Jingo

prisoner you’ve got there?”
    “In a way.” Vimes glanced around. “He seems to have fainted. I can’t think why.”
    Reg leaned closer. “These foreigners are a bit weird,” he said.
    “Reg?”
    “Yes?”
    “Your ear’s hanging off.”
    “Is it? Wretched thing. You’d think a nail would work, wouldn’t you?”

    Sergeant Colon looked up at the stars. They looked down at him. At least Fred Colon had a choice.
    Beside him, Corporal Nobbs gave a groan. But the attackers had left him his pants. There are some places where the boldest dare not go, and those areas of Nobby upward of the knees and downward of the stomach were among them.
    Well, Colon thought of them as attackers. Technically, he supposed they were defenders. Aggressive defenders.
    “Just run all that past me again, will you?” he said.
    “We find a couple of blokes about our height and weight—”
    “We did that.”
    “We lure them into this alley—”
    “We did that.”
    “I take a swing at them with a length of wood and hit you by accident in the dark and they get angry and turn out to be thieves and nick all our clothes.”
    “We weren’t supposed to do that.”
    “Well it worked basically ,” said Nobby, managing to get to his knees. “We could give it another go.”
    “Nobby, you’re in a port in a foreign city clad only in your, and I use this word with feeling, Nobby, your unmentionables. This is not the point to start talking about luring people into alleys. There could be talk.”
    “Angua always says that nakedness is the national costume everywhere, sarge.”
    “She was talking about herself, Nobby,” said Colon, sidling along in the shadows. “It’s different for you.”
    He peered around the other end of the alley. There was noise and chatter from the building that formed one of the walls. A couple of laden donkeys waited patiently outside.
    “Nip out and grab one of those packs, right?”
    “Why me, sarge?”
    “’cos you’re the corporal and I’m the sergeant. And you’ve got more on than me.”
    Grumbling under his breath, Nobby edged into the narrow street and unfastened a tether as fast as he could. The animal followed him obediently.
    Sergeant Colon pulled at the pack.
    “If push comes to shove we can wear the sacks,” he said. “That’ll—What’s this?”
    He held up something red.
    “Flowerpot?” said Nobby helpfully.
    “It’s a fez! Some Klatchians wear ’em. Looks like we’ve struck lucky. Whoops, here’s another one. Try it on, Nobby. And…looks like one of them nightshirts they wear…and here’s another one of those, too. We’re home and dry, Nobby.”
    “They’re a bit short, sarge.”
    “Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Colon, struggling into the costume. “Go on, put your fez on.”
    “It makes me look like a twit, sarge.”
    “Look, I’ll put mine on, all right?”
    “Then we’ll be fez to fez, sarge.”
    Sergeant Colon gave him a severe look. “Did you have that one prepared, Nobby?”
    “No, sarge, I just made it up in my head right then.”
    “Well, look, no calling me sarge. That doesn’t sound Klatchian.”
    “Nor does Nobby, sa—Sorry…”
    “Oh, I dunno…you could be…Knobi…or Nhobi…or Gnobbee…Sounds pretty Klatchian to me.”
    “What’s a good Klatchian name for you, then? I don’t know hardly any,” said Nhobi.
    Sergeant Colon didn’t answer. He was peering round the corner again.
    “His lordship did say we was not to hang about,” Nobby murmured.
    “Yeah, but inside that tin can, well, it smells pretty lived-in , if you know what I mean. What I wouldn’t give for—”
    There was a bellow behind them. They turned.
    There were three Klatchian soldiers. Or possibly watchmen. Nobby and Sergeant Colon didn’t look much further than the swords.
    The leader growled a question at them.
    “What did he say?” Nobby quavered.
    “Dunno!”
    “Where you from?” said the leader, in Morporkian.
    “What? Oh…er…” Colon hesitated, waiting for shiny death.
    “Hah, yes.” The guard lowered his sword and jerked a thumb toward the docks. “You get back to your detachment now!”
    “Right!” said Nobby.
    “What your name?” one of the guards demanded.
    “Nhobi,” said Nobby. This seemed to pass.
    “And you, fat one?”
    Colon was panicking on the spot. He sought desperately for any name that sounded Klatchian, and there was only one that presented itself and which was absolutely and authentically Klatchian.
    “Al,”