Free Jingo by Terry Pratchett Page A

Vimes. “That is—”
    “Could I offer you twenty camels for her?”
    Vimes looked back into the dark eyes for a moment, glanced at 71-hour Ahmed’s 24-carat grin, and said:
    “This is another test, isn’t it…?”
    The Prince straightened up, looking pleased.
    “Well done, Sir Samuel. You’re good at this. Do you know, Mr. Boggis of the Thieves’ Guild was prepared to accept fifteen?”
    “For Mrs. Boggis?” Vimes waggled a hand dismissively. “Nah…four camels, maybe four camels and a goat in a good light. And when she’s had a shave.”
    The milling guests turned at the sound of the Prince’s explosion of laughter.
    “Very good! Very good! I am afraid, commander, that some of your fellow citizens feel that just because my people invented advanced mathematics and all-day camping we are complete barbarians who’d try to buy their wives at the drop of, shall we say, a turban. I am surprised they’re giving me an honorary degree, considering how incredibly backward I am.”
    “Oh? What degree is that?” said Vimes. No wonder this man was a diplomat. You couldn’t trust him an inch, he thought in loops, and you couldn’t help liking him despite it.
    The Prince pulled a letter out of his robe.
    “Apparently it’s a Doctorum Adamus cum Flabello Dulci —Is there something wrong, Sir Samuel?”
    Vimes managed to turn the treacherous laugh into a coughing fit. “No, no, nothing,” he said. “No.”
    He desperately wanted to change the subject. And fortunately there was something here to provide just the opportunity.
    “Why has Mr. Ahmed got such a big curved sword slung on his back?” he said.
    “Ah, you are a policeman, you notice such things—”
    “It’s hardly a concealed weapon, is it? It’s nearly bigger than him. He’s practically a concealed owner!”
    “It’s ceremonial,” said the Prince. “And he does fret so if he has to leave it behind.”
    “And what exactly is his—”
    “Ah, there you are,” said Ridcully. “I think we’re just about ready. You know you go right at the front, Sam—”
    “Yes, I know,” said Vimes. “I was just asking His Highness what—”
    “—and if you, Your Highness, and you, Mr.…my word, what a big sword, and you come back here and take your place among the honored guests, and we’ll be ready in a brace of sheiks…”
    What a thing it is to have a copper’s mind, Vimes thought, as the great file of wizards and guests tried to form a dignified and orderly line behind him. Just because someone makes himself pleasant and likable you start to be suspicious of him, for no other reason than the fact that anyone who goes out of their way to be nice to a copper has got something on their mind. Of course, he’s a diplomat, but still…I just hope he never studied ancient languages, and that’s a fact.
    Someone tapped Vimes on the shoulder. He turned and looked right into the grin of 71-hour Ahmed.
    “If h you changing your mind, o ff endi, I give h you twenty-five camels, no pro b lem,” he said, pulling a clove from his teeth. “May your h loins be full of fruit.”
    He winked. It was the most suggestive gesture Vimes had ever seen. “Is this another—” he began, but the man had vanished into the crowd.
    “My loins be full of fruit?” he repeated to himself. “Good grief!”
    71-hour Ahmed reappeared at his other elbow in a gust of cloves. “I go, I h come back,” he growled happily. “T h e Prince h says the degree is Doctor of Sweet Fanny Adams. A h wizard w h eeze, yes? O h , h ow we are laughing.”
    And then he was gone.
     
    The Convivium was Unseen University’s Big Day. Originally it had just been the degree ceremony, but over the years it had developed into a kind of celebration of the amicable relationship between the University and the city, in particular celebrating the fact that people were hardly ever turned to clams anymore. In the absence of anything resembling a Lord Mayor’s Show or a state opening of