Discworld: Theory of Narrativity
Disclaimer: Terry Pratchett owns all and the rights to all. I'm just indulging my imagination by using settings and characters to supplement a tale going on in a universe of rules and laws of nature, the one inhabited by the characters of Gargoyles co-producer Greg Weisman. And when you not only cancel funds, but also meddle in the affairs of the enemies of the recipients of those funds, you should REALLY expect retribution, especially from bloodthirsty clones and their masters. Slight Harry Potter partisan shippery at the very end.
Rated PG-13 for Reproductive Thaumaturgy, retroviruses, interspecies breeding, invasion of the Sto plains to the gates of Lancre, wizards (well, one of the younger ones) with romantic lives and Nobby Nobbs with a Thompson submachine gun. This can't be good.
High summer, Year 100 of the Century of the Fruitbat (approximately 2000 C.E. Earth time)
The sun rose like the yolk of some celestial egg over the disc, the dawn flowing over plains and through valleys, sometime getting snagged in places where background magic was at its highest. Morning eventually came to the cities of the hubward shore of the Circle Sea, largest of which were the twin cities of Ankh and Morpork, more commonly referred to simply as Ankh-Morpork. Light found its way through the small, high windows of the Unseen University, signalling the start to the working day… for the faculties' two early risers.
Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of the University, was presently debating which strategy to use on this mornings duck hunt on the Ankh delta: nets and throwing spears, or a solidly built Burleigh&Stronginthearm crossbow.
The other early riser had awoken well before the dawn had reached the Big Wahoonie. The Librarian, a wizard who had been turned into a large, non-dominant male orang-utan during the Octavo incident, had already fed the books whatever they took a fancy too (1) and opened the library doors to those curious, brave or foolish enough to enter. As of now he was shoving some notes into a folder and gathering a dark hooded robe in his lanky arms.
For the past several years, as well as administering to his duties as librarian to the largest collection of books in existence and sitting on the Librarians council, the former wizard had also been an honorary member of a secret society he had discovered while on an expedition through L space. It was located on a planet called Earth… a real Roundworld, identical in every detail to the one in the miniature universe created last winter.
There were two exceptions though: firstly, there lived a type of sentient creature on this round world there that was frozen in stone during daylight hours. Unlike mountain trolls, who were always stone and merely went comatose due to the heat of the sun, these creatures, these 'Gargoyles' (although they bore very little resemblance to Disc native Gargoyles) shed a layer of stone skin at nightfall to reveal skin and muscle underneath. The second was that something… else had found it first. And against all odds these two were connected.
Tying the trailing end of a ball of yellow yarn to one of the legs of his desk and settling the ball firmly between the cloak and his side, the Librarian set off into the shelves.
There was going to be a meeting, a very important one if the writing on the lavatory bulletin board (better than the walls) was anything to go on. And the Grandmaster would be very cross if even one honorary member of the 13th Circle was late for this one… apes included.
1 Hour later, Illuminati Rotunda, Location Unknown
An emergency meeting had been called of all Illuminati members, circles 2 through 30 including the Grandmaster (who was essentially the entirety of the first circle). The purpose of this meeting was to vote on whether to continue funding to Jon Canmores' Quarryman Organization. Up in the 13th row, the Librarian (now hooded and cloaked) looked through his notes until he found Canmores' rap sheet.
Jon Canmore (alias Jon Castaway, alias Jon Carter), it read, had been contacted by the Illuminati back in November 1996 to force the Manhattan gargoyle clan to accept the Societies' help through raids and hunting, and subsequently make them (the gargoyles) easier to control. This plan had gone seriously pear shaped however, when the first full-scale assault of the Eyrie Building in mid-December of the same year had turned into a complete rout.
It was discovered that instead of the six reported gargoyles and one watchbeast inhabiting the castle on the buildings summit, the landing party had been witness to the awakening of at least 140 gargoyles of all ages as well as over a dozen watchbeasts, outnumbering Canmore and his landing party by at least 3 to 1. Quite the battle ensued before everyone was unconscious or captured.
This had resulted in 38 arrests, 1 cowardly retreat while being pelted with snowballs and one switching of sides. This had led to an upsurge in the recruitment of criminals, mercenaries and other…undesirables (2) into the quarrymen's ranks. This, in turn, precipitated a wholesale change in tactics, ranging from muggings to murders of gargoyle supporters to car bombs… and on through other icky things, up to and including the attempted (and unsuccessful) assassination of the President of the United States.
This was also about the time that the society's psychics started trying to look into Castaways (as he insisted on being called) mind in order to make sense of it. They always started out okay, moving up through the minds of the quarrymen ranks (wincing as they ran across the occasional serial killer or professional assassin), but near the top they began sweating profusely and shivering violently, then their eyes began dilating like crazy, finally emitting an ear splitting scream and keeling over dead. That usually meant that whatever intelligence was really controlling the organization was not humanoid, and was incredibly powerful to say the utter least.
His reading had to end when Mr. Duval, the Grandmaster of the Illuminati and sole member of the First Circle strode through the tunnel set into the far slope of the Rotunda. The vast space fell silent as chatter and idle conversation died and gave way to sombre ceremony as he halted in the exact centre of the floor
"Kings may die. Empires may fall. Civilizations may crumble to dust." Intoned Duval as he pulled his hood up to frame his face. "The only constant… is our broth..." someone on the far side of the rotunda cleared their throat pointedly. "…siblinghood. We are Illuminatus: keepers of secrets long since lost, keepers of knowledge long since forgotten. Whatever transpires in the outside world, we shall remain to watch and wait and manage. Always remember this, and the world shall go as it always has." As he intoned a platform rose beneath him, raising him level with the topmost ring.
He sat down in a chair that formed itself out of the risen floor and began the meeting. "This emergency meeting has been called for a simple purpose: to vote whether continued funding to Jon Canmores Organization is actually worth the trouble." He pressed a button on the chairs arm that put images of various Quarrymen-related disasters on the screens inserted on the tabletops in front of the members.
"As you can see, despite our initial hopes for using Canmore as a sheepdog to get the Gargoyles under our control, things have spiralled so far out of our grasp that this vote will determine whether we dump a loose cannon or keep him on, risking our secrecy and investments more and more." It was a known fact that when he reiterated, he meant business. He himself didn't seem the most impartial observer, but the Quarrymen had caused quite a lot of damage to several historic properties he owned while searching for sleeping gargoyles.
"As you can probably tell from the panic the accounting offices have been in, Canmores followers have not only done millions of dollars of property damage, but they have also embezzled several hundreds of millions from our holdings in the Yakuza, Mafia, and the Triad… which means, among other things, that the price of raffle tickets at this autumns social will increase by 700 percent." Duval quickly dispatched a wry smile that had threatened to form. "On top of that, many of you know that his recruitment of the criminal element is sending his public image into the toilet, with last years 'monastery massacre' of 79 elderly gargoyle Franciscans being the most horrendous of his escapades." The obligatory still frames of the recorded atrocity flashed across the inset screens.
"His actions against those sympathetic to gargoyle kind have been no less atrocious: bombings, murders, the attempted massacre of an entire Japanese village, not to mention various forms of intimidation including drive-by shootings, more bombings, and various forms of assault." Several faces of the societies more prudish members went a light shade of green under their hoods as they realized exactly what forms off assault the average New York City low-life specialized in.
"Fortunately, things could have been far worse if not for the valiant efforts of Goliaths' clan as well as those of gargoyles worldwide (3), which reinforces the potential service they could be to the Society, if approached through more… subtle channels." It was now surprisingly clear that anyone that voted to keep the Quarrymen on would most likely find his station reduced, his privileges revoked, and his prospects for future reproduction highly questionable. Then the vote began in earnest, with only one instruction from Duval: press the plus button to keep Canmore on, or the minus button to boot him.
The outcome was 1869 against, and absolutely none for.
Later, when sipping port and eating peanuts in a lounge paneled excessively with mahogany and thick red carpet, the Librarian was seated at a bar between two lower echelon members: a swarthy, well groomed man with minor ponytail and Vetinari-esqe goatee from the 16th Circle and a tall, red haired ex-fed from the looks of it from Circle #23. They were discussing over his head the problems some of their friends were having trying to have a child now that they were married. The Librarian did not like being left out of this conversation, so he asked if he could offer anything, which the in-house universal translator put together from "Ook?"
"Not unless you're into some powerful magic, no." Stated the red haired man, hereby referred to as Matthew 'Matt' Bluestone. The Librarian replied that while no longer a practicing wizard, he was the Librarian of the Unseen University, home to some of the greatest magical minds in existence. After being given a copy of the wedding photograph of the needy couple by the swarthy man (David Xanatos of Xanatos Enterprises), namely the eight and a half foot tall purple gargoyle known worldwide as Goliath and his Hopi/African American wife, one Elisa Maza Wyvern, the Librarian further added that he knew some innovative young lads that would probably give their right feet for a chance to research magic like this. Taking up a pencil and cocktail napkin, the Librarian began jotting down some basic ideas.
Later still…
Back at the University, after having stashed the cloak and folder and holding the napkin, the Librarian knuckled toward the dining hall where he predicted the staff and students would be assembled for breakfast: it was almost noon after all.
The wizards were indeed starting in on the second course of breakfast, the old codgers of the senior staff trying to keep the old habit of searching their food for glass shards under control as they ate. The younger staff, especially those that busied themselves in the High Energy Magic building, sat at a table in a far corner, waving their hands excitedly as they discussed things in the relatively new language of scientific thaumaturgy.
Amid this flail of scorched robe sleeves and the occasional shower of spittle and scrambled egg, the head of the Department of Inadvisably Used Magic and Reader of Invisible Writings, one Ponder Stibbons, sat tensely. It was not the sort of tense that the Bursar had possessed before going totally insane, but more akin to something predatory waiting for something small and succulent to wander past. He was waiting for something, but could surely be bothered to look at these notes for a few minutes. The Librarian knuckled over and swung onto a clear space of bench beside the young wizard. He had just tapped Professor Stibbons on the shoulder when the call of a very large bird of prey split the musty air.
Rincewind, Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography (as well as being the fretwork instructor along with half a dozen other miscellaneous tasks), spotted the source of the sound, a huge Lancre Ice Eagle lunging through a high window, and promptly dived under the table screaming something to the affect of "Wizards and Apes First!" (4). The rest of the staff was somewhat more relaxed, holding their utensils and staves defensively, the students copying Rincewind. Ponder Stibbons… didn't do anything, besides look expectantly toward the bird. The eagle held the strap of a leather bag in its beak, dropping it during a low swoop over the table the Librarian was sitting at. Said bag was dropped onto Professor Stibbons' eggs.
"Mail call!" yelled the Bursar unexpectedly, a boiled egg stuck in each ear.
As the eagle flapped into a roosting position on one of the main rafters, the Staff began looking toward Stibbons with some curiosity. Mail didn't usually arrive by way of a huge eagle, and certainly not from a particularly rare breed from the high Ramtops. When the librarian looked over at the bag, he just got a glimpse of the gold and black bears of the Kingdom of Lancre before Stibbons got up and hurried towards the door. He was just yards away when he collided with the impressive obstacle that was the Dean of Pentacles… things five-sided (5).
The other members of the senior staff fenced Stibbons in as they began looking at the bag. "Why in such a hurry, Professor Stibbons?" Asked the Dean, in a voice trying to be inquisitive, demanding and non-threatening all at the same time.
"VeryPerishableMagicalSamplesFromLancreHaveToGetThemToHexQuickly!" Blurted Stibbons, in the age-old manner of someone who is doing a very bad job of trying to divert attention from what they are doing.
The Lecturer of Recent Runes glanced up at the eagle perched up in the rafters, who stared back at him in an unsettlingly familiar manner. "An Eagle that size cant possibly move that fast over the plains: glide long distances yes, but not very fast." He looked again at the young wizard "If it came all the way from Lancre, it can't be very perishable."
"That's right!" Proclaimed the Senior Wrangler, 20 stone of joviality and magical talent behind a handlebar moustache.
After a brief consideration, Stibbons finally groaned and held the bag out at arms length toward the others. "Alright, alright. You can take a look. Just don't open anything!"
They began passing around the contents of the bag: paper envelopes thick with documents or lumpy with samples along with a small wrapped parcel or two. It was the last envelope, of course, that got all the attention. It was small, and made of some of the most well bleached paper the wizards had seen outside the university walls. It also had a seal of dark blue wax, on which was stamped the image of a wizards or witches hat torn in two, brim from cone, inside a circle of standing stones.
It also smelled like perfume.
The Dean slid the envelope under his nose while taking a good long sniff. He then glared a hard, sidelong look at Ponder. "Is there something you're not telling us Stibbons?"
"Yes. Is there something you'd like to share?" came a bellowing voice from a suddenly open doorway. Said voice belonged to Archchancellor Ridcully, a sight to behold in muddy boots, muddy britches; muddy everything really up to his armpits. In his right hand was held a crossbow, and in his left the mortally disjointed necks of three Delta paddlers. The look on his face, despite the volume of his voice, wasn't angry or even upset. It was worse.
It was curiosity.
The Dean strolled over to where Mustrum was handing off the ducks to a kitchen maid to be prepared into a private dinner this evening. "Archchancellor, Professor Stibbons has gotten a very suspicious letter. Smell it." And so the Archchancellor did, and halfway through, his bushy eyebrows rose in comprehension.
"Interesting." Muttered Ridcully, a sound made quite interesting when even his whisperings were known to be a few decibels louder than a normal stage whisper. He eyed Stibbons. "My office, now." He marched off toward the stairs with Ponder doing a virtual death-march behind. In the commotion of scrambling to other matters, no one noticed the Orang-utan following them.
Mustrum Ridcully sat down in the leather-padded chair behind his desk (i.e. his snooker table) and twirled the envelope in his fingers. He smelled it again: definitely Ramtop Heath Heather. The flower had been the signature of Lancre matchmakers for as long as anyone could recall, since before the Dancers had fallen from the sky. Why, it had been one of witches from Mad Stoat that had recommended it for…
"Archchancellor?" Ridcully managed to pull off of memory lane to comprehend the nervous junior staff member standing in his presence.
"Ah. Right." Ridcully moved his hand to the edge of the table, where a slim knife had been stuck into the ancient wood beside a pocket and jerked it out. He drew it close and slid it under the seal, opening the envelope. Out came a letter, which the senior wizard proceeded to read.
It was mostly written in the formal matter of a Ramtopper who had been schooled on the plains and was still too young to realize that most of it counted as useless drivel back home. There was iron this and elves that and a mention of something called "Magnetism" that the dwarfs had apparently cobbled out of bad Latatian and the name of one of Copperheads historic overseers.
It was the last part of this letter that caught his attention. He read it aloud
"…And on one last note, that ear of yours is looking pretty gnarly. I know of a traveling Igor who comes down to the castle town every fall for the harvest and felling seasons and I hear that they're beginning to do some miraculous things with bio-artificing in the Ankh Morpork City Watch. You might want to go in for a replacement… but on the other hand, it does lend a sort of "Greebo-esqe" quality to a character, which can be found… fascinating.
Yours Truly
Lucy Tockley, Research Assistant"
The Archchancellor eyed Stibbons with almost a hint of disbelief at what had actually been written. "Ponder?"
"Yes sir?" Stibbons was surprised at this using of given names, but decided not to risk the anger of a Ramtop squire by using 'Mustrum'.
"Have you ever seen Mrs. Oggs cat? The one with the scars?" Asked Mustrum (luckily, I don't have that fear).
"I believe so. He fought several of the elves at the royal wedding. Why?"
"Because that ca… because that thing is not only one of the fiercest predators Rimwards of Uberwald, but is also the entire male side of the Lancre feline stock, and has a habit of turning human under stress… a "roguishly handsome brute" some as young ladies might say in polite company." He stood and leaned in close to Ponders face. "There are only two reasons a Ramtopper would compare you to that cat: as an insult… or as is suggested here, as an indication of not-so-platonic friendship between the genders." He took the chance to motion the letter opener pointedly "Has something been going on that shouldn't have?"
Ponder scrunched up his face in agony before saying very plainly "No." Ridcully slumped back and sighed in relief. If there was one thing the Disc did not need right now, it was another sourcerer. "But…"
Oh, no. There it is, thought Ridcully: The requisite 'but'. Why did this always happen? Most likely he was going to invite her for drinks at the pub on his next trip over. "Yes?"
"I did plan to invite her for a port and lemon at the pub when I went to finalize the recharging of the Dancers… under Mistress Weatherwaxs supervision of course." The last part had been a hurried addition borne out of having the fear of Weatherwax put into you. "And at the advice of Mrs. Ogg."
Ridcully sighed again, this time in agitation. "Stibbons…"
"I know it's against the rules, but I was thinking that if we never… well." Ponder closed his eyes, debating whether to mention the Archchancellor and his student romance with the one known in troll as "She who must be avoided".
"Ook!"
The Librarian had waited until they got to something like this to make his point. When he had scribbled those notes on that napkin, he had never thought the same basic principles could be applied to the opposite of their original intention. If fertility could be improved by magic, why couldn't it be impeded?
"Oh, it's you." By now the Librarians shape was so ordinary to the staff and students that the complaint of an ape in the library by a foreign visitor would result in an all day search by a student under the direction of the Librarian. Ridcully listened to the apes' short presentation and read the napkin, and in short order was unusually happy in the absence of something to kill. To the newly relaxed Stibbons he said "You may just be the luckiest wizard in a very long time."
Then, taking a theatrically deep breath that gave both of his audience time to clap their ears, he let forth his traditional battle cry.
"BUUURRRSAAAARRR!"
The door exploded inward in a tumble of staff (wizards) and their staves, the now de-egged Bursar somehow keeping on top in a perfect standing posture. "Yes, Archchancellor?" Today had been double-up day on the dried frog pills, so acting like a sugar addict wasn't totally out of the question.
"Contact His Lordship, no doubt he'll be very interested in what this could mean." Commanded Ridcully as he stood and began striding out through the mess of staggeringwizards with the Librarian and Professor Stibbons following. Indeed, after the death of Wallace Sonky last autumn and rumours of divine smiting put forward by the more orthodox sects; Morporkians were looking for another method of solving the housing crises. This could have citywide implications.
"What about my… situation?" asked Ponder as he caught up with the Archchancellors pace.
"You will be working with the Librarian on finding a solution for that married couple and then find a way to turn it around for Lord Vetinari." But then Ridcully stopped, allowing the Bursar to continue on his merry way while he turned to Stibbons. "Tell you what. You'll probably have to go up to the Long Man in this fertility research, and if you get the chance… have another little talk with Gytha."
At this Ponder was shocked, happy but shocked that the Archchancellor had allowed that last part. As everyone dispersed again, The Librarian was left alone in the hall, wondering if he should have mentioned the eagle listening outside the window.
Lancre, sometime later
The Ice Eagle swooped low through the trees until it came to a cottage so twisted and overgrown in the thatch that it hardly looked liveable. One of the windows had been left open, and the bird wedged itself inside.
Ten minutes later the eagle burst out the front door, the butchered carcass of a yearling stag in its talons. After it, though through the back, came the ragged black-clad visage of Esmerelda (Granny) Weatherwax coming down the steps. Hat was in place and cloak fastened; her rather impressive image was only slightly marred by the fact that she seemed a bit tired and her face pale.
At start of the herb patch was waiting Nanny Ogg, a small, raisin-faced woman who would nevertheless inform you that her portrait (7) was hanging in far away Ankh Morpork, and had authored the discs first cookbook that featured… goings on in massive quantity. She was carrying a jug of water in one hand and a tray that bore a cup and some sort of biscuits in a tin.
"You shouldn't be doing this Esme, borrowing an eagle to the city and back. Remember the fly business?" She handed Granny the cup and jug, then turned around. After a barely audible twing, she turned around again with a glass bottle of cloudy orange liquid in hand. Pulling out the cork with her gums, she carefully partitioned a single drop into the jug.
Taking a sip out of a filled glass, Esme looked at her companion. "I had to make it an event. You know how I hate deception."
"I thought you hated… 'Goings on' as well?" Asked Mrs. Ogg with more than a hint of ribald
"It's not that I hate it, just that I disapprove. Deception is another thing altogether… theatre, opera… it only masks what's real. What was between Stibbons and the Tockley girl is real, so I just couldn't let it be hid. That only leads to problems" Granny stated this quite plainly. "It's like those letters you got last spring. The ones with the young man with the red haired ex-girlfriend who was fun and exciting, but was getting feelings for his brown-haired female school-chum who always kept him from getting killed?"
"Oh, yes. I remember those." Gytha said as they walked back into the house. "I remember that you wanted to personally break both of the redheads ankles before it was all done." The door closed.
1. Usually the leaflets made and distributed by the City Watch's resident Omnian.
2. The kind who burns crosses and shouts 'sieg heil'
3. Except for a small network of recovering clans in western China that the Hunter had decimated shortly after the Revolution, which led to an all out loss of sympathy for humankind
4. It was really very considerate of him
5. Which was very unusual in a system of magic that was based around the number 8 (6)
6. Or, as the staff were very careful to say, "seven plus one"
7. Though three or four decades out of date (8)
8. Biologically, not counting the time-freeze