Free Jingo by Terry Pratchett

chin.
    “Ah…er…yes…”
    “Commander Vimes always gets his man,” said the Prince.
    “Well, I wouldn’t say I—”
    “Vetinari’s terrier, I’ve heard them call you,” the Prince went on. “Always hot on the chase, they say, and he won’t let go.”
    Vimes stared into the calm, knowing gaze.
    “I suppose, at the end of the day, we’re all someone’s dog,” he said, weakly.
    “In fact it is fortuitous I have met you, commander.”
    “It is?”
    “I was just wondering about the meaning of the word shouted at me as we were on our way down here. Would you be so kind?”
    “Er…if I…”
    “I believe it was…let me see now…oh, yes… towelhead .”
    The Prince’s eyes stayed locked on Vimes’s face.
    Vimes was conscious of his own thoughts moving very fast, and they seemed to reach their own decision. We’ll explain later, they said. You’re too tired for explanations. Right now, with this man, it’s oh so much better to be honest…
    “It…refers to your headdress,” he said.
    “Oh. Is it some kind of obscure joke?”
    Of course he knows, thought Vimes. And he knows I know…
    “No. It’s an insult,” he said eventually.
    “Ah? Well, we certainly cannot be held responsible for the ramblings of idiots, commander.” The Prince flashed a smile. “I must commend you, incidentally.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “For your breadth of knowledge. I must have asked a dozen people that question this morning and, do you know? Not one of them knew what it meant. And they all seemed to have caught a cough.”
    There was a diplomatic pause but, in it, someone sniggered.
    Vimes let his glance drift sideways to the other man, who had not been introduced. He was shorter and skinnier than the Prince and, under his black headdress, had the most crowded face Vimes had ever seen. A network of scars surrounded a nose like an eagle’s beak. There was a sort of beard and moustache, but the scars had affected the hair growth so much that they stuck out in strange bunches and at odd angles. The man looked as though he had been hit in the mouth by a hedgehog. He could have been any age. Some of the scars looked fresh.
    All in all, the man had a face that any policeman would arrest on sight. There was no possible way it could be innocent of anything .
    He caught Vimes’s expression and grinned, and Vimes had never seen so much gold in one mouth. He’d never seen so much gold in one place .
    Vimes realized he was staring when he ought to have been making polite diplomatic conversation.
    “So,” he said, “are we going to have a scrap over this Leshp business or what?”
    The Prince gave a dismissive shrug.
    “Pfui,” he said. “A few square miles of uninhabited fertile ground with superb anchorage in an unsurpassed strategic position? What sort of inconsequence is that for civilized people to war over?”
    Once again Vimes felt the gaze on him, reading him. Well, the hell with it. He said, “Sorry, I’m not good at this diplomacy business. Did you mean what you just said then?”
    There was another snigger. Vimes turned and looked at the leering bearded face again. And was aware of a smell, no, a stench of cloves.
    Good grief, he chews the stinking things …
    “Ah,” said the Prince, “you haven’t met 71-hour Ahmed?”
    Ahmed grinned again and bowed. “Offendi,” he said, in a voice like a gravel path.
    And that seemed to be it. Not “This is 71-hour Ahmed, Cultural Attaché” or “71-hour Ahmed, my bodyguard” or even “71-hour Ahmed, walking strongroom and moth killer.” It was clear that the next move was up to Vimes.
    “That’s…er…that’s an unusual name,” he said.
    “Not at all,” said the Prince smoothly. “Ahmed is a very common name in my country.”
    He leaned forward again. Vimes recognized this as the prelude to a confidential aside. “Incidentally, was that beautiful lady I saw just now your first wife?”
    “Er…all my wives,” said Vimes. “That is—”
    “Could