Jingo

chatting. You must have picked up the odd word, sir.”
    “Well…vindaloo, maybe, but…”
    “This is a firebomb, sir.”
    “I know, captain.”
    “This is very bad. Who would do a thing like this?”
    “Right now?” said Vimes. “Half the city, I should think.”
    He looked helplessly at Goriff. He vaguely recognized the face. He vaguely recognized Mrs. Goriff’s face. They were…faces. They were usually at the other end of some arms holding a portion of curry or a kebab. Sometimes the boy ran the place. The shop opened very early in the morning and very late at night, when the streets were owned by bakers, thieves and watchmen.
    Vimes knew the place as Mundane Meals. Nobby Nobbs had said that Goriff had wanted a word that meant ordinary, everyday, straightforward, and had asked around until he found one he liked the sound of.
    “Er…tell him…tell him you’re staying here, and I’ll go back to the Watch House and send someone out to relieve you,” said Vimes.
    “Thank you,” said Goriff.
    “Oh, you underst—” Vimes felt like an idiot. “Of course you do, you must have been here, what, five, six years?”
    “Ten years, sir.”
    “Really?” said Vimes manically. “That long? Really? My word…well, I’d better get along…Good morning to you—”
    He hurried out into the rain.
    I must have been going in there for years , he thought, as he splashed through the darkness. And I know how to say “vindaloo.” And…“korma”…? Carrot’s hardly been here five minutes and he gargles the language like a native.
    Good grief, I can get by in dwarfish and I can at least say, “Put down that rock, you’re under arrest,” in troll, but…
    He stamped into the Watch House, water pooling off him. Fred Colon was dozing quietly at the desk. In deference to the fact that he’d known Fred all these years, Vimes was extra noisy about taking off his cape.
    When he officially turned round, the sergeant was sitting at attention.
    “I didn’t know you were on tonight, Mr. Vimes…”
    “This is unofficial, Fred,” said Vimes. He accepted “Mr.” from certain people. In an odd way, they’d earned it. “Send someone along to Mundane Meals in Scandal Alley, will you? A bit of trouble there.”
    He reached the stairs.
    “You stopping, sir?” said Fred.
    “Oh, yes,” said Vimes grimly. “I’ve got to catch up on the paperwork.”

    The rain fell on Leshp so hard it probably hadn’t been worth the island’s bother of rising from the bottom of the sea.
    Most of the explorers slept in their boats now. There were buildings on the risen island, but…
    …the buildings weren’t quite right.
    Solid Jackson peered out from the tarpaulin he’d rigged up on deck. Mist was rising off the soaking ground and was made luminous by the occasional flash of lightning.
    The city, by storm light, looked far too malevolent. There were things he could recognize—columns and steps and archways and so on—but there were others…he shuddered. It looked as if people had once tried to add human touches to structures that were already ancient…
    It was because of his son that everyone was staying in the boats.
    A party of Ankh-Morpork fishermen had gone ashore that morning to search for the heaps of treasure that everyone knew littered the ocean bottom and had found a tiled floor, washed clean by the rain. Pretty blue and white squares showed a pattern of waves and shells and, in the middle, a squid.
    And Les had said, “That looks pretty big, Dad.”
    And everyone had looked around at the weed-covered buildings and had shared the Thought, which remained unspoken but was made up of a lot of little thoughts like the occasional ripples in the pools, and the little splashes in the dark water of cellars that made the mind think of claws, winnowing the deeps, and the odd things that sometimes got washed up on beaches or turned up in nets. Sometimes you pulled things over the side that’d put a man off fish for life.
    And suddenly no one wanted to explore any more, just in case they found something.
    Solid Jackson pulled his head back under the cover.
    “Why’n’t we going home, Dad?” said his son. “You said this place gives you the willies.”
    “All right, but they’re Ankh-Morpork willies, see? And no foreigner’s going to get his hands on them.”
    “Dad?”
    “Yes, lad?”
    “Who was Mr. Hong?”
    “How should I know?”
    “Only, when we was all heading back for the boats one of the other men