Jingo

“And some want to join us, sir. There's Goriffs lad and a few others. They were just dragooned into the army yesterday. They don't even know why they're fighting. So I said they could.”

Vimes took the captain aside. “Er… I don't remember suggesting that any of the prisoners joined us,” he said quietly.

“Well, sir… I thought, what with our army approaching, and since quite a lot of these lads are from various corners of the empire and don't like the Klatchians any more than we do, I thought that a flying column of guerrilla fighters—”

“We aren't soldiers!”

“Er, I thought we were soldiers—”

“Yes, yes, all right. In a way… but really we're coppers, like we've always been. We don't kill people unless—”

Ahmed? Everyone's slightly on edge when he's around, he worries people, he gets information from all over the place, he seems to go where he pleases, and he's always around when there's trouble– Damn damn damn…

He ran through the crowd until he reached Jabbar, who was watching Carrot with the usual puzzled smile that Carrot caused in innocent bystanders.

“Tree dace,” said Vimes. “Three days. That's seventy-two hours!”

“Yes, offendi?” said Jabbar. It was the voice of someone who recognized dawn, noon and sunset, and just let everything in between happen whenever it liked.

“So why's he called 71-hour Ahmed? What's so special about the extra hour?”

Jabbar grinned nervously.

“Did he do something after seventy-one hours?” said Vimes.

Jabbar folded his arms. “I will not say.”

“He told you to keep us here?”

“Yes.”

“But not to kill us.”

“Oh, I would not kill my friend Sir Sam Mule—”

“And don't give me all that eyeball rubbish,” said Vimes. “He wanted time to get somewhere and do something, right?”

“I will not say.”

“You don't need to,” said Vimes. “Because we are leaving. And if you kill us… well, probably you can. But 71-hour Ahmed would not like that, I expect.”

Jabbar looked like a man making a difficult decision.

“He will be coming back!” he said. “Tomorrow! No problem!”

“I'm not waiting! And I don't think he wants me killed, Jabbar. He wants me alive. Carrot?”

Carrot hurried over. “Yes, sir?”

Vimes was aware that Jabbar was staring at him in horror.

“We've lost Ahmed,” he said. “Even Angua can't pick up his trail with the sand blowing all over the place. We've got no place here. We're not needed here.”

“But we are, sir!” Carrot burst out. “We could help the desert tribes—”

“Oh, you want to stay and fight?” said Vimes. “Against the Klatchians?”

“Against the bad Klatchians, sir.”

“Ah, well, that's the trick, isn't it? When one of them comes screaming at you waving a sword, how do you spot his moral character? Well, you can stay if you like and fight for the good name of Ankh-Morpork. It should be a pretty short fight. But I'm off. Jenkins probably hasn't got afloat again. OK, Jabbar?”

The D'reg was staring at the desert sand between his feet.

“You know where he is now, don't you?” Vimes prompted.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“No. I swore to him.”

“But D'regs are oath-breakers. Everyone knows that.”

Jabbar gave Vimes a grin. “Oh, oaths. Stupid things. I gave him my word.”

“He won't break it, sir,” said Carrot. “D'regs are very particular about things like that. It's only when they swear on gods and things that they'll ever break an oath.”

“I will not tell you where he is,” said Jabbar. “But…” he grinned again, but there was no humour in it, “how brave are you, Mr Vimes?”

“Stop complaining, Nobby.”

“I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin' these trousers are a bit draughty, that's all I'm saying.”

“They look good on you, though.”

“And what're these tin bowls supposed to be doing?”

“They're supposed to be protecting the bits you haven't got, Nobby.”

“The way this breeze is blowing, I could do with some to protect the bits I have.”

“Just try and act ladylike, will you, Nobby?”

Which would be hard, Sergeant Colon had to admit. The lady for whom the clothes had been made had been quite tall and somewhat full-figured, whereas Nobby without his armour could have hidden behind a short stick if you attached a toast rack to it about two-thirds of the way up. He looked like a gauzy accordion with a lot of jewellery. In theory, the costume would have been quite revealing, if Corporal Nobbs was something you wished to see revealed, but there were so many billows and folds now that all one could reliably say was that he was in there somewhere. He was leading the donkey, which seemed to like him. Animals tended to like Nobby. He didn't smell wrong.

“And them boots don't work,” Sergeant Colon went on.

“Why not? You kept yours on.”

“Yeah, but I'm not supposed to be a flower of the desert, right? A moon of someone's delight shouldn't kick up sparks when she walks, am I right?”

“They belonged to my gran, I ain't leaving 'em around for anyone to nick, and I ain't mooning for anyone's delight,” said Nobby sulkily.