And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-
The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.
The survival instinct cut in again. Stagger around backward, it said. So he staggered around backward, waving his legs in the air. Fall down heavily, it said. So he sat down, and almost squashed a chicken. Lose your dignity, it said; of all the things you’ve got, it’s the one you can most afford to lose.
Lord Vetinari helped him up. “Our very lives depend on your appearing to be a stupid fat idiot,” he hissed, putting Colon’s fez back on his head.
Colon tossed him the knives, slowly and gingerly. He’s going to try to stab the guards, he thought. It’s a ruse. And then everyone’s going to tear us apart.
Now the circling blur glinted in the sunlight. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.
“Yet somehow dull,” said the Patrician.
And his hands moved in a complex pattern that suggested that his wrists must have moved through one another at least twice.
The tangled ball of hurtling fruit and cutlery leapt into the air. Three melons dropped to the ground, cut cleanly in two. Three knives thudded into the dust a few inches from their owner’s sandals.
And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-
The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.
A couple of armed men had drifted over to them. Sergeant Colon’s heart sank. In those bearded faces he saw himself and Nobby, who at home would always saunter over to anything on the street that looked interesting.
“You are jugglers, are you?” said one of them. “Let’s see you juggle, then.”
Lord Vetinari gave them a blank look and then glanced down at the tray around Al-jibla’s neck. Among the more identifiable foodstuffs were a number of green melons.
“Very well,” he said, and picked up three of them.
Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.
After a few seconds he opened them again because a guard had said, “All right, but anyone can do it with three.”
“In that case perhaps Mr. Al-jibla will throw me a few more?” said the Patrician, as the balls spun through his hands.
Sergeant Colon shut his eyes again.
After a short while a guard said, “Seven is pretty good. But it’s just melons.”
Lord Vetinari pushed him aside. “We are strolling entertainers,” he said. “We were hoping to get an engagement at the Prince’s palace… Perhaps you could help?”
The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, causing various particles to cascade into the little bowls in his tray.
“Dunno about the palace,” he said. “What’s it you do?”
“We practice juggling, fire-eating, that sort of thing,” said Vetinari.
“Do we?” said Colon.
Al-jibla nodded at Nobby. “What does…”
“…she…” said Lord Vetinari helpfully.
“…she do?”
“Exotic dancing,” said Vetinari, while Nobby scowled.
Nobby nudged him. “What’re we doing down here, sarge? I mean, what’s it all about? Poking around, looking at weird marks on the rocks, going in and out of caves… and the smell… well…”
“It’s not me,” said Sergeant Colon.
“Smells like… sulfur…”
Little bubbles streamed past the window.
“It stunk up on the surface, too,” Nobby went on.
“Nearly finished, gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari, putting the papers aside. “One last little venture and then we can surface. Very well, Leonard… take us underneath.”
“Er… aren’t we underneath already, sir?” said Colon.
“Only underneath the sea, sergeant.”
“Ah. Right.” Colon gave this due consideration. “Is there anything else to be under, then, sir?”
The Boat squeaked through the mysterious depths of the oceans. Leonard spent a lot of time looking out of the tiny windows, particularly interested in pieces of seaweed which, to Sergeant Colon, looked like pieces of seaweed.
“Do you note the fine strands of Dropley’s Etoliated Bladderwrack?” said Leonard. “That’s the brown stuff. A marvelous growth which, of course, you will see as significant.”
“Could we just assume for the moment that I have neglected my seaweed studies in recent years?” said the Patrician.
“Really? Oh, the loss is entirely yours, I assure you. The point is, of course, that the Etoliated Bladderwrack is never usually found growing above thirty fathoms, and it’s only ten here.”
“Ah.” The Patrician flicked through a stack of Leonard’s drawings. “And the hieroglyphs - as alphabet of signs and colors. Colors as a language… what a fascinating idea…”
“Anemotional intensifier,” said Leonard. “But of course we ourselves use something like that. Red for danger and so on. I never did succeed in translating it, though.”
“Colors as a language…” murmured Lord Vetinari.
Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. “I know something about seaweed, sir.”
“Yes, sergeant?”
“Yessir! If it’s wet, sir, it means it’s going to rain.”
“Well done, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari, without turning his head. “I think it is quite possible that I will never forget you said that.”
Sergeant Colon beamed. He had Made A Contribution.
When [Colon] awoke at one point there were faint voices coming from the other end of the vessel.
“-don’t quite understand, my lord. Whythem?”
“They do what they’re told, they tend to believe the last thing they heard, they’re not bright enough to ask questions, and they have that certain unshakable loyalty available to those unencumbered by too much intelligence.”
“I suppose so, my lord.”
“Such men are valuable, believe me.”
Sergeant Colon turned over and tried to make himself comfortable. Glad I’m not like those poor bastards, he thought as he drifted off to sleep on the bosom of the deep. I’m a man with special qualities.
“Well, er, my star charts are all out of date, of course, but if you would care to wait until the sun rises, and I’ve invented a device for ascertaining position by reference to the sun, and devised a satisfactorily accurate watch-”
“Where are we now, Leonard?”
“Er… in the middle of the Circle Sea, I suspect.”
“The middle?”
“Pretty close, I should say. Look, if I can measure the wind speed-”
“Then Leshp should be in this vicinity?”
“Oh, yes, I should-”
“Good. Unhitch us from this apparently stricken ship while we still have the cover of darkness and in the morning I wish to see this troublesome land. In the meantime, I suggest that everyone gets some sleep.”
Sergeant Colon knew he was facing one of the most dangerous moments in his career. There was nothing for it. He was out of options. “Er… if I add this A and this O and this I and this D,” he said, the sweat pouring down his pink cheeks, “then I can use that V to make ‘avoid.’ Er… and that gets me, er, a… what d’you cal these blue squares, Len?” “A ‘Three Times Ye Value of Thee Letter’ score,” said Leonard of Quirm. “Well done, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari. “I do believe that puts you in the lead.” “Er… I do believe it does, sir,” squeaked Sergeant Colon. “However, I find that you have left me the use of my U, N, and A, B, L, E,” the Patrician went on, “which incidentally lands me on this Three Times the Whole Worde square and, I rather suspect, wins me the game.” Sergeant Colon sagged with relief. “A capital game, Leonard,” said Vetinari. “What did you say it was called?” “I call it the ‘Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game,’ my lord.” “Ah. Yes. Obviously. Well done.” “Huh, an’ I got three points,” mumbled Nobby. “They was perfectly good words that you wouldn’t let me have, too.” “I’m sure the gentlemen don’t want to know those words,” said Colon severely. “I’d have got ten points for that X.”
The occupants of the boat play the Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game | Terry Pratchett, Jingo
Stoker Blake: A buddy of mine saw Vetinari take his shirt off in the shower, and he said that his lordship had an eight-pack; that Vetinari was shredded. Moist: What?! Your friend’s a liar, mate. Vetinari’s a punk bitch. That guy looks like he weighs thirty pounds soaking wet underneath that little black dress.
“So…we have what the people are interested in, and human interest stories, which is what humans are interested in, and the public interest, which no one is interested in.”
“Except the public, sir,” said William, trying to keep up.
“Which isn’t the same as people and humans?”
“I think it’s more complicated than that, sir.”
“Obviously. Do you mean that the public is a different thing from the people you just see walking about the place? The public thinks big, sensible measured thoughts while peoplerun around doing silly things?”
“I think so. I may have to work on that idea too, I admit.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Ihave certainly noticed that groups of clever and intelligent people are capable of really stupid ideas,” said Lord Vetinari.
Besides, Lord Vetinari represented stability. It was a cold and clinical kind of stability, but part of his genius was the discovery that stability was what people wanted more than anything else.
He’d said it to Vimes once, in this very room, standing at this very window: “They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”
“Your majesty, Mister Lipwig always achieves his goals, I assure you,” said Lord Vetinari, in his best oiled voice. “I find it amazing and, of course, annoying, but so far he has always succeeded, which is why, therefore, all of his extremities are in their rightful place.”
Everybody present laughed nervously, except Lord Vetinari, who just laughed. The King of the Dwarfs stared at Moist as if seeing him in a new light, and said, “Is that really true, Mister Lipwig?”
Moist forced his face to go so deadpan that it might have actually been dead. “Yes, your majesty, everything that ought to be attached still is.”
