THE CLOWN WHO opened the little sliding door in the Fools’ Guild’s forbidding gates looked from Vetinari to Moist to Adora Belle, and wasn’t very happy about any of them. “We are here to see Dr. Whiteface,” said Vetinari. “I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.” The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick. “This is the Fools’ Guild,” he said. “Expect…fun.” There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed, and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side. “I don’t know why they persist in this, I really don’t,” he said, sweeping through. “It’s not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.” There was a groan from the dark behind the door.
-Making Money
this april fool’s day, JUST SAY NO to silly pranks!
“I know exactly what you never said. You refrained from saying it very loudly.” Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I am extremely angry, Mr. Lipwig.”
“But I’ve been dropped right in it!”
“Not by me,” said Vetinari. “I can assure you that if I had, as your ill-assumed street patois has it, ‘dropped you in it,’ you would fully understand all meanings of ‘drop’ and have an unenviable knowledge of ‘it.’”
“You know what I mean!”
“Dear me, is this the real Moist von Lipwig speaking, or is it just the man looking forward to his very nearly gold chain? Topsy Lavish knew she was going and simply changed her will. I salute her for it. The staff will accept you more easily, too. And she’s done you a great favor.”
“Favor? I was shot at!”
“That was just the Assassins’ Guild dropping you a note to say they are watching you.”
“There were two shots!”
“Possibly for emphasis?” said Vetinari, sitting down on a velvet-covered chair.
““Kings and lords come and go and leave nothing but statues in a desert, while a couple of young men tinkering in a workshop change the way the world works.””
— Lord Havelock Vetinari, The Truth, Discworld book 25
One of my favourite things in Guards! Guards! is imagining Vetinari booking it from room to room in the palace in order to appear wherever Wonse goes to escape him. Just going full tilt down hidden passageways only to skid to a halt, quickly smooth himself down, take a deep breath and slip into each new room.
“‘In my experience Miss Cripslock tends to write down exactly what one says,’ Vetinari observed. ‘It’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. It spoils the fun. One feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow.’”
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.
Three fruits arced gently out of the green whirl and thumped on to Al-jibla’s tray.
The guards looked carefully, and to Colon’s mind nervously, at the cross-dressed figure of the cross corporal.
“She’s not going to do any kind of dance, is she?” one of them ventured.
“No!” snapped Beti.
“Promise?”
Nobby grabbed three of the knives and tugged them out of the man’s belt.
“I’ll give them to his lor- to him, shall I, Beti?” said Colon, suddenly quite sure that keeping the Patrician alive was almost certainly the only way to avoid a brief cigarette in the sunshine. He was also aware that other people were drifting over to watch the show.
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.
Lord Vetinari strode on ahead. The streets were already filling up. Al-Khali liked to get the business of the day started in the cool of dawn, before full day flamethrowered the landscape. No one paid the newcomers any attention, although a few people did turn round to watch Corporal Nobbs. Goats and chickens ambled out of the way as they passed.
[…]
“Good morning, sultan!” said a cheerful and somehow familiar voice. “New in town, are we?”
All three of them turned to a figure that had magically appeared from the mouth of an alleyway.
“Indeed, yes,” said the Patrician.
“I could see you were! Everyone is, these days. And it is your lucky day, shah! I am here to help, right? You want something, I got it!”
Sergeant Colon had been staring at the newcomer. He said, in a faraway voice, “Your name’s going to be something like… Al-jibla or something, right?”
“Heard about me, have you?” said the trader jovially.
“Sort of, yeah,” said Colon slowly. “You’re amazingly… familiar.”
“Very well.” Vetinari pushed his paperwork aside. “If there is more suitable clothing in your bag, I will get changed and we can take a look at Al-Khali.”
“Oh, gods…”
“Sorry, sergeant?”
“Oh, good, sir.”
“Good.” Vetinari began to pull other items out of the liberated sack. There was a set of juggler’s clubs, a bag of colored balls and finally a placard, such as might be placed to one side of the stage during an artist’s performance.
“‘Gulli, Gulli and Beti,’” he read. “‘Exotic tricks and dances.’ Hmm,” he added. “It would seem there was a lady among the owners of this sack.”
The watchmen looked at the gauzy material that came out of the sack next. Nobby’s eyes bulged.
“What are them?”
“I believe they are called harem pants, corporal.”
“They’re very-”
“Curiously, the purpose of the clothing of the nautch girl or exotic dancer has always been less to reveal and more to suggest the imminence of revelation,” said the Patrician.
Nobby looked down at his costume, and then at Sergeant Al-Colon in his costume, and said cheerfully, “Well, I ain’t sure it’s going to suit you, sir.”
He regretted the words immediately.
“I hadn’t intended that they should suit me ,” said the Patrician calmly. “Please pass me your fez, Corporal Beti.”
“And then seek out the Klatchian high command. Thanks to Leonard I have a little… package to deliver. I hope it will end the war very quickly.”
Sergeant Colon looked blank. At some point in the last few seconds the conversation had run away with him.
“Sorry, sir… you said high command, sir.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Like… the top brass, or turbans or whatever… all surrounded by crack troops, sir. That’s where you always put the best troops, around the top brass.”
“I expect this will be the case, yes. In fact, I rather hope it is.”
Sergeant Colon, once again, tried to keep up.
“Ah. Right. And we’ll go and look for them, will we, sir?”
“I can hardly ask them to come to us, sergeant.”
“Right, sir. I can see that. It could get a bit crowded.”
At last, Lord Vetinari looked up. “Is there some problem, sergeant?”
And Sergeant Colon once again knew a secret about bravery. It was arguably a kind of enhanced cowardice - the knowledge that while death may await you if you advance it will be a picnic compared to the certain living hell that awaits should you retreat.
The bit of [water] that was immediately below them bubbled for a moment, and then the hull of the Boat rose a few inches above the surface. The lid unscrewed and Leonard’s worried face appeared.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “We were getting concerned…”
They lowered themselves down into the fetid interior of the vessel.
Lord Vetinari was sitting with a pad of paper across his knees, writing carefully. He glanced up briefly. “Report.”
Nobby fidgeted while Sergeant Colon delivered a more or less accurate account, although there was some witty repartee with the Klatchian guards that the corporal had not hitherto recalled.
Vetinari did not look up. Still writing, he said, “Sergeant, Ur is an old country Rimward of the kingdom of Djelibeybi, whose occupants are a byword for bucolic stupidity. For some reason, I cannot think why, the guard must have assumed you were from there. And Morporkian is something of a lingua franca even in the Klatchian empire. When someone from Hersheba needs to trade with someone from Istanzia, they will undoubtedly haggle in Morporkian. This will serve us well, of course. The force that is being assembled here must mean that practically every man is a distant stranger with outlandish ways. Provided we do not act too foreign, we should pass muster. This means not asking for curry with swede and currants in it and refraining from ordering pints of Winkle’s Old Peculiar, do I make myself clear?”
Fred Colon managed to get a foothold on the greasy wood. It was, in theory, quite a heroic enterprise. He and Nobby Nobbs, the bold warriors, were venturing forth in hostile territory. Unfortunately, he knew they were doing it because Lord Vetinari was sitting in the Boat and would raise his eyebrows in no uncertain manner if they refused.
“Excuse me, your lordship?” Sergeant Colon raised his voice. The Patrician looked up from a conversation with Leonard.
“Yes, sergeant?”
“What do they do to spies in Klatch, sir?”
“Er… let me see…” said Leonard. “Oh, yes… I believe they give you to the women.”
Nobby brightened up. “Oh, well, that doesn’t sound too bad-”
[…]
Colon leaned forward and whispered in Nobby’s ear. The corporal’s expression changed, slowly.
“They really-”
“Yes, Nobby.”
“Theyreally-”
“Yes, Nobby.”
“They don’t do that at home.”
“We ain’t at home, Nobby. I wish we was.”
“Although you hear stories about the Agony Aunts, sarge.”
“Gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari. “I am afraid Leonard is being rather fanciful. That may apply to some of the mountain tribes, but Klatch is an ancient civilization and that sort of thing is not done officially. I should imagine they’d give you a cigarette.”
“A cigarette?” said Fred.
“Yes, sergeant. And a nice sunny wall to stand in front of.”
Sergeant Colon examined this for any downside. “A nice roll-up and a wall to lean against?” he said.
“I think they prefer you to stand up straight, sergeant.”
“Fair enough. No need to be sloppy just because you’re a prisoner. Oh, well. I don’t mind risking it, then.”
“Well done,” said the Patrician calmly. “Tell me, sergeant… in your long military career, did anyone ever consider promoting you to an officer?”
What was riding at anchor before the city of Al-Khali wasn’t a fleet. It was a fleet of fleets. The masts looked like a floating forest.
Down below, Lord Vetinari took his turn to peer through the pipe.
“So many ships,” he said. “In such a short time, too. How very well organized. Very well organized. One might almost say… astonishingly well organized. As they say, ‘If you would seek war, prepare for war.’”
“I believe, my lord, the saying is ‘If you would seek peace, prepare for war,’” Leonard ventured.
Vetinari put his head on one side and his lips moved as he repeated the phrase to himself. Finally he said, “No, no. I just don’t see that one at all.”
He ducked back into his seat.
“Let us proceed with care,” he said. “We can go ashore under cover of darkness.”
“Er… can we maybe go ashore under cover of cover?” said Sergeant Colon.
“In fact these extra ships will make our plan that much easier,” said the Patrician, ignoring him.
“Our plan?” said Colon.
“People within the Klatchian hegemony come in every shape and color.” Vetinari glanced at Nobby. “Practically every shape and color,” he added. “So our appearance on the streets should not cause undue comment.” He glanced at Nobby again. “To any great extent.”
Inside of the darkness he was half expecting, he saw the sea’s surface, bubbling like a boiling saucepan. Green and yellow flashes of lightning danced across the water, illuminating a distant wall that seemed practically a horizon.
The tube squeaked around. If this was a cave, it was at least a couple of miles across.
“How long, do you think?” said Lord Vetinari, behind him.
“Well, the rock has a large proportion of tufa and pumice, very light, and once floated up the build-up of gas starts to escape very rapidly because of the swell,” said Leonard. “I don’t know… perhaps another week… and then I think it takes a very long time for a sufficient bubble to build up again…”
“What’re they saying, sarge?” said Nobby. “This pace floats?”
“A most unusual natural phenomenon,” Leonard went on. “I’d have thought it was just a legend had I not seen it for myself…”
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
“You’d have thought, with that pale, equine face, that he’d incline towards stuff with whips, needles, and young women in dungeons. The other lords could have accepted that. Nothing wrong with whips and needles, in moderation. But the Patrician apparently spent his evenings studying reports and, on special occasions, if he could stand the excitement, playing chess.”
