Nothing to it, really!
It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate.
A short featuring some of my favourite Assassins. This deals with changes, transformations and new beginnings. But they lead to lifelong commitment. I'm aware this is stepping out of sequence chronologically, perhaps two years after the conclusion of "Let's Bungle in the Jungle", and I haven't (yet) written about what happened when Ponder met her parents for the first time. Nor have I written about the biggest wedding ever to be held in the sleepy backwater town of Piemburg. (look at the guest list…)
It's an aspect of the New Assassins' Guild and School that nobody's really considered yet. But one that I want to write just to explore "What if…." and the associated "when it happens".
Our tale begins in a strange and inhospitable place… where it finishes is anyone's guess. I may leave it here and write odd little glimpses into the lives of my Assassins as they get older. But not necessarily wiser.
The Neverglade Swamps are first seen in Raising Steam as an example of the sort of terrain engineers had to get railways through. They are further discussed in Mrs Bradshaw's Guide To The Railways and again contradict Terry's stated intention that no part of the Americas should be referenced on the Discworld. The ambience is very definitely Haiti with a lot of Carribean/French South America. In fact, you half expect there to be a secure prison called Astfgl's Island… (Papillion on the Discworld. Now there's a tale…)
The Assassins' School, Ankh-Morpork.
The Comptesse de Lapoignard, house-mistress of Black Widow House, sat on the edge of her bed feeling ill and drained. She had succeeded to the title a year or two earlier following the regrettable death of her mother-in-law, the Dowager Countess de Lapoignard. Heads had turned her way at the funeral, often with knowing Quirmian nods and winks at the way of the world, and an understanding that this is sometimes how these things must be, madame Comptesse. Alors, when the daughter-in-law, whose route to the nobility is barred by an unsympathetic and uncongenial ancienne, is also an Assassin, then it is the way of the world, and understood between people of affaires, hmmm?
Emmanuelle had protested in vain that her professional qualifications had nothing to do with it, and this death had been entirely due to natural causes. The old beldame had been over eighty, for goodness sake?
People had responded with more knowing winks and statements like "Bien sûr. I understand you may not say out loud", or "As you wish, ma Comptesse", or "We understand perfectly!" and carried on believing it had been a Guild contract, administered by a daughter-in-law with every moral and legal right to do so, that took the old lady.
Maurice, her husband, a husband she suspected she loved a little, had even in his grief supported her. He had said Emmanuelle was blameless as, had she murdered his mother, there would have been stab wounds. Many stab wounds. Beaucoup des blessés. "And besides, the doctors found no trace of poison. Believe me, I checked with them. And the good Lord Downey had no reason to lie when I asked him to spare my wife's embarrassment in this matter. He has presented a written disclaimer denying the Guild brought about my mother's death. Do you not believe that? Normally when they kill they shout it from the rooftops!"
But all of Quirm thought otherwise, it seemed. Not that Quirmian society expressed outrage or shock about it. The opposite, in fact. Emmanuelle was seen as a virtuous saint for having put up with the old woman's pettinesses and nastiness for so long. The gossip columns in Quirm-Match, Le Disque-Monde, Le Quirmien and all the rest had gleefully run with the story. It had even made the Ankh-Morpork Times' society pages and gossip columns.
Downey had announced it to the School before breakfast one morning.
"Following the sad death of her mother-in-law, and no inference is to be drawn from this, it falls to me to announce that Madame Deux-Epées, housemistress of Black Widow House, is from now on to be officially known by the title to which she has succeeded. In official correspondence and formal situations, she is now the Comptesse de Lapoignard and may be formally addressed as "My Lady"."
All eyes had fallen on Emmanuelle, who remained poker-faced. The rumours had reached the student body too. It had been hideously uncomfortable.
"She has asked me to state that in lessons and non-formal situations, her former name of Madame Deux-Epées is acceptable and will suffice. I will remind all present that the Inhumation Bell expressly did not ring for the former Comptesse. Her death was due to natural causes. Thank you."
This had not stopped her overhearing students speculating that it was definitely natural causes. What was more natural a cause than an Assassin inhuming her husband's mother?
She sighed. It had died down in the time since. All she had to worry about was this abominable weakness, nausea and ill feeling in the early part of the day. She resolved to see Matron Igorina, once she was back from that half-term expedition to Quirm. Emmanuelle stood, and hoped her teaching assistant could carry a larger part of the Swords class this morning. She really did not feel up to it. At least it was an informal extra class, designed to keep the residue of students in School over the holiday gainfully occupied.
The Neverglade Swamps, Quirm.
The swampy marshland was never quiet, even at night. Animals called, croaked and ululated. Things bubbled in the unquiet waters. Vegetation rustled, often with ominous intent not normally found in plant life.
The half-term expedition, composed of senior students, several teachers, a couple of representatives of Unseen University, and local guides, took up a defensive position on the relatively higher and drier ground where they had made camp. Miss Alice Band called "Close up!" urgently as the things shambled forwards. She registered Johanna Smith-Rhodes, now for at least some official purposes Mrs Stibbons,(1) handing out the special munitions. The untried, untested, weapons she had insisted the expedition carry for this specific purpose.
Alice sighed and lit the oil-soaked rags tied just behind the point of her arrow. This was tried and tested. She counted to three to allow the flame to catch, nocked, aimed, and loosed. The firing line of mainly students followed her lead. She saw the shambling thing bowled over by the force of the impact and heard it scream dully as it caught fire. It writhed, making strange shapes in the jungle-black night.
Then the crossbows and bows firing the special munitions cracked into action. One of the zombies lurched backwards and shuddered, a vague shape in the night. Then as it tried to pluck the bolt out of its stomach, there was a pinpoint of yellow-green light. It screamed, a dull unearthly screech, as the incendiary chemicals contained in the hollow glass head erupted into flame. Deep inside its torso, driven deep by the impact and the breaking of the glass containing them, thus exposing the chemical mixture to air. Alice whistled appreciatively as the zombie seemed to explode into two fiercely burning halves. Which carried on burning even when it fell into water.
The dull chant of Cervaux! Cervaux! continued, as the zombies pressed forward. But fire-arrows and incendiaries were hitting them hard. Alice took down another with a fire-arrow, noticing the green pallor, the sallow skin, the rags of clothing and the utter lack of intelligence in the sunken eyes.
"Do not allow them to draw close." Alain Lanier said, urgently. He was one of the local guides to the swamps. "They have a formidable strength! And a bite or a scratch has consequences!"
He fired again. Next to him, Reg Shoe from the City Watch was shooting straight and true, but accompanying every shot with a "sorry, brother." that sounded heartfelt. Reg paused and scrutinised another target closely. His arrow, one of the special rounds, bowled it over.
"Sorry, sister." he said, as the latest zombie burst into flame.
Alice nodded to him, noting the assault was failing and the creatures were beginning to retreat.
"Sorry, Reg." she said, appreciatively, understanding his position. The Zombie policeman smiled wanly.
"Can't be helped, miss. They're just revenants. Like the ones in Kneck castle. No intelligence. No reasoning. Maybe this is the merciful way."
Lanier looked over suspiciously. Accepting a zombie as part of the expedition group had meant persuasion and a heavy bonus. He still wasn't happy with the idea.
"You had a chance to reason with them. Work them out." she said. She understood that for Reg, discovering there were such things as classic brain-consuming Zombies in the world had shaken his spirits somewhat. And the revenants had attacked on three straight nights now. Where they went to in the day was not known.
"I tried, miss. But there's nothing there to talk to. Beats me where they came from!" Reg had come here specifically to find out about Neverglades zombies. He'd learnt more than he wanted to. His report for Commander Vimes and Lord Vetinari was going to be gloomy and pessimistic.
"They come from the boucors." Lanier said, flatly. The party watched the remnant of their attackers fade back into the treeline. That would be the end of it for this night. "The native mages. They are created to work and need little sustenance. When the boucor who made them dies, they live on, but have no master. They fade into the forest. Also, we have tales that in the Dark War of some thousands of years ago, the dark Igors, the… how do you say, the Rogi? The Rogi learnt the secret of re-awakening corpses. They built a zombie army for the Dark Empire. Its last members fled here, to the swamp."
"And here they are still." Alice mused. "Caused the Rail Ways no end of bother."
"They still do." said a dry cultivated voice. It belonged to the Compte de Yoyo, a senior teacher at the Guild School. Although nearly sixty, the Compte still had the vigour of a far younger man and like his ancestors, loved expeditions and exploring.
"Which is part of the reason why we're here. The Rail Ways and the Quirmian authorities see us thinning out zombie numbers. The students get live combat experience. They can't inhume actual people, obviously, but there's no bar on them destroying zombies. Practical survival training in inhospitable terrain. And Doctor Bellamy, Doctor Stibbons…. That is, Doctor Smith-Rhodes – and Igorina get their samples to take back."
Compte de Yoyo took a deep appreciative breath.
"This sort of thing makes you feel alive, Alice! I'm going to miss this if I ever retire!"
Alice smiled.
"Anyone hurt?" somebody asked.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Igorina! We're all safe here."
"That's what everyone's saying, Alice. Pity." Matron Igorina said. Then she added: "I'm going to need an escort to watch my back. I need some more bone and tissue samples. You know, for my report."
Alice understood: Igorina wasn't just there as medical officer. Her goal was to try and isolate any physical, tangible, cause for Neverglades zombism. It was different to anything seen elsewhere on the Disc. Speculation among Igors was that some sort of biological agent was involved, as well as magic and belief. The Igors had long lost the secrets of their Rogi relatives, preferring to sustain life rather than destroy it. But they had an intellectual curiosity about the dark side, and if there was a cause, some sort of mutation or biological agent, it might be possible to come up with a cure. But this needed samples of zombie flesh for secure containment and analysis back in the City. Gathering these could be risky.
Alice nodded.
"Bring Professor Rincewind." she suggested, practically. "If any of them are still alive – well, active – he'll spot it first. In fact, I'll join you."
The whimpering and protesting Rincewind was prodded forwards and told to go with Igorina and Alice. The others watched them move cautiously forwards, Alice bringing up the rear behind Unseen University's Professor of Cruel and Egregious Geography. The University had sent him along on the grounds that a trip to the Neverglades was right up his job description. (2)
The Compte de Yoyo, one of the nominated leaders of the party, watched happily. A wilderness expedition, a continual fight against the elements, and a deadly enemy to fight. Life didn't get any better than this. He glanced over to where Doctor Smith-Rhodes was supervising the students in making weapons safe and performing post-combat checks. He frowned. It wasn't apparent how, exactly, but a little of her edge seemed to have gone. It was apparent. He wondered if married life was making her more mellow, and dulling her aptitude for combat. And she wasn't the only one…
Ah well. They never attack by day. We can stand down, post guards, and try to get a bit of sleep before morning.
In the distance Rincewind yelped with alarm. There was a dull unhealthy-sounding thudding, crunching, noise and a grunt of satisfaction, suggesting one of them wasn't quite properly down yet and Alice had finished it off.
Emmanuelle still felt a little nauseated and off-colour. She took advantage of a free period after the swords class to go to the Prancing Pony Tearooms, a very genteel establishment which she had a fondness for. They served a very good Ghatian tea, the best. A pot of good tea might help her stomach settle.
It didn't help that she met the ugly city witch Mrs Proust on the way, who greeted her politely, and then said something puzzlingly nonsequeterial. It wasn't until Emmanuelle was sipping her second cup that the possible import of Mrs Proust's words dawned on her. She very nearly spat her mouthful of tea back out as she realised. She wondered if there were other Igorinas in town who she could speak to.
The expedition camp served coffee and breakfast to the fifty or so people who had set up a base on the grassy hillock. Johanna Smith-Rhodes drank her coffee with foreboding, feeling nauseous and uncharacteristically lethargic. As the porridge arrived, she added a little honey from her dwindling personal supply, and really hoped she could keep it down this morning.
Ag. This would be fun if it wasn't for this verdamte sickness. Not severe enough for me to request evacuation, but enough to make life difficult. If it gets worse I may have to confide in Alice or Davinia and ask their advice. This is a difficult place, and one person going ill could imperil all.
It happened again shortly after breakfast. Johanna retreated to the designated privy and found herself retching. As the tide of nausea and revulsion ebbed, she cleaned up, turned, and found Doctor Davinia Bellamy standing behind her. She also looked tired and drawn.
"So it's not just me, then." Davinia remarked. "I heard you from fifty yards away."
"You too, Vinnie? Ag, we need to see Igorina. If this is something contagious…"
Davinia smiled, weakly.
"Nobody else has got this, I think. I'd be very surprised if Alice contracted it."
Johanna shook her head, wearily. Her thought processes felt slower than usual.
"So… nothing local, then. Vinnie, is this something we both picked up in the city end brought out with us?"
There was a long pause while Davinia thought of something appropriate to say.
"That's what Igorina thinks." she said, eventually. "I've seen her, Johanna. I really think you should too. After all it's not about just you any more, is it?"
"Ja. Es people keep reminding me, I em a merried woman now. It would not be fair to Ponder if I fell ill."
"Not fair to Ponder." Davinia repeated. She shook her head. "Look, come with me. Igorina's sort of half-expecting you, anyway."
Johanna felt a few sets of worried eyes watching her as Davinia led her to Igorina's tent and makeshift medical station. The Compte de Yoyo raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"We'll keep you informed." Davinia told him. She left Johanna with a reassuring hug and retired some way away.
Igorina looked up from her microscope. She didn't seem entirely surprised at her new patient.
Then she turned grave eyes to Johanna and asked her to describe the symptoms. She listened, seemingly with half an ear, and nodded.
"Hyperemesis gravidarum." Igorina murmured to herself. Johanna tried to make sense of the Latatian.
"Some sort of sickness bug?" she asked. "Vinnie thinks we picked it up beck in the city end brought it here with us. Is it contagious?"
Igorina permitted herself a half-smile.
"Only to women." She replied. "Men are just the carriers."
Johanna frowned, puzzled, wishing her tired brain would catch up and get to work.
"Look." Igorina said, kindly. "I need you to get me a sample, just to be sure. Next time you go to the privy. Bring it here – I do not require gallons, a trickle will suffice – and I can test it. But if it's what I think it is, you and Davinia both are off this expedition. No. Arguing! As medical officer here, if I say you're not fit, you're not fit. You go. And the Compte will support me. Light duties until we can arrange evacuation."
"Well, yes, but whet is it?" Johanna pleaded. "I've elways been healthy! I hev never hed this before!"
Igorina took a deep breath. She felt this was going to take some time.
"Johanna, how long have you been married now?" she asked, patiently. "Did your mother never have The Talk with you?"
Doctor Lawn at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital had known Emmanuelle for quite a long time and had been medically helpful on several prior occasions. This engendered trust. Liking her personally, he had asked if she needed a private consultation. Trusting him, she had agreed.
He had heard her symptoms sympathetically, and remarked that in these circumstances he never knew whether to say "congratulations" or "Oh, tough luck".
"Usually, I can figure it out from context." he remarked. "And you have to agree, one of the essential duties of a Comptesse is to provide her Compte with a reliable line of succession. One heir and one spare, so to speak. If I were you I'd clacks Maurice. He should be delighted."
Emmanuelle felt hot and cold flushes of horror passing up and down her body. As women with complicated lives do in these circumstances, she frantically tried to backdate the calendar. Maurice had spent a long leave with her two months ago. During that time she had indeed been a faithful and dutiful wife and had done everything demanded of her. Often, frequently, and with every satisfaction in a marital chore well done. But there was an outside, lingering, chance it might be Scrote Jones…
"But I cannot be pregnant!" she wailed. Mossy Lawn looked back at her with tolerant and wise eyes. "Enceinte! Moi? Ten years ago I promised myself this would be something for the future, for when I was older…"
She realised what she was saying, and her voice trailed off.
"Yes." Mossy Lawn said. "Exactly. And as your physician and as an obstetrician, I prescribe the following…"
She half-heard the list of medical recommendations. No excessive physical activity after the start of the second trimester. Although she could carry on taking sit-down classrooms until almost the very last moment.
"And ginger is good for morning sickness." Mossy said.
"You can take it as ginger beer, you can buy ginger wine, you can eat ginger biscuits, and many Agatean and BhangBhangDucian foods use it as a major ingredient." Igorina went on. "You would be surprised how it mitigates the effects of morning sickness. Cup of tea and a ginger biscuit first thing. Toast with ginger marmalade. Instruct Ponder. Do you employ a cook yet? You'll probably need a nanny too."
Johanna tried to take it in.
"You know, I haven't done all that many pregnancies before." Igorina remarked, pleasantly. "No call for it in the Guild School. Not a single one among the pupils, but that's good management, I suppose. And now I get two among the teaching staff. Funny old world, isn't it? Ah well, better ask the Compte and Alice to drop in. They need to know too. To arrange for replacements to come out from the Guild, for one thing. You're going home, Johanna!"
Mossy Lawn had tea sent in. Emmanuelle sipped in gloomy silence.
"I was slow when Mrs Proust greeted me this morning." she said. "I was puzzled when she said there was going to be a bonny heir to the Lapoignard name, and that he would be a strong, healthy, and intelligent child. I presumed it was a prediction for my future, and a valid one coming from a witch. I did not think that it would be in my near future!"
"Witches see things." Doctor Lawn said. He had worked in the past with Mrs Ogg from Lancre, possibly the Disc's best midwife, and he had met Tiffany Aching, who had learnt this aspect of the Craft from Nanny Ogg. "Don't ask me how, but if she says you're pregnant with a boy, then you're pregnant with a boy."
"And then, in the salon du thé, I thought to this sickness of the mornings I am currently inflicted with. And I knew I needed a medical opinion."
"I knew straight away." Davinia Bellamy said. "It just needed confirmation from Igorina. Look, this is going to be my fourth!"
The Compte de Yoyo sighed. He rather felt this was beyond his competence. A lifelong bachelor, when he died, the family title would pass to his nephew, his brother's oldest. There were some mysteries inherent in marriage of which he cherished his ignorance.
"Two of you." he repeated. "Well, it is unthinkable for an expectant mother to remain here in these conditions."
A thought struck him and he looked at Alice Band.
"Now wait a minute!" Alice said, affronted. "The chances of my getting pregnant are hovering at just above zero, and you know why!"
Alice had heard about turkey basters. She found the idea revolting. She had determined that if she ever loved one other woman enough to want to settle down with her, she could damn well start the family, however she chose to do it.
"But this expedition has only three more days to run." Johanna said, trying to plead her case. "I can tough it out till then."
"Don't be silly, Johanna." Davinia said, firmly. "Look, you know about pennyroyal? Grows like a weed, used as a natural contraceptive, and you and I should go nowhere near it for the next few months as it induces abortions and miscarriages?"
Johanna nodded.
"Well, in this swamp, there's a version called livre-royaume." Davinia said, flatly. "You could call it dollar-royal in Morporkian. Do you get the picture? And I am currently really, really, hoping for a daughter."
Alice recognised her colleague's determination. She asked
"How far is the nearest Clacks tower?"
"There's one at the Rail Way line." The Compte replied. "In extremis we could stop a train and evacuate the ladies to the city that way. But I propose we wait for the regular communication flight due in this morning. We send a message back with the pilot, if it's one of the Air Watch, and request a magic carpet comes out with some urgency, bearing replacement staff. We can have Doctor Smith-Rhodes and Doctor Bellamy back in the city by mid-afternoon, if all goes well."
"There's a silly superstition." Igorina said, making everyone else glad that she was a modern Igor who did not use the clan lisp. "Completely unscientific, but the folklore says all these things come in threes. Two pregnant women in the same workplace is not nearly enough. I wouldn't be surprised if when we all get back, we discover there's a third. But as I say, a silly superstition."
Professor Ponder Stibbons of Unseen University was dealing with the latest batch of clacks flimsies that one of the house-goblins had brought down from the tower they'd had installed on the roof. It had taken Mustrum Ridcully, a man who was somewhat set in his ways, some time to accept that his right-hand-man no longer lived in at the University. Frequently the University calm was broken by Ridcully bellowing "STibbbb-ONS!…. oh…" . as he remembered.
Ridcully had taken to clacksing his demands and queries to Ponder Stibbons. Ponder had sighed, and realised how quickly the physical space between the University and Spa Lane could be crossed. He wrote"It's in your lower left-hand desk draw. I should know, I put it there."on the bottom of one, and sent it for Clacksing, with Op De Veldt Deze Nacht De Leeuw Geschikt. (3) The goblin saluted him and ran to the little door in the wall.
There was a knock on the door; Ponder was pleased to see his near-neighbour, prison officer Peter Bellamy.
"Thought you might appreciate a social beer." Peter said, affably. "It'll be a while before the boys are back, and I've just come off shift."
They moved to the garden, neighbours bonded via their respective wives, both women who saw their kitchens as informal staffrooms for women teachers at the Assassins' Guild School. They took chairs to one of the safe parts of the garden. Davinia Bellamy had given Johanna generous help with getting the garden set up and running. The garden verges and border plants were not ones Ponder cared to go too near. The Thieves' Guild had complained loudly when one of their members had been inconvenienced when burgling a neighbouring house and had leapt the fence to evade pursuit. Urticaria is not nice when delivered by normal nettles and thistles. The plant varieties Davinia had installed as a theft-deterrent left normal nettle-rash a long way down the scale. 4(4)
Relaxing in the carefree uninterrupted manner of husbands who know their wives are well out of town and won't be expected back for three days, Ponder and Peter enjoyed the mid-afternoon air of a mellow late autumn. There was something of a Ghatian Summer over Ankh-Morpork: cloudless blue skies and unseasonal warmth.
"I've almost given up worrying about her, to be honest." Peter Bellamy said. "It allows her to burn off her surplus energy legally, and you can't say the Guild doesn't train them to be able to rise to any situation."
"I'm just relieved this latest assignment didn't need me." Ponder agreed. "We sent Rincewind and a couple of career thaumaturgists. You know, to help Vinnie get her plant samples."
Thaumaturgists were the University's go-anywhere, do-anything, adventurers. Composed of men who had failed the more intellectual aspects of Wizardry, they formed a self-contained caste within Unseen University and boasted that whatever rare ingredient was needed for a spell, whatever hard to obtain item, whatever animal or plant secretion or improbable thing – they would track it down and deliver. The very best Thaumaturgists were also very rich men with a taste for adventure, and skills that could rival any Assassin or Thief.
"I could go a long way without seeing the Neverglades." Peter agreed. "You know, I always used to think botany was dull?"
Davinia Bellamy taught botany to student Assassins. Her greenhouses, hothouses and smallholdings did have a lot of the everyday dull sort of herbaceous life, admittedly. And a lot of the things she grew could be eaten without ill-effects and were both nutritious and tasty. Peter just had qualms about the other sort. It had got her into big trouble once and had directly led to her being invited to join the Assassins' Guild. (5)
There was an affronted feline squeal. Both heads turned to watch a self-propelled feral cat leaping vertically in the air for about six feet and then running like Hell.
"But cats don't crap in any garden Vinnie designs."
"It's the cat-bite." Ponder sighed. Catbite was a plant which had heard about catnip. And improved on it. Kaffee raised his head inquisitively and considered chasing the cat, just on general principles. Peter reached down and patted his flank. The dog relaxed back into rest. It was a mellow afternoon.
Ponder checked the time. At five, a pair of designated student Assassins would arrive to take the dogs for a good long walkies, maybe up Mithering Heights to the Tump. Ponder approved of this. Johanna's students were crazy over animals and the girls clamoured for doggie-time. She assigned the walkies-rota as informal reward for good behaviour. He looked up to where the bulk of the Tump rose behind the lines of houses and felt happy he wasn't expected to do more than occasional dog-walking. All he needed to do was to ensure today's girls were offered cold drinks and perhaps a light snack. It was a husbandly duty he could live with.
"Both your boys are Taking Black, I expect?" he asked, politely. Davinia and Peter had three sons. The oldest was a building apprentice who was well-thought-of by his College. The other two were student Assassins coming up to the moment of decision, to stay on at the School or to leave.
"Can't say no, can I?" Peter Bellamy sighed. "Mind you, one of the boys graduating as an Assassin and then going into prison management. I can see advantages there."
They contemplated the beneficial effect on prison discipline that an Assassin-trained person could undoubtedly exert.
"You know, I'm still getting used to all this." Ponder said, contemplating the big spacious house and generous garden in which he had a half-share by marriage. He'd been brought up by two maiden aunts. Then sent to the University's school for budding prospects and lived in dorms. Then a Hall of Residence as a student wizard. Various grace-and-favour rooms in the University had followed, culminating in his inheriting Dean Henry's old suite. Only now, in his thirties, did he have a proper private residence to call his own, shared with nobody except a handful of domestic servants. And Johanna. In some ways he missed the noise and bustle and sense of transience involved in communal living. The silence was new and strange and, he had to admit, pleasant.
Peter Bellamy nodded. His life before Davinia had been an overcrowded house. Then various Army and City Watch barracks in various places. He too had found the unaccustomed space and quiet to be strange and somewhat intimidating. Then he reflected on what came after marriage and a first home.
He's got it all to come yet. Johanna's from a big family.
One of the house goblins, Leopard-In-Baobab-Tree-Nursing-Kill, ran out with two more chilled bottles. Peter thanked the goblin politely, remembering that the accepted phrase was "Dankie!" One of the human house-staff, possibly Blessing or Dorothea, stood in the background, arms akimbo and looking disapproving. OK, so it's really their job, Ponder thought. But try stropping a goblin who believes he has the right to serve beer to the baas. He'd mention it to Johanna again - demarcation of duties among staff. By rights, goblins only here to service Clacks station and run messages. Our complement of barely-affordable human servants do all the rest, such as servicing the needs of the Baas and the Baas-Lady.
The two men clinked bottles, appreciating the little joys of domestic life and wife-free quiet in which no demands were being made on them.
Peter saw the flying carpet in the sky first. He drew Ponder's attention to it as it circled above, making a couple of lazy circuits of the airspace above Spa Lane. Then it descended. The dogs perked up expectantly and Crème began barking.
Ponder sighed, heavily.
"Looks like they're back!" he said, alarmed.
Lord Downey put the despatch down on the tabletop in front of him with a heavy put-upon sigh. He turned to the other Dark Council members who had been summoned for a special meeting to discuss the situation.
"That makes it three now." He said, looking stern and disapproving. "A somewhat unprecedented situation."
"Why unprecedented, exactly, Master?" Joan Sanderson-Reeves observed. Her voice carried. She was renowned for it. "Women have been getting themselves pregnant and carrying babies since Day One."
"Well… from the morning of Day Two, possibly." somebody corrected her. Joan glared at him. She was renowned for her glares, too.
"None of us would be here if our mothers hadn't got pregnant. It's hardly unexpected. And this school has been admitting gels and graduating female Assassins for some years now. I'm damn surprised this hasn't happened earlier!"
Downey winced. It had been downright embarrassing to realise the Guild had no policies or protocols for dealing with the practical consequences of pregnant Assassins. It was as if a collective decision had been made, at some level, by an all-male Guild establishment to ignore the whole tricky area, and hope it might never happen.
"All I can say is, it's completely inconvenient." Downey grumbled. "Three of our best teachers. All at once."
There was a well-bred snort. Eyes turned to Lady T'Malia, a veteran of the Guild and School.
"Oh, come now, Donald." she said. "All three are married women. It's not unreasonable for them to want to become mothers. Work-life balance, and all that. And Emmanuelle's situation positively dictates that she must become a mother. Her position as Countess de Lapoignard demands an heir to the estates. It is imperative for a woman in her social position!"
"Well, yes." Downey agreed. "But where am I going to find another housemistress for Black Widow House at short notice? Emmanuelle cannot raise a child there!"
"There's one of the graduated teaching assistants, Master." Monsieur Le Balouard pointed out. "As you know, we direct Quirmian-speaking students to my own House if male, or to Black Widow House if female. I propose that now she has her teaching diploma, Mademoiselle de Badin-Boucher be promoted and elevated to the role. She's fit!"
"Well, yes." Downey conceded. "But she's also Acerian."
"De L'Acerie Quirmienne." Le Balouard corrected him. "A dialect, certainly. But Madame La Comptesse has no issues with that!" (6)
"Other Quirmians do." Downey said. "Parents."
But he relented.
"I'll approach her and see if she can take Black Widow on a temporary basis. Just to see how she fares. But my other concern is how long the Countess can keep up Swords training as her condition…. develops. A Mistress-At-Arms who is very obviously pregnant may not look seemly."
"I'm sure there are alternatives. Miss Band can take some Swords classes to a fairly advanced level."
There was a pause.
"Alice. Can we be sure she won't…"
Everyone looked at the speaker.
"Ah. Apologies. I was forgetting."
"There are such things as turkey-basters." Somebody else remarked. Joan glared at him.
"In my opinion, they're just for basting turkeys with!" she boomed.
There was a pause.
"Zoology, Biology and Natural History?" Mr Mericet ventured, practically. "I myself can cover Doctor Smith-Rhodes' classes in Applied Exothermic Alchemy – and I must say, such a remarkably inventive mind from whom I have learnt much. But her other classes require cover."
"Miss van Kruger has also graduated as a full Teacher." Joan said, decisively. "Dem' fine young woman there, almost another Johanna in the making. She's been trained to cover most of Johanna's classes, and knows the Zoo backwards."
"Ah, yes." Downey said, brightening. "She requires continuing reasons to retain her work visa in Ankh-Morpork. We know her Government is keen for her to return and accept a contract of employment for the Bureau of State Security as a field operative. While I concede a Guild member in that organisation would be most useful for intelligence purposes, BOSS does have an unsavoury reputation. Heidi would be useful at this point."
"And Miss N'Kweze." Joan added. "Also trained by Johanna, and also needing to be advanced from Teaching Assistant to full Teacher."
Downey nodded assent and made a note.
"You see, Master. Some of us have thought ahead, and prepared for this sort of eventuality." Joan added, with quiet satisfaction.
The carpet hovered a few feet off the lawn. Peter and Ponder shuffled uneasily as two Assassins and their equipment unloaded and descended to earth. Their respective wives were both dressed in what had started out as camouflage, chipped splinters in various browns and dark greens. But up to about mid-thigh, the trousers were a uniform dark brown suggesting repeated immersion in what observers hoped was only mud of some kind.
Johanna glared at Ponder. He had a growing, uneasy, sensation he'd somehow done something to irritate her. And that he was expected to work out what it was. Her dogs surged around her, barking their mad canine happiness at the return of Mistress. The cocktail of Neverglades smells was, to them, something to savour.
Davinia smiled, serenely.
"I'm going to need a bath when I get in, I think." she said. "Peter, we need a word later."
Peter Bellamy half-smiled, half-grimaced, and finished his beer. A wife saying "We need to talk" is bad news to the seasoned husband.
"Are you enjoying that beer, Ponder?" Johanna said, sweetly. "I'm so gled."
"We weren't expecting you back before the weekend." Ponder said.
"Thet's obvious." she replied, curtly. She glowered at him.
"Errr… is anything wrong? What's happened?" he asked.
Johanna told him in very few words. They were short, sharp and descriptive.
"Oh, hell." he said. Mixed emotions surged.
Peter Bellamy patted him on the back.
"I'm afraid the next stage of your married life begins here, old son." he said, the established father to the new man.
"And you can stop being so smug about it, Peter Bellamy." Davinia said, sweetly. She rushed to embrace him.
So we're agreed, then." Lord Downey said, after a brief consultation with Mr Wimvoe, the Guild Bursar.
"The ladies will cease all strenuous physical activity according to medical advice. Matron Igorina's word on that will be final. Adequate cover will be provided as agreed. We will appoint other cover teachers and advance teaching assistants as required, as a matter of some urgency. Miss Sanderson-Reeves and Lady T'Malia have raised the issue of, er, maternity pay and maternity leave. We have agreed this is a good thing in principle and that the Guild has a duty of care to meet the specific needs of three directly employed members. I will discuss plans for gratis payments with Mr Wimvoe, and we will present alternatives commensurate with what the Guild can afford."
"And write such provisions into staff contracts for all current female staff. Make it legal. Get something in writing." Joan said, firmly. "Not me, obviously. I'm past all that sort of thing. But another teacher in my position may want to adopt. She needs a similar deal."
"Quite so, miss Sanderson-Reeves." Downey said, soothingly.
There was a silence.
"You know." Monsieur Le Balouard said, reflectively, "it would be damned interesting if a six or seven months pregnant Assassin managed to pull off a contract. That would be an all-time first!"
Lady T'Malia considered this.
"For goodness sake, do not repeat that anywhere near Doctor Smith-Rhodes." she said. "If I know Johanna, she'd take it as a challenge and then go out and do it!"
(1) For that irreducible minimum of legal purposes where she could not evade use of her married name. She had made it clear that the School was still going to know her as "Doctor Smith-Rhodes", for instance, despite Lord Downey feebly protesting that the custom was for a married woman to use her husband's name. Johanna had cited Sacharissa Cripslock and Adora Belle Dearheart as precedents, and scorned use of the compromise "Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons" as too unwieldy. Downey had not pressed the point. However, Johanna's mother, a woman who had clutched Ponder Stibbons to her breast as the only chance her daughter would get for something that passed for marital normality, very pointedly addressed her letters to "Mrs Johanna Stibbons". Johanna sighed and put up with this.
(2) Rincewind has indeed been sent into the Neverglades. Refer to footnote on page 243 of Raising Steam, which describes the Neverglade swamps and the local difficulties to be found there. It also notes Rincewind has been sent there by the University to report on the exact degree of cruelty and egregiousness to be found in the local geography. This could well be another case of me starting with a footnote and expanding brief mentions in canon …
(3) Op De Veldt Deze Nacht De Leeuw Geschikt.: he was a Howondalandian goblin, born in the settlement of Koboldsdorp in Rimwards Howondaland. Arriving in Ankh-Morpork to see the wider world, he'd got a job with a newly-married couple, one of whom appreciated a Vondalaans-speaking goblin. OK, it's the best rendition I can do in Afrikaans for On The Veldt This Night The Lion Sleeps (In a multilingual society, the goblin's Xhosa name was "Wimowe").
(4) Johanna's pet dogs had added to his woes. Kaffee and Crème knew better than to investigate the border plants. But Ridgebacks are still territorial creatures and don't take kindly to intruders. Dogs know.
(5) Advert: read my story Murder Most 'Orrible, which introduces Davinia Bellamy.
(6) Think Quebec and French-Canadian. Mlle le Badin-Boucher is introduced in The Prospectus as a senior student with a few little cultural quirks involving ice-skates, maple syrup and informal lumberjacking. Her Quirmian dialect also entranced Emmanuelle, who appreciated all the little demotic touches un-known in her own Quirm City.
Hyperemesis gravidarum: the state of persistent morning sickness in pregnant women