Terry Pratchett: Jingo

“I claim this land in the name of the Seriph of Al-Khali!”

“We saw it first! Les, you tell him we saw it first!”

“We saw it first before you saw it first!”

“Les, you saw him, he tried to hit me with that oar!”

“But Dad, you're waving that trident—”

“See the untrustworthy way he attacks us, Akhan!”

There was a grinding noise from under the keel of both boats and they began to tip as they settled into the sea-bottom ooze.

“Look, Father, there is an interesting statue—”

“He has set his foot on Klatchian soil! The squid thief!”

“Get those filthy sandals off Ankh-Morporkian territory!”

“Oh, Dad —”

The two fishermen stopped screaming at each other, mainly in order to get their breath back. Crabs scuttled away. Water drained between the patches of weed, carving runnels in the grey silt.

“Father, look, there's still coloured tiles on the—”

“Mine!”

“ Mine !”

Les caught Akhan's eye. They exchanged a very brief glance which was nevertheless modulated with a considerable amount of information, beginning with the sheer galactic-sized embarrassment of having parents and working up from there.

“Dad, we don't have to—” Les began.

“You shut up! It's your future I'm thinking about, my lad—”

“Yes, but who cares who saw it first, Dad? We're both hundreds of miles from home! I mean, who's going to know , Dad?” {3} 3 In the 1963 comedy Mouse on the Moon , the Duchy of Grand Fenwick competes with the USA and USSR to put the first human on the moon. The Fenwick rocket gets there first, but someone points out that this doesn't matter — the glory will go to whoever gets home first. The Americans and Russians quickly make their excuses and leave, pausing only to enter the wrong capsules before sorting themselves out.

The two squid fishermen glared at one another.

The dripping buildings rose above them. There were holes that might well have been doorways, and glassless apertures that could have been windows, but all was darkness within. Now and again, Les fancied he could hear something slithering.

Solid Jackson coughed. “The lad's right,” he muttered. “Daft to argue. Just the four of us.”

“Indeed,” said Arif.

They backed away, each man carefully watching the other. Then, so closely that it was a chorus, they both yelled: “Grab the boat!”

There was a confused couple of moments and then each pair, boat carried over their heads, ran and slithered along the muddy streets.

They had to stop and come back, with mutual cries of “A kidnapper as well , eh?”, to get the right sons.

As every student of exploration knows, the prize goes not to the explorer who first sets foot upon the virgin soil but to the one who gets that foot home first. If it is still attached to his leg, this is a bonus.

The weathercocks of Ankh-Morpork creaked around in the wind.

Very few of them were in fact representations of Avis domestica . There were various dragons, fish and miscellaneous animals. On the roof of the Assassins' Guild a silhouette of one of the members squeaked into a new position, cloak and dagger at the ready. On the Beggars' Guild a tin beggar's hand asked the wind for a quarter. On the Butchers' Guild a copper pig sniffed the air. On the roof of the Thieves' Guild a real if rather decreased unlicensed thief turned gently, which shows what you are capable of if you try, or at least if you try stealing without a licence.

The one on the library dome of Unseen University was running slow and wouldn't show the change for half an hour yet, but the smell of the sea drifted over the city.

There was a tradition of soap-box public speaking in Sator Square {4} 4 London's Hyde Park Corner has a very similar tradition. . “Speaking” was stretching a point to cover the ranters, haranguers and occasional self-absorbed mumblers that spaced themselves at intervals amongst the crowds. And, traditionally, people said whatever was on their minds and at the top of their voices. The Patrician, it was said, looked kindly on the custom. He did. And very closely, too. He probably had someone make notes.

So did the Watch.

It wasn't spying Commander Vimes told himself. Spying was when you crept around peeking in windows. It wasn't spying when you had to stand back a bit so that you weren't deafened.

He reached out without paying attention and struck a match on Sergeant Detritus.

“Dat was me, sir,” said the troll reproachfully.

“Sorry, sergeant,” said Vimes, lighting his cigar.

“It not a problem.”

They returned their attention to the speakers.

It's the wind, thought Vimes. It's bringing something new…

Usually the speakers dealt with all kinds of subjects, many of them on the cusp of sanity or somewhere in the peaceful valleys on the other side. But now they were all monomaniacs.

“—time they were taught a lesson!” screamed the nearest one. “Why don't our so-called masters listen to the voice of the people? Ankh-Morpork has had enough of these swaggering brigands! They steal our fish, they steal our trade and now they're stealing our land!”

It would have been better if people had cheered, Vimes thought. People generally cheered the speakers indiscriminately, to egg them on. But the crowd around this man just seemed to nod approval. He thought: they're actually thinking about what he said…

“They stole my merchandise!” shouted a speaker opposite him. “It's a pirate bloody empire! I was boarded! In Ankh-Morpork waters!”

There was a general self-righteous muttering.

“What did they steal, Mr Jenkins?” said a voice from the crowd.

“A cargo of fine silks!”

The crowd hissed.

“Ah? Not dried fish offal and condemned meat, then? That's your normal cargo, I believe.”

Mr Jenkins strained to look for the speaker.

“Fine silks!” he said. “And what does the city care about that? Nothing!”

There were shouts of “Shame!”

“Has the city been told?” said the enquiring voice.

People started to crane their heads. And then the crowd opened a little, to reveal the figure of Commander Vimes of the City Watch.

“Well, it's… I…” Jenkins began. “Er… I…”

“I care,” said Vimes calmly. “Shouldn't be too hard to track down a cargo of fine silks that stink of fish guts.” There was laughter. Ankh-Morpork people always like some variety in their street theatre.

Vimes apparently spoke to Sergeant Detritus, while keeping his gaze locked on Jenkins. “Detritus, just you go along with Mr Jenkins here, will you? His ship is the Milka{5} 5 One of Christopher Columbus’ ships was named the Pinta . A UK milk-marketing slogan from the 1980s exhorted people to ‘Drinka pinta milka day’. , I believe. He'll show you all the lading bills and manifests and receipts and things, and then we can sort him out in jig time.”

There was a clang as Detritus's huge hand came to rest against his helmet.

“Yessir!”

“Er… er… you can't,” said Jenkins quickly. “They… er… stole the paperwork as well…”

“Really? So they can take the stuff back to the shop if it doesn't fit?”

“Er… anyway, the ship's sailed. Yes! Sailed! Got to try and recoup my losses, you know!”

“Sailed? Without its captain?” said Vimes. “So Mr Scoplett is in charge? Your first officer?”

“Yes, yes—”

“Damn!” said Vimes, snapping his fingers theatrically. “That man we've got in the cells on a charge of being Naughtily Drunk last night… we're going to have to charge him with impersonation as well, then? I don't know, more blasted paperwork, the stuff just piles up…”