Jingo

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.