typical of Ankh-Morpork, I've always thought.'

Vimes stood very still. The voice had been right behind him.

And it was Ahmed's voice. But it lacked that hint of camel spit and gravel that it had possessed in Ankh–Morpork. Now it was the drawl of a gentleman.

'It's the echoes here,' Ahmed went on. 'I could be anywhere. I could have a crossbow aimed at you right now. '

'You won't fire it, though. We've both got too much at stake.'

'Oh, there is honour among thieves, is there?'

'I don't know,' said Vimes. Oh, well... time to see if he was dead right or just dead. 'Is there honour among policemen?'

Sergeant Colon's eyes went big.

'Swing my weight to one side?' he said.

'That's how magic carpets are steered,' said Lord Vetinari calmly.

'Yes, but supposing I swing myself off?'

'We'll have a lot more room,' said Beti unfeelingly. 'C'mon, sarge, you know how to throw your weight around.'

'I ain't throwing my weight anywhere,' said Colon firmly. He was lying full length on the carpet, both hands gripping it as hard as possible. 'It's not natural, just a bit of broadloom between you and certain splash.'

The Patrician looked down. 'We're not over water, sergeant.'

'I know what I meant, sir!'

'Can we slow down a bit?' said Beti. 'The breeze is invading my privacy, if you get my drift.'

Lord Vetinari sighed. 'We're not going very fast as it is. I suspect this is a very old carpet.'

'There's a frayed bit here,' said Beti.

'Shut up,' said Colon.

'Look, I can poke my finger right through–'

'Shut up.'

'Notice how it kind of wobbles when you move?'

'Shut up.'

'Here, look, those palm trees down there look really small.'

'Nobby, you're scared of heights,' said Colon. 'I know you're scared of heights.'

'That's sexual stereotyping!'

'No, it's not!'

'Yes, it is! You'll be expecting me to break my ankle a lot and scream all the time next! It's my job to prove to you that a woman can be as good as a man!'

'Practically identical in your case, Nobby. You've caught too much sun, that's what it is. You are not female, Nobby!'

Beti sniffed. 'That's just the sort of sexist remark I'd expect from you.'

'Well, you're not!'

'It's the principle of the thing.'

'Well, at least we now have transport,' said Lord Vetinari, his tone suggesting that the show was over. 'Unfortunately, I had no time to find out where the army is.'

'Ah! I can help you there, sir!' Colon tried to salute, and then made a grab for the carpet again. 'I found out by cunning, sir!'

'Really?'

'Yessir! It's at a place called... er... En al Sams la Laisa, sir.'

The carpet drifted onwards for a moment, in silence.

"'The Place where the Sun Shineth Not"?' said the Patrician.

There was more silence. Colon was trying not to look at anyone.

'Is there a somewhere called Gebra?' said Nobby, sulkily.

'Yes, Be– corporal. There is.'

'They've gone there. Of course, you've only got a woman's word for it.'

'Well done, corporal. We shall head up the coast.'

Lord Vetinari relaxed. In a busy and complex life he'd never met people quite like Nobby and Colon. They talked all the time yet there was something almost... restful about them.

He watched the dusty horizon carefully as the ancient carpet curved around. Under his arm was the metal cylinder Leonard had made for him.

Drastic times required drastic measures.

'Sir?' said Colon, his voice muffled by the carpet.

'Yes, sergeant?'

'I've got to know... How did you... you know... get the donkey down?'

'Persuasion, sergeant.'

'What? Just talking?'

'Yes, sergeant. Persuasion. And, admittedly, a sharp stick.'

'Ah! I knew–'

'The trick of getting donkeys down from minarets,' said the Patrician, as the desert unwound below them, 'is always to find that part of the donkey which seriously wishes to get down.'

The wind had settled. The bird up on the cliffs had shut down for the night. All Vimes could hear was the sizzle of the little desert creatures.

Then Ahmed's voice said: 'I am genuinely impressed, Sir Samuel.'

Vimes took a deep breath. 'You know, you really fooled me,' he said. "'May your loins be full of fruit." That was a good one. I really thought you were just–' He stopped. But Ahmed continued:

'–just another camel-driver with a towel on his head? Oh, dear. And you'd been doing so well up to now, Sir Samuel. The Prince was very impressed.'

'Oh, come on. You were all but making suggestive comments about melons. What was I supposed to think?'

'Don't fret, Sir Samuel. I consider it all a compliment. You can turn round. I wouldn't dream of harming you unless you do something... foolish.'

Vimes turned. He could just make out a shape in the afterglow.

'You were admiring this place,' said Ahmed. 'Tacticus's men had it built when he tried to conquer Klatch. It's not really a city by today's standards, of course. It was really just making a point. "Here we are and here we stay," as it were. And then the wind changed.'

'You murdered Snowy Slopes, didn't you?'

'The term is executed. I can show you the confession he signed beforehand.'

'Of his own free will?'

'More or less.'

'What?'

'Let us say, I pointed out to him the alternatives to signing the confession. I was kind enough to leave you the pad. After all, I wanted to keep your interest. And don't look like that, Sir Samuel. I need you.'

'How can you tell how I look?'

'I can guess. The Assassins' Guild had a contract on him in any case. And by a happy chance I am Guild member.'

'You?' Vimes tried to bite down on the word. And then: why not him? Kids got sent a thousand miles to be taught in the Assassins' Guild school...

'Oh, yes. The best years of my life, they tell me. I was in Viper House. Up School! Up School! Right Up School!' He sighed like a prince and spat like a camel driver. 'If I shut my eyes I can still recall the taste of that peculiar custard we used to get on Mondays. Dear me, how it all comes back... I remember every soggy street. Does Mr Dibbler still sell his horrible sausages inna bun in Treacle Mine Road?'

'Yes.'

'Still the same old Dibbler, eh?'

'Still the same sausages.'

'Once tasted, never forgotten.'

'True.'

'No, don't move too quickly, Sir Samuel. Otherwise

I'm afraid I shall be cutting your own throat. You don't trust me, and I don't trust you.'

'Why did you drag me here?'

'Drag you? I had to sabotage my own ship so you wouldn't lose me!'

'Yes, but... you... knew how I'd react.' Vimes's heart began to sink. Everyone knew how Sam Vimes would react...

'Yes. Would you like a cigarette, Sir Samuel?'

'I thought you sucked those damn cloves.'

'In Ankh–Morpork, yes. Always be a little bit foreign wherever you are, because everyone knows foreigners are a little bit stupid. Besides, these are rather good.'

'Fresh from the desert?'

'Hah! Yes, everyone knows Klatchian cigarettes are made from camel dung.' A match flared, and for a moment Vimes caught a glimpse of the hooked nose as Ahmed lit the cigarette for him. 'That is one area where, I regret to say, prejudice has some evidence on its side. No. these are all the way from Sumtri. An island where, it is said, the women have no souls. Personally, I doubt it.'

Vimes could make out a hand, holding the packet. just for a moment he wondered if he could grab and

'How is your luck?' said Ahmed.

'Running out, I suspect.'

'Yes. A man should know the length of his luck. Shall I tell you how I know you are a good man, Sir Samuel?' In the light of the rising moon Vimes saw Ahmed produce a cigarette holder, insert one, and fight up almost fastidiously.

'Do tell.'

'After the attempt on the Prince's life I suspected everyone. But you suspected only your own people. You couldn't bring yourself to think the Klatchians might have done it. Because that'd fine you up with the likes of Sergeant Colon and all the rest of the Kiatchian-fags–are–made–of–camel–dung brigade.'

'Whose policeman are you?'

'I draw my pay, let us say, as the wali of Prince Cadram.'

'I shouldn't think he's very happy with you right now, then. You were supposed to be guarding his brother, weren't you?' So was I, Vimes thought. But what the hell...

'Yes. And we thought the same way, Sir Samuel. You thought it was your people, I thought it was mine. The difference is, I was right. Khufurah's death was plotted in Klatch.'

'Oh, really? That's what they wanted the Watch to think–'

'No, Sir Samuel. The important thing is what someone wanted you to think.'

'Really? Well, you've got that wrong. All the stuff with the glass and the sand on the floor, I saw through …that... straight... away...'

His voice faded into silence.

After a while Ahmed said, almost sympathetically, 'Yes, you did.'

'Damn.'

'Oh, in some ways you were right. Ossie was paid in dollars, originally. And then, later on, someone broke in, making sure they dumped most of the glass outside, and swapped the money. And distributed the sand. I must say that I thought the sand was going a bit too far, too. No–one would be that stupid. But they wanted to make sure it looked like a bungled attempt.'

'Who was it?' said Vimes.

'Oh, a small–time thief. Bob–Bob Hardyoyo. He didn't even know why he was doing it, except that someone was willing to pay him. I commend your city, commander. For enough money, you can find someone to do anything.'

'Someone must have paid him.'

'A man he met in a pub.'

Vimes nodded glumly. It was amazing how many people were prepared to do business with a man they'd met in a pub.

'I can believe that,' he said.

'You see, if even the redoubtable Commander Vimes, who is known even to some senior Klatchian politicians as an unbendingly honest and thorough man, if somewhat lacking in intelligence... if even he protested that it was done by his own people – well, the world is watching. The world would soon find out. Starting a war over a rock? Well... that sort of thing makes countries uneasy. They've all got rocks off their coast. But starting a war because some foreign dog had killed a man on a mission of peace... that, I think, the world would understand.'

'Lacking in intelligence?' said Vimes.

'Oh, don't be too depressed, commander. That business with the fire at the embassy. That was sheer bravery.'

'It was bloody terror!'

'Well, the dividing line is narrow. That was one thing I hadn't expected.'

In the rolling, clicking snooker table of Vimes's mind the black ball hit a pocket.

'You had expected the fire, then?'

'The building should have been almost empty–,

Vimes moved. Ahmed was lifted off his feet and slammed against a pillar, with both of Vimes's hands around his neck.

'That woman was trapped in there!'

'It... was... necessary!' said Ahmed hoarsely. 'There... had... to be a... diversion! His... life was... in danger, I had to get him out! I did... not know... about the... woman until too late... I give you my word...'

Through the red veil of anger Vimes became aware of a prickle in the region of his stomach. He glanced down at the knife that had appeared magically in the other man's hand.

'Listen to me . . ' hissed Ahmed. 'Prince Cadram ordered his brother's death... What better way to demonstrate the... perfidy of the sausage–eaters.. killing a peace–maker...'

'His own brother? You expect me to believe that?'

'Messages were sent to... the embassy in code...'

'To the old ambassador? I don't believe that!'

Ahmed stood quite still for a moment.

'No, you really don't, do you?' he said. 'Be generous, Sir Samuel. Truly treat all men equally. Allow Klatchians the right to be scheming bastards, hmm? In fact the ambassador is just a pompous idiot. Ankh–Morpork has no monopoly on them. But his deputy sees the messages first. He is... a young man of ambition...'

Vimes relaxed his grip. 'Him? I thought he was shifty as soon as I saw him!'

'I suspect that you thought he was Klatchian as soon as you saw him, but I take your point.'

'And you could read this code, could you?'

'Oh, come now. Don't you read Vetinari' work upside down when you're standing in front of his desk? Besides, I am Prince Cadram's policeman. ..'

'So he's your boss, right?'

'Who is your boss, Sir Samuel? When push comes to shove?'

The two men stood locked together. Ahmed's breath wheezed.

Vimes stood back. 'These messages... you've got them?'

'Oh, yes. With his seal on them.' Ahmed rubbed his neck.

'Good grief. The originals? I'd have thought they'd be under lock and key.'

'They were. In the embassy. But in the fire many hands were needed to carry important documents to safety. It was a very... useful fire.'

'A death warrant for his own brother... well, you can't argue against that in court...'

'What court? The king is the law.' Ahmed sat down. 'We are not like you. You kill kings.'

'The word is "execute". And we only did it once, and that was a long time ago,' said Vimes. 'Is that why you brought me here? Why all this drama? You could have come to see me in Ankh–Morpork!'

'You are a suspicious man, commander. Would you have believed me? Besides, I had to get Prince Khufurah out of there, before he, ahah, "died of his wounds".'

'Where's the Prince now?'

'Close. And safe. He is safer in the desert than he would ever be in Ankh–Morpork, I can assure you.'

'And well?'

'Getting better. He is being looked after by an old lady whom I trust.'

'Your mother?'

'Ye gods, no! My mother is a D'reg! She'd be terribly offended if I trusted her. She'd say she hadn't brought me up right.'

He saw Vimes's expression this time. 'You think I am an educated barbarian?'

'Let's just say I'd have given Snowy Slopes a running start.'

'Really? Look around you, Sir Samuel. Your... beat... is a city you can walk across in half an hour. Mine is two million square miles of desert and mountain. My companions are a sword and a came] and, frankly, neither are good conversationalists, believe me. Oh, the towns and cities have their guards, of a sort. They are uncomplicated thinkers. But it is my job to go into the waste places and chase bandits and murderers, five hundred miles from anyone who would be on my side, so I must inspire dread and strike the first blow because I will not have a chance to strike a second one. I am an honest man of a sort, I think. I survive. I survived seven years in an Ankh-Morpork public school patronized by the sons of gentlemen. Compared to that, life among the D'regs holds no terrors, I assure you. And I administer justice swiftly and inexpensively.'

'I heard about how you got your name...'

Ahmed shrugged. 'The man had poisoned the water. The only well for twenty miles. That killed five men, seven women, thirteen children and thirty–one camels. And some of them were very valuable camels, mark you. I had evidence from the man who sold him the poison and a trustworthy witness who had seen him near the well on the fateful night. Once I had testimony from his servant, why wait even an hour?'

'Sometimes we have trials,' said Vimes brightly.

'Yes. Your Lord Vetinari decides. Well, five hundred miles from anywhere the law is me.' Ahmed waved a hand. 'Oh, no doubt the man would suggest there were mitigating circumstances, that he had an unhappy childhood or was driven by Compulsive Well-Poisoning Disorder. But I have a compulsion to behead cowardly murderers.'

Vimes gave up. The man had a point. The man had a whole sword.

'Different strokes for different folks,' he said.

'I find the one at shoulder height generally suffices,' said Ahmed. 'Don't grimace, it was a joke. I knew the Prince was plotting and I thought: this is not right. Had he killed some Ankh–Morpork lord, that would just be politics. But this... I thought, why do I chase stupid people into the mountains when I am part of a big crime? The Prince wants to unite the whole of Klatch. Personally, I like the little tribes and countries, even their little wars. But I don't mind if they fight Ankh-Morpork because they want to, or because of your horrible personal habits, or your unthinking arrogance... there's a lot of reasons for fighting Ankh–Morpork. A lie isn't one of them.'

'I know what you mean,' said Vimes.

'But what can I do alone? Arrest my Prince? I am his policeman, as you are Vetinari's.'

'No. I'm an officer of the law.'

'All I know is, there must be a policeman, even for kings.'

Vimes looked pensively at the moonlit desert.

Somewhere out there was the Ankh–Morpork army, what there was of it. And somewhere waiting was the Klatchian army. And thousands of men who might have quite liked one another had they met socially would thunder towards one another and start killing, and after that first rush you had all the excuses you needed to do it again and again...

He remembered listening, when he was a kid, to old men in his street talking about war. There hadn't been many wars in his time. The city states of the Sto Plains mainly tried to bankrupt one another, or the Assassins' Guild sorted everything out on a one–to–one basis. Most of the time people just bickered, and while that was pretty annoying it was a lot better than having a sword stuck in your liver.

What he remembered most, among the descriptions of puddles filled with blood and the flying limbs, –the time one old man said, 'An' if your foot caught in something, it was always best not to look and see what it was, if'n you wanted to hold on to your dinner.' He'd never explained what he meant. The other old men seemed to know. Anyway, nothing could have been worse than the explanations Vimes thought of for himself. And he remembered that the three old men who spent most of their days sitting on a bench in the sun had, between them, five arms, five eyes, four and a half legs and two and three–quarter faces. And seventeen ears (Crazy Winston would bring out his collection for a good boy who looked suitably frightened).

'He wants to start a war...' Vimes had to open his mouth because otherwise there was no room to get his head around such a crazy idea. This man who everyone said was honest, noble and good wanted a war.

'Oh, certainly,' said Ahmed. 'Nothing unites people like a good war.'

How could you deal with someone who thought like that? Vimes asked himself. A mere murderer, well, you had a whole range of options. He could deal with a mere murderer. You had criminals and you had policemen, and there was a sort of see–saw there which balanced out in some strange way. But if you took a man who'd sit down and decide to start a war, what in the name of seven hells could you balance him with? You'd need a policeman the size of a country.

You couldn't blame the soldiers. They'd just joined up to be pointed in the right direction.

Something clicked against the fallen pillar. Vimes glanced down and pulled the baton out of his pocket. It glinted in the moonlight

What damn good was something like this? All it really meant was that he was allowed to chase the little criminals, who did the little crimes. There was nothing he could do about the crimes that were so big you couldn't even see them. You lived in them. So... safer to stick to the little crimes, Sam Vimes.

'ALL RIGHT, MY SONS! LET 'EM HAVE IT RIGHT UP THE JOGRAPHY!'

Figures bounded over the fallen pillars.

There was a metallic whirr as Ahmed unsheathed his sword.

Vimes saw a halberd coming towards him – an Ankh-Morpork halberd! – and street reaction took over. He didn't waste time sneering at someone stupid enough to use a pike on a foot soldier. He dodged the blade, caught the shaft, and pulled it so hard that its owner stumbled right into his upswinging boot.

Then he jerked away, struggling to untangle his sword from the unfamiliar robes. He ducked another shadowy figure's wild slice and managed to make an elbow connect with something painful.

As he rose he looked into the face of a man with an upraised sword–

–there was a silken sound–

–and the man swayed backwards, his head looking surprised as it fell away from the body.

Vimes dragged his headdress off.

'I'm from Ankh-Morpork, you stupid sods!'

A huge figure rose in front of him, a sword in each hand.

'I'LL CUT YER TONKER OFF'F YER YER GREASY– Oh, is that you, Sir Samuel?'

'Huh? Willikins?'

'Indeed, sir.' The butler straightened up.

'Willikins?'

'Do excuse me one moment, sir KNOCK IT OFF YOU MOTHERLOVIN SONS OF BITCHES I had no apprehension of your presence, sir.'

'This one's fightin' back, sarge!'

Ahmed had his back to a pillar. A man already lay at his feet. Three others were trying to get close enough to the wali while staying away from the whirling wall he was creating with his sword.

'Ahmed! These are on our side!' Vimes yelled.

'Oh, really? Pardon me.'

Ahmed lowered his sword and removed the cigarette holder from his mouth. He nodded at one of the soldiers who had been trying to attack him and said, 'Good morning to you.'

' 'ere, are you one of ours, too?'

'No, I'm one of–'

'He's with me,' Vimes snapped. 'How come you're here, Willikins? Sergeant Willikins, I see.'

'We were on patrol, sir, and were attacked by some Klatchian gentlemen. After the ensuing unpleasantness–'

'–you should've seen 'im, sir. 'e bit one bastard's nose right orf!' a soldier supplied.

'It is true that I endeavoured to uphold the good name of Ankh–Morpork, sir. Anyway, after we–'

'–and one bloke, sarge, stabbed 'im right in the–'

'Please, Private Bourke, I am apprising Sir Samuel of events,' said Willikins.

'Sarge ort to get a medal, sir!'

'Those few of us who survived tried to get back, sir, but we had to conceal ourselves from other patrols and were just considering lying up until dawn in this edifice when we espied you and this gentleman here.'

Ahmed was watching him with his mouth open.

'How many were in this Klatchian patrol, sergeant?' he said.

'Nineteen men, sir.'

'That's a very precise count, in this light.'

'I was able to enumerate them subsequently, sir.'

'You mean they were all killed?

'Yes, sir,' said Willikins calmly. 'However, we ourselves lost five men, sir. Not including Privates Hobbley and Webb, sir, who regrettably seem to have passed away as a result of this unfortunate misunderstanding. With your permission, sir, I will remove them.'

'Poor devils,' said Vimes, aware that it was not enough but that nothing else would be, either.

'The fortunes of war, sir. Private Hobbley, Ginger to his friends, was nineteen and lived in Ettercap Street, where until recently he made bootlaces.' Willikins took the dead man's arms and pulled. 'He was courting a young lady called Grace, a picture of whom he was kind enough to show me last night. A maid at Lady Venturi's, I was given to understand. If you would be good enough to pass me his head, sir, I will get on with things SMUDGER WHO TOLD YOU TO SIT DOWN GET ON YORE FEET RIGHT NOW GET OUT YORE SHOVEL TAKE OFF YORE HELMET SHOW SOME RESPECT GET DIGGINGHA!'

A cloud of smoke rolled past Vimes's ear.

'I know what you are thinking,' said Ahmed. 'But this is war, Sir Samuel. Wake up and smell the blood.'

'But... one minute they're alive–'

'Your friend here knows how it works. You

'He's a butler!'

'So? It's kill or be killed, even for butlers. You're not a natural warrior, Sir Samuel.'

Vimes thrust the baton in his face.

'I'm not a natural killer! See this? See what it says? I'm supposed to keep the peace, I am! If I kill people to do it, I'm reading the wrong manual!'

Willikins appeared silently, hefting the other corpse. 'I was not privileged to know much about this young man,' he said, as he carried him behind a rock. 'We called him Spider, sir,' he went on, straightening up. 'He played the harmonica rather badly and spoke longingly of home. Will you be taking tea, sir? Private Smith is having a brew–up. Er...' The butler coughed politely.

'Yes, Willikins?'

'I hardly like to broach the subject, sir…'

'Broach it, man!'

'Do you have such a thing as a biscuit about you, sir? I hesitate to provide tea without biscuits, but we have not eaten for two days.'

'But you were on patrol!'

'Forage party, sir.' Willikins looked embarrassed.

Vimes was bewildered. 'You mean Rust didn't even wait to take on food?'

'Oh, yes, sir. But as it transpired–'

'We knew there was somethin' wrong when the mutton barrels started to explode,' muttered Private Bourke. 'The biscuits was pretty lively too. Turned out bloody Rust'd bought a lot of stuff even a rag'ead wouldn't eat–'

'And we eat anything,' said 71–hour Ahmed solemnly.

'PRIVATE BOURKE YOU ORRIBLE MAN SPEAKIN OF YORE COMMANDIN OFFICER LIKE THAT YOU WILL BE ON A CHARGE I apologize, sir, but we are feeling a little faint.'

'Long time between noses, eh?' said 71–hour Ahmed.

'Ahahaha, sir,' said Willikins.

Vimes sighed. 'Willikins... when you've finished, I want you and your men to come with me.'

'Very good, sir.'

Vimes nodded at Ahmed.

'And you too,' he said. 'Push has come to shove.'

The hot wind flapped the banners. The sunlight sparkled off the spears. Lord Rust surveyed his army and found that it was good. But small.

He leaned towards his adjutant.

'Let us not forget, though, that even General Tacticus was outnumbered ten to one when he took the Pass of Al–Ibi,' he said.

'Yes, sir. Although I believe his men were all mounted on elephants, sir,' said Lieutenant Hornett. 'And had been well provisioned,' he added meaningfully.

'Possibly, possibly. But then Lord Pinwoe's cavalry once charged the full might of the Pseudopolitan army and are renowned in song and story.'

'But they were all killed, sir!'

'Yes, yes, but it was a famous charge, nevertheless. And every child knows, do they not, the story of the mere one hundred Ephebians who defeated the entire Tsortean army? A total victory, hey? Hey?'

'Yes, sir,' said the adjutant glumly.

'Oh, you admit it?'

'Yes, sir. Of course, some commentators believe the earthquake helped.'

'At least you will admit that the Seven Heroes of Hergen beat the Big–Footed People although outnumbered by a hundred to one?'

'Yes, sir. That was a nursery story, sir. It never really happened.'

'Are you calling my nurse a liar, boy?'

'No, sir,' said Lieutenant Hornett hurriedly.

'Then you'll concede that Baron Mimbledrone single-handedly beat the armies of the Plum Pudding Country and ate their Sultana?'

'I envy him, sir.' The lieutenant looked at the lines again. The men were very hungry, although Rust would probably have called them sleek. Things would have been even worse if it hadn't been for the fortuitous shower of boiled lobsters on the way over. 'Er... you don't think, sir, since we have a little time in hand, we should look to the disposition of the men, sir?'

'They look well disposed to me. Plucky men, eager to be at the fray!'

'Yes, sir. I meant... more... well... positioned, sir.'

'Nothing wrong with 'em, man. Beautifully lined up! Hey? A wall of steel poised to thrust at the black heart of the Klatchian aggressor!'

'Yes, sir. But – and I realize this is a remote chance, sir it might be that while we're thrusting at the heart of the Klatchian aggressor––'

'––black heart–' Rust corrected him.

'––black heart of the Klatchian aggressor, sir, the arms of the Klatchian aggressor, those companies there and there, sir, will sweep around in the classic pincer movement.'

'The thrusting wall of steel served us magnificently in the second war with Quirm!'

'We lost that one, sir.'

'But it was a damn dose–run thing!'

'We still lost, sir.'

'What did you do as a civilian, lieutenant?'

'I was a surveyor, sir, and I can read Klatchian. That's why you made me an officer.'

'So you don't know how to fight?'

'Only how to count. sir.'

'Pah! Show a little courage, man. Although I'll wager you won't need to. No stomach for a battle, Johnny Klatchian. Once he tastes our steel, he'll be off!'

'I certainly hear what you say, sir,' said the adjutant, who had been surveying the Klatchian lines and had formed his own opinion about the matter.

His opinion was this: the main force of the Klatchian army had, in recent years, been fighting everyone. That suggested, to his uncomplicated mind, that by now the surviving soldiers were the ones who were in the habit of being alive at the end of battles. And were also very experienced at facing all kinds of enemies. The stupid ones were dead.

The current Ankh–Morpork army, on the other hand, had never faced an enemy at all, although day–to–day experience of living in the city might count for something there, at least in the rougher areas. He believed, along with General Tacticus, that courage, bravery and the indomitable human spirit were fine things which nevertheless tended to take second place to the combination of courage, bravery, the indomitable human spirit and a six–to–one superiority of numbers.

It had all sounded straightforward in Ankh–Morpork, he thought. We were going to sail into Klatch and be in Al–Khali by teatime, drinking sherbet with pliant young women in the Rhoxi. The Klatchians would take one look at our weapons and run away.

Well, the Klatchians had taken a good look this morning. So far they hadn't run. They appeared to be sniggering a lot.

Vimes rolled his eyes. It worked... but how did it work?

He'd heard plenty of good speakers, and Captain Carrot was not among them. He hesitated, lost the thread, repeated himself and in general made a mess of the whole thing.

And yet...

And yet...

He watched the faces that were watching Carrot. There were the D'regs, and some of the Klatchians who had stayed behind, and Willikins and his reduced company. They were listening.

It was a kind of magic. He told people they were good chaps, and they knew they weren't good chaps, but the way he told it made them believe it for a while. Here was someone who thought you were a noble and worthy person, and somehow it would be unthinkable to disappoint them. It was a mirror of a speech, reflecting back to you what you wanted to hear. And he meant it all.

Even so, men occasionally glanced up at Vimes and Ahmed and he could see them thinking, in their separate ways, 'It must be all right if they're in on it.' That, he was ashamed to realize, was one of the

advantages of armies. People looked to other people for orders.

'This is a trick?' said Ahmed.

'No. He doesn't know any tricks like that,' said Angua. 'He really doesn't. Uh–oh...'

There was a scuffle in the ranks.

Carrot strode forward and reached down, bringing up Private Bourke and a D'reg, each man held by the collar in one big fist.

'What's going on, you two?'

'He called me the brother of a pig, sir!'

'Liar! You called me a greasy dishcloth–head!'

Carrot shook his head. 'And you were both doing so well, too,' he said sadly. 'There really is no call for this. Now I want you, Hashel, and you, Vincent, to shake hands, right? And apologize, yes? We've all had a rather trying time, but I know you're both fine fellows underneath it all–'

Vimes heard Ahmed murmur, 'Oh, well, now it's all over...'

'–so if you'll just shake hands we'd say no more about it.'

Vimes glanced at 71–hour Ahmed. The man was wearing a sort of waxen grin.

The two scufflers very gingerly touched hands, as if they were expecting a spark to leap the gap.

'And now you, Vincent, apologize to Mr Hashel...'

There was a reluctant ' 'ry'.

'And we're sorry for what?' Carrot prompted.

'...sorry for calling him a greasy dishcloth–head...'

'Well said. And you, Hashel, apologize to Private Bourke.'

The D'reg's eyes scurried around their sockets, looking to find a way out that would allow their body to come too. Then he gave up.

' 'ry...'

'For... ?'

' 'ry for calling him a brother of a pig...'

Carrot lowered both men.

'Good! I'm sure you'll get along splendidly once you get to know each other–'

'I didn't just see that, did I?' said Ahmed. 'I didn't just see him talk like a little schoolteacher to Hashel who, I happen to know, once hit a man so hard his nose ended up in one of his ears?'

'Yes, you did,' said Angua. 'And now watch them.'

When the rest of the men turned their attention back to Carrot the scufflers looked at one another, as unfortunates who had both been through the same baptism of fiery embarrassment.

Private Bourke gingerly offered Hashel a cigarette.

'It only works around him,' said Angua. 'But it does work.'

Let it go on working, Vimes prayed.

Carrot walked over to a kneeling camel and climbed into the saddle.

'That's "Evil Brother–in–Law of a jackal",' said Ahmed. 'Jabbar's camel! It bites everyone who

ride it!'

'Yes, but this is Carrot.'

'It even bites Jabbar!'

'And you notice how he knew how to get on a camel?' said Vimes. 'How he wears the robes? He's fitting in. The boy was raised in a dwarf mine. It took him about a month to know my own damn city better than I do.'

The camel rose. Now the flag, Vimes thought, give him the flag. When you go to war, there's got to be a flag.

On cue, Constable Shoe passed up the spear with the tightly rolled cloth around it. The constable looked proud. He'd stitched the thing in conditions of great secrecy half an hour before. One thing about a zombie, you always knew someone who had a needle and thread.

But don't unfurl it, Vimes thought. Don't let them see it. It's enough for them to know they're marching under a flag.

Carrot brandished the spear.

'And I promise you this,' he shouted, 'if we succeed, noone will remember. And if we fail, no one will forget!'

Probably one of the worst rallying cries, Vimes thought, since General Pidley's famous 'Lees all get our throats cut, boys!' but it got a huge cheer. And once again he speculated that there was magic going on at some bonedeep level. People followed Carrot out of curiosity.

'All right, you've got an army, I suppose,' said Ahmed. 'And now?'

'I'm a policeman. So are you. There's going to be a crime. Saddle up, Ahmed.'

Ahmed salaamed. 'I am happy to be led by a white officer, offendi.'

'I didn't mean–'

'Have you ever ridden a camel before, Sir Samuel?'

'No!'

'Ah?' Ahmed smiled faintly. 'Then just give it a prod to get started. And when you want to stop, hit it very hard with the stick and shout "Huthuthut!"

'You hit it with a stick to make it stop?'

'Is there any other way?' said 71–hour Ahmed.

His camel looked at Vimes, and then spat in his eye.

Prince Cadram and his generals surveyed the distant enemy, from horseback. The various Klatchian armies were drawn up in front of Gebra. Compared to them, the Ankh–Morpork regiments looked like a group of tourists who had missed their coach.

'Is that all?' he said.

'Yes, sire,' said General Ashal. 'But, you see, they believe that fortune favours the brave.'

'That is a reason to field such a contemptible little army?'

'Ah, sire, but they believe that we will turn and run as soon as we taste some cold steel.'

The Prince looked back at the distant banners. 'Why?'

'I couldn't say, sire. It appears to be an item of faith.'

'Strange.' The Prince nodded to one of his bodyguards. 'Fetch me some cold steel.'

After some hurried discussion a sword was handed up very gingerly, handle first. The prince peered at it, and then licked it with theatrical care. The watching soldiers laughed.

'No,' he said at last. 'No, I have to say that I don't feel the least apprehensive. Is this as cold as steel gets?'

'Lord Rust was probably being metaphorical, sire.'

'Ah. He is the sort who would be. Well, let us go forward and meet him. We must be civilized, after all.'

He urged his horse forward. The generals fell in behind him.

The prince leaned down towards General Ashal again.

'And why are we going out to meet him before battle commences?'

'It's a... it's a goodwill gesture, sire. Warriors honouring one another.'

'But the man's a complete incompetent!'

'Indeed, sire.'

'And we're about to set thousands of our countrymen against one another, aren't we?'

'Indeed, sire.'

'So what does the maniac want to do? Tell me there's no hard feelings?'

'Broadly speaking, sire... yes. I understand the motto of his old school was "It matters not that you won or lost, but that you took part." '

The Prince's lips moved as he tried this out once or twice. Finally he said: 'And, knowing this, people still take orders from him?'

'It would seem so, sire.'

Prince Cadram shook his head. We can learn from AnkhMorpork, his father had said. Sometimes we can learn what not to do. And so he'd set out to learn.

First he'd learned that Ankh–Morpork had once ruled quite a slice of Klatch. He'd visited the ruins of one of its colonies. And so he'd found out the name of the man who had been audacious enough to do this, and had got agents in Ankh–Morpork to find out as much about him as possible.

General Tactitus, he'd been called. And Prince Cadram had read a lot and remembered everything, and 'tactics' had been very, very useful in the widening of the empire. Of course, this had its own drawbacks. You had a border, and across the border came bandits. So you sent a force to quell the bandits, and in order to stamp them out you had to take over their country, and soon you had another restless little vassal state to rule. And now that had a border, over which came, sure as sunrise, a fresh lot of raiders. So your new tax-paying subjects were demanding protection from their brother raiders, neglecting to pay their taxes, and doing a little light banditry on the side. And so once again you stretched your forces, whether you wanted to or not...

He sighed. For the serious empire–builder there was no such thing as a final frontier. There was only another problem. If only people would understand...

Nor was there such a thing as a game of war. General Tacticus knew that. Learn about your opposite number, yes, and respect his abilities if he had them, certainly. But never pretend that afterwards you were going to meet up for a drink and charge–by–charge replay.

'He could well be insane, sire,' the general went on.

'Oh, good.'

'However, I'm told that he recently referred to Klatchians as the finest soldiers in the world, sire.'

'Really?'

'He added "when led by white officers", sire.'

'Oh?'

'And we are offering him breakfast, sire. It would be most impolite of him to refuse.'

'What a good idea. Have we got an adequate supply of sheeps' eyes?'

'I took the liberty of telling the cooks to save some up for this very eventuality, sire.'

'Then we must see he gets them. After all, he will be our honoured guest. Well, let us do this thing properly. Please try to look as if you hate the taste of cold steel.'

The Klatchians had set up an open–sided tent on the sand between the two armies. In the welcome shade a low table had been laid. Lord Rust and his company were already waiting, and had been for more than half an hour.

They stood up and bowed awkwardly as Prince Cadram entered. Around the tent the Klatchian and Ankh-Morpork honour guards eyed one another suspiciously, every man trying to get the drop on the others.

‘Tell me… Do any of you gentlemen speak Klatchian?’ said Prince Cadram, after the lengthy introductions.

Lord Rust's grin stayed fixed. 'Hornett?' he hissed.

'I'm not quite certain what he said, sir,' said the lieutenant nervously.

'I thought you knew Klatchian!'

'I can read it, sir. That's not the same...'

'Oh, don't worry,' said the Prince. 'As we say in

Klatch, this clown’s in charge of an army?’

Around the tent, the Klatchian generals suddenly went poker–faced.

'Hornett?'

'Er... something about... to own, to control... er... '

Cadram smiled at Lord Rust. 'I'm not entirely familiar with this custom,' he said. 'You often meet your enemies before battle?'

'It is considered honourable,' said Lord Rust. 'I believe that on the night before the famous Battle of Pseudopolis officers from both sides attended a ball at Lady Selachii's, for example.'

The Prince glanced questioningly at General Ashal, who nodded.

'Really? Obviously we have so much to learn. As the poet Mosheda says, I can’t believe this man.’

'Ah, yes,' said Lord Rust. Klatchian is a very poetic language.'

'Excuse me, sir.' said Lieutenant Hornett.

'What is it, man?'

'There's... er.. . something going on...'

There was a column of dust in the distance. Something was approaching fast.

'One moment,' said General Ashal.

He came back from his saddle with an ornate metal tube, covered in the curly Klatchian script. He squinted into one end and pointed the other at the cloud.

'Mounted men,' he said. 'Camels and horses.'

'That's a Make–Things–Bigger device, isn't it?' said Lord Rust. 'My word, you are up to date. They were invented only last year.'

'I didn't buy this, my lord. I inherited it from my grandfather–' The general looked through the eyepiece again. 'About forty men, I'd say.'

'Dear me,' murmured Prince Cadram. 'Reinforcements, Lord Rust?'

'They've... the rider in the lead is holding a... a banner, I think, still rolled up–'

'Certainly not, sire!' said Lord Rust. Behind him, Lord Selachii rolled his eyes.

'–ah, now he's unfurling it... it's... a white flag, sire.'

'Someone wishes to surrender?'

The general lowered his telescope. 'It doesn't... I don't... they seem to be in a great hurry to do so, sire.'

'Send a squad to apprehend them,' said Prince Cadram.

'We will do so too,' added Lord Rust hurriedly, nodding to the lieutenant.

'Ah, a joint effort,' said the Prince.

A few seconds later groups of men detached themselves from each army and rode out on an interception course.

Everyone saw the sudden glints of sunlight from the approaching cloud. Weapons had been drawn.

'Fighting under a flag of surrender? That's... immoral!' said Lord Rust.

'Novel, certainly,' said the Prince.

The three companies would have met, had it not been that even experts find it hard to judge how much ground a running camel can cover. By the time both commanders realized they should start to turn, they should have already been turning.

'It seems your people misjudged things, sire,' said Lord Rust.

'I knew I should have had them led by white officers,' said the Prince. 'But... oh dear, it seems your men have been equally unlucky–'

He stopped. Some confusion had resulted. The foray parties had their instructions, but no-one had told them what to do if they ran into the other foray party. And it was composed, after all, of men they were about to fight, and everyone knew they were treacherous greasy towel heads or perfidious untrustworthy sausage–eating madmen. And this was a battlefield. And everyone was frightened and, therefore, angry. And everyone was armed.

Sam Vimes heard the shouting behind him but had other things on his mind at this point. It is impossible to ride a running camel without concentrating on your liver and kidneys, in the hope that they won't be pounded out of your body.

The thing's legs weren't moving right, he was sure. Nothing on normal legs could be jolting him around so much. The horizon jerked backwards and forwards and up and down.

What was it Ahmed had said?

Vimes hit the camel hard and yelled, 'Huthuthut!'

It accelerated. The jolts ran together, so that his body was no longer being jolted but was in effect in a permanent state of jolt.

Vimes thrashed it again and tried to yell, 'Huthuthut!' although the word came out more like 'Hngngngn!' In any case, the camel found some extra knees somewhere.

There was more shouting behind him. Turning his head as much as he dared, he saw several of his accompanying D'regs falling behind. He was certain he heard Carrot yell, but he couldn't be certain because of his own screaming.

'Stop, you bastard!' he yelled.

The tent was coming up fast. Vimes slapped the stick down again and hauled on the reins and, clearly now judging with special camel sensitivity that this was the most embarrassing moment to stop, the camel stopped. Vimes slid forward, flung his arms round a neck that was apparently thatched with old doormats, and half fell, half dropped on to the sand.

Other camels were thudding to a halt around him. Carrot grabbed his arm.

'Are you all right, sir? That was amazing! You really impressed the D'regs, screaming defiance like that] And you were still shouting for the camel to go faster when it was already galloping!'

'Gngn?'

The guards around the tent were hesitating, but that wouldn't last long.

The wind caught the white flag on Carrot's lance, making it snap.

'Sir, this is all right, isn't it? I mean, usually a white flag–'

'Might as well show what we're fighting for, eh?'

'I suppose so, sir.'

'D'regs had surrounded the tent. The air was full of dust and screams.

'What happened back there?'

'A bit of fracas, sir. Our–' Carrot hesitated and then corrected himself. 'That is, Ankh-Morpork soldiers and Klatchians have started fighting, sir. And the D'regs are fighting both of them.'

'What, before the battle's officially declared? Can't you get disqualified for that?'

Vimes looked back at the guards and pointed to the flag.

'You know what this flag is?' he said. 'Well, I want you to'

'Aren't you Mr Vimes?' said one of the Morporkians. 'And that's Captain Carrot, isn't it?'

'Oh, hello, Mr Smallplank,' said Carrot. 'Feeding you well, are they?'

'Yessir!'

Vimes rolled his eyes. That was Carrot again, knowing everyone. And the man had called him 'sir'...

 'We just need to go through,' said Carrot. 'We won't be a minute.'

'Well, sir, these tow–' Smallplank hesitated. Certain words didn't come so easily when the subjects were standing very close to you, looking very big and tooled up. 'These Klatchians are on guard too, you see–'

A stream of blue smoke was blown past Vimes's ear.

'Good morning, gentlemen,' said 71–hour Ahmed. He had a D'reg crossbow in each hand. 'You will note that the soldiers behind me are also well armed? Good. My name is 71–hour Ahmed. I will shoot the last man to drop his weapons. You have my word on it.'

The Morporkians looked puzzled. The Klatchians began to whisper urgently.

'Put 'em down, boys,' said Vimes.

The Morporkians threw their swords down hurriedly. The Klatchians dropped theirs very shortly afterwards.

'A tie between the gentleman on the left and the tall one with the squint,' said 71–hour Ahmed, raising both crossbows.

'Hey,' said Vimes, 'you can't–'

The bows twanged. The men dropped, yelling.

'However,' said Ahmed, handing the bows to a D'reg behind him, who handed him another loaded one, 'out of deference to the sensibilities of Commander Vimes here, I'm settling for one in the thigh and one in the toes. We are, after all, on a mission of peace.

He turned to Vimes. 'I'm sorry, Sir Samuel, but it's important that people know where they stand with me.

'These two don't,' said Vimes.

'They'll live.'

Vimes moved closer to the wali.

'Huthuthut?' he hissed. 'You told me that it meant–'

'I thought it would prove a good example to all if you were in the lead,' Ahmed whispered. 'The D'regs will always follow a man who is in a hurry for the fray.'

Lord Rust stepped out into the sunlight and glared at Vimes.

'Vimes? What the hell are you doing?'

'Not turning a blind eye, my lord.'

Vimes pushed past and into the shade. There was Prince Cadram, still seated. And there were a lot of armed men. These, he noted almost in passing, didn't have the look of ordinary soldiers. They had the much tougher look of loyal bodyguards.

'So,' said the Prince, 'you come in here armed, under a flag of peace?'

'Are you Prince Cadram?' said Vimes.

'And you, too, Ahmed?' said the Prince, ignoring Vimes.

Ahmed nodded, and said nothing.

Oh, not now, thought Vimes. Tough as leather and vicious as a wasp, but now he's in the presence of his king...

'You're under arrest,' he said.

The Prince made a little sound between a cough and a laugh.

'I'm what?'

'I am arresting you for conspiracy to murder your brother. And there may be other charges.'

The Prince put his hands over his face for a moment and then pulled them down towards his chin, in the action of a tired man endeavouring to come to grips with a dying situation.

'Mr–?' he began.

'Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch,' said Vimes.

'Well, Mr Samuel, when I raise my hand the men behind me will cut you d–'