Jingo

“Don't worry,” she said. “If the worst comes to the worst, I'll dive overboard.”

“Into the river?”

“Even the river Ankh can't kill a werewolf.” Angua glanced at the turgid water. “Probably, anyway.”

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs had gone on patrol. They weren't sure why they were patrolling, and what they were supposed to do if they saw a crime, although many years of training had enabled them not to see some quite large crimes. But they were creatures of habit. They were watchmen, so they patrolled. They didn't patrol with a purpose. They patrolled, as it were, in pure essence. Nobby's progress wasn't helped by the large, leatherbound book in his arms.

“A war'd do this place good,” said Sergeant Colon, after a while. “Put some backbone in people. Everything's gone all to pot these days.”

“Not like when we were kids, sarge.”

“Not like when we were kids indeed, Nobby.”

“People trusted one another in them days, didn't they, sarge?”

“People trusted one another, Nobby.”

“Yes, sarge. I know. And people didn't have to lock their doors, did they?”

“That's right, Nobby. And people were always ready to help. They were always in and out of one another's houses.”

“'sright, sarge,” said Nobby vehemently. “I know no one ever locked their houses down our street.”

“That's what I'm talking about. That's my point.”

“It was 'cos the bastards even used to steal the locks.”

Colon considered the truth of this.

“Yes, but at least it was each other's stuff they were nicking, Nobby. It's not like they was foreigners.”

“Right.”

They strolled on for a while, each entangled in his own thoughts.

“Sarge?”

“Yes, Nobby?”

“Where's Nubilia?”

“Nubilia?”

“It's got to be a place, I reckon. Pretty warm there, I think?”

“Ah, Nubilia,” said Colon. He invented desperately. “Right. Yes. It's one of them Klatchian places. Yeah. Got lots of sand. And mountains. Exports dates. Why'd you want to know?”

“Oh… no reason.”

“Nobby?”

“Yes, sarge?”

“Why are you carrying that huge book?”

“Hah, clever idea, sarge. I saw what you said about that book of your great-grandad, so if there's any fighting I got this one off'f Washpot. It's The Book of Om. Five inches thick.”

“It's a bit big for a pocket, Nobby. It's a bit big for a cart, to be honest.”

“I thought I could make sort of braces to carry it. I reckon even a longbow could only get an arrow as far as the Apocrypha.”

A familiar creak made them look up.

A Klatchian's head was swinging in the breeze.

“Fancy a pint?” said Sergeant Colon. “Big Anjie brews up some that's a treat.”

“Better not, sarge. Mr Vimes is in a bit of a mood.”

Colon sighed. “You're right.”

Nobby looked up at the head again. It was wooden. It had been repainted many times over the centuries. The Klatchian was smiling very happily for someone who'd never have to buy a shirt ever again.

“The Klatchian's Head.^{59} My grandad said his granddad remembered when it was still the real one,” Colon said. “Of course, it was about the size of a walnut by then.”

“Bit… nasty, sticking up a bloke's head for a pub sign,” said Nobby.

“No, Nobby. Spoils of war, right? Some bloke came back from one of the wars with a souvenir, stuck it on a pole and opened a pub. The Klatchian's Head. Teach 'em not to do it again.”

“I used to get into enough trouble just for nicking boots,” said Nobby.

“More robust times, Nobby.”

“You ever met a Klatchian, sarge?” said Nobby, as they began to pace the length of the quiet street. “I mean one of the wild ones.”

“Well, no… but you know what? They're allowed three wives! That's criminal, that is.”

“Yeah, 'cos here's me and I ain't got one,” said Nobby.

“And they eat funny grub. Curry and that.”

Nobby gave this some thought. “Like… we do, when we're on late duty.”

“Weelll, yerss — but they don't do it properly—”

“You mean runny ear-wax yellow with peas and currants in, like your mum used to do?”

“Right! You poke around as much as you like in a Klatchian curry and you won't find a single piece of swede.”

“And I heard where they eat sheep's eyeballs, too,” said Nobby, international gastra-gnome.

“Right again.”

“Not decent ordinary stuff like lambs' fry or sweetbreads, then?”

“That's… right.”

Colon felt that he was being got at in some say.

“Look, Nobby, when all's said and done they ain't the right colour, and there's an end to it.”

“Good job you found out, Fred!” said Nobby, so cheerfully that Sergeant Colon was almost sure that he meant it.

“Well, it's obvious,” he conceded.

“Er… what is the right colour?” said Nobby.

“White, of course!”

“Not brick-red, then? 'Cos you—”

“Are you winding me up, Corporal Nobbs?”

“'Course not, sarge. So… what colour am I?”

That caused Sergeant Colon to think. You could have found, somewhere on Corporal Nobbs, a shade appropriate to every climate on the disc and a few found only in specialist medical books.

“White's… white's a state of, you know… mind,” he said. “It's like… doing an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, that sort of thing. And washing regular.”

“Not lazing around, sort of thing.”

“Right.”

“Or… like… working all hours like Goriff does.”

“Nobby—”

“And you never see those kids of his with dirty clo—”

“Nobby, you're just trying to get me going, right? You know we're better'n Klatchians. Otherwise, what's the point? Anyway, if we're going to fight 'em, you could get locked up for going around talking treachery.”

“Are you going to fight them, Fred?”

Fred Colon scratched his chin. “Well, as a hexperienced milit'ry man, I suppose I'll have to…”

“What're you going to do? Join a regiment and go to the front?”

“We-ell… my fore-tay lies in training, so I reckon I'd better stay here and train up the new recruits.”

“Here at the back, you might say.”