Jingo

by Terry Pratchett

Page 13

 

  You were having a go at me, dont deny it! just because Im going through a bit of an emotional wossname, eh?

  It was just a joke, Nobby. Just a joke. Nobby peered under the narrow bed. Wow! he said, all emotional wossnames forgotten. What is it? What is it? said Colon. It looks like a complete run of Bows and Ammo! And. . . Nobby pulled another stack of badly engraved magazines out into the light, heres Warrior of Fortune, look! And Practical Siege Weapons. . . Colon leafed through page after page of very similarlooking people holding very similar weapons of personal destruction. You got to be a bit odd to sit around all day reading this kind of thing, he said. Yeah, said Nobby. Here, dont put that one back, thats last Augusts issue, I aint got that one. Hang on, theres a box right at the back. . . He wriggled out, towing a small box with him. It was locked, but the cheap metal gave way when he accidentally levered at the lid. Silver coins gleamed. Lots and lots of them. Whoops… he muttered. Were in trouble now. . .

  Thats Klatchian money, that is! said Colon. Sometimes people slip you one instead of a half–dollar in your change. Look, theres all curly writing on them!

  Were in big trouble, said Nobby. No, no, no, this is a Clue what we have found by patient detectoring, said Sergeant Colon. And its going to be a feather in our caps and no mistake when Mr Vimes hears about it!

  How much do you reckon there is?

  Got to be hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth, said Colon. And thats a lot of money to a Klatchian. You can probably live like a king for a year on a dollar, in Klatch.

  It wasnt very patient detectoring, said Nobby doubtfully. All I did was look under the bed.

  Ah, but thats because you is trained, said Colon. Your basic civilian wouldnt think of that, right? Ah, it all begins to make sense!

  Does it? Why would the Klatchians give him money to shoot a Klatchian? said Nobby. . Colon tapped the side of his nose. Politics, he said. Ah, politics, said Nobby. Ah, well, politics. I see. Politics. Right. So why?

  Aha, said Colon again, tapping the other side of his nose. Whyre you picking your nose, sarge?

  Im tapping it, said Colon severely. Thats to show Im in the know.

  In the nose, said Nobby cheerfully. Its just the sort of underhand cunning thing theyd do, said Colon. Payin us to kill them? said Nobby.

  Ah, you see, some Klatchian nob gets topped here, and then they can send a snotty note saying, “You killed our big nob, you foreign nephews of dogs, this means war!” see? A perfect excuse.

  Do you need an excuse to have a war? said Nobby. I mean, who for? Cant you just say, “You got lots of cash and land but Ive got a big sword so divvy up right now, chop chop?” Thats what Id do, said Corporal Nobbs, military strategist. And I wouldnt even say that until after Id attacked.

  Ah, but thats cos you dont know about politics, said Colon. You cant do that stuff any more. Mark my words, this case has got politics written all over it. Thats why old Vimes put me on it, depend upon it. Politics. Young Carrots all very well, but you need a hexperienced man of the world in these delicate political situations.

  Youve certainly got the nose–tapping just right, said Nobby. I generally miss. But he felt troubled, if not in his nose then in whatever small organ propelled his blood around his body. This didnt feel right. Nothing much in Nobbys life had ever felt right, so he knew very well how the feeling felt. He looked up at the bare walls and down at the rough floorboards. Theres a bit of sand on the floor, he said. Another Clue, then, said Colon happily. A Klatchian has been here. Bugger all else but sand in Klatch. Still got some in his sandals. Nobby opened the window. It gave on to a gently sloping roof. Someone could get through it easily and be away over the tiles and into the maze of chimneys. He couldve gone in and out this way, sarge, he volunteered. Good point, Nobby. Write that down. Evidence of conniving and sneaking around. Nobby peered down. Here, theres glass outside, Fred. . . Sergeant Colon joined him at the stricken window. One of the panes had been smashed. Outside, glass glittered on the tiles. That could be a clue, eh? said Nobby, hopefully. It certainly is, said Sergeant Colon. See the glass fell outside the window? Everyone knows you look at which way the glass fails. I reckon he was just testing his bow and it went off while it was loaded.

  Thats clever, sarge, said Nobby. Thats detectoring, said Colon. Its no good just looking at things, Nobby. You got to think straight, too.

  Cecil, sarge.

  Thats Frederick, Cecil. Come on, I think weve wrapped this up nicely. Old Vimes says he wants a report toot sweet. Nobby looked out of the broken window. The roof abutted the end wall of a much larger warehouse. For a moment he found himself thinking bendy rather than straight, but he reasoned that his thinking was only a corporals

  thinking, and worth far less per thought than a sergeants thinking, so he kept his private thoughts to himself. As they went downstairs Mrs Spent watched them suspiciously through a barely opened doorway at the far end of the hall, clearly ready to slam it shut at the first suggestion of any sexual magnetism. Its not as if I even know where to get a sexual magnet, Nobby muttered. And she didnt even laugh. . . . Also, we went to the bow shops in the Street of Cunning Artificers and showed the iconograph to the man in Burleigh and Stronginthearm, who vouchsafed, that is him, e. g. , he was referring to the Diseased. . . Oh, my. . . Vimess lips moved slightly as his gaze went back up the page. . . . also in addition to the Klatchian money you could tell one of them had been there because of, e. g. , the sand on the floor. . . Hed still got sand in his sandals? murmured Vimes. Good grief.

  Sam? Vimes looked up from his reading. Your soup will be cold, said Lady Sybil from the far end of the table. Youve been holding that spoonful in the air for the last five minutes by the clock.

  Sorry, dear.

  What are you reading?

  Oh, just a little masterpiece, said Vimes, pushing Fred Colons report aside. Interesting, is it? said Lady Sybil a little sourly. Practically unparalleled, said Vimes. The only things they havent found are the bunch of dates and the camel hidden under the pillow. . . Belatedly, his nuptial radar detected a certain chilliness from the far side of the cruet. Is, er, there something wrong, dear? he said. Can you remember when we last had dinner together, Sam?

  Tuesday, wasnt it?

  That was the Guild of Merchants annual dinner, Sam. Vimess brow wrinkled. But you were there too, werent you? A further subtle change in the dragonhouse quotient told him that this was not a well chosen answer. And then you rushed off afterwards because of that business with the barber in Gleam Street.

  Sweeney Jones, said Vimes. Well, he was killing people, Sybil. The best you could say is that he didnt mean to. He was just very bad at shaving–

  But you didnt have to go, Im sure.

  Policings a twenty–four–hour job, dear.

  Only for you! Your constables do their ten hours and thats it. But youre always working. Its not good for you. Youre always running around during

  the day, and when I wake up in the middle of the night theres always a cold space beside me. . . The dots hung in the air, the ghosts of words unsaid. Little things, thought Vimes. Thats how a war starts. Theres so much to do, Sybil, he said, as patiently as he could. Theres always been a lot to do. And the bigger the Watch gets the more there is to do, have you noticed that? Vimes nodded. That was true. Rotas, receipts, notebooks, reports. . . the Watch might or might not be making a difference in the city, but it was certainly frightening a lot of trees. You ought to delegate, said Lady Sybil. So he tells me, muttered Vimes. Pardon?

  Just thinking aloud, dear. Vimes pushed the paperwork away. Ill tell you what. . . lets have an evening in, he said. Theres a nice fire in the drawing room–

  Er. . . no, Sam, there isnt.

  Hasnt young Forthright lit it? Forthright was the Boy; it came as news to Vimes that this was an official servant position, but the Boys job was to light the fires, clean the privies, help the gardener and take the blame. Hes gone off to be a drummer boy in the Duke
of Eorles regiment, said Lady Sybil. Him too? He seemed a bright lad! Isnt he too young?

  He said he was going to lie about his age.

  I hope he lies about his musical ability. Ive heard him whistling. Vimes shook his head. Whatever possessed him to do such a daft thing?

  He thinks the uniform will impress the girls. Sybil gave him a gentle smile. An evening at home suddenly began to seem very inviting. Well, it wont take a genius to find the woodshed, said Vimes. And then we can bolt the doors and– One of the aforesaid doors shook to the sound of frantic knocking. Vimes caught Sybils gaze. Go on, then. Answer it, she sighed, and sat down. The door admitted Corporal Littlebottom, seriously out of breath. You. . . got to come quick, sir. . . its. . . murder this. . . time! Vimes looked helplessly at his wife. Of course you must go, she said. Angua brushed out her hair in front of the mirror. I dont like this, said Carrot. Its not a proper way to behave. She patted him on the shoulder. Dont worry, she said. Vimes explained it all. Youre acting as though were doing something wrong.

  I like being a watchman, said Carrot, still in the mournful depths. And youve got to wear a uniform. If you dont wear a uniform its like spying on people. He knows I think that. Angua looked at his short red hair and honest cars. Ive taken a lot of the work off his shoulders, Carrot went on. He doesnt have to go on patrol at all, but he still tries to do everything.

  Perhaps he doesnt want you to be quite so helpful? said Angua, as tactfully as possible. Its not as if hes getting any younger, either. Ive tried to point that out.

  That was kind of you.

  And Ive never worn plain clothes.

  On you theyll never be very plain, said Angua, pulling on her coat. It was a relief to be out of that armour. As for Carrot, there was no disguising him. The size, the ears, the red hair, the expression of muscular good–naturedness. . . I suppose a werewolf is in plain clothes all the time, when you think about it, said Carrot. Thank you, Carrot. And you are absolutely right.

  I just dont feel comfortable, living a lie.

  Walk a mile on these paws.

  Pardon?

  Oh. . . nothing. Goriffs son Janil had been angry. He didnt know why. The anger was built up of a lot of things. The firebomb last night was a big part. So were some of the words hed been hearing in the street. Hed had an argument with his father about sending that food round to the Watch House this morning. They were an official part of the city. They had those stupid badges. They had uniforms. He was angry about a lot of things, including the fact that he was thirteen. So when, at nine in the evening while his father was baking bread, the door had slammed back and a man had rushed in, Janil had pulled his fathers elderly crossbow from under the counter and aimed it where he thought the heart was and pulled the trigger. Carrot stamped his feet once or twice and looked around. Here, he said. I was standing here. And the Prince was. . . in that direction. Angua obediently walked across the square. Several people turned to look curiously at Carrot. All right. . . stop. . . no, on a bit. . . stop. . . turn a little bit to the left. . . I mean my left. . . back a bit. . . now throw your arms up. . . He walked over to her and followed her gaze.