“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 light 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 line you up with the likes of Sergeant Colon and all the rest of the Klatchian-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's paperwork 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. T
he 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 camel 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, was 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!”
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