Jingo

Lord Vetinari strode on ahead. The streets were already filling up. Al-Khali liked to get the business of the day started in the cool of dawn, before full day flamethrowered the landscape. No one paid the newcomers any attention, although a few people did turn round to watch Corporal Nobbs. Goats and chickens ambled out of the way as they passed.

“Watch out for people trying to sell you dirty postcards, Nobby,” said Colon. “My uncle was here once and he said some bloke tried to sell him a pack of dirty postcards for five dollars. Disgusted, he was.”

“Yeah, 'cos you can get 'em in the Shades for two dollars,” said Nobby.

“That's what he said. And they were Ankh-Morpork ones. Trying to flog us our own dirty postcards? I call that disgusting, frankly.”

“Good morning, sultan!” said a cheerful and somehow familiar voice. “New in town, are we?”

All three of them turned to a figure that had magically appeared from the mouth of an alleyway.

“Indeed, yes,” said the Patrician.

“I could see you were! Everyone is, these days. And it is your lucky day, shah! I am here to help, right? You want something, I got it!”

Sergeant Colon had been staring at the newcomer. He said, in a faraway voice, “Your name's going to be something like… Al-jibla or something, right?”

“Heard about me, have you?” said the trader jovially.

“Sort of, yeah,” said Colon slowly. “You're amazingly… familiar.”

Lord Vetinari pushed him aside. “We are strolling entertainers,” he said. “We were hoping to get an engagement at the Prince's palace… Perhaps you could help?”

The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, causing various particles to cascade into the little bowls in his tray.

“Dunno about the palace,” he said. “What's it you do?”

“We practise juggling, fire-eating, that sort of thing,” said Vetinari.

“Do we?” said Colon.

Al-jibla nodded at Nobby. “What does…”

“…she…” said Lord Vetinari helpfully.

“…she do?”

“Exotic dancing,” said Vetinari, while Nobby scowled.

“Pretty exotic, I should think,” said Al-jibla.

“You'd be amazed.”

A couple of armed men had drifted over to them. Sergeant Colon's heart sank. In those bearded faces he saw himself and Nobby, who at home would always saunter over to anything on the street that looked interesting.

“You are jugglers, are you?” said one of them. “Let's see you juggle, then.”

Lord Vetinari gave them a blank look and then glanced down at the tray around Al-jibla's neck. Among the more identifiable foodstuffs were a number of green melons.

“Very well,” he said, and picked up three of them.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.

After a few seconds he opened them again because a guard had said, “All right, but anyone can do it with three.”

“In that case perhaps Mr Al-jibla will throw me a few more?” said the Patrician, as the balls spun through his hands.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes again.

After a short while a guard said, “Seven is pretty good. But it's just melons.”

Colon opened his eyes.

The Klatchian guard twitched his robe aside. Half a dozen throwing knives glinted. And so did his teeth.

Lord Vetinari nodded. To Colon's growing surprise he did not seem to be watching the tumbling melons at all.

“Four melons and three knives,” he said. “If you would care to give the knives to my charming assistant Beti…”

“Who?” said Nobby.

“Oh? Why not seven knives, then?”

“Kind sirs, that would be too simple,” said Lord Vetinari.13 “I am but a humble tumbler. Please let me practice my art.”

“Beti?” said Nobby, glowering under his veils.

Three fruits arced gently out of the green whirl and thumped on to Al-jibla's tray.

The guards looked carefully, and to Colon's mind nervously, at the cross-dressed figure of the cross corporal.

“She's not going to do any kind of dance, is she?” one of them ventured.

“No!” snapped Beti.

“Promise?”14

Nobby grabbed three of the knives and tugged them out of the man's belt.

“I'll give them to his lor– to him, shall I, Beti?” said Colon, suddenly quite sure that keeping the Patrician alive was almost certainly the only way to avoid a brief cigarette in the sunshine. He was also aware that other people were drifting over to watch the show.

“To me, please… Al,” said the Patrician, nodding.

Colon tossed him the knives, slowly and gingerly. He's going to try to stab the guards, he thought. It's a ruse. And then everyone's going to tear us apart.

Now the circling blur glinted in the sunlight. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.

“Yet somehow dull,” said the Patrician.

And his hands moved in a complex pattern that suggested that his wrists must have moved through one another at least twice.

The tangled ball of hurtling fruit and cutlery leapt into the air.

Three melons dropped to the ground, cut cleanly in two.

Three knives thudded into the dust a few inches from their owner's sandals.

And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding—

The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humour was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.