“He must be having fun.”
“And this is Jabbar,” said Carrot. Exhibit A, who looked like a slightly older version of 71-hour Ahmed, stood up and salaamed to Vimes.
“Offendi,” he said.
“He's their… well, he's like an official wise man,” said Carrot.
“Oh, so he's not the one who tells them to charge?” said Vimes. His head buzzed with the heat.
“No, that's the leader,” said Carrot. “Whenever they have one.”
“So perhaps Jabbar tells them when it's
“It's always wise to charge, offendi,” said Jabbar. He bowed again. “My tent is your tent,” he said.
“It is?” said Vimes.
“My wives are your wives…”
Vimes looked panicky. “They are? Really?”
“My food is your food…” Jabbar went on.
Vimes stared down at the dish by the fire. It looked like a sheep or a goat had been the main course. And the man bent down, picked up a morsel and handed it to him.
Sam Vimes looked at the mouthful. And it looked back.
“The best part,” said Jabbar, and made appreciative suckling noises. He added something in Klatchian. There was some muffled laughter from the other men around the fire.
“This looks like a sheep's eyeball,” said Vimes, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir,” said Carrot. “But it is unwise to—”
“You know what?” Vimes went on. “I think this is a little game called ‘Let's see what offendi will swallow’. And I'm not swallowing this, my friend.”
Jabbar gave him an appraising look.
The sniggering stopped.
“Then it is true that you can see further than most,” he said.
“So can this food,” said Vimes. “My father told me never to eat anything that can wink back.”
There was one of those little
Then Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back. The eyeball shot off his palm and into the shadows.
“Well done! Extremely good! First time it have not worked in twenty year! Now sit down and have proper rice and sheep just like mother!”
There was a certain feeling of relaxation. Vimes found himself pulled down. Bottoms shuffled aside to make room for him and a big slab of bread dripping with meat was put in front of him. Vimes prodded at it as politely as he dared, and then took the usual view that, if you can recognize at least half of it, it's probably OK to eat the rest.
“So we're your prisoners, Mr Jabbar?”
“Honoured guests! My tent is—”
“But… how can I put this?… you want us to enjoy your hospitality for some time?”
“We have tradition,” said Jabbar. “A man who is a guest in your tent, even if he is your worst enemy, you owe him hospitality for tree dace.”
“Tree dace, eh?” said Vimes.
“I learn language on…” Jabbar waved a hand vaguely, “you know, wooden ting, a camel of the sea—”
“Boat?”
“Right! But too many water!” He slapped Vimes on the back again, so that hot fat spilled into his lap. “Any road up, lots speaking Morporkian these dace, offendi. It is language of… merchant.” He put an inflection on the word that suggested it was the same as “earthworm”.
“So you have to know how to say things like ‘Give us all your money’?” said Vimes.
“Why ask?” said Jabbar. “We take it anyway. But now…” he spat at the fire with amazing accuracy “… they say, we got to stop, this is wrong. What harm do we do?”
“Apart from killing people and taking all their merchandise?” said Vimes.
Jabbar laughed again. “
“You could make money exhibiting it, certainly,” said Vimes.
“We kill merchants, we rob too much, they never come back. Dumb. We let them go, they get rich again, our sons rob them. Such is wisdom.”
“Ah… it's a sort of agriculture,” said Vimes.
“Right! But if you plant merchants, they don't grow so good.”
Vimes realized that it was getting colder as the sun went down. In fact, a lot colder. He inched closer to the fire.
“Why is he called 71-hour Ahmed?” he said.
The murmur of conversation stopped. Suddenly all eyes were on Jabbar, except the one that had ended up in the shadows.
“
“We chase him up here, then suddenly we're ambushed by you. That seems—”
“I know nothing,” said Jabbar.
“Why won't you—?” Vimes began.
“Er, sir,” said Carrot urgently. “That would be very unwise, sir. Look, I had a bit of a talk with Jabbar while you were… resting. It's a bit political, I'm afraid.”
“What isn't?”
“Prince Cadram is trying to unite the whole of Klatch, you see.”
“Dragging it kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat?”
“Why, yes, sir, how did—?”
“Just a lucky guess. Go on.”
“But he has been having trouble,” said Carrot.
“What kind?” said Vimes.
“Us,” said Jabbar proudly.
“None of the tribes like the idea, sir,” Carrot went on. “They've always fought among themselves, and now most of them are fighting him. Historically, sir, Klatch isn't so much an empire as an argument.”
“He say, you must be educated. You must be learning to pay taxes. We do not wish to be educated about taxes,” said Jabbar.
“So you think you're fighting for your freedom?” said Vimes.
Jabbar hesitated, and looked at Carrot. There was a brief exchange in Klatchian. Then Carrot said: “That's a rather difficult question for a D'reg, sir. You see, their word for ‘freedom’ is the same as their word for ‘fighting’.”
“They certainly make their language do a lot of work, don't they…?”
Vimes was feeling better in the colder air. He took out a crushed and damp packet of cigars, pulled a coal out of the fire, and took a deep drag.
“So… Prince Charming's got a lot of troubles at home, has he? Does Vetinari know this?”
“Does a camel shit in the desert, sir?”
“You're really getting the hang of Klatch, aren't you?” said Vimes.
Jabbar rumbled something. There was more laughter.
“Er… Jabbar says a camel certainly does shit in the desert, sir, otherwise you wouldn't have anything to light your cigar with, sir.”
Once again, there was one of those moments when Vimes felt that he was under close scrutiny. Be diplomatic, Vetinari had told him.
He took another deep draw. “Improves the flavour,” he said. “Remind me to take some home.”
In Jabbar's eyes, the judges held up at least a couple of grudging eights.
“A man on a horse came and said we must fight the foreign dogs—”
