'Boat?'
'Right! But too many water!' He slapped Vimes on the back again, so that hot fat spilled into his lap. 'Any road up, lots speaking Morporkian these dace, offendi. It is language of... merchant.' He put an inflection on the word that suggested it was the same as 'earthworm'. 'So you have to know how to say things like “Give us all your money”?' said Vimes. 'Why ask?' said Jabbar. 'We take it anyway. But now...' he spat at the fire with amazing accuracy '... they say, we got to stop, this is wrong. What harm do we do?'
'Apart from killing people and taking all their merchandise?' said Vimes. Jabbar laughed again. 'Wali said you were a big diplomatic! But we don't kill merchants, why should we kill merchants? What is the sense? How foolish to be killing gift horse that lays the golden egg!'
'You could make money exhibiting it, certainly,' said Vimes. 'We kill merchants, we rob too much, they never come back. Dumb. We let them go, they get rich again, our sons rob them. Such is wisdom.'
'Ah... it's a sort of agriculture,' said Vimes. 'Right! But if you plant merchants, they don't grow so good.' Vimes realized that it was getting colder as the sun went down. In fact, a lot colder. He inched closer to the fire. 'Why is he called 71–hour Ahmed?' he said. The murmur of conversation stopped. Suddenly all eyes were on Jabbar, except the one that had ended up in the shadows. 'Not so diplomatic,' said Jabbar. 'We chase him up here, then suddenly we're ambushed by you. That seems–'
'I know nothing,' said Jabbar. 'Why won't you–?' Vimes began.
'Er, sir,' said Carrot urgently. 'That would be very unwise, sir. Look, I had a bit of a talk with Jabbar while you were... resting. It's a bit political, I'm afraid.'
'What isn't?'
'Prince Cadram is trying to unite the whole of Klatch, you see.'
'Dragging it kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat?'
'Why, yes, sir, how did–?'
'Just a lucky guess. Go on.'
'But he has been having trouble,' said Carrot. 'What kind?' said Vimes. 'Us,' said Jabbar proudly. 'None of the tribes like the idea, sir,' Carrot went on. 'They've always fought among themselves, and now most of them are fighting him. Historically, sir, Klatch isn't so much an empire as an argument.' ,He say, you must be educated. You must be learning to pay taxes. We do not wish to be educated about taxes,' said Jabbar. 'So you think you're fighting for your freedom?' said Vimes. Jabbar hesitated, and looked at Carrot. There was a brief exchange in Klatchian. Then Carrot said: 'That's a rather difficult question for a D'reg, sir. You see, their word for “freedom” is the same as their word for “fighting”.'
'They certainly make their language do a lot of work, don't they... ?' Vimes was feeling better in the caller air. He took out a crushed and damp packet of cigars, pulled a coal out of the fire, and took a deep drag. 'So... Prince Charming's got a lot of troubles at home, has he? Does Vetinari know this?'
'Does a camel shit in the desert, sir?'
'You're really getting the hang of Klatch, aren't you?' said Vimes. Jabbar rumbled something. There was more laughter. 'Er... Jabbar says a camel certainly does shit in the desert, sir, otherwise you wouldn't have anything to light your cigar with, sir.' Once again, there was one of those moments when Vimes felt that he was under close scrutiny. Be diplomatic, Vetinari had told him. He took another deep draw. 'Improves the flavour,' he said. 'Remind me to take some home.' In Jabbar's eyes, the judges held up at least a couple of grudging eights. 'A man on a horse came and said we must fight the foreign dogs–'
'That's us, sir,' said Carrot helpfully. '–because you have stolen an island that is under the sea. But what is that to us? We know no harm of you foreign devils, but the men who oil their beards in Al–Khali we do not like. So we send him back.'
'All of him?' said Vimes. 'We are not barbaric. He was clearly a madman. But we kept his horse.'
'And 71–hour Ahmed told you to keep us, didn't he?' said Vimes.
'No–one orders the D'regs! It is our pleasure to keep you here!'
'And when will it be your pleasure to let us go? When Ahmed tells you? Jabbar stared at the fire. 'I will not speak of him. He is devious and cunning and not to be trusted.'
'But you are D'regs, too.'
'Yes!' Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back again. 'We know what we are talking about!' The Klatchian fishing boat was a mile or two out of harbour when it seemed to its captain that it was suddenly riding better in the water. Perhaps the barnacles have dropped off, he thought. When his boat was lost in the evening mists a length of bent pipe rose slowly out of the swell and squeaked around until it faced the coast. A distant tinny voice said: 'Oh no...' And another tinny voice said: 'What's up, sarge?'
'Take a look through this!'
'OK.' There was a pause. Then the second tinny voice said: 'Oh, bugger...' What was riding at anchor before the city of Al–Khali wasn't a fleet. It was a fleet of fleets. The masts looked like a floating forest. Down below, Lord Vetinari took his turn to peer through the pipe. 'So many ships,' he said. 'In such a short time, too. How very well organized. Very well organized. One might almost say... astonishingly well organized. As they say, “If you would seek war, prepare for war.” '
'I believe, my lord, the saying is “If you would seek peace, prepare for war,” ' Leonard ventured. Vetinari put his head on one side and his lips moved as he repeated the phrase to himself. Finally he said, 'No, no. I just don't see that one at all.' He ducked back into his seat. 'Let us proceed with care,' he said. 'We can go ashore under cover of darkness.'
'Er... can we maybe go ashore under cover of cover?' said Sergeant Colon. 'In fact these extra ships will make our plan that much easier,' said the Patrician, ignoring him. 'Our plan?' said Colon. 'People within the Klatchian hegemony come in every shape and colour.' Vetinari glanced at Nobby. 'Practically every shape and colour,' he added. 'So our appearance on the streets should not cause undue comment.' He glanced at Nobby again. 'To any great extent.'
'But we're wearing our uniforms, sir,' said Sergeant Colon. 'It's not like we can say we're on our way to a fancy–dress party.'
'Well, I'm not taking mine off,' said Nobby firmly. 'I'm not running around in my drawers. Not in a port. Sailors are at sea a long time. You hear stories.'
'That'd be worse,' said the sergeant, without wasting time calculating how long any sailor would need to be at sea before the vision of Nobby Nobbs would present itself as anything other than a target, '