Jingo by Terry Pratchett Page A

an urgency of thought. It makes you aware of the briefness of life.”
    The Patrician glanced at another page. Between a sketch of a bird’s wing and a careful drawing of a ball-joint was a little doodle of something with spiked wheels and spinning blades. And then there was the device for moving mountains aside…

“The desert is not required,” he said. He sighed again and pushed the pages aside. “Have you heard about the lost continent of Leshp?” he said.
    “Oh, yes. I did some sketches there a few years ago,” said Leonard. “Some interesting aspects, I recall. More tea? I fear you’ve let that one get cold. Was there anything you particularly wanted?”
    The Patrician pinched the bridge of his nose.
    “I’m not sure. There is a small problem developing. I thought perhaps you could help. Unfortunately,” the Patrician glanced at the sketches again, “I suspect that you can.” He stood up, straightened his robe and forced a smile. “You have everything you require?”
    “Some more wire would be nice,” said Leonard. “And I have run out of Burnt Umber.”
    “I shall have some sent along directly,” said Vetinari. “And now, if you will excuse me—”
    He let himself out.
    Leonard nodded happily as he cleared away the teacups. The infernal combustion engine was carried to the heap of scrap metal beside the small forge, and he fetched a ladder and removed the piston from the ceiling.
    He’d just opened out his easel to start work on a new design when he was aware of a distant pattering. It sounded like someone running but also occasionally pausing to hop sideways on one leg.
    Then there was a pause, such as might be made by someone adjusting their clothing and getting their breath back.
    The door opened and the Patrician returned. He sat down and looked carefully at Leonard of Quirm.
    “You did what ?” he said.

    Vimes turned the clove over and over under the magnifying glass.
    “I see tooth marks,” he said.
    “Yes sir,” said Littlebottom, who represented in her entirety the Watch’s forensic department. “Looks like someone was chewing it like a toothpick.”
    Vimes sat back. “I would say,” he said, “that this was last touched by a swarthy man of about my height. He had several gold teeth. And a beard. And a slight cast in one eye. Scarred. He was carrying a large weapon. Curved, I’d say. And you’d have to call what he was wearing a turban because it wasn’t moving fast enough to be a badger.”
    Littlebottom looked astonished.
    “Detectoring is like gambling,” said Vimes, putting down the clove. “The secret is to know the winner in advance. Thank you, corporal. Write down that description and make sure everyone gets a copy, please. He goes by the name of 71-hour Ahmed, heaven knows why. And then go and get some rest.”
    Vimes turned to face Carrot and Angua, who had crammed into the tiny little room, and nodded at the girl.
    “I followed the clove smell all the way down to the docks,” she said.
    “And then?”
    “Then I lost it, sir.” Angua looked embarrassed. “I didn’t have any trouble through the fish market, sir. Or in the slaughterhouse district. And then it went into the spice market—”
    “Ah. I see. And didn’t come out again?”
    “In a way, sir. Or came out going fifty different ways. Sorry.”
    “Can’t be helped. Carrot?”
    “I did what you said, sir. The top of the Opera House is about the right distance from our archery butts. I used a bow just like the one he used, sir—”
    Vimes raised a finger. Carrot stared, and then said slowly: “…like…the one you found next to him…”
    “Right. And?”
    “It’s a Burleigh and Stronginthearm ‘Shureshotte Five,’ sir. A bow for the expert. I’m not a great bowman but I could at least hit the target at that elevation. But…”
    “I’m ahead of you,” said Vimes. “You’re a big lad, Carrot. Our late Ossie had arms like Nobby. I could put my hand round them.”
    “Yes, sir.