'They've got a big fleet, Klatch,' said the monarchist uncertainly. 'Could be a bit risky, roasting diplomats. People see a pile of charcoal come back on the boat, they tend to look a bit askance.'
'Ah, then we say, Ho there, Johnny Klatchian, you no like-um, big fella lizard belong-sky bake mud hut belong-you pretty damn chop-chop.'
'We could really say that?'
'Why not? And then we say, send plenty tribute toot sweet.'
'I never did like them Klatchians,' said the woman firmly. 'The stuff they eat! It's disgustin'. And gabblin' away all the time in their heathen lingo ...'
In the shadows, a match flared.
Vimes cupped his hands around the flame, sucked on the foul tobacco, tossed the match into the gutter and slouched off down the damp, puddle-punctuated alley.
If there was anything that depressed him more than his own cynicism, it was that quite often it still wasn't as cynical as real life.
We've got along with the other guys for centuries, he thought. Getting along has practically been all our foreign policy. Now I think I've just heard us declare war on an ancient civilisation that we've always got along with, more or less, even if they do talk funny. And after that, the world. What's worse, we'll probably win.
Similar thoughts, although with a different perspective, were going through the minds of the civic leaders of Ankh-Morpork when, next morning, each received a short note bidding them to be at the palace
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
