Around the shores of the Circle Sea a large wave, only five or six feet high by the time it reached them, caused some comment. And in some of the very low-lying swamp areas the water swamped some villages of people that no one else cared about very much. But in a purely geological sense, nothing very much happened.

In a purely geological sense.

“It's a city, Dad! Look, you can see all the windows and—”

“I told you to shut up and keep rowing!”

The seawater surged down the streets. On either side, huge, weed-encrusted buildings boiled slowly out of the surf.

Father and son fought to keep some way on the boat as it was dragged along. And, since lesson one in the art of rowing is that you do it while looking the wrong way, they didn't see the other boat…

“You lunatic!”

“Foolish man!”

“Don't you touch that building! This country belongs to Ankh-Morpork!”

The two boats spun in a temporary whirlpool.

“I claim this land in the name of the Seriph of Al-Khali!”

“We saw it first! Les, you tell him we saw it first!”

“We saw it first before you saw it first!”

“Les, you saw him, he tried to hit me with that oar!”

“But Dad, you're waving that trident—”

“See the untrustworthy way he attacks us, Akhan!”

There was a grinding noise from under the keel of both boats and they began to tip as they settled into the sea-bottom ooze.

“Look, Father, there is an interesting statue—”

“He has set his foot on Klatchian soil! The squid thief!”

“Get those filthy sandals off Ankh-Morporkian territory!”

“Oh, Dad—”

The two fishermen stopped screaming at each other, mainly in order to get their breath back. Crabs scuttled away. Water drained between the patches of weed, carving runnels in the grey silt.