Jingo

twilight, was that you couldn't bale out the bilges. It was the bilges.

He was pedalling with his feet in water and he was suffering simultaneously from claustrophobia and agoraphobia. He was afraid of everything in here and everything out there at the same time. Plus, there were unpleasantnesses out there, moving past as the Boat drifted down the wall of rock. Feelers waved. There were claws. Things scuttled into the waving weeds. Giant clams watched Sergeant Colon with their lips.

The Boat creaked.

“Sarge,” said Nobby, as they looked out at the wonders of the deep.

“Yes, Nobby?”

“You know they say every tiny part of your body is replaced every seven years?”

“A well-known fact,” said Sergeant Colon.

“Right. So… I've got a tattoo on my arm, right? Had it done eight years ago. So… how come it's still there?”

Giant seaweeds winnowed the gloom.

“Interesting point,” quavered Colon. “Er…”

“I mean, OK, new tiny bits of skin float in, but that means it ought to be all new and pink by now.”

A fish with a nose like a saw swam past.

In the middle of all his other fears, Sergeant Colon tried to think fast.

“What happens.” he said, “Is that all the blue skin bits are replaced by other blue skin bits. Off'f other people's tattoos.”

“So… I've got other people's tattoos now?”

“Er… yes.”

“Amazing. 'cos it still looks like mine. 's got the crossed daggers and ‘WUM’.”

“Wum?”

“It was gonna be ‘Mum’ but I passed out and Needle Ned didn't notice I was upside down.”

“I should've thought he'd notice that…”

“He was pissed too. C'mon, sarge, you know it's not a proper tattoo unless no one can remember how it got there.”

Leonard and the Patrician were staring out at the submarine landscape.

“What're they looking for?” said Colon.

“Leonard keeps talking about hieroglyphs,” said Nobby. “What're they, sarge?”

Colon hesitated, but not for long. “A type of mollusc, corporal.”

“Cor, you know everything, sarge,” said Nobby admiringly. “That's what hieroglyphs are, is it? So, if we go any deeper, they'll be loweroglyphs?”

There was something slightly off-putting about Nobby's grin. Sergeant Colon decided to go for broke.

“Don't be daft, Nobby. ‘Loweroglyphs if you go lower…’ Oh my me.”

“Sorry, sarge.”

“Everyone knows you don't get loweroglyphs in these waters.”

A couple of Curious Squid peered at them, curiously.

Jenkins's ship was a floating wreck.

Several sails were in tatters. Rigging and other string that Vimes refused to learn the nautical names for covered the deck and trailed in the water.

Such sail as remained was moving them along in the brisk breeze.

Atop the mast the lookout cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned down.

“Land ahoy!”

“Even I can see that,” said Vimes. “Why does he have to shout?”

“It's lucky,” said Jenkins. He squinted into the haze.

“But your friend ain't heading for Gebra. Wonder where he's going?”

Vimes stared at the pale yellow mass on the horizon, and then up at Carrot.

“We'll get her back, don't worry,” he said.

“I wasn't actually worrying, sir. Although I am very concerned,” said Carrot.

“Er… right…” Vimes waved his arms helplessly, “Er… everyone fit and well? The men in good heart, are they?”

“It would help morale no end if you were to say a few words, sir.”

The monstrous regiment of watchmen had lined up on the deck, blinking in the sunshine. Oh, dear. Round up the unusual suspects. One dwarf, one human who was brought up as a dwarf and thinks like a manual of etiquette, one zombie, one troll, me and, oh no, one religious fanatic—

Constable Visit saluted. “Permission to speak, sir.”

“Go ahead,” mumbled Vimes.

“I'm pleased to tell you, sir, that our mission is clearly divinely approved of, sir. I refer to the rain of sardines which sustained us in our extremity, sir.”

“We were a little hungry, I wouldn't say we were in extremi—”

“With respect, sir,” said Constable Visit firmly, “the pattern is firmly established, sir. Yes, indeed. The Sykoolites when being pursued in the wilderness by the forces of Offlerian Mitolites, sir, were sustained by a rain of celestial biscuits,^{71} sir. Chocolate ones, sir.”

“Perfectly normal phenomenon,” muttered Constable Shoe. “Probably swept up by the wind passing a baker's shop—”

Visit glared at him, and went on: “And the Murmurians, when driven into the mountains by the tribes of Miskmik, would not have survived but for a magical rain of elephants, sir—”

“Elephants?”

“Well, one elephant, sir,” Visit conceded. “But it splashed.”

“Perfectly normal phenomenon,” said Constable Shoe. “Probably an elephant was picked up by a freak —”

“And when they were thirsty in the desert, sir, the Four Tribes of Khanli were succoured by a sudden and supernatural rain of rain, sir.”

“A rain of rain?” said Vimes, almost mesmerized by Visit's absolute conviction.

“Perfectly normal phenomenon,” sneered Reg Shoe. “Probably water was evaporated from the ocean, was blown through the sky, condensed around nuclei when it ran into cold air, and precipitated…” He stopped, and continued irritably, “Anyway, I don't believe it.”

“So… which particular deity is on our case?” said Vimes, hopefully.

“I shall definitely inform you as soon as I have ascertained this, sir.”

“Er… very good, constable.”

Vimes took a step back. “I don't pretend this is going to be easy, men,” he said. “But our mission is to catch up with Angua and this bastard Ahmed and shake the truth out of him. Unfortunately, this means we will be following him through his own country, with which we are at war. This is bound to put a few barriers in our way. But we should not let the prospect of being tortured to death dismay us, eh?”

“Fortune favours the brave,^{72} sir,” said Carrot cheerfully.

“Good. Good. Pleased to hear it, captain. What is her position vis a vis heavily armed, well prepared and excessively manned armies?”

“Oh, no one's ever heard of Fortune favouring them, sir.”

“According to General Tacticus, it's because they favour themselves,” said Vimes. He opened the battered book. Bits of paper and string indicated his many bookmarks. “In fact, men, the general has this to say about ensuring against defeat when outnumbered, out-weaponed and outpositioned. It is…” he turned the page, “‘Don't Have a Battle.’”

“Sounds like a clever man,” said Jenkins. He pointed to the yellow horizon.

“See all that stuff in the air?” he said. “What do you think that is?”

“Mist?” said Vimes.

“Hah, yes. Klatchian mist! It's a sandstorm! The sand blows about all the time.