Disclaimer: I own only Igorina and sundry relatives. All else is the property of Mr. Terry Pratchett.
Hello, all. Some of you might know me from my fanfics in the Chronicles of Narnia section. Up until now I have not really had any good ideas for Discworld fics, although I must confess it is my favorite series. I must also confess that I have not read all the books, although I have read a fair number and am trying to read them all as fast as I can. This is impeded by the fact that my local library is staffed by Neanderthals with no taste in books. As a result, I am not entirely up-to-date with all Ankhian activity and politics. Anyway, this story is about Igors. And jazz. An interesting combination, no? Enjoy.
What are Igors? This question has been asked throughout history, and is traditionally answered by an ominous chuckle and a smile. Actually, there have been debates raging for years about the origins of Igors. On one side of the debate sit the anthropologists, historians and species-rights activists who claim that Igors are descended from humans on some primal level, and should be treated accordingly. On the other side of the debate sit almost everyone else, who seem to agree that Igors have no relation whatsoever to humans, and probably do not exist. The reactions of the said people upon being confronted with an actual Igor have not been recorded. One group of creatures is always left out of these debates. This would not seem significant, as the Discworld is not the fairest of all worlds, were it not that the party that was left out happened to be the Igors themselves. The debaters automatically assumed that since they were the species with the universities and schools, they were automatically smarter and better qualified to argue the Igors case for them. The "White Man's Burden" of the Discworld. Consequently, Igors had managed to continue a rather peaceful and undisturbed existence in the mountains of Uberwald. These mountains are to be the setting for the opening scene of this story, and it is to them that I now go.
More specifically, I go to a small cabin in the Igorian town of Durna Zyma. A single light is burning in one of the lower windows of this house, and one can just make out two vaguely human shapes sitting in front of it. Go a few steps closer and you can see clearly that they are both Igors, one male and one female. They are bent towards each other, silently whispering with some urgency. Go even closer, so close you are nearly pressed against their window, and you can hear what they are saying.
"…the neighborth are none too pleathed, and let me tell you, neither am I. The thneakth out of the houthe at ungodly hours to practice in the lab. The wantth to be a doctor. Now, if thith wath Igor, I would be happy. But Igorina?" This was the male shape. The female nodded and responded.
"Yeth, I;m thure we both agree, thomething mutht be done. But thith extreme? It'th thouthandth of mileth away!"
"I trutht my thithter to take care of her."
"But the wont be working with your thithter! The'll be working for a total thrtanger!"
"What are Igorth thuppothed to do? Work for their friendth?"
"Yeth, but in Anhk-Morpork, Igor…"
"Look, I'm thure thith…" Igor consulted a piece of paper " 'Madame von Mort D'Homme' will be jutht fine."
"Thoundth foreign."
"Igorina!" Igor sat bolt upright and glared at his wife with all three eyes.
"I want my daughter taken care of!"
"The will be."
"Fine. Your dethithion, Igor. I am not paying for you to go after her when you get cold feet."
Igor murmured something about "No pleathing thome people" and stalked up the crooked little staircase in the corner. Igorina remained, staring into the fire for a few minutes. Then she snuffed the lights and ascended as well.
The next day dawned clear and freezing. Which, by Uberwaldian standards, is summer. The small cabin bustled with life. The central* room was full of Igors, all cooing over one individual, who appeared, underneath scarves, hats, boots and coats, to be female, and about seventeen years old. An aquiline nose protruded from a particularly puffy scarf, and two eyes, one blue and one green, of course, peered exasperatedly from beneath a fur cap any Cossack would have been proud of. A bulge in the back of said hat indicated that rather a lot of hair had been stuffed under it. The height of the girl would have been about five foot three had she not been sitting on a battered trunk.
"Are you ready to leave, Igorina?"
"Don't I look ready, Mother?"
"Now, think about what an adventure you're thtarting!"
"You're sending me away!"
"Thending. What will Madame Mort D'Homme think if her Igorina doethn't have a lithp?"
"She'll think she's very modern."
"Igorth are not modern. Now lithp!" Igor had appeared at the door.
"Yeth, Father."
"The coach ith almotht here. Bring you trunk out."
"Whose…I mean whothe got my other bag?"
"Igor doeth." Piped up an auntly figure.
"Here." A distinctly uncle-like personage handed a carpet bag to Igorina.
"Thank you." The sound of horses came through the door.
"Coach'th here!" Igor called from outside. Igorina was instantly enveloped in a cloud of well-wishing relatives.
"Write uth!"
"Thend prethentth!"
"Don't athk quethitionth! The marther ith alwayth right!"
"Thtay away from mobth!"
Igorina extricated herself and headed outside into the snow, dragging her trunk. Igor grabbed it and threw it onto the luggage rack on the coach. Igorina pulled the half-frozen door of the coach open, and seated herself in the empty interior.
"Well." Her father looked up at her from the ground.
"Well. I thuppothe we'll thee each other."
"Yeth. Don't forget to thend back wageth. And write." He handed her several coins. "Here'th twenty zloty. For the trip."
"Thank you."
Igorina saw the rest of her family emerging from the cabin. Her mother ran up to the coach.
"Goodbye, Darling. Write from Ankh-Morpork! I'll be thinking of you."
"Goodbye, Mother."
The coachman whipped the horses, and the coach moved down the road. At this point, any determined heroine would have told herself to never look back. But Igorina is not ever determined heroine. She looked. Her mother was waving and jumping. She would miss her. Actually, she would miss most of her family. Except for possibly Grandfather Igor. And Cousin Igorina. And her father's entire side of the family. But other than that, her family wasn't so bad. Really, they weren't. The coach turned onto a mountain path, and Igorina could no longer see her cabin. She settled into her seat, and sprang back up again as a spring dug into her shoulder blade. Only several thousand more miles to go.
*Igors refrain from using the term "Living Room" so as to not offend their employers and neighbors who are of the "animate corpse" persuasion.
I apologize for the confusing language. Igors, as you may know, have lisps. I do not intend for Igorina to have one as much to preserve the reader's sanity as to show her character. Please review. I can't fix problems if I don't know what they are.