Jingo (Discworld 21)

'cos if we're not in uniform, we'll be spies – and you know what happens to spies.'

'Are you going to tell me, sarge?'

'Excuse me, your lordship?' Sergeant Colon raised his voice. The Patrician looked up from a conversation with Leonard. 'Yes, sergeant?'

'What do they do to spies in Klatch, sir?'

'Er... let me see...' said Leonard. 'Oh, yes... I believe they give you to the women.' Nobby brightened up. 'Oh well, that doesn't sound too bad––'

'Er, no, Nobby–' Colon began. '–'cos I've seen the pictures in that book The Perfumed Allotment that Corporal Angua was reading, and–'

'–no, listen, Nobby, you've got the wrong–'

'–I mean, blimey, I didn't know you could do that with a –'

'–Nobby, listen–'

'–and then there's this bit where she–'

'Corporal Nobbs!' Colon yelled. 'Yes, sarge?' Colon leaned forward and whispered in Nobby's ear. The corporal's expression changed, slowly. 'They really–, 'Yes, Nobby.'

'They really–'

'Yes, Nobby.'

'They don't do that at home.'

'We ain't at home, Nobby. I wish we was.'

'Although you hear stories about the Agony Aunts, sarge.'

'Gentlemen,' said Lord Vetinari. 'I am afraid Leonard is being rather fanciful. That may apply to some of the mountain tribes, but Klatch is an ancient civilization and that sort of thing is not done officially. I should imagine they'd give you a cigarette.'

'A cigarette?' said Fred. 'Yes, sergeant. And a nice sunny wall to stand in front of.' Sergeant Colon examined this for any downside. 'A nice roll–up and a wall to lean against?' he said. 'I think they prefer you to stand up straight, sergeant.'

'Fair enough. No need to be sloppy just because you're a prisoner. Oh, well. I don't mind risking it, then.'

'Well done,' said the Patrician calmly. 'Tell me, sergeant... in your long military career, did anyone ever consider promoting you to an officer?'

'Nossir!'

'I cannot think why.' Night poured over the desert. It came suddenly, in purple. In the clear air, the stars drilled down out of the sky, reminding any thoughtful watcher that it is in the deserts and high places that religions are generated. When men see nothing but bottomless infinity over their heads they have always had a driving and desperate urge to find someone to put in the way. Life emerged from the burrows and fissures. Soon, the desert was filled with the buzz and click and screech of creatures which, lacking mankind's superior brainpower, did not concern themselves with finding someone to blame and instead tried to find someone to eat. At around three in the morning Sam Vimes walked out of the tent for a smoke. The cold air hit him like a door. It was freezing. That wasn't what was supposed to happen in deserts, was it? Deserts were all hot sand and camels and... and... he struggled for a while, as a man whose geographical knowledge got severely cramped once you got off paved road... camels, yes, and dates. And possibly bananas and coconuts. But the temperature here made your breath tinkle in the air. He waved his cigar packet theatrically at a D'reg who was lounging near the tent. The man shrugged. The fire was just a heap of grey, but Vimes poked around in the vain hope of finding a glowing ember. He was amazed at how angry he was. Ahmed was the key, he knew it. And now they were stuck out here in the desert, the man had gone, and they were in the hands of... quiet, likeable people, fair enough. Brigands, maybe, the dry land equivalent of pirates, but Carrot would have said they were jolly good chaps for all that. If you were content to be their guest then they were as nice as pie, or sheep's eyeball and treacle or whatever you got out here– Something moved in the moonlight. A shadow slipped down the side of a dune. Something howled, out in the desert night. Tiny hairs rose, all down Vimes's back, just like they had for his distant ancestors. The night is always old. He'd walked too often down dark streets in the secret hours and felt the night stretching away, and known in his blood that while days and kings and empires come and go, the night is always the same age, always aeons deep. Terrors unfolded in the velvet shadows and while the nature of the talons may change, the nature of the beast does not. He stood up quietly, and reached for his sword. It wasn't there. They'd taken it away. They'd not even– 'A fine night,' said a voice beside him. Jabbar was standing by his shoulder. 'Who is out there?' Vimes hissed.

'An enemy.'

'Which one?' Teeth gleamed in the shadows. 'We will find out, offendi.'

'Why would they attack you now?'

'Maybe they think we have something they want, offendi.' More shadows slid across the desert. And one rose up right behind Jabbar, reached down and picked him up. A huge grey hand dragged his sword out of his belt. 'What do you want me to do with him, Mr Vimes?'

'Detritus?' The troll saluted with the hand that still held the D'reg. 'All present and correct, sir!'

'But–' And then Vimes realized. 'It's freezing cold! Your brain's working again?'

'With rather more efficiency, sir.'

'Is this a djinn?' said Jabbar. 'I don't know, but I could certainly do with one,' said Vimes. He finally managed to locate some matches in his pocket, and lit one. 'Put him down, sergeant,' he said, puffing his cigar into life. 'Jabbar, this is Sergeant Detritus. He could break every bone in your body, including some of the small ones in the fingers which are quite hard to do–' The darkness went shwup and something whispered past the back of his neck, just a slice of a second before Jabbar cannoned into him and bore him to the ground. 'They shoot at the light!'