Jingo

There was shouting behind them. Men were coming out of the tent, arguing. Lord Rust was among them. He looked around, talking to his companions. Then he spotted Vimes and rocketed furiously towards him.

“Vimes!”

Vimes looked up, hand halfway to his cigar.

“We would have won, you know,” growled Rust. “We would have won! But we were betrayed on the brink of success!”

Vimes stared at him.

“And it's your fault, Vimes! We'll be the laughing stock of Klatch! You know the value these people put on face, and we won't have any! Vetinari is finished! And so are you! And so is your stupid, mongrel, cowardly Watch! What do you say to that, Vimes? Eh?”

The watchmen sat like statues, waiting for Vimes to say something. Or even move.

“Eh? Vimes?”

Rust sniffed. “What's that smell?”

Vimes slowly shifted his gaze to his fingers. Smoke was rising. There was a faint sizzling.

He stood up and brought his fingers up in front of Rust's face.

“Take it,” he said.

“That's… just some trick…”

“Take it,” said Vimes.

Mesmerized, Rust licked his fingers and gingerly took the ember. “It doesn't hurt—”

“Yes, it does,” said Vimes.

“In fact it– Aargh!”

Rust jumped back, dropped the ember and sucked his blistered fingers.

“The trick is not to mind that it hurts,” said Vimes. “Now go away.”

“You won't last long,” Rust sneered. “You wait until we're back in the city. You just wait.” He strode off, holding his stricken hand.

Vimes went back and sat down by the fire. After a while he said: “Where's he gone now?”

“Back to the lines, sir. I think he's ordering the men home.”

“Can he see us?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“There's too many people in the way, sir.”

“You're quite sure?”

“Not unless he can see through camels, sir.”

“Good.” Vimes stuck his fingers in his mouth. Sweat was pouring down his face. “Damn damn damn! Has anyone got any cold water?”

Captain Jenkins had got his ship afloat again. It had taken a lot of digging, and some careful work with balks of timber and the assistance of a Klatchian captain who had decided not to let patriotism stand in the way of profit.

He and his crew were resting on the shore when a greeting rang out from over them.

He squinted into the sun.

“That… that can't be Vimes, can it?”

The crew stared.

“Let's get aboard right now!”

A figure started down the face of the dune. It moved very fast, much faster than a man could run on the shifting sand, and moved in a zig-zag fashion. As it drew nearer, it turned out to be a man standing on a shield.

It slid to a halt a few feet away from the astonished Jenkins.

“Good of you to wait, captain!” said Carrot. “Very many thanks! The others will be down in a minute.”

Jenkins looked back to the top of the dune. There were other, darker figures there now.

“Those are D'regs!” he shouted.

“Oh, yes. Lovely people. Have you met them at all?”

Jenkins stared at Carrot. “Did you win?” he said.

“Oh, yes. On penalties, in the end.”

Green-blue light filtered through the tiny windows of the Boat.

Lord Vetinari pulled the steering levers until he was pretty certain that they were heading towards a suitable ship and said:

“What is it I can smell, Sergeant Colon?”

“It's Bet– It's Nobby, sir,” said Colon, pedalling industriously.

“Corporal Nobbs?”

Nobby almost blushed. “I bought a bottle of scent, sir. For my young lady.”

Lord Vetinari coughed. “What exactly do you mean by ‘your young lady’?” he said.

“Well, for when I get one,” said Nobby.

“Ah.” Even Lord Vetinari sounded relieved.

“On account of I expect I shall now, me having fully explored my sexual nature and now feeling fully comfortable with meself,” said Nobby.

“You feel comfortable with yourself?”

“Yessir!” said Nobby happily.

“And when you find this lucky lady, you will give her this bottle of—”

“'s called ‘Kasbah Nights’, sir.”

“Of course. Very… floral, isn't it?”

“Yessir. That's 'cos of the jasmine and rare ungulants in it, sir.”

“And yet at the same time curiously… penetrative.”

Nobby grinned. “Good value for money, sir. A little goes a long way.”

“Not far enough, possibly?”

But Nobby rusted even irony. “I got it in the same shop that sarge got the hump, sir.”

“Ah… yes.”

There wasn't very much space in the Boat, and most of it was taken up with Sergeant Colon's souvenirs. He'd been allowed a brief shopping expedition “to take home something for the wife, sir, otherwise I'll never hear the last of it”.

“Mrs Colon will like a stuffed camel hump, will she, sergeant?” said the Patrician doubtfully.

“Yessir. She can put things on it, sir.”

“And the set of nested brass tables?”

“To put things on, sir.”

“And the” – there was a clanking – “set of goat bells, ornamental coffee pot, miniature camel saddle and this… strange glass tube with little bands of different coloured sand in it… what are these for?”

“Conversation pieces, sir.”

“You mean people will say things like ‘What are they for?’, do you?”

Sergeant Colon looked pleased with himself.

“See, sir? We're talking about 'em already.”

“Remarkable.”