“What do you want me to do with him, Mr Vimes?”

“Detritus?”

The troll saluted with the hand that still held the D'reg.

“All present and correct, sir!”

“But—” And then Vimes realized. “It's freezing cold! Your brain's working again?”

“With rather more efficiency, sir.”

“Is this a djinn?” said Jabbar.

“I don't know, but I could certainly do with one,” said Vimes. He finally managed to locate some matches in his pocket, and lit one. “Put him down, sergeant,” he said, puffing his cigar into life. “Jabbar, this is Sergeant Detritus. He could break every bone in your body, including some of the small ones in the fingers which are quite hard to do—”

The darkness went shwup and something whispered past the back of his neck, just a slice of a second before Jabbar cannoned into him and bore him to the ground.

“They shoot at the light!”

“Mwwf?”

Vimes raised his head cautiously and spat out sand and fragments of tobacco.

“Mr Vimes?”

Only Carrot could whisper like that. He associated whispering with concealment and untruth and compromised by whispering very loudly. To Vimes's horror the man came round the edge of a tent holding a tiny lamp.

“Put that damn—”

But he didn't have time to finish the sentence because, somewhere out in the night, a man screamed. It was a high-pitched scream and was suddenly cut off.

“Ah,” said Carrot, crouching down by Vimes and blowing out the lamp. “That was Angua.”

“That was nothing like– oh. Yeah, I think I see what you mean,” Vimes said, uneasily. “She's out there, is she?”

“I heard her earlier. She's probably enjoying herself. She doesn't really get much of a chance to let herself go in Ankh-Morpork.”

“Er… no…” Vimes had a mental picture of a werewolf letting go. But surely, Angua wouldn't—

“You two, uh… you're getting along OK, are you?” he said, trying to make out shapes in the darkness.

“Oh, fine, sir. Fine.”

So her turning into a wolf occasionally doesn't worry you? Vimes couldn't bring himself to say it.

“No… problems, then?”

“Oh, not really, sir. She buys her own dog biscuits and she's got her own flap in the door. When it's full moon I don't really get involved.”

There were shouts in the night and then a shape erupted from the darkness, streaked past Vimes, and disappeared into a tent. It didn't wait for a door. It simply hit the cloth at full speed and continued until the tent collapsed around it.

“And what is that?” said Jabbar.

“This may take some explaining,” said Vimes, picking himself up.

Carrot and Detritus were already hauling at the collapsed tent.

“We are D'regs,” said Jabbar reproachfully. “We are supposed to fold tents silently in the night, not—”

There was enough moonlight. Angua sat up and snatched a piece of tent out of Carrot's hands.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her. “And before anyone says anything, I just bit him on the bum. Hard. And that was not the soft option, let me tell you.”

Jabbar looked back into the desert, and then down at the sand, and then at Angua. Vimes could see him thinking, and put a fraternal arm around his shoulders.

“I'd better explain—” he began.

“There's a couple of hundred soldiers out there!” Angua snapped.

“—later.”

“They're taking up positions all round you! And they don't look nice! Has anyone got any clothes that might fit? And some decent food? And a drink! There's no water in this place!”

“They will not dare attack before dawn,” said Jabbar.

“And what will you do, sir?” said Carrot.

“At dawn we will charge!”

“Ah. Uh. I wonder if I could suggest an alternative approach?”

“Alternative? It is right to charge! Charging is what dawn is for.”

Carrot saluted Vimes. “I've been reading your book, sir. While you were… asleep. Tacticus's got quite a lot to say about how to deal with overwhelming odds, sir.”

“Yes?”

“He says take every opportunity to turn them into underwhelming odds, sir. We could attack now.”

“But it's dark, man!”

“It's just as dark for the enemy, sir.”

“I mean it's pitch black! You wouldn't know who the hell you were fighting! Half the time you'd be shooting your own side!”

“We wouldn't, sir, because there'd only be a few of us. Sir? All we need to do is crawl out there, make a bit of noise, and then let them get on with it. Tacticus says all armies are the same size in the night, sir.”

“There might be something in that,” said Angua. “They're crawling around in ones and twos, and they're dressed pretty much like—” She waved a hand at Jabbar.

“This is Jabbar,” said Carrot. “He's sort of not the leader.”

Jabbar grinned nervously. “It happens often in your country, where dogs turn into naked women?”

“Sometimes days can go past and it doesn't happen at all,” Angua snapped. “I'd like some clothes, please. And a sword, if there's going to be fighting.”

“Um, I think Klatchians have a very particular view about women fighting—” Carrot began.

“Yes!” said Jabbar. “We expect them to be good at it, Blue Eyes. We are D'regs!”

The Boat surfaced in the scummy dead water under a jetty. The lid opened slowly.

“Smells like home,” said Nobby.

“You can't trust the water,” said Sergeant Colon.

“But I don't trust the water at home, sarge.”

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.

Colon had always thought that heroes had some special kind of clockwork that made them go out and die famously for god, country and apple pie, or whatever particular delicacy their mother made. It had never occurred to him that they might do it because they'd get yelled at if they didn't.

He reached down.

“Come on up, Nobby,” he said. “And remember we're doing this for the gods, Ankh-Morpork and—” It seemed to Colon that a foodstuff would indeed be somehow appropriate. “And my mum's famous knuckle sandwich!”

“Our mum never made us knuckle sandwiches,” said Nobby, as he hauled himself on to the planks. “But you'd be amazed at what she could do with a bit of cheese…”

“Yeah, all right, but that aint much of a battle cry, is it? ‘For the gods, Ankh-Morpork and amazing things Nobby's mum can do with cheese’? That'll strike fear in the hearts of the enemy!” said Sergeant Colon, as they crept forward.

“Oh, well, if that's what you're after, you want my mum's Distressed Pudding and custard,” said Nobby.

“Frightening, is it?”

“They wouldn't want to know about it, sarge.”

The docks of Al-Khali were like docks everywhere, because all docks everywhere are connected. Men have to put things on and off boats. There are only a limited number of ways to do this. So all docks look the same. Some are hotter, some are damper, there are always piles of vaguely forgotten-looking things.

In the distance there was the glow of the city, which seemed quite unaware of the enemy incursion.

“‘Get us some clothes so that we'll blend in,’” muttered Colon. “That's all very well to say.”

“Nah, nah, that's easy,” said Nobby. “Everyone knows how to do that one. You lurk in an alley somewhere, right, and you wait until a couple of blokes come by and you lure them into the alley, see, and there's a couple of thumps, and then you come out wearing their clothes.”

“That works, does it?”

“Never fails, sarge,” said Nobby confidently.

The desert looked like snow in the moonlight.