Jingo d-21

by Terry Pratchett

  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.”{90}

  “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—”

  “I will kill the first man that moves,” said Ahmed.

  “Then the second man that moves will kill you, traitor!” shouted the Prince.

  “They'll have to move very fast,” said Carrot, drawing his sword.

  “Any volunteers to be the third man?” said Vimes. “Anyone?”

  General Ashal moved, but only very gently, holding up a hand. The bodyguards relaxed slightly.

  “What was that… lie you uttered about a murder?” he said.

  “Have you gone mad, Ashal?” said the Prince.

  “Oh, sire, before I can disbelieve these pernicious lies, I do need to know what they are.”

  “Vimes, you have gone insane,” said Rust. “You can't arrest the commander of an army!”

  “Actually, Mr Vimes, I think we could,” said Carrot. “And the army, too. I mean, I don't see why we can't. We could charge them with behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, sir. I mean, that's what warfare is.”

  Vimes's face split in a manic grin. “I like it.”

  “But in fairness our — that is, the Ankh-Morpork army — are also—”

  “Then you'd better arrest them too,” said Vimes. “Arrest the lot of 'em. Conspiracy to cause an affray,” he started to count on his fingers, “going equipped to commit a crime, obstruction, threatening behaviour, loitering with intent, loitering within tent, hah, travelling for the purposes of committing a crime, malicious lingering and carrying concealed weapons.”

  “I don't think that one—” Carrot began.

  “I can't see 'em,” said Vimes.

  “Vimes, I order you to come to your senses this minute!” roared Lord Rust. “Have you been out in the sun?”

  “That's one count of offensive behaviour to his lordship as well,” said Vimes.

  The Prince was still staring at Vimes.

  “You seriously think that you can arrest an army?” he said. “Perhaps you think you have a bigger army?”

  “Don't need one,” said Vimes. “Power at a point, that's what Tacticus says. And here it's the one right on the end of Ahmed's crossbow. That wouldn't frighten a D'reg, but you… I reckon you don't think like them. Tell your men to stand down. I want the order to go out right now.”

  “Even Ahmed would not shoot his prince in cold blood,” said Prince Cadram.

  Vimes snatched the crossbow. “I wouldn't ask him to!” He took aim. “Give that order!”

  The Prince stared at him.

  “Count of three!” shouted Vimes.

  General Ashal leaned down and whispered something to the Prince. The man's expression stiffened and he glanced back at Vimes again.

  “That's right,” said Vimes. “It runs in the family.”

  “It would be murder!”

  “Would it? In wartime? I'm from Ankh-Morpork. Aren't I supposed to be at war with you? Can't be murder if there's a war on. That's written down somewhere.”

  The general leaned down and whispered.

  “One,” said Vimes.

  Now there was a hurried argument.

  “Two.”

  “Myprincewishesmetosay—” the general began.

  “All right, slow down,” said Vimes.

  “If it makes you any happier, I will send out the order,” said the general. “Let the messengers leave.”

  Vimes nodded and lowered the bow. The Prince shifted uneasily.

  “And the Ankh-Morpork army will stand down as well,” said Vimes.

  “But, Vimes, you're on our side—” Rust began.

  “Bloody hell, I'm going to shoot someone today and it could just be you, Rust,” Vimes snarled.

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Hornett tugged at his commander's jacket. “May I have a word?”

  Vimes heard them whispering, and then the young man left.

  “All right, we are all disarmed,” said Rust. “We are all ‘under arrest’. And now, commander?”

  “I ought to read them their rights, sir,” said Carrot.

  “What are you talking about?” said Vimes.

  “The men out there, sir.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. Do it, then.”

  Oh gods, I arrested an entire battlefield, Vimes thought. And you can't do that.

  But I've done it. And we've only got six cells back at the Yard, and we keep the coal in one of them.

  You can't do it.

  Was this the army that invaded your country, ma'am? No, officer, they were taller than that…

  How about this one? I'm not sure — get them to march up and down a bit…

  Carrot's voice could be heard outside, slightly muffled:

  “Now… can you all hear me? You gentlemen in the back there? Anyone who can't hear me, please raise… all right, has anyone got a megaphone? Some cardboard I could roll up? In that case I'll shout…”

  “What now?” said the Prince.

  “I'm taking you back to Ankh-Morpork—”

  “I don't think so. That would be an act of war.”

  “You are making a mockery of the whole business, Vimes!” said Lord Rust.

  “So long as I'm doing something right, then.” Vimes nodded at Ahmed.

  “Then you can answer for your crime here, sire,” he said.

  “In what court?” said the Prince.

  Ahmed leaned closer to Vimes. “What was your plan from here on?” he whispered.

  “I never thought we'd get this far!”

  “Ah. Well… it has been interesting, Sir Samuel.”

  Prince Cadram smiled at Vimes. “Would you like some coffee while you are considering your next move?” he said. He gestured to an ornate silver pot on the table.

  “We've got proof,” Vimes said. But he could feel the world dropping away. The point about burning your boats is that you shouldn't be standing on them when you drop the match.

  “Really? Fascinating. And to whom will you show this proof, Sir Samuel?”

  “We'll have to find a court.”

  “Intriguing. A court in Ankh-Morpork, perhaps? Or a court here?”

  “Someone told me that the world watches,” said Vimes.

  There was silence except for the muffled sounds of Carrot, outside, and the occasional buzz of a fly.

  “…bingeley-bingeley beep…” The Dis-organizer's voice had lost its chirpy little edge, and sounded
sleepy and bewildered.

  Heads turned.

  “…Seven eh em… Organize Defenders at River Gate… Seven twenty-five… Hand-to-Hand Fighting in Peach Pie Street… Seven forty-eight eight eight… Rally Survivors in Sator Square… Things To Do Today: Build Build Build Barricades…”

  He was aware of surreptitious movement behind him, and then slight pressure. Ahmed was standing back to back with him.

  “What is that thing talking about?”

  “Search me. Sounds like it's in a different world, doesn't it…?”

  He could feel events racing towards a distant wall. Sweat filled his eyes. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a proper sleep. His legs twinged. His arms ached, pulled down by the heavy bow.

  “…bingeley… Eight oh two eh em, Death of Corporal Littlebottombottom… Eight oh three eh em… Death of Sergeant Detritus… Eight oh threethreethree eh em and seven seconds seconds… Death of Constable Visit… Eight oh three eh em and nineninenine seconds… Death of death of death of…”

  “They say that in Ankh-Morpork one of your ancestors killed a king,” said the Prince. “And he also came to no good end.”

  Vimes wasn't listening.

  “…Death of Constable Dorfl… Eight oh three eh em and fourteenteenteen seconds…”

  The figure in the throne seemed to take up the whole world.

  “Death of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson… beep…”

  And Vimes thought: I nearly didn't come. I nearly stayed in Ankh-Morpork.

  He had always wondered how Old Stoneface had felt, that frosty morning when he picked up the axe that had no legal blessing because the King wouldn't recognize a court even if a jury could be found, that frosty morning when he prepared to sever what people thought was a link between men and deity.

  “…beep… Things To Do Today Today Today: Die…”

  The sensation flowed into his veins like fresh warm blood. It was the feeling that you got when the law ran out, and you looked into a mocking face on the other side of it and you decided that you couldn't go on living if you did not step over the line and do one clean thing—

  There was shouting outside. He blinked away the sweat.

  “Ah… Commander Vimes…” said a voice somewhere back over the border.

  He kept his aching gaze sighted along the bow. “Yes?”

  A hand darted down and grabbed the arrow out of its groove. Vimes blinked. His finger automatically squeezed the trigger. The string slammed back with a thunk. And the look on the Prince's face, he knew, would keep him warm on cold nights, if there were ever cold nights again.