Jingo

“It might be the worst part,” said the commander. “Or, there again, the bit where they suddenly rise out of the desert and cut you in half might be the worst part.” He stared mournfully at the treacherously empty sand. “Or the bit where a maddened sheep tries to gnaw your nose off might be the worst part. In fact, when you think of all the things that can happen when you're surrounded by a horde of screaming D'regs, the bit where they aren't there at all is, I think you'll find, the best part.”

The sergeant wasn't trained for this sort of thing. So he said, “They're late.”

“Good. Rather them than us.”

“Sun's right up now, sir.”

The commander looked at his shadow. It was full day, and the sand was mercifully free of his blood. The commander had been pacifying various recalcitrant parts of Klatch for long enough to wonder why, if he was pacifying people, he always seemed to be fighting them. Experience had taught him never to say things like “I don't like it, it's too quiet.” There was no such thing as too quiet.

“They might have decamped in the night, sir,” said the sergeant.

“That doesn't sound like the D'regs. They never run away. Anyway, I can see their tents.”

“Why don't we rush 'em, sir?”

“You haven't fought D'regs before, sergeant?”

“No, sir. I've been pacifying the Mad Savatars in Uhistan, though, and they're—”

“The D'regs are worse, sergeant. They pacify right back at you.”

“I didn't say how mad the Savatars were, sir.”

“Compared to the D'regs, they were merely slightly vexed.”

The sergeant felt that his reputation was being impugned.

“How about I take a few men and investigate, sir?”

The commander glanced at the sun again. Already the air was too hot to breathe.

“Oh, very well. Let's go.”

The Klatchians advanced on the camp. There were the tents, and the ash of fires. But there were no camels and horses, merely a long scuffed trail leading off among the dunes.

Morale began to rise a little. Attacking a dangerous enemy who isn't there is one of the more attractive forms of warfare, and there was a certain amount of assertion about how lucky the D'regs were to have run away in time, and some extemporizing on the subject of what the soldiers would have done to the D'regs if they'd caught them…

“Who's that?” said the sergeant.

A figure appeared between the dunes, riding on a camel. His white robes fluttered in the breeze.

He slid down when he reached the Klatchians, and waved at them.

“Good morning, gentlemen! May I persuade you to surrender?”

“Who are you?”

“Captain Carrot, sir. If you would be kind enough to lay down your weapons no one will get hurt.”

The commander looked up. Blobs were appearing along the tops of the dunes. They rose, and turned out to be heads.

“They're… D'regs, sir!” said the sergeant.

“No. D'regs would be charging, sergeant.”

“Oh, sorry. Shall I tell them to charge?” said Carrot. “Is that what you'd prefer?”

The D'regs were all along the dunes now. The climbing sun glittered off metal.

“Are you telling me,” the commander began slowly, “that you can persuade D'regs not to charge?”

“It was tricky, but I think they've got the idea,” said Carrot.

The commander considered his position. There were D'regs on either side. His troop were practically huddling together. And this red-headed, blue-eyed man was smiling at him.

“How do they feel about the merciful treatment of prisoners?” he ventured.

“I think they could get the hang of it. If I insist.”

The commander glanced at the silent D'regs again.

“Why?” he said. “Why aren't they fighting us?” he said.

“My commander says he doesn't want unnecessary loss of life, sir,” said Carrot. “That's Commander Vimes, sir. He's sitting on that dune up there.”

“You can persuade armed D'regs not to charge and you have a commander?”

“Yes, sir. He says this is a police action.”

The commander swallowed. “We give in,” he said.

“What, just like that, sir?” said his sergeant. “Without a fight?”

“Yes, sergeant. Without a fight. This man can make water run uphill and he has a commander. I love the idea of giving in without a fight. I've fought for ten years and giving in without a fight is what I've always wanted to do.”

Water dripped off the Boat's metal ceiling and blobbed on to the paper in front of Leonard of Quirm. He wiped it away. It might have been boring, waiting in a small metal can under a nondescript jetty, but Leonard had no concept of the term.

Absentmindedly, he jotted a brief sketch of an improved ventilation system.