Jingo (Discworld 21)

'I'm a policeman. So are you. There's going to be a crime. Saddle up, Ahmed.' Ahmed salaamed. 'I am happy to be led by a white officer, offendi.'

'I didn't mean–'

'Have you ever ridden a camel before, Sir Samuel?'

'No!'

'Ah?' Ahmed smiled faintly. 'Then just give it a prod to get started. And when you want to stop, hit it very hard with the stick and shout “Huthuthut!” 'You hit it with a stick to make it stop?'

'Is there any other way?' said 71–hour Ahmed. His camel looked at Vimes, and then spat in his eye. Prince Cadram and his generals surveyed the distant enemy, from horseback. The various Klatchian armies were drawn up in front of Gebra. Compared to them, the Ankh–Morpork regiments looked like a group of tourists who had missed their coach. 'Is that all?' he said. 'Yes, sire,' said General Ashal. 'But, you see, they believe that fortune favours the brave.'

'That is a reason to field such a contemptible little army?'

'Ah, sire, but they believe that we will turn and run as soon as we taste some cold steel.' The Prince looked back at the distant banners. 'Why?'

'I couldn't say, sire. It appears to be an item of faith.'

'Strange.' The Prince nodded to one of his bodyguards. 'Fetch me some cold steel.' After some hurried discussion a sword was handed up very gingerly, handle first. The prince peered at it, and then licked it with theatrical care. The watching soldiers laughed. 'No,' he said at last. 'No, I have to say that I don't feel the least apprehensive. Is this as cold as steel gets?'

'Lord Rust was probably being metaphorical, sire.'

'Ah. He is the sort who would be. Well, let us go forward and meet him. We must be civilized, after all.' He urged his horse forward. The generals fell in behind him.

The prince leaned down towards General Ashal again. 'And why are we going out to meet him before battle commences?'

'It's a... it's a goodwill gesture, sire. Warriors honouring one another.'

'But the man's a complete incompetent!'

'Indeed, sire.'

'And we're about to set thousands of our countrymen against one another, aren't we?'

'Indeed, sire.'

'So what does the maniac want to do? Tell me there's no hard feelings?'

'Broadly speaking, sire... yes. I understand the motto of his old school was “It matters not that you won or lost, but that you took part.” ' The Prince's lips moved as he tried this out once or twice. Finally he said: 'And, knowing this, people still take orders from him?'

'It would seem so, sire.' Prince Cadram shook his head. We can learn from AnkhMorpork, his father had said. Sometimes we can learn what not to do. And so he'd set out to learn. First he'd learned that Ankh–Morpork had once ruled quite a slice of Klatch. He'd visited the ruins of one of its colonies. And so he'd found out the name of the man who had been audacious enough to do this, and had got agents in Ankh–Morpork to find out as much about him as possible. General Tactitus, he'd been called. And Prince Cadram had read a lot and remembered everything, and 'tactics' had been very, very useful in the widening of the empire. Of course, this had its own drawbacks. You had a border, and across the border came bandits. So you sent a force to quell the bandits, and in order to stamp them out you had to take over their country, and soon you had another restless little vassal state to rule. And now that had a border, over which came, sure as sunrise, a fresh lot of raiders. So your new tax-paying subjects were demanding protection from their brother raiders, neglecting to pay their taxes, and doing a little light banditry on the side. And so once again you stretched your forces, whether you wanted to or not... He sighed. For the serious empire–builder there was no such thing as a final frontier. There was only another problem. If only people would understand... Nor was there such a thing as a game of war. General Tacticus knew that. Learn about your opposite number, yes, and respect his abilities if he had them, certainly. But never pretend that afterwards you were going to meet up for a drink and charge–by–charge replay. 'He could well be insane, sire,' the general went on. 'Oh, good.'

'However, I'm told that he recently referred to Klatchians as the finest soldiers in the world, sire.'

'Really?'

'He added “when led by white officers”, sire.'

'Oh?'

'And we are offering him breakfast, sire. It would be most impolite of him to refuse.'

'What a good idea. Have we got an adequate supply of sheeps' eyes?'

'I took the liberty of telling the cooks to save some up for this very eventuality, sire.'

'Then we must see he gets them. After all, he will be our honoured guest. Well, let us do this thing properly. Please try to look as if you hate the taste of cold steel.' The Klatchians had set up an open–sided tent on the sand between the two armies. In the welcome shade a low table had been laid. Lord Rust and his company were already waiting, and had been for more than half an hour. They stood up and bowed awkwardly as Prince Cadram entered. Around the tent the Klatchian and Ankh-Morpork honour guards eyed one another suspiciously, every man trying to get the drop on the others. ‘Tell me… Do any of you gentlemen speak Klatchian?’ said Prince Cadram, after the lengthy introductions. Lord Rust's grin stayed fixed. 'Hornett?' he hissed. 'I'm not quite certain what he said, sir,' said the lieutenant nervously. 'I thought you knew Klatchian!'

'I can read it, sir. That's not the same...'