'Here, look, those palm trees down there look really small.'
'Nobby, you're scared of heights,' said Colon. 'I know you're scared of heights.'
'That's sexual stereotyping!'
'No, it's not!'
'Yes, it is! You'll be expecting me to break my ankle a lot and scream all the time next! It's my job to prove to you that a woman can be as good as a man!'
'Practically identical in your case, Nobby. You've caught too much sun, that's what it is. You are not female, Nobby!' Beti sniffed. 'That's just the sort of sexist remark I'd expect from you.'
'Well, you're not!'
'It's the principle of the thing.'
'Well, at least we now have transport,' said Lord Vetinari, his tone suggesting that the show was over. 'Unfortunately, I had no time to find out where the army is.'
'Ah! I can help you there, sir!' Colon tried to salute, and then made a grab for the carpet again. 'I found out by cunning, sir!'
'Really?'
'Yessir! It's at a place called... er... En al Sams la Laisa, sir.' The carpet drifted onwards for a moment, in silence. “'The Place where the Sun Shineth Not”?' said the Patrician. There was more silence. Colon was trying not to look at anyone. 'Is there a somewhere called Gebra?' said Nobby, sulkily. 'Yes, Be– corporal. There is.'
'They've gone there. Of course, you've only got a woman's word for it.'
'Well done, corporal. We shall head up the coast.' Lord Vetinari relaxed. In a busy and complex life he'd never met people quite like Nobby and Colon. They talked all the time yet there was something almost... restful about them. He watched the dusty horizon carefully as the ancient carpet curved around. Under his arm was the metal cylinder Leonard had made for him. Drastic times required drastic measures. 'Sir?' said Colon, his voice muffled by the carpet. 'Yes, sergeant?'
'I've got to know... How did you... you know... get the donkey down?'
'Persuasion, sergeant.'
'What? Just talking?'
'Yes, sergeant. Persuasion. And, admittedly, a sharp stick.'
'Ah! I knew–'
'The trick of getting donkeys down from minarets,' said the Patrician, as the desert unwound below them, 'is always to find that part of the donkey which seriously wishes to get down.' The wind had settled. The bird up on the cliffs had shut down for the night. All Vimes could hear was the sizzle of the little desert creatures. Then Ahmed's voice said: 'I am genuinely impressed, Sir Samuel.'
Vimes took a deep breath. 'You know, you really fooled me,' he said. “'May your loins be full of fruit.” That was a good one. I really thought you were just–' He stopped. But Ahmed continued: '–just another camel-driver with a towel on his head? Oh, dear. And you'd been doing so well up to now, Sir Samuel. The Prince was very impressed.'
'Oh, come on. You were all but making suggestive comments about melons. What was I supposed to think?'
'Don't fret, Sir Samuel. I consider it all a compliment. You can turn round. I wouldn't dream of harming you unless you do something... foolish.' Vimes turned. He could just make out a shape in the afterglow. 'You were admiring this place,' said Ahmed. 'Tacticus's men had it built when he tried to conquer Klatch. It's not really a city by today's standards, of course. It was really just making a point. “Here we are and here we stay,” as it were. And then the wind changed.'
'You murdered Snowy Slopes, didn't you?'
'The term is executed. I can show you the confession he signed beforehand.'
'Of his own free will?'
'More or less.'
'What?'
'Let us say, I pointed out to him the alternatives to signing the confession. I was kind enough to leave you the pad. After all, I wanted to keep your interest. And don't look like that, Sir Samuel. I need you.'
'How can you tell how I look?'