‘Sarge?’
‘Yes, Nobby?’
‘Where’s Nubilia?’
‘Nubilia?’
‘It’s got to be a place, I reckon. Pretty warm there, I think?’
‘Ah, Nubilia,’ said Colon. He invented desperately. ‘Right. Yes. It’s one of them Klatchian places. Yeah. Got lots of sand. And mountains. Exports dates. Why’d you want to know?’
‘Oh… no reason.’
‘Nobby?’
‘Yes, sarge?’
‘Why are you carrying that huge book?’
‘Hah, clever idea, sarge. I saw what you said about that book of your great-grandad, so if there’s any fighting I got this one off’f Washpot. It’s The Book of Om. Five inches thick.’
‘It’s a bit big for a pocket, Nobby. It’s a bit big for a cart, to be honest.’
‘I thought I could make sort of braces to carry it. I reckon even a longbow could only get an arrow as far as the Apocrypha.’
A familiar creak made them look up.
A Klatchian’s head was swinging in the breeze.
‘Fancy a pint?’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘Big Anjie brews up some that’s a treat.’
‘Better not, sarge. Mr Vimes is in a bit of a mood.’
Colon sighed. ‘You’re right.’
Nobby looked up at the head again. It was wooden. It had been repainted many times over the centuries. The Klatchian was smiling very happily for someone who’d never have to buy a shirt ever again.
‘The Klatchian’s Head.{59} My grandad said his granddad remembered when it was still the real one,’ Colon said. ‘Of course, it was about the size of a walnut by then.’
‘Bit… nasty, sticking up a bloke’s head for a pub sign,’ said Nobby.
‘No, Nobby. Spoils of war, right? Some bloke came back from one of the wars with a souvenir, stuck it on a pole and opened a pub. The Klatchian’s Head. Teach ’em not to do it again.’
‘I used to get into enough trouble just for nicking boots,’ said Nobby.
‘More robust times, Nobby.’
‘You ever met a Klatchian, sarge?’ said Nobby, as they began to pace the length of the quiet street. ‘I mean one of the wild ones.’
‘Well, no… but you know what? They’re allowed three wives! That’s criminal, that is.’
‘Yeah, ’cos here’s me and I ain’t got one,’ said Nobby.
‘And they eat funny grub. Curry and that.’
Nobby gave this some thought. ‘Like… we do, when we’re on late duty.’
‘Weelll, yerss — but they don’t do it properly—’
‘You mean runny ear-wax yellow with peas and currants in, like your mum used to do?’
‘Right! You poke around as much as you like in a Klatchian curry and you won’t find a single piece of swede.’
‘And I heard where they eat sheep’s eyeballs, too,’ said Nobby, international gastra-gnome.
‘Right again.’
‘Not decent ordinary stuff like lambs’ fry or sweetbreads, then?’
‘That’s… right.’
Colon felt that he was being got at in some way.
‘Look, Nobby, when all’s said and done they ain’t the right colour, and there’s an end to it.’
‘Good job you found out, Fred!’ said Nobby, so cheerfully that Sergeant Colon was almost sure that he meant it.
‘Well, it’s obvious,’ he conceded.
‘Er… what is the right colour?’ said Nobby.
‘White, of course!’
‘Not brick-red, then? ’Cos you—’
‘Are you winding me up, Corporal Nobbs?’
‘’Course not, sarge. So… what colour am I?’
That caused Sergeant Colon to think. You could have found, somewhere on Corporal Nobbs, a shade appropriate to every climate on the disc and a few found only in specialist medical books.
‘White’s… white’s a state of, you know… mind,’ he said. ‘It’s like… doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, that sort of thing. And washing regular.’
‘Not lazing around, sort of thing.’
‘Right.’
‘Or… like… working all hours like Goriff does.’
‘Nobby—’
‘And you never see those kids of his with dirty clo—’
‘Nobby, you’re just trying to get me going, right? You know we’re better’n Klatchians. Otherwise, what’s the point? Anyway, if we’re going to fight ’em, you could get locked up for going around talking treachery.’
‘Are you going to fight them, Fred?’
Fred Colon scratched his chin. ‘Well, as a hexperienced milit’ry man, I suppose I’ll have to…’
‘What’re you going to do? Join a regiment and go to the front?’
‘We-ell… my fore-tay lies in training, so I reckon I’d better stay here and train up the new recruits.’
‘Here at the back, you might say.’
‘We all have to do our bit, Nobby. If it was down to me I’d be out there like a shot to give Johnny Klatchian a taste of cold steel.’
‘Their razor-sharp swords wouldn’t worry you, then?’
‘I should laugh at them with scorn, Nobby.’
‘But s’posing the Klatchians attack here? Then you’ll be at the front, and the front will be at the back.’
‘I’ll sort of try for a posting in the middle…’
‘The middle of the front or—’
‘Gentlemen?’
They looked round to find that they had been followed by a man of medium height but with an extraordinary head. It wasn’t that he had gone bald. He had quite a lot of hair, which was long and curly and reached almost to his shoulders, and his beard was large enough to conceal a small chicken. But his head had simply risen through his hair, like a kind of intrusive dome.
He gave them a friendly smile.
‘Am I by any chance addressing the heroic Sergeant Colon and the—’ The man looked at Nobby. Expressions of amazement, dread, interest and charity passed across his otherwise sunny countenance like storm-driven clouds. ‘And the Corporal Nobbs?’ he finished.
‘That is us, citizen,’ said Colon.
‘Ah, good. I was very specifically told to find you. It’s quite amazing, you know. No one had even broken into the boathouse, although I must say I did design the locks rather well. And all I’ve had to do is replace the leatherwork around the joints and grease it up… oh, do excuse me, I’ve got rather ahead of myself. Now… there was a message I had to give you… what was it now?… Something about your hands…’ He reached down into the large canvas bag by his feet and pulled out a long tube, which he handed to Nobby.
‘I do apologize about this,’ he said, producing a smaller tube and handing it to Colon. ‘I had to do things in such a hurry, there really was no time to finish it off properly, and frankly the materials are not very good—’
Colon looked at his tube. It was pointed at one end.
‘This is a firework rocket,’ he said. ‘Look, it’s got “A riot of coloured balls and stars” on it…’
‘Yes, I do so apologize,’ said the man, lifting a complex little arrangement of wood and metal out of the bag. ‘May I have the tube back, corporal?’ He took it and screwed the arrangement on to one end. ‘Thank you… yes, I’m afraid that without my lathe and, indeed, my forge, I really have had to make do with what I could find lying around… Could I have the rocket back, please? Thank you.’
‘They don’t go properly without a stick,’ said Nobby.
‘Oh, in fact they do,’ said the man. ‘Just not very accurately.’
He raised the tube to shoulder height and peered into a small wire grid.
‘That seems about right,’ he said.