Jingo

“Yeah, and mad priests,” said Colon. “Foaming at the mouth, half of 'em. Believe all kinds of loony things.”

They watched the painter in silence for a moment. Colon was dreading the question that came.

“So how exactly are they different from ours, then?” said Nobby. “I mean, some of our priests are—”

“I hope you ain't being unpatriotic,” said Colon severely.

“No, of course not. I was just asking. I can see where they'd be a lot worse than ours, being foreign and everything.”

“And of course they're all mad for fighting,” said Colon. “Vicious buggers with all those curvy swords of theirs.”

“You mean, like they viciously attack you while cowardly running away after tasting cold steel?” said Nobby, who sometimes had a treacherously good memory for detail.

“You can't trust 'em, like I said. And they burp hugely after meals.”

“Well… so do you, sarge.”

“Yes, but I don't pretend it's polite, Nobby.”

“Well, it's certainly a good job there's you around to explain things, sarge,” said Nobby. “It's amazing the stuff you know.”

“I surprise myself, sometimes,” said Colon modestly.

The painter of the ship leaned back to admire his work. They heard him give a heartfelt little groan, and both of them nodded in satisfaction.

Hostage negotiations were always tricky, Carrot had learned. It paid not to rush things. Let the other man talk when he was ready.

So he was whiling away the time sitting behind the upturned cart they were using as a shield from the occasional random arrow and writing his letter home. The exercise was carried out with much frowning, sucking of the pencil and what Commander Vimes called a ballistic approach to spelling and punctuation.

Dere Mum and Dade,

I hope this letter finds you in good health as I am also. Thank you for the big parcel of dwarf bread you sent me I have sharred it with the other dwarfs on the Watch and they say it is better even than Ironcrufts (“T'Bread Wi' T'Edge”) and you carn't beat the taste of a home-forged loaf, so well done mum.

Things are going well with the Wolf Pack that I have told you about but Cmdr. Vimes is not happy, I told him they were good lads at heart and it would help them to learn the ways of Natchure and the Wilderness and he said hah they know them already that is the trouble. But he gave me $5 to buy a football which proves he cares deep down.

We have more new faeces in the Watch which is just as well with this truble with Klatch, it is all looking very Grave, I feel it is the Clam before the Storm and no mistake.

I must brake off now because some robbers have broke into Vortin's Dimond Warehouse and have taken Corporal Angua hostage. I fear there may be terrible bloodshed so,

I remain,

Yr. Loving Son,

Carrot Ironfoundersson (Captain)

ps I will write again tomorrow

Carrot folded the letter carefully and slipped it under his breastplate.

“I think they have had long enough to consider our suggestion, constable. What's next on the list?”

Constable Shoe leafed through a file of grubby paper and pulled out another sheet

“Well, we're down to offences of stealing pennies off blind beggars now,” he said. “Oh, no, this is a good one…”

Carrot took the sheet in one hand and megaphone in the other and raised his head carefully over the edge of the cart.

“Good morning again!” he said brightly. “We've found another one. Theft of jewellery from—”

“Yes! Yes! We did it!” shouted a voice from the building.

“Really? I haven't even said what it was yet,” said Carrot.

“Never mind, we did it! Now can we come out, please?” There was another sound behind the voice. It sounded like a low, continuous growl.

“I think you ought to be able to tell me what you stole,” said Carrot.

“Er… rings? Gold rings?”

“Sorry, no rings mentioned.”

“Pearl necklace? Yes, that's what—”

“Getting warmer, but no.”

“Earrings?”

“Ooo, you're so close,” said Carrot encouragingly.

“A crown, was it? Maybe a coronet?”