“It's a
“I told you to shut up and keep rowing!”
The seawater surged down the streets. On either side, huge, weed-encrusted buildings boiled slowly out of the surf.
Father and son fought to keep some way on the boat as it was dragged along. And, since lesson one in the art of rowing is that you do it while looking the wrong way, they didn't see the other boat…
“You lunatic!”
“Foolish man!”
“Don't you touch that building! This country belongs to Ankh-Morpork!”
The two boats spun in a temporary whirlpool.
“I claim this land in the name of the Seriph of Al-Khali!”
“We saw it first! Les, you tell him we saw it first!”
“We saw it first before you saw it first!”
“Les, you saw him, he tried to hit me with that oar!”
“But Dad, you're waving that trident—”
“See the untrustworthy way he attacks us, Akhan!”
There was a grinding noise from under the keel of both boats and they began to tip as they settled into the sea-bottom ooze.
“Look, Father, there is an interesting statue—”
“He has set his foot on Klatchian soil! The squid thief!”
“Get those filthy sandals off Ankh-Morporkian territory!”
“Oh,
The two fishermen stopped screaming at each other, mainly in order to get their breath back. Crabs scuttled away. Water drained between the patches of weed, carving runnels in the grey silt.
“Father, look, there's still coloured tiles on the—”
“Mine!”
“
Les caught Akhan's eye. They exchanged a very brief glance which was nevertheless modulated with a considerable amount of information, beginning with the sheer galactic-sized embarrassment of having parents and working up from there.
“Dad, we don't
“You shut up! It's your future I'm thinking about, my lad—”
“Yes, but who
The two squid fishermen glared at one another.
The dripping buildings rose above them. There were holes that might well have been doorways, and glassless apertures that could have been windows, but all was darkness within. Now and again, Les fancied he could hear something slithering.
Solid Jackson coughed. “The lad's right,” he muttered. “Daft to argue. Just the four of us.”
“Indeed,” said Arif.
They backed away, each man carefully watching the other. Then, so closely that it was a chorus, they both yelled: “Grab the boat!”
There was a confused couple of moments and then each pair, boat carried over their heads, ran and slithered along the muddy streets.
They had to stop and come back, with mutual cries of “A kidnapper as
As every student of exploration knows, the prize goes not to the explorer who first sets foot upon the virgin soil but to the one who gets that foot home first. If it is still attached to his leg, this is a bonus.
The weathercocks of Ankh-Morpork creaked around in the wind.
Very few of them were in fact representations of
The one on the library dome of Unseen University was running slow and wouldn't show the change for half an hour yet, but the smell of the sea drifted over the city.
There was a tradition of soap-box public speaking in Sator Square{4}. “Speaking” was stretching a point to cover the ranters, haranguers and occasional self-absorbed mumblers that spaced themselves at intervals amongst the crowds. And, traditionally, people said whatever was on their minds and at the top of their voices. The Patrician, it was said, looked kindly on the custom. He did. And very closely, too. He probably had someone make notes.
So did the Watch.
It wasn't spying Commander Vimes told himself. Spying was when you crept around peeking in windows. It wasn't spying when you had to stand back a bit so that you weren't deafened.
He reached out without paying attention and struck a match on Sergeant Detritus.
“Dat was me, sir,” said the troll reproachfully.
“Sorry, sergeant,” said Vimes, lighting his cigar.
“It not a problem.”
They returned their attention to the speakers.
It's the wind, thought Vimes. It's bringing something new…
Usually the speakers dealt with all kinds of subjects, many of them on the cusp of sanity or somewhere in the peaceful valleys on the other side. But now they were all monomaniacs.
“—time they were taught a lesson!” screamed the nearest one. “Why don't our so-called masters listen to the voice of the people? Ankh-Morpork has had enough of these swaggering brigands! They steal our fish, they steal our trade and now they're stealing our land!”
It would have been better if people had cheered, Vimes thought. People generally cheered the speakers indiscriminately, to egg them on. But the crowd around this man just seemed to nod approval. He thought: they're actually
“They stole my merchandise!” shouted a speaker opposite him. “It's a pirate bloody empire! I was boarded! In Ankh-Morpork waters!”
There was a general self-righteous muttering.
“What did they steal, Mr Jenkins?” said a voice from the crowd.
“A cargo of fine silks!”
The crowd hissed.
“Ah? Not dried fish offal and condemned meat, then? That's your normal cargo, I believe.”
Mr Jenkins strained to look for the speaker.
“Fine silks!” he said. “And what does the city care about that? Nothing!”
There were shouts of “Shame!”
“Has the city been told?” said the enquiring voice.
People started to crane their heads. And then the crowd opened a little, to reveal the figure of Commander Vimes of the City Watch.
“Well, it's… I…” Jenkins began. “Er… I…”
“I care,” said Vimes calmly. “Shouldn't be too hard to track down a cargo of fine silks that stink of fish guts.” There was laughter. Ankh-Morpork people always like some variety in their street theatre.
Vimes apparently spoke to Sergeant Detritus, while keeping his gaze locked on Jenkins. “Detritus, just you go along with Mr Jenkins here, will you? His ship is the
