Jingo

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.