Jingo

“Pfui,” he said. “A few square miles of uninhabited fertile ground with superb anchorage in an unsurpassed strategic position? What sort of inconsequence is that for civilized people to war over?”

Once again Vimes felt the gaze on him, reading him. Well, the hell with it. He said, “Sorry, I'm not good at this diplomacy business. Did you mean what you just said then?”

There was another snigger. Vimes turned and looked at the leering bearded face again. And was aware of a smell, no, a stench of cloves.

Good grief, he chews the stinking things…

“Ah,” said the Prince, “you haven't met 71-hour Ahmed?”

Ahmed grinned again and bowed. “Offendi,” he said, in a voice like a gravel path.

And that seemed to be it. Not “This is 71-hour Ahmed, Cultural Attache” or “71-hour Ahmed, my bodyguard” or even “71-hour Ahmed, walking strongroom and moth killer”. It was clear that the next move was up to Vimes.

“That's… er… that's an unusual name” he said.

“Not at all,” said the Prince smoothly. “Ahmed is a very common name in my country.”

He leaned forward again. Vimes recognized this as the prelude to a confidential aside. “Incidentally, was that beautiful lady I saw just now your first wife?”

“Er… all my wives,” said Vimes. “That is—”

“Could I offer you twenty camels for her?”

Vimes looked back into the dark eyes for a moment, glanced at 71-hour Ahmed's 24-carat grin, and said:

“This is another test, isn't it…?”

The Prince straightened up, looking pleased.

“Well done, Sir Samuel. You're good at this. Do you know, Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild was prepared to accept fifteen?”

“For Mrs Boos?” Vimes waggled a hand dismissively. “Nah… four camels, maybe four camels and a goat in a good light. And when she's had a shave.”

The milling guests turned at the sound of the Prince's explosion of laughter.

“Very good! Very good! I am afraid, commander, that some of your fellow citizens feel that just because my people invented advanced mathematics and allday camping we are complete barbarians who'd try to buy their wives at the drop of, shall we say, a turban. I am surprised they're giving me an honorary degree, considering how incredibly backward I am.”

“Oh? What degree is that?” said Vimes. No wonder this man was a diplomat. You couldn't trust him an inch, he thought in loops, and you couldn't help liking him despite it.

The Prince pulled a letter out of his robe.

“Apparently it's a Doctorum Adamus cum Flabello Dulci– Is there something wrong, Sir Samuel?”

Vimes managed to turn the treacherous laugh into a coughing fit. “No, no, nothing,” he said. “No.”

He desperately wanted to change the subject. And fortunately there was something here to provide just the opportunity.

“Why has Mr Ahmed got such a big curved sword slung on his back?” he said.

“Ah, you are a policeman, you notice such things—”

“It's hardly a concealed weapon, is it? It's nearly bigger than him. He's practically a concealed owner!”

“It's ceremonial,” said the Prince. “And he does fret so if he has to leave it behind.”

“And what exactly is his—”

“Ah, there you are,” said Ridcully. “I think we're just about ready. You know you go right at the front, Sam—”

“Yes, I know,” said Vimes. “I was just asking His Highness what—”

“—and if you, Your Highness, and you, Mr… my word, what a big sword, and you come back here and take your place among the honoured guests, and we'll be ready in a brace of sheikhs…”

What a thing it is to have a copper's mind, Vimes thought, as the great file of wizards and guests tried to form a dignified and orderly line behind him. Just because someone makes himself pleasant and likeable you start to be suspicious of him, for no other reason than the fact that anyone who goes out of their way to be nice to a copper has got something on their mind. Of course, he's a diplomat, but still… I just hope he never studied ancient languages, and that's a fact.

Someone tapped Vimes on the shoulder. He turned and looked right into the grin of 71-hour Ahmed.

“If hyou changing your mind, offendi, I give hyou twenty-five camels, no problem,” he said, pulling a clove from his teeth. “May your hloins be full of fruit.”

He winked. It was the most suggestive gesture Vimes had ever seen. “Is this another—” he began, but the man had vanished into the crowd.

“My loins be full of fruit?” he repeated to himself. “Good grief!”

71-hour Ahmed reappeared at his other elbow in a gust of cloves. “I go, I hcome back,” he growled happily. “The Prince hsays the degree is Doctor of Sweet Fanny Adams. A hwizard wheeze, yes? Oh, how we are laughing.”

And then he was gone.