Jingo

“The point I'm making is that it won't be a request or a suggestion or some sort of hint.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I have, as you know, always encouraged my officers to think for themselves and not blindly obey me, but sometimes in any organization it is necessary for instructions to be followed to the letter and with alacrity.”

“Right, sir.”

“Untie me right now or you'll bloody well live to regret untying me!”

“Er, sir, I believe there is an inadvertent inconsistency in—”

“Carrot!”

“Of course, sir.”

His ropes were cut. He slid down onto the sand. The camel turned its head, looked at him with its nostrils for a moment, and then looked away.

Vimes managed to sit upright while Carrot busied himself cutting the rest of his bonds.

“Captain, why are you wearing a white sheet?”

“It's a burnous, sir. Very practical for desert wear. The D'regs gave them to us.”

“Us?”

“The rest of us, sir.”

“Everyone's OK?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But they attacked—”

“Yes, sir. But they only wanted to take us prisoner, sir. One of them did accidentally cut Reg's head off, but he did help him sew it on again, so no real harm done there.”

“I thought D'regs didn't take prisoners…?”

“Beats me too, sir. But they say if we try to escape they'll cut our feet off, and Reg says he hasn't got enough thread for everyone, sir.”

Vimes rubbed his head, Someone had hit him so hard his helmet was dented.

“What went wrong?” he said. “I had their boss down!”

“As I understand it, sir, the D'regs think that any leader who is stupid enough to be defeated so easily isn't worth following. It's a Klatchian thing.”

Vimes tried to persuade himself that there wasn't a hint of sarcasm in Carrot's voice as he went on: “They're not really very interested in leaders, sir, to tell you the truth. They look on them as a sort of ornament. You know… just someone to shout ‘Charge!’, sir.”

“A leader has to do other things, Carrot.”

“The D'regs think ‘Charge!’ pretty well covers all of them, sir.”

Vimes managed to stand up. Strange muscles twanged in his legs. He tottered forward.

“Here, let me give you a hand…” said Carrot, catching him.

The sun was setting. Ragged tents clustered below one of the dunes, and there was the glow of firelight. Someone was laughing. It didn't sound like a prison.

But then, thought Vimes, the desert was probably better than bars, He wouldn't even know which way to run, feet or no feet.

“The D'regs, like all Klatchians, are a very hospitable people,” said Carrot, as if he'd memorized this. “They take hospitality very, very seriously.”

Their captors were sitting round the fire. So were the watchmen. They'd also been persuaded to dress more suitably, which meant that Cheery looked like a girl in her mum's dress, apart from the iron helmet, and Reg Shoe looked like a mummy, and Detritus was a small snowcovered mountain.

“He's gone very… insensible in all this heat,” whispered Carrot. “And that's Constable Visit over there, arguing religion. There are six hundred and fifty-three religions on the Klatchian continent.”

“He must be having fun.”

“And this is Jabbar,” said Carrot. Exhibit A, who looked like a slightly older version of 71-hour Ahmed, stood up and salaamed to Vimes.

“Offendi,” he said.

“He's their… well, he's like an official wise man,” said Carrot.

“Oh, so he's not the one who tells them to charge?” said Vimes His head buzzed with the heat.

“No, that's the leader,” said Carrot. “Whenever they have one.”

“So perhaps Jabbar tells them when it's wise to charge?” said Vimes brightly.

“It's always wise to charge, offendi,” said Jabbar. He bowed again. “My tent is your tent,” he said.

“It is?” said Vimes.

“My wives are your wives.,.”

Vimes looked panicky. “They are? Really?”

“My food is your food…” Jabbar went on.

Vimes stared down at the dish by the fire. It looked like a sheep or a goat had been the main course. And the man bent down, picked up a morsel and handed it to him.

Sam Vimes looked at the mouthful. And it looked back.

“The best part,” said Jabbar, and made appreciative suckling noises. He added something in Klatchian. There was some muffled laughter from the other men around the fire.

“This looks like a sheep's eyeball,” said Vimes, doubtfully.

“Yes, sir,” said Carrot. “But it is unwise to—”

“You know what?” Vimes went on. “I think this is a little game called ‘Let's see what offendi will swallow’. And I'm not swallowing this, my friend.”

Jabbar gave him an appraising look.

The sniggering stopped.

“Then it is true that you can see further than most,” he said.

“So can this food,” said Vimes. “My father told me never to eat anything that can wink back.”

There was one of those little hanging–by–a–thread moments, which might suddenly rock one way or the other into a gale of laughter or sudden death.

Then Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back. The eyeball shot off his palm and into the shadows.

“Well done! Extremely good! First time it have not worked in twenty year! Now sit down and have proper rice and sheep just like mother!”