Jingo (Discworld 21)

'Well, they are supposed to be our enemies.'

'I meant for you!'

'Why?' said Angua. 'I've never heard of werewolves in Klatch, so they probably don't know how to deal with us.' She undid the little leather collar that held her badge and handed it to Carrot. 'Don't worry,' she said. 'If the worst comes to the worst, I'll dive overboard.'

'Into the river?'

'Even the river Ankh can't kill a werewolf.' Angua glanced at the turgid water. 'Probably, anyway.' Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs had gone on patrol. They weren't sure why they were patrolling, and what they were supposed to do if they

saw a crime, although many years of training had enabled them not to see some quite large crimes. But they were creatures of habit. They were watchmen, so they patrolled. They didn't patrol with a purpose. They patrolled, as it were, in pure essence. Nobby's progress wasn't helped by the large, leatherbound book in his arms. 'A war'd do this place good,' said Sergeant Colon, after a while. 'Put some backbone in people. Everything's gone all to pot these days.'

'Not like when we were kids, sarge. 'Not like when we were kids indeed, Nobby.'

'People trusted one another in them days, didn't they, sarge?'

'People trusted one another, Nobby.'

'Yes, sarge. I know. And people didn't have to lock their doors, did they?'

'That's right, Nobby. And people were always ready to help. They were always in and out of one another's houses.'

'sright, sarge,' said Nobby vehemently. 'I know no-one ever locked their houses down our street.'

'That's what I'm talking about. That's my point.'

'It was 'cos the bastards even used to steal the locks.' Colon considered the truth of this. 'Yes, but at least it was each other's stuff they were nicking, Nobby. It's not like they was foreigners.'

'Right.' They strolled on for a while, each entangled in his own thoughts. 'Sarge?'

'Yes, Nobby?'

'Where's Nubilia?'

'Nubilia?'

'It's got to be a place, I reckon. Pretty warm there, I think?'

'Ah, Nubilia,' said Colon. He invented desperately. 'Right. Yes. It's one of them Klatchian places. Yeah. Got lots of sand. And mountains. Exports dates. Why'd you want to know?'

'Oh... no reason.'

'Nobby?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'Why are you carrying that huge book?'

'Hah, clever idea, sarge. I saw what you said about that book of your great–grandad, so if there's any fighting I got this one off'f Washpot. It's The Book of Om. Five inches thick.'

'It's a bit big for a pocket, Nobby. It's a bit big for a cart, to be honest.'

'I thought I could make sort of braces to carry it. I reckon even a longbow could only get an arrow as far as the Apocrypha.' A familiar creak made them look up. A Klatchian's head was swinging in the breeze.

'Fancy a pint?' said Sergeant Colon. 'Big Anjie brews up some that's a treat.'

'Better not, sarge. Mr Vimes is in a bit of a mood.' Colon sighed. 'You're right.' Nobby looked up at the head again– It was wooden. It had been repainted many times over the centuries. The Klatchian was smiling very happily for someone who'd never have to buy a shirt ever again. 'The Klatchian's Head. My grandad said his granddad remembered when it was still the real one,' Colon said. 'Of course, it was about the size of a walnut by then.'

'Bit... nasty, sticking up a bloke's head for a pub sign,' said Nobby. 'No, Nobby. Spoils of war, right? Some bloke came back from one of the wars with a souvenir, stuck it on a pole and opened a pub. The Klatchian's Head. Teach ,em not to do it again.'